Closed A Lost Soul [Ink]

[Keene Ward]

The forty-eighth day of winter, 514 AV

"Boswell?"

The sound of his voice seemed muffled by the heavy air around him, the noise carrying only far enough to fall flat at his ears. The darkness had begun to set in, though the source of it was not the setting of the sun but the rolling, angry clouds that had begun to gather at the edge of the island. The weather patterns of Sahova were vastly different from what he'd studied in Zeltiva. They were wild and unpredictable. He had been wandering around the prairie for about a bell, having seen no sign of any soul, living or departed. Keene quickened his pace, uncomfortable with the knowledge that a storm was approaching at a pace he could not forecast. Having already had several storms in the past since arriving on Sahova, he doubted it would be absolutely impossible to get back to the citadel. The weather, even in the mid of winter, was still generally humid and warm - though having grown used to the autumn heat, Keene had started taking to wearing his leather pants and boots as the temperatures had begun to dip.

He could hear thunder in the distance. Glancing behind him, he saw the clouds had been approaching at a speed much faster than he had anticipated. Flicking his attention back out to the barren prairie, he could see he was only a short distance from the Forest of Thorns, no more than a few chimes or so. While the underbrush was extensive in the deeper areas of the inhospitable wilds, there was space enough for him along the outer perimeter. The storm hit as he managed to duck under the twisted, gnarled boughs of the spiny tress as the first drops slammed into the ground with heavy splashes against the dusty earth. The moment the first drops hit, the sky seemed to release all the waters of the ages. Trees or no trees, little would have protected him from the deluge that exploded all around him. The hiss of the rain as it shivered through the air filled the island's atmosphere with a sinister sizzle. Instantly drenched, Keene pushed on, squinting through the downpour in hopes of continuing his search and gaining some ground.

The storm refused him. In the short amount of time the dark clouds grumbled above him, the waters from the Bloodhills had begun to run down the reddened slopes, pooling in the valley of the Prairie at an alarming rate. Soon the trickles had burst into small torrents, rivers that slapped against the sides of his boots, soaking his feet even further. Keeping his right to the forest and his left arm raised to protect against the rain as the wind began to whip it up into a frenzy, Keene struggled onward, the bite of the droplets against his skin strangely warm in the tropical island's atmosphere.

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[Ink]

Rain was but a precursor this afternoon. Dripping down from the thorned and barren trees. Those few with needles sprouting offered little assistance against the rapid deluge. On the horizon clouds grew angrier still though, blackened and building into great aerial mountains. The winds spurred it on, pushing the clouds forward as the fastest of typhoons sometimes did.

The first winds began to pick up tiny debris all around the forest floor. Most were harmless bits of bark and old snapped sticks. A few leaves ripped from the weak stems of low lying bushes. One particularly offending leaf lifted high from the ground and with a slurping smack hit Keene square in the face.

As soon as his vision was covered the wind howled, and in the northern distance it sounded like a voice. Like a cry whistling over the rocks in the distance hills. “Keene.” The leaf blew away and the cry ceased. Behind the Initiate a branch cracked and snapped, the shattering wood sounding more like a scream than any natural phenomenon had rite to. The branch fell just to the side of the initiate, crashing to the ground.

Behind him, from the southern reaches, a voice seemed to appear again on the wind. “Keene.” it called, beckoning, begging, imploring. The first finger of Lightning touched the earth in the distance, the silhouette of the mountains hiding its strike upon the earth. The rolling rumble covered up the presumed words, still only on the edge of rational thought. The keening wind was causing the confounding sound, or was it Boswell? The lost hunter friend who had been the first to welcome Keene to Sahova.

As if the weather hadn’t grown hostile enough; the cries, the debris, the rain and thunder, now the wind pushed at his back. Pushing the Initiate out of the hardly concealing woods, dragging him towards the open prairie. The wind wasn’t so strong that it could forcefully move him but it was an insistent and constant tug against his clothes and step.

[Keene Ward]

Keene's attention was fully focused on the rate at which the water was streaming down from the Bloodhills, wondering how long he had until the prairie began to flood to the point where he could not return. The blustery gust of wind began to pick up, taking with it the debris that littered the ground and flinging it into the air like fish jumping out of the water. Keene turned to face the whistling rush of the wind, following the sound with his eyes as it blew past him. He didn't notice the followers it carried with it. The sudden wrap of soggy vegetation latched onto his face, causing him to jump and quickly claw the air in confusion. Finally making contact with the bushborn offender, Keene slapped it to the ground, spitting out the bitter tasting bits of leaf he'd managed to bite off as he'd tried to exclaim only to find it useless. It never hit the ground; the wind caught it, sending it flurrying away into the darkening abyss of the sky.

Then he heard it. His name rode the breeze, somewhere between a nearby whisper and a distant howl. Turning quickly to the north, the rain had begun to fly at every angle, occluding his vision with the sheer volume of the water in the air. As soon as he'd heard the voice, it had faded, replaced by the ever growing howl of the wind as it continued to gain velocity, snaking through the trees at a rate enough to elicit a whining hum of noise as it scraped across the needle ridden barks and serrated leafs of the bushes beneath. The gale's force broke a branch, smashing through it with an impossible screech that sent a shiver of foreboding down his spine. Whirling to face it, he tripped over his own feet, keeling to the side as the branch shot past him, grazing his left arm as he extended it outwards to catch himself. The wood smashed to the watter ridden earth, splashing as it bounced off into the distance. The debris swirled around him, battering his face and hands when they rose to guard against it. The mud soaked him from the waist down, spreading to his face and hands as he shoved himself to his feet, trying to wipe the ubiquitous rain out of his eyes.

Again, the intimate call of his name was heard. He knew it to be his name, but it was by no rational means of thought he came to that conclusion. The wail of the wind had risen to a chorus of raucous cacophony. Snapping branches smashing against trees, the very trunks creaking and swaying as the rain muffled and amplified the sounds at the same time with its incessant presence. There was a flash of light in the distance, illuminating the world for a moment in perfect stillness. He could see each individual droplet of rain, unique and perfect before they hit the ground, joining in with their greater purpose. The trees were illuminated, glowing pale and forlorn despite their neighbors; their boughs bowed and barks shattered. There was another, a shadow, in the corner of his eye that he couldn't quite make out, yet when he turned, the light had passed and the rolling boom of the crashing thunder filled the sky with its awful reverberating power. He felt the air tremble, shaking him to the core of his bones as the explosion of sound ripped through the prairie.

Then, the wind shifted. It was so quick, Keene almost didn't notice it before he realized he was staggering back into the barren dirt filled prairie that lay bare and rippling as it had begun to fill into a lake. Sticks and small plants slammed into the back of his legs, some leaving behind scrapes and cuts as they hurtled on past him, their mass too weak to resist the weather's pull. He had begun to move without thinking, the suggestion of the breezes taking advantage of his state of awe and disorientation. He only realized he was standing a good distance from the safety of the trees when he chanced to look back and see how far he'd come. The wind pushed him on, and he obeyed. His current path led towards where he believed the final call had come from. In the vast flatness of the prairie, however, he could only see so far ahead. The rain, if it were possible, had increased in both volume and size, smashing into him from every angle despite the strong presence against his shoulders. Raising his voice in an attempt to combat the howling gale, Keene's shout sounded small and insignificant in the war between the land and the skies.

"Boswell!"

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[Ink]

There in the open, the thunder crashed closer than ever. Though each element of the storm seemed to come on quickly, it was the wind that latched onto Keene most effectively. Drawing him in, pulling and pushing. So when it vanished the lack was decidedly noticeable. It wasn’t that it stopped, the surroundings still blustered around but its vendetta against this warden initiate seemed to end.

The air was sticky and smelled clean, the way it only could in the wild places of the world. Rivulets were forming where grass was sparse when the rained failed to relent. Though the thunder crashed nearer still, in the quieting wave after the clap there was a noise. When the creatures held their breath that the next tendril lightning would not smite them, one yet cried. “Keene, Keene, Keene…. is that you Keene?” The voice orientated from behind an outcropping. Keene who stood on the borders of the testing grounds between the thorn forest, the prairie and the blood hills. So many thresholds not only physically but emotionally stood ahead of the mage.

The wind whipped again, it tugged against Keene’s hair but stayed away from pushing his body. The ability to deny sentience quickly vanished, when the wind spoke, hints of masculinity fluttering like leaves in the breeze. “Your friend is there. If you do not save him, my storms will end him. Think on the nature of kindness.” And just as naturally as it had been unnatural the wind whipped on over the hills and prairie back to its proper business.

Behind the boulders the figure shuffled. “I knew ya’d come. A warden now eh? Knew ya had it in ya.” Any attempts to get close to him saw the figure skitter again to another side of the outcropping so he was out of view. “Tell me about yer new life, or are yer britches too big to talk’ter hunters now?.”

[Keene Ward]

A massive crash of thunder sounded all around him, shaking the earth below with its bombastic timbre. As if in response to the fading light of the snaking purple scar that had illuminated the sky, the winds eased, allowing him a moment of respite in the swirling tides of the stormy air. Another flash of light froze the whirling maelstrom, illuminating every painted detail with such accuracy and tact that it seemed almost too clear, too real. The following boom of thunder elicited a visceral cringe from the initiate as it trembled above him. The time that passed between the streak of electrical energy from the near black sky and the roar of the storm's fury was near a tick, if not less. He was in the raging heart of the sky's turbulent display. As the rolling clash of the weather's clamor faded, preparing to return with gathered strength, there came again the voice.

There was no doubt it was Boswell's easy drawl, but it held within it something he'd never heard before. There was a fear, an intensity, that had never once clouded the genial lilt of his words. It was, in a way, even more worrisome than the waves of rain that threatened to drown the world or the streaks of purplish light that shot through the air with a godlike proclivity towards destruction. It came from a small collection of boulders that stood in the ambiguous area between three of the Testing Grounds' defined areas. He couldn't make out much beyond the ambiguous shape. It was too distant and the rain too heavy to see more than the darkened, rounded shapes immobile and sturdy against the push and pull of the gusts that whipped in all directions. He took a tentative step forward, his boots sinking slightly in the rising mud of the prairie's plains. Unsure, he paused, straining through the growing darkness that only served to conceal the world around him in a greater capacity as it melded into the rain.

It was in his moment of indecision he heard it. It was soft, gentle, a complete an utter antithesis to the flurry of water and detritus that swirled around him. The wind had risen up once more, but this time it almost danced through his hair, the rain it carried within it akin to a soft graze of flesh against flesh. He shivered, knowing full well the voice possessed strength even beyond that which it had already shone him. In its calm and control, Keene could feel the primal strength of a being more ancient than he could fathom, a force greater than anything he could ever achieve. The hairs on the nape of his neck stood on end as the whisper slid through the winds, drifting through his mind with a soft, rustling tone that reminded him of autumn in the Zeltivan woods. The words were ominous, both offering a foreshadowing and cryptic advice. Before he could respond - had he the will and audacity to do so - the sensation let him, traveling off into the distance in an almost visible gust of wind.

The rain fell softer then, the shower still heavy, but space existed between the raindrops to allow a better view of the rocks before him. "...The nature of kindness." Keene whispered the words under his breath, unable to comprehend what the entity had meant for him to glean from the words. He was incapable to dwell upon it for more than a few ticks before his eyes flicked to the boulders where movement beyond the wild dance of leafs could be seen stark against another flash of lighting. As the thunder faded, Boswell's voice spoke clearly despite the hiss and splash of the rain around them. There was something odd about the way his timbre rose and fell. The fear had faded and given way to something far more disconcerting than before. There was a harshness, a sneering jeer that tainted the familiar drawl. In spite of everything, Keene felt the embers of rage light ever so slightly in the pit of his stomach. He had come so close, but what spoke to him could not be the same hunter he had spent many a night with, listening to his hyperbole and partaking in the shared meats and foodstuffs the man so graciously had provided. The thought pervaded his being, frustration, for once, ringing clear in his voice as he replied.

Though he had raised his volume to shout over the rain, his words rang sharp, surprising him and forcing him to readjust to that of a more conversational decibel, and his irritation gave way to a more muffled concern. "Boswell! I-" The adjustment, "Where have you been?" He felt the question warranted by the complete disappearance of the hunter from all areas of the island he had had the time to search, yet he still felt obligated to answer the man's questions. "I've... Been well enough, I suppose." He shook his head, water bouncing off of his shoulders in greater volume as he did so. "I don't understand. My pants have always been the same size." He grit his teeth. Keene could not understand where the hostility was coming from, nor what Boswell was referring to, yet he understood there was something there in his voice that should not have been. It worried him far beyond what he had thought it might. Until he'd received word from one of the other hunters that Boswell had finally been spotted somewhere in the Testing Grounds, Keene had tried to content himself with the idea that the man had been slain and lay peacefully in the ground. Now, however, his mind struggled with the hunter's resurrection. It was imperfect. There was no jovial bounce to Boswell's voice, no grinning wink to ease the occasional acidic joke. Keene didn't understand, and for once his lack of comprehension did not inspire him to learn more: it frightened him.

He tried to get a better look at the figure behind the rock, but Boswell was quick to shift just enough to keep the mass of solid earth between the two of them, never revealing more than a soft shadow of his silhouette. "Why won't you let me see you?" Keene's voice cracked, emotion he had been stifling since the events that led to his departure from Zeltiva rising up and melding with that of Boswell's state. Warm rain ran down his face, falling not from the sky as it tricked to join its brethren in the gathering sea. "I don't understand!" His shout was loud, pained. He smashed his fist against the rocks, the unyielding material splitting open his knuckles, releasing a small trickle of blood. Keene muttered under his breath, glaring at the unnecessary injury. "I don't... understand." The words drifted through his heated mind. Think on the nature of kindness. He clenched his fist, sneering at the crimson liquid that dripped a diluted pink from the tips of his fingers as it joined with the rainwater. It was all so confusing.

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[Ink]

Boswell’s frame stilled behind the boulders, but from his original hiding spot there were burgandy puddles and streams splattered on the rocks and dirt. Rain mingled and lightening the fluid, slowly washing away the evidence. He gave a hoarse chuckle, “Good, you haven’t gotten too fat in your new fancy rank.”

Leaning back against the rock, the lightning flashed and illuminated Boswell for a moment. His skin reflected grey, almost blending with the rocks he hid behind. Then the sky darkened again once again shrouding the former hunter. “You don’t need’ter understand yet. I will tell ya after you tell me.”

No matter how far Keen went to try and catch more of a glimpse of his friend, he kept moving around and hiding. Ducking away from view, but still he left the scarlet trail always already diluting by the fallen water. “You didn’t tell me the story, Keene. What is it like to be a Warden? Tell me like I used to tell ya. Remember when I told ya what it was like bein’ a hunter?”

The storm over head seemed to be moving, now from the prairie to over the mudhills. The rain was beginning to thin, a lull in the ebony clouds had formed. Far in the distance a second bunch of thunder heads loomed, Sahova was being hit by a genuine typhoon. It was moving with terrifying speed and accuracy, but for now Keene was slowly being transitioned into the eye.

[Keene Ward]

He glanced back at where Boswell had been, the new location hidden behind the mass of stone. His own hand's pain forgotten as his eyes widened, noticing the fading swirls of scarlet that had begun to fade in the place where he had assumed Boswell had stood. There was a sharp twist in his chest as he flicked his attention towards where Boswell's voice came from. The rain splashed off of the boulders, shattering into even smaller drops that added to the whirling downpour. He could hear it then, in Boswell's voice, a weariness behind the anomalous sneer. Keene tried to creep closer, keeping his eyes on the shadow of the hunter. "I haven't, no." His own voice had calmed some, the frustration beginning to subside as Boswell's fatigue sounded heavier in his tone. It was still strange, alien, and Keene wanted to put an end to the nonsense as soon as he could. He didn't understand why Boswel was being so difficult. The blood made apparent the hunter was injured as well. Keene wasn't sure how, but he wanted to help. He had to help.

With a flash of lighting, the man glared bright in the tick of light. His skin was ashen, barely a shade darker than the pale surfaces of the rain drenched rocks. Keene's advance froze, his eyes taking advantage of the short breath of light to search for any discernible wounds. The only feature he could properly glean was the unnatural pallor of Boswell's skin, not even the expression of his face. As the thunder rolled above them, the light blinked out, casting them once again into the occluded shower of precipitation that tumbled from the shadowy sky. Hoping to catch Boswell unaware, Keene dashed forward, extending a hand to accost the elusive shadow and pull the hunter back him. He was too slow. Boswell's frame slithered from its place, darting to the opposite side of the outcropping, a trail of gore left splattered against the stones where he had stood. As if taunting him, Boswell promised an explanation as long as the prior conditions to his question had been met. Resisting the urge to slam his fist back into the rock once more, Keene took a deep breath, exhaling as he had been doing to focus his mind - usually before practicing his shielding.

"Very well." The effort to control his voice gave his words a strained sound, eking out from between tight lips. Boswell continued, his voice rising and falling with the advent of the wind, clearly ringing through the deluge. "I remember." He paused, his throat catching with sentimentality he usually kept under strict control. "I-" He leaned up against the rocks, staring down at the faded marks that Boswell's blood had left behind. Swallowing, he tried again, turning his eyes back towards the shadowy figure. As be began, the winds started to quiet and the rain slowed to a drizzle in a nearly seamless transition from storm to near serenity. "You... You were better at stories than I am." He felt the shadow shift, perhaps nodding in agreement. He knew the Boswell of the past would have done so readily. "I passed my judgment. Or I..." He chewed on the words. Recalling the information was not difficult, but presenting it to the other man in such a way was strangely uncomfortable, as if he were sharing secrets he had not known he had nor knew he wished not to divulge.

"Atziri, the Warden of Mt. Merlus... She was there. In the room. The hall." He ran a hand through his hair, pushing the water towards the back of his head to keep it from running down his face now that the rainfall had calmed enough to appear as individual droplets rather than sheets. "There was a- a portal. Something came through, I don't know what." He had begun to ramble, but he knew no other way to recount his story to the hidden hunter. "Atziri... She pushed it back. Into the portal. There was..." He paused once more, shaking his head. "I was chosen to be her initiate. She requested it." Boswell's face, the true Boswell, drifted through his mind, an incredulous brow raised in skepticism. "I don't know why. She told me I had potential but..." But if he couldn't even help Boswell who stood bleeding from only gods knew where only feet in front of him, Keene couldn't fathom what sort of meaninglessness his "potential" possessed. "We live in a cave. It's made from this black... glass, and it's warm. Warmer than anywhere else I've been on the island." Boswell would have liked that. He found himself beginning to convince himself that the man he spoke to now, the shadow, possessed only the voice of the hunter and was not, in any way, the true individual.

"She taught me how to shield." He raised his hands in an attempt to show him, but let them fall back to his side. It was nearly impossible for him to calm himself enough to cast even the most basic of shields. "It's... time-consuming. I don't..." He clenched his hands into fists, a sheen of concern glistened over his eyes. "I looked for you! When I left, you were gone... And when I was able to return, no one had..." His voice trailed off, fading into the gentle hiss of the rain. "I have a tree now." There was literally nothing else that came to his mind. Where there had once been facts, semantic recountings of his past, there was now only confusing images of Boswell's grinning face, Atziri's flaming hair, the forlorn silhouette of the twiggy sapling, and the shimmering cavern that had become his home all flashed through his consciousness. Nothing was useful to him, and each pulled and tugged at his chest with an uncomfortable weight. "I thought..." He forced himself onward, the words traveling slow and heavy with a gravity that made him almost sick. "I thought you were dead." He stared at the shadow, the distant boom of thunder in the distance. He had never thought or said the exact words until that moment, and his stomach only sank further. The relief he had thought he might feel upon finally stating his fears was absent, leaving behind only a strange, creeping foreboding.

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[Ink]

Boswell nodded, “Good ‘nough Keene. Let me tell ya a story then. I promised I would.” His form shifted once more, turning towards him so his voice was less muffled. “I was waiting for ya, in the courtyard ya know? With Wanda’s spooks. Knew ya’d make it, so I had a thornhaire ready to celebrate. I dunno why he picked me, dunno that I could have stopped it no matter what. Lhex’s balls, fate’ll have his way. Anyways he picked me for his test, wanted to make a stronger man. Wanted to make it so blades and arrows couldn’t kill me.” The shadow of a man stood, revealing himself as the air cleared in the eerie silence the center of the storm provided. Ozone still hung tangy on the tongue, but otherwise the storm seemed all but abated, for now.

Boswell took careful steps towards the initiate, his skin a mottled grey and brown crust. At first, from a distance, it looked like horrible burns. Burns might have been a kinder wound. He smelled of deep earth and decaying plants, because his skin had been alchemically transmuted into stone. With each step the hunter took, the skin at his joints cracked and shattered oozing vitality. At the corners of his mouth the blood foamed and dribbling where it mixed with saliva from telling Keene his story. “I was a failure Keene, so they threw me out here where the rest of them. Lucky ya found me and not another Warden. They wouldn’t’ve listened.”

Where she brushed the thick stalks of prairie grass they bathed in crimson, and a hand print of the same steadied him against the same outcropping that had been his haven moments ago. Gone was the enthusiasm and life of the old Boswell, replaced with the creaks of a decrepit man, he slowly paced forward. There he fell at Keene’s feet, stained hands grasping the hem of his tunic. Like a supplicant his hands met as the man begged, agony wrought on his stone-coated face. “Help me, Keene.”

Boswell was denied the last vestiges of humanity he might have had when tears failed to fall. Rapidly blinking against the uncomfortably dry irritation only caused his eyelids to crack like his mouth and joints, filming his eyes over in red. “Help me, please.”

The first tendrils of the second storm front already fluttered ahead. The wind tussled through Keene’s hair and swept across Boswell’s cheek. Nature numbered their moments, soon the backdrop would match the ineffable tenebrosity of the moment. But before then, there was this moment in the sun when the prairie abomination reached out to touch the Warden initiate. HIs savior come to find him at last.

“I don’t know what ya Wardens do with us, when we’re spent and useless’ter the Wizards. But Keene do it please, save me from this monster he made me into.” After that Boswell bowed his head forward, the weight of it all pressing against him grinding the man down into his seemingly inevitable defeat.

[Keene Ward]

When Boswell spoke once more, the malice had faded. What remained was strained and slow, pain tinging his words as he shifted behind the shadow of the rock. Keene felt his heart drop, a shiver running down his spine as light broke from behind the clouds, the rain finally abating. With the fading of the rain came an awful, terrible silence that wrapped itself around the two drenched figures as they stared at one another. Keene's eyes widened, words completely failing him as his hands clenched and body quivered. What stood before him hit harder than a god's wrath. Boswell's face was that of a parched desert, cracked and seeping the ruby liquid, dripping from the craggy surface of what had once been his chin. There was not a single part of his skin that had not been affected by whatever torturous anathema had been done to him. With each struggling step, more cracks formed along his body, blood running from within them like rivers, staining the ground, grasses, and stone beneath him. Trembling, Keene's clenched fists shook with the effort it took to contain his rage.

Boswell spoke again, crimson bubbles forming a foam as the effort to speak split apart the strange, stoney substance. He continued to approach, each step an agonizingly protracted display of excruciating effort. Keene remained where he stood, his teeth clenched so tight it felt as if they would break under the force. Tears streaked down his face, hot and heavy; they dripped from his chin, lining his eyes that remained fixed upon the broken body of friend. His friend. Keene may not have fully understood what the term encompassed, even after all his years, but the man that stood before him now was most certainly that: a comrade, a confidant, a friend. He couldn't think. He couldn't speak. He couldn't move. Every effort to do anything but stand mute, quivering beneath the force of his emotions that had risen up to shackle him into his state of inaction. Boswell drew ever closer, each step sending a spear of agony through Keene's heart. Images of a frozen, lifeless face passed before his eyes, the faded fire of a flame extinguished. He tried to blink, to abate the flood of images that assaulted him from all sides of his existence. His eyes would not close. They denied him the peace he so foolishly and desperately sought.

It was Boswell, but at the same time, it couldn't have been. Boswell was lively, a fit of friendly grins, jocular jests, and the strange, blissful curve of his lips that always, without fail, would take on an impish glean. He was talkative, to a fault, but at that moment, that heart stopping scene of golden halo illuminating the horror before him, there was no fault with the happy hunter. He wanted Boswell. He wanted the mousy haired storyteller with his endless accounts of his time in Sunberth and the island to pop out from behind the abomination before him, laughing with his heady chuckle at his devious prank. But with each lumbering movement, the creature drew closer and closer to him, Boswell's smiling face nowhere to be seen, and his voice drifting from between disfigured lips as he fell to his knees, hands grasping at the hem of Keene's tunic. The begging was the worst. It crept in through his ears, swirling like a poison in his head and sinking down into the pit of his stomach. The shaking had increased, his whole body trembling, small trickles of his own blood running down his fingers where they dug into the flesh of his palms. The pain was a miniscule relief from the swirling agony and mania that raged war in his very djed.

He stared down at the cracked features of the creature that groveled before him, tears falling enough for the both of them. As he bored into the bloodied eyes, he saw it. He saw him. There was no denying it any longer. His last hope of being deceived melting before the agonizingly earnest plea of Boswell's gaze. There was pain there beyond anything Keene could have imagined, even in the swirling cesspool of his own loathed humanity. In that moment, he cursed the wizards of Sahova with a dark, seething hatred. Boswell, the man - for he was such, and could never be less - before him, crouched like an animal, degraded to such a state on the whim of the pretentious immortals who played with lives as if they were nothing. They were wrong. They were pompous fools, hiding behind their endless lifespan like shadows while the living strove to cling to the light, only to be dragged into the darkness, vitality drained by the macabre curiosity of those who thought to play god.

As the final words left Boswell's trembling lips and his head bowed forward beneath the weight of his shame and defeat, Keene felt a soft, gentle breeze tousle his hair, the grasses rippling in the strange calm that the two of them had found in the middle of the storm. He could hear the soft drip of Boswell's blood as it fell into the shallow pool of water at their feet. As the breeze faded, Keene was finally released from his trance like state. His head threw back, face turned up to the sky as an explosion of sound rushed from his lungs. His body shook from the effort, his scream streaking off into the sky above him before his legs gave way, sending him to his knees in front of the surprised raise of Boswell's face. The first shaking sob lodged itself in his throat, as he stared once more into his friend's tortured eyes. "I can't-" The words brought fourth a hoarse gasp for air before the emotions overwhelmed him. They wracked his body, suffocating him for air until he was able to gulp it down, only to lose it once more.

He didn't know what to do. He knew what he should have done, what Boswell wanted him to do, what the Wardens expected him to do. It was the same solution for them all, quick and simple. But Boswell was his friend. He was a living, breathing soul who was warm and undeserving of the travesty that had befallen him. His mind flared with ideas, none of them useful to Boswell in the slightest. There was nothing he could think of beyond that which Boswell had silently asked for, what he had designated as his fate. The wind's words replayed over and over in his mind, his thoughts desperately combing them for advice. There was nothing. Think on the nature of kindness. He turned his face towards the approaching storm, fire burning in the grey glare. He raised his voice, forcing the convulsions of anguish to abate for the time being as he slammed his fists into the ground like a child in a tantrum. "The nature of kindness?!" A sharp, acidic laugh escaped his lips, the mania dripping from the sound. "What kindness has been shown him?" He shook his head, unable to see the entity he spoke to but well aware it listened to him. "He deserves more than... Than this!" An arm waved frantically at the the darkening ring of calm that was beginning to pass. The nature of kindness. It was a joke, a farce. Whatever the storm had hoped to impart to him, Keene's mind could make no sense of it. "I refuse."

He turned to Boswell, the violence of his movements immediately tender and gentle. He placed a hand on the man's shoulders, pushing his forehead to Boswell's with a gentle pressure. He still shook, the intensity of his emotions taking their toll. "I can help you... I can-" He choked on his own pathetic drivel. There was nothing he could do. He could not kill Boswell, nor could he save him. Yet, despite his indecision, the man still bled before him, quivering beneath the agony of his own monstrosity. "Boswell... Bos..." He used the nickname Boswell had always spoke of so fondly when he recounted his friends he'd left in the city. Keene now employed its use, despite the raging inadequacy he felt, the shame that chained him, forged in his own inability to do what had to be done. He clenched his eyes shut, the burn of his tears still escaping from beneath the shut eyelids. Pulling back, he rose to his feet, Boswell whimpering before him, at the end of what patience he had managed to muster. Keene had denied him a quick and painless death. He had forced him to continue on in his unwanted existence, forced the full brunt of his own agony onto the already hunched and shaking shoulders of the weak, defeated man.

He knew these things, and yet he couldn't finish it. He couldn't. Thunder crashed above them, the sound of the rain approaching with speed. Throwing his arms outwards, Keene's rushing tears met with the rain once more, his scream rising above even the blast of the reverberation of the thunder. "By my nature, I am weak! Kindness is beyond me!" His voice cracked, "Help him!" He drew in a spluttering breath as the storm began to gather force once more. Releasing what felt like the scream of his very djed, Keene's resounding request erupted from his weak, shaking frame. "Save him!" It was the ultimate defeat. Keene had turned to the very forces of nature to save him, to save himself. The revelation had long been waiting in the back of his mind, and it presented itself to him then. To kill Boswell, to free him from his pain, was a kindness. It was kind, and right, and the only thing he could have done. The nature of it, however, the essence of what was truly kind, was beyond comprehension. He could not grasp it, and as the winds whipped around him, he doubted he ever would. Falling back to the ground, he shook with sobs as his failure stared back at him with crimson rivulets cascading down the canyons that ran through his entirety. "I'm sorry..." Keene reached out for his friend, unable to touch him any more due to his overwhelming shame and revulsion at his own weakness. "I'm so sorry..."

.

[Ink]

In the oncoming storm front, still ticks away, apepared as a wall of ran tumbling from the angry clouds. A breeze spun around Keene and the kneeling Boswell. “Souls are not mine to save,
human.” Augmented by gusts of wind the speech continued, “I can give the mercy you cannot, but only if in return you hunt his kin. Three others were created and released. I have heard their mad mutters on my winds, they know the mage that created these foul creatures. Sate your rage.” Without waiting for the Initiate's assent, the vortex of winds tightened around him, pulling Keene from the former Hunter’s grasp and several paces away.

At once the storm was on again, lightning arched from ground to sky. Striking Boswell, once, twice, and finally thrice. In the third flash Boswell’s form dispersed entirely though, surely Keene couldn’t view the event itself, the light far too bright. The first strike killed Boswell, the second set every physical fiber of his empty husk aflame, and the third pulled him apart into miniscule pieces which burnt in full before ever hitting the ground. The whirling winds around Keene acted as a shield, muted the concussive force of the strikes.

As the final pieces of Boswell vanished, the winds protecting Keene scattered. No sentience spoke, no animals disturbed the prairie, the silent grace of emptiness. That is until the curtain of rain returned, drenching not only body but spirits with it. The storm resumed in earnest, only this time it lacked aiding winds.

A shadow cast long over the landscape. Somewhere in the testing grounds three more abominations hid, perhaps in agony or madness. Three more that Keene had been divinely tasked to destroy. His enemies arrayed against him, insurmountable for all but the strongest of will. Nature, emotion, and mortality all bared their fangs at the Warden-to-be, waiting for weakness to mark his downfall. It was one thing to fail a friend, but what might come of failing of a God?