:: MURDER IN HELOVIA

[OPEN] :: MURDER IN HELOVIA :: Clue III

Zikar-Sin Posts: 78

Hidden Account

Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16hh :: 8

M.E.

11-18-2014, 11:05 AM

“Ah--”

The snow fell softly, the barest kiss of a blizzard swaying through the breeze, tangling itself into the knots and matted locks of the Haruspex’s mane. The air was thin, as it should have been in that time of snow and dry, frozen wind—yes, that’s it, that’s was what was making breathing so hard, oxygen so difficult to catch into his lung. For his breath was rapid, and growing in speed—but shallow and brittle, as he looked down upon a ground barely, carelessly covered in loose, halfhearted flakes.

Ordinarily, his mind would be abuzz with pleasure, absolute joviality, supreme contentment with the image of death. Surely an older corpse would’ve pleasantly helped to obliterate the monotony of young, fresh bodies, for he very rarely had the opportunity to study age in the bones, in the hide, in the gummy cataracts of his elders.

He did not think, though. For the first time in several seasons—several years, in fact—Zikar-Sin’s mind hang frozen and dead, black and lifeless, as he beheld his lost Master.

“Oh,” he said, tiny and soft.

Death did not scare him; indeed, Sin supposed the only way death would ever be able to affect him is if he were to die that very moment. It was an inevitable course of action; the goal, prime and ultimate, of life itself. Surely the Haruspex had seen this coming—had even expected it of his Master, aging and dusty, to find some crevice in a wood somewhere and succumb to nature’s course. Would it have pained Zikar-Sin then, to have seen the decayed bones of his master in a shaded glade somewhere, to witness boars and wolves nibble on the bones of someone who used to be great and knowledgeable?

Sin didn’t know; he still could not think.

Once upon a time, before the void of his person had truly swallowed whatever sort of empathy he felt for others of his kin, his clan—before all that, hadn’t this been his reason to be? Hadn’t Myrrdin told him, long ago, to let go of the fruitless, groundless worries of society; that his true purpose, served faithfully in the Basin, was at the elbow of someone white and wizened, blind and gruff, wise beyond comprehension?

“Question not your allegiances or your duties, youngling. For you belong to me.”

“Ah…” he said again, quite at a loss; deplorably, indescribably abandoned by the anchor of any reason. The world was black and groundless, a void, and Sin peered down through the frosted glass of his monocle upon a body that would never again provide such an anchor. No, it was the arcane energies of the God of Time now, those duties swallowing him happily, a duty he could perform, a service he could provide. Myrrdin had been gone and lost for a while now. It made no sense that Sin couldn’t breathe.

And yet.

His eyes traveled, unblinking and dry, amongst the pale corpse and realized, suddenly, the root of his shock; an inkblot against the pale hide caught his gaze, and some burst of light in the blackness of his vision—some sudden thought, wondrous and welcome in its manifestation—penetrated his paralyzed reason. Feather, he analyzed quickly, all of his focus latching onto the miniscule indication of treachery, a black feather. Related, I presume, to whatever creature of darkness we are pursuing at this time. Yes. And thus, the shock was explained by this discovery: that his master had been murdered not by the grip of age, but the hands of something black. And feathery.

Perhaps it was the return of cognition that finally opened his lungs once more; his breath was shaky, but it was deep as well, and he expanded his chest and expelled the poison that had begun to grow in his chest. There was a moment—a second--but….no, it was gone now. His heart was a void, and remained so. Sadness fled the unnatural, lonely beast of philosophy.

Quite analytically, he wondered, briefly, if his Master would’ve wanted a burial of his corpse. Ultimately he decided against it; it seemed to be a sentimental, foolish thing, quite unnecessary, especially when the old man’s corpse was already surrounded by a field bathed in flowers and the beauty of something natural, wholesome. Besides—what would the flesh of life mean to a dead soul? Myrddin certainly wouldn’t be using it, any time soon.

Sin looked down once more upon his Master’s face; for the first time, those milky eyes were blank. “….Sir,” he said, inclining his head; he turned from that place, and climbed down the mountain. He had a report to make.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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