Shadow of the Abyss

"Dry me," He commanded her, curious how far his bedevilment had gone.

Shyla had not shied away. She lifted a rag that smelt of roses and jasmine and reached for his... Altair stopped her smiling as a redness trailed up her neck. She nibbled at her lips, feeling herself going madder by the day.

"You may go now. Tend to Vanro." He commanded and dried himself, amused by that crestfallen expression she bore. Altair had to admit he was tempted. Shyla was indeed a beautiful specimen. Every ounce of blood he took made his senses reel out of control, making it the best time to train.

But it also made his blood boil for a woman's touch, especially when he took directly from the neck with his bare lips.

But Ren would not approve. Of that, he was sure.

Altair sighed, counting the days, feeling his restraint dwindling by the hour. He dressed himself in a black and gold tunic over black trousers, a belt to hang his sword, and boots. He left and had not bothered to look at Hilda shadowing him with the silvery crest of the howling wolf mounting the Crescent Moon on her pale black leather surcoat.

Her pink hair was tied in an intricate tail that rested at the center of her back.

"You look—"

"Save it," Hilda barked. "You haven't once looked at me." She said when he whirled to her, taking her all in with an amazed gleam.

"Stunning. Yes. That's the word." He said, grinning at the redness of her cheeks, and continued on into the main house. They made for the Great Halls, where Edwin, Aria, and the pale Bastard sat.

"Wow," Aria shone, staring at Hilda's pink hair. "Is that Riena? She is so pretty!"

"This is my knight, Hilda Strob," Altair said. "Reina will be here in six days, maybe less."

Edwin, with his sharp eyes, narrowed at the fierce aura around the pink-haired warrior. "I see you've recovered." He said, lowering his fork and knife. He gestured to an empty chair," Have a seat. Eat. There's enough for everyone.

Altair accepted, finding a seat beside Aria and Liana. He patted a chair for Hilda.

"This Reina… how old is she?" Edwin asked, lifting his fork and knife that began to cut into his slab of pork. "You speak of her so much I can all but place her in my mind."

"Like me, she's twelve… though we look sixteen," Altair answered, stabbing his fork into his braised sausage, seeping with hot juices. "And she has red hair and red eyes."

"A redhead," Edwin said gravely.

"Oh, come on! You too?"

Liana only giggled. "My Lord, you mustn't reveal such a face so early. Lord Altair and Lady Reina are to wed," She said.

"She's… probably… a… whore," Vanro wheezed, coughing into a napkin that shone a vibrant red. He brushed his bloody nose. "You… are…"

"Vanro, you truly seem like a man hard-pressed to accept death," Altair said. "I only wonder when you will offer a tribute to the Sisters." He smiled almost devilishly. "You sure were begging for mercy that day beneath the altar."

Vanro had not the energy to rage or flail his arms. So he glared, opening his mouth where a stream of black blood thick as jelly gushed from out of his mouth, smearing the table. He tumbled to the ground, hitting his head across the table and floor.

Liana pulled at her lady and covered her nose as Aria screamed. The stench had been so foul she thought she saw black nodes rise from out of the blood that began to rise.

"Hells." Hilda cried and glared at the Bastard boy. "You—"

Altair placed a palm on her knee, and Hilda went silent.

Edwin had never looked paler. He was staring, not at his Bastard… but his son. The boy he took from in between his mother's legs.

"Call a Healer!" Edwin barked, charging at his son, convulsing over the ground. But none of the servants moved.

"They'll not help," Altair said, resisting the urge to smirk. "He's offended the Church of the Sepith. You ought to know they demand a price."

"...what… what do they want?" Edwin demanded, clutching his son into his arms. "Tell me so…"

Altair could only shrug. "I don't know. I only saw him pleading with a scar-faced woman," He said. "You'll have to wake him up if you want to know."

"Noo!" Vanro cried, peeping his eyes open.

"Oh… he's still conscious."

"Vanro! Tell me! Tell me what the Sisters want!" Edwin pleaded with his Bastard.

"Just let me die, father… I'll… not… be a…man."

"My, how ruthless these sisters are," The Prince mused. "Though it is a small price to pay for your life... maybe."

I sure as hell would rather die.

It had taken a while for Edwin to understand his meaning and less for him to snatch one of the table knives. He had not waited for Vanro's consent as he knocked him out and did the deed before everyone, severing Vanro's cock and balls in a single stroke.

RIP

o((>ω< ))o

~(>_<.)＼

'Had it been a mercy?' The Prince thought to himself. Though he did not care. Together with Hilda, he left the manner in the midst of the chaos to a local forge where a rigid dwarf welcomed him. No more than three feet, with a head so large it seemed to belong to a grown man attached to a child's body. Yet despite his small stature, Altair could see his muscular frame, covered in soot from his forge.

T'volk had been running the forge for well over three decades. He had been known for his steel across the land, so much so that many of the Iron Sisters sought him out to reforge their morning stars, axes, and spears.

"What do you want, boy," T'volk asked, with a hammer in hand. "If you hear to watch. Fuck off, will you."

"This is your sword?" Altair said and slid his longsword from his sheath.

The Dwarf glanced at the iron and nodded. "It got my crest—"

With a single swing, a stroke so profaned swept through the air, bleeding the skies with its hiss. Suddenly, the sword cracked and shattered into shards. Altair looked at the Dwarf with a grim frown. "I need a weapon that won't break."

Hilda shuddered and turned to Altair with enchanted eyes. She had never seen a more fearsome cut, a more masterful blade that seemed to embody the nature of war and all its cruelty.

'Had he ever seen war?' she asked herself, entranced by his skill.

"By the grace of Aidios," T'volk said, dropping his hammer over the cobblestone. He gulped, touching his neck where he felt the blade cut across, despite knowing it hadn't.

"Any blade is fine. Greatsword, shortsword, longsword, a dagger even. I don't really care. I just need a powerful blade."

"It'll be costly…" T'volk said, staring at his shattered blade. There had been a moment of dizziness followed by disbelief, and then shame came. But he said nothing of it. He knew his work, knew the very blade Altair had shattered. It was one of many he had given to the Silvermane.

"Money is of no issue." He said, tossing a few gold ingots onto the counter. He had gained it from a noble boy he compelled. "Is a fortnight enough?"

T'volk gave a simple nod, still in shock. And by the time he came back to himself, Altair was gone.

"Altair, what grade is your technique?"

'Grade?' Altair thought. He had never looked. It had made no difference, for he knew he was unmatched.

Ding

Grave of Night [D]

Grade: Transcendent

Proficiency: 0.11% → 98.999%

Altair stared at his growth this past month and knew all this was the work of the Ninth Form, Aeron.

Ninth Form, Aeron [E]

Grade: Supreme

Proficiency: 0.0% → 97%

Aeron had not given him power, had not blessed him with greater speed or invincible strength. No… It twisted his mind and corrupted his soul until it was rot. It bled him of humanity until the only thing that walked and talked was nothing but a monster. A demon that thought himself human.

"Who can say," Altair said, grinning. He chuckled at Hilda's pout before entering a leather shop to help purchase something light.

Later, when the sun burned like molted gold setting over the horizon. They sat in a local tavern called the 'Red Rose' with two tankards of Ale, frothing at the rim. Shouts and roars of laughter thundered throughout. Bards sang, and scantily, women, half naked and wet with sweat and beer, danced.

"I don't like it here." Hilda had said, frowning.

Bored, Altair shrugged, watching it all with curious eyes. He sipped at his tankard of Ale of apple, pine, and cinnamon. Sour, sweet, and hard, the Ale glazed his throat, quelling his burning hunger that never seemed to fade. Yet now it dimmed for but a few minutes, granting a drowsy clarity to his mind.

"But it's a good place for information," Altair replied and took another sip. "Listen."

"The Bastard of the Silvermane seems to have died." One of the men shouted drunkenly.

"He ain't dead, ya fool. He's cockless!"

"Same thing!"

"A man without a cock is a woman!"

"A cockless man and bastard," another laughed, clutching his crotch.

"I'd rather die!"

"AYE!!!!!" Everyone roared in agreement.

Hilda felt her brow dipp. " Gods, I hate commoners."

"Oh, it's not so bad, they're funny, don't you think?" Altair mused, drowning his tankard until it was empty. He gasped with a rosy hue stretching across his cheek.

"They're not," Hilda said unamused.

"Ser Valquess, the Sword of the King, Blade of the Morningstar, is on the move." Ser Bendon Thou said loudly, slamming his tankard down empty. " More!" He shouted to one of the tavern wenchs. " I'd have run from this damned Tide if I hadn't heard that the Blade of the Morning is riding from the central plains to aid us."

The Prince's interest peaked. He glanced at the aged man, finding a similar knight he'd seen within the Silvermane's keep.

"Curse this damnable tide!" Bendon barked, belching into the air a foul scent of Ale. "How are we going to survive this one? And them damn Dawnbreakers rarely take the field."

"Or the Iron Maidens," Another said, a guardsman, Halv, they called him. "You ever seen one of those Iron Maidens?"

"Nope."

"Stunning, like fine wine," Halv said, cursing. "Hard to believe such a stunning woman had taken the Iron Vow. It's such a shame. I've never felt my cock press so hard against my—"

"Seriously, how can you listen to this shit?" Hilda cursed.

Altair listened for a bit before tossing a few silver ingots onto the table and left with a smile on his face.