Chapter 19 - The Mist

"Another request for Third Tails?" A low and heavy voice rumbled.

"You should respect his pleadings, brother." Another voice said in reply before adding:

"The Crested, you know how well I was against allowing them entry upon our lan-"

"It was needed! We couldn't have done it on our own." The low voice fired back, adamant in his disposition.

"...My mistake, brother."

Silence hung in the air between the pair that led the Tailed Brothers. Atlan, both the eldest and the more powerful of the two, led the path as they ventured through the dark crypts — once belonging to the Red Sky.

Arslan followed wordlessly, thoroughly surveying the complicated system of many tunnels. By now, the two have explored much of the desolate expanse built within the Red Sky's Great Mountain.

Weeks have passed since the Three Factions disbanded and returned to their quarrels. But here, the Atlan have remained indifferent to the conflict North of their lands.

The forsaken hollowed-out Great Mountain of the Red Sky took precedence.

Their footsteps rang off the stones and echoed in the vault overhead as they walked among the eerie remembrance of such a dreaded foe. Everything they encounter only reminds them of how monstrous they were, both in strength and in their practices.

Dirtied chains and broken shackles that bound creatures and people alike.

Openings that led to vast, intricate makings that uncannily resembled the keeps belonging to their land.

Earthen chambers that were lined endlessly with tables fastened with braces and bonds. Many odd and mystifying instruments and symbols lay strewn everywhere.

It seemed that aside from their zealous bloodthirst on the battlefield, their strength began here — within these dark crypts. Both brothers couldn't picture many of them surviving, their brutal methods of instruction were beyond what they were willing to impose onto their own youth.

And yet, despite the culling of their young, the blood fiends seemed endless in numbers until the alliance of Three Factions was made.

It was as though these youthful ghosts of the Red Sky watched them pass. Their likenesses were probably sealed in these tombs, never seeing the light come to pass.

They then lept into a vast opening, one of the few made to resemble a fortress and its defenses. It was an odd to see. The didn't look as though it belonged in this… cavern. No — it didn't belong to the Red Sky at all.

It was as though the Red Sky pillaged an entire stone keep from their own lands and folded it into this opening within a mountain.

But it was crude, a rough imitation of the skilled artisans that served them. Most likely, the Red Sky kidnapped some Ordinary craftsmen from their lands and forced them into servitude — to build these makeshift fortresses. The Red Sky's own crafters were more privy to blades and armor — attuned to war rather than the roofs atop their heads and the walls that house them.

Both Atlan and Arslan traced their hands along the building as they pondered if it served the same purpose as the countless other openings that housed a faulty fortress:

To teach their young blood born of the very structures they'll attack, conquer, and hold.

…This one appeared old, though, the brothers thought in unison. It seemed like the oldest of the others. The metal bracings of this one's crude gate already rusted away, leaving only a few red stains where the metal had rested on stone. It was made of Ordinary materials like the others.

Arslan's face turned grim as he couldn't help but think of the Red Sky. So meticulous as they latched onto every shred of strength. Tenacious and fiendish they were.

Both he and his brother understood the dire need to root them out, otherwise they'll rise as plentiful as the coming Spring grass.

'Garm… that old bat, still restless in death.'

To thwart the rising blood-born usurpers of the South, their foolish Lord Father was forced to undergo an Ordeal, running himself to the ground. They, in turn, rose up to their calling as the Tailed Brothers were left without even a single ruler.

The Tailed Brothers were always lorded by two. If one falls, then it is of priority for the remaining Tailed Brother to raise two successors in due time.

But bloodshed ensued. Countless so-called 'successors' arose at this time. Their cities were razed, and fortresses ransacked of their posts. A bloody succession war developed despite the rise of blood fiends.

Both he and his elder brother decisively slain the others, but this decimated their reach and power as a Great Faction. But even then they were still regarded as the hegemons of the Wailing Chain, not even a succession war could take that away.

They could've erased the Red Sky in its entirety if they were the rulers back then…

As they left the opening that housed the old fortress, they skipped through other familiar ruins and returned to the main passage of tunnels.

Time passed on, and more chambers, openings, and rooms were traversed and explored. Yet there was little to note.

Until Atlan suddenly stopped at last and lifted his oil lantern.

He stopped behind his elder brother, even though the crypts continued on into darkness ahead of them.

"Here," Atlan sounded, handing their lone lantern to him.

Their shifting shadows continued to follow them as their exploration came to an end — a grand chamber enclosed by two titanic hatches of crimson metal was left before them. Sealed shut, it was only natural for them to force it open.

"I'll do this one," Atlan said curtly, and suddenly from beneath his mottled robes of deep grey, a thickly scaled deep green and lamprey-like outgrowth — a tail, extended from his lower back. It slammed against the gates as they ruched and warped under the crushing blow, and rocky dust billowed.

But it held against his brother's blow.

Atlan frowned, drawing back his tail for another strike. The force of his blow should have shattered any ordinary gate, or at the very least, cracked the surroundings no matter the material.

Yet, this gate stood firm, unmarred except for the slight warping where his tail had impacted.

"It's odd," Atlan muttered, more to himself than to him.

"Everything else was made of Ordinary stone aside from the odd crimson chamber of First or Second materials — probably made or conjured from one of their crafters."

Atlan paused, examining the chamber with a keen eye, and tapped against it with his tail. "Fourth Ordeal," he continued. "The entire chamber thick and full of it."

Arslan stepped closer alongside, the lantern in his hand cast long shadows across the crimson gates. "Need help?"

Atlan came closer and ran his hand over the smooth, unyielding surface, and said, "Go for it, I can't fit in here."

Arslan's eyes narrowed, a ravening glint in them. He took a step back, mindful to wait until his elder brother was beyond the clearing, deep behind the crypts.

The crimson gates loomed ominously, a barrier between them and whatever lay beyond. But Arslan was undeterred, as his own tail emerged. His jet-black scales dimly basked in the fallen lantern's light. But it continued to stretch and lengthen, and slowly his figure altered, transformed into a colossal stygian serpent that could barely fit in the already massive and spacious tunnel.

He was so large, that it was as though the entire web of the Red Sky's inner mountain was of his own making — his burrow.

Away from Atlan's view, he opened his mighty and sickly maw, revealing onyx fangs that protruded much beyond what could be contained inside. He violently sunk his fangs with a guttural hiss into the incredibly hard crimson gates and twisted his neck despite the constraints of the tunnel, tearing them apart.

As he did so, Atlan flew through the air, carefully fluttering his leathery wings above the titanic serpent below.

Past the surge of dust, debris, and rubble, the pair returned to their original forms, to inspect the exposed chamber.

What they found was a dark, but dimly lit room. A single platform was fashioned and raised at its center. It looked reminiscent of the altars of the numerous different zealots amongst the independent factions. They were an unruly bunch, so many differing churches, sects, and cults…

He wished nothing more but to hound them all together into submission a single banner beneath the Tails.

Surveying the rest of the chamber, their eyes traced towards the many streams engraved into the stone, all flowing from the walls as they fed the altar.

Each of these streams was stained with dark red despite being of stone. And the walls…

They inhibit their own mystifying symbols and engravings.

"Rituals upon rituals, we were right to kill them all, elder brother. But still, this only adds to their secrets."

"Aye. And our seers?"

"They, along with the Third Tails beneath me require more time. The seers can't see anything about the dissidents, an incapable lot they are. There's no one of great promise amongst them… we shouldn't have invested in that rabble. All them were nothing but false promises"

"Time will tell, it's too early… have your Third Tails caught wind of anything?"

"None. We can't find the recipients of the ritual — rituals. Not a trace. There were a few Blood Path Finders we discovered though. We'll finish scouring our lands soon, and if we find nothing by then we'll expand to the Outer Valleys."

Atlan raised an eyebrow at the news before asking:

"Of the Band?"

"Some, but most were outlaws and vagrants in hiding, independent. Those of the Band were ousted members or those who fled long ago before our alliance was formed."

Arslan paused briefly and added:

"We took them in, as well as anyone related. Rounded them up and questioned them. A loud bunch they were, but none were anything special, they couldn't have been the ritual target."

"Did you kill them yet?"

"Aye. Set fire to their villages or outposts as well as wherever they hid. No stragglers, my men were thorough."

"Good."

After confirming the destruction of the Band, Arslan briefed the Tailed Ones he commanded of their findings before returning to his elder brother's side. The other Third Tails were overseeing that both forces of the Union and the Crested had withdrawn from their lands…

They both paused in thought as they wandered the vast, yet baleful chamber. They still needed more information. Even as they ventured deep into the Red Sky's Great Mountain they grew more and more puzzled.

This chamber they were in — what was it used for, and how long ago had the ritual taken place? Were the recipients different or the same as the other?

It only added to their frustration that the Crested have increased their fervor against them despite the mere weeks of the alliance between them being disbanded.

"Do you think either the Union or the Crested are housing them?" Atlan asked.

"Unlikely. But I wouldn't put it past them, especially the Crest Master, he wasn't present after all."

The pair stared at the morbid ritual site as they threw their conjectures everywhere. They both felt the dire need to snuff the buds of revenge now. It was never wise to allow such possibilities to live, no matter how small they were.

Hatred was a strong fuel for great ambition. Ambition that the Ordeals dearly rewarded in power.

—

"Nothing?"

The brothers were puzzled. Osias watched wearily as Kiran dipped his hand into the mist's depths. Seconds felt like an eternity, as he wondered just what could the mist they'd avoided for so long be capable of.

And yet, as Kiran spouted just a single word, his expectations were shunted. He scrounged up the last of his energy to stay awake until he knew what awaited them below the summit only for it to be… nothing.

'Nothing…' He thought as he collapsed entirely. His eyes turned oddly flat and lifeless.

Even Kiran was taken aback. He slumped over behind and sat whimsically before the steep slope. He simply stared at his hand, deep in thought.

As Osias lay sprawled, heavy breaths escaped from his tired lips as his chest rose and sunk. This period of respite was spent in silence, both pondering upon this discovery.

For what could have been minutes, Osias's armor suddenly softened, then turned to liquid as it streamed towards Kiran's glaive.

Kiran, who had gotten over his brooding, came over to him.

"What of your arm?"

Osias turned his head to the left and tried lifting the mangled limb off the ground. The searing pain had only risen as he rested, but he still tried.

It seemed as though he lost all feeling below his elbow; the fervor of battle had worn off.

With a curt frown, he tried to rear back his shoulder to test the extent of the damage. It was only bruised and battered, and it didn't seem like his bones up there were shattered.

"I can't move it. But it's not my sword arm, so I'll be fine."

Kiran paused in response, only to reply:

"I see."

"How about yours?" Osias asked, nodding toward Kiran's bloodied stump.

"It'll heal — the venom slows it, though."

"I see."

Kiran shifted his gaze back to the mist. "This is… troublesome." He said, before adding:

"It's dangerous, without a doubt. But I don't know why. Even the instincts of the mutts were to scamper away."

And with a heavy pause, he left a lasting remark:

"I might… be too weak to tell."

Osias didn't say a word in reply. It already dawned on him much earlier, that some things were beyond Kiran. But to hear it out of Kiran's mouth was heavy. He shifted on the ground and hesitated a bit. He turned his head to directly face Kiran and sighed inwardly.

Kiran was strong, undoubtedly so. Although he himself never said it outright, Osias believed that Kiran was at the absolute pinnacle of the Second Ordeals after all their time together. As the thick smell of waste and blood blended with the wintry mountain air, he couldn't name any other Second Blood of the Band able to slaughter this many Second Ordeal Beasts, no matter how weak they were.

Perhaps they could kill one with ease, perhaps another, but dozens? The Band already possessed an unnatural battle strength amidst their Path Finders, but Kiran was an outlier even compared to those monsters…

"Water?"

"What?" He stammered out as he lightly scowled at Kiran's words.

"Do you want water?"

"Oh… Let me sit up first," He replied as he came over the his confusion. It seemed like the hounds knocked more than just the wind out of him.

He braced himself and crawled up to a seat and Kiran handed over the water skin fastened to his hip. Silently humoring to himself, he still hasn't gotten over how curt his elder brother was, despite the months together.

The time they spent together over the past months has felt much longer than they seem. And yet, Kiran hasn't changed in the slightest, immovable over time it seemed. Was this because of how long-lived they will turn as they progress through Ordeals?

Between shallow sips of water, he asked, "Brother, how old are you?"

Kiran dropped down aside from him with a heavy thud and slowly replied:

"Twenty-four moons." He huffed out as he extended an arm to retrieve the water skin.

Osias obliged and tiredly returned it, and Kiran took a deep swig and then set the water skin aside.

Kiran's cloak hung in rags. Tattered all over, and his barren chest was revealed. Long gouges left by blades, thick scabs from grievous wounds, and similar tattoos riddled his body. He thought that his body would soon be identical to his elder brothers — especially after today's battle.

"How was it, Osias? To fight for your life?"

"The boar was easier, truly," He lied, his face quivering as his lips curled into a sly smile.

That remark earned a quiet chuckle from Kiran before speaking again.

"Your arm — your body. It would be years until it returns to old. Perhaps a year as your essence reservoir continues to grow. Too difficult to tell, but it'll be a great deal of time."

"But you mustn't stop. You must continue to train. This is no place for the weak."

Osias didn't speak, but he understood the message. Looking at the morbid summit, he knew this was something he had to grow accustomed to. It was revolting. The smells of battle churned his stomach — he was simply astounded at how much his mind and body could disregard in the quest to survive.

No… it also frightened him, how far, how much he can do in order to live. What he can do.

He recalled his killing of the boar. The feeling of its eye crushed beneath his fingers. How it squirmed and writhed as it sought to live, just as he did. His own blood that coated his mouth and throat tasted bitterly similar to the boar's when he sunk his teeth into it.

Once again, his eyes wandered below the tattered cloak of Kiran, focusing on the countless wounds as he wondered, 'What has he done to live?'

His eyes were fixed on Kiran's side, waiting.

Slowly, Kiran got to his feet, pulling himself up with his glaive's shaft, and said:

"It doesn't seem like the rest of the mutts will wander up here. Perhaps they truly did fall to the mist… In a few hour's time, I'll descend from the summit. You'll remain here, rest, recover, eat."

Kiran paused briefly, before lastly adding:

"I'll see you then,"