Author's Note: For the sake of the story, which had decided quite independently to become even more complicated then it already was in my head, it now demands, at the very least, three separate storylines. So, this is one of them. Hmmm, it's probably going to end up with five. In the end they will all converge into one spectacular (well, that's for you to decide, but I guess it'll be something to see either way) story. Er, I hope you enjoy.
Disclaimer: If you recognize it, it isn't mine. If you don't recognize it, there are only tentative claims on them at best (but most likely, it isn't mine...).
Began: who knows when exactly. Finished: 10/31/2006
Chapter the First: Of Pseudo-Deaths and Mind Bending
Atop a grassy knoll, in a dimension not all that strange, two figures stood, placidly observing the setting sun presented to them. They stood there with the wind gently teasing their clothing, completely ignoring the fact that they cut figures that inspired fear in their eagerness to cajole an article with which to play with. The first figure was shorter than the one behind him; however, he had an air of intensity about him. Even the simple cut of his robes could not hide this from those who gazed upon him. It leant to people having the hair upon their necks stand at attention. The second figure looked far more intimidating at first glance. There was no two ways about the obsidian armor that he bore or the scythe that he carried. The fact that under the helm was a bleached white skull tended to scare the wits out of many of mortal ken. To those who watch closely though, it was the first figure, the one in the plain black, slightly faded robes, with its hood obscuring his face that shouldn't be angered.
The first turned to the second, seeing him, past the armor and past the whole skeleton deal. Tagmec, his knight, the one he trusted to handle matters in the most level headed manner allowed in any situation had surprised him. He had known him far beyond the memory of many a fallen civilization, but yet, he had floored him. He had taken in an anomaly, had trained said anomaly, at which point he apparently decided 'why the heck not, I've gone this far' and employed the anomaly as well. Those aligned with death, and he being the god of death himself with Tagmec being his first lieutenant, were also very strongly attuned to order. Order, being, well, orderly, Tagmec should have found a way to remove the anomaly, not make sure that the aberration would thrive.
"You've taken a rather unorthodox… approach to the situation," commented the deity, voice giving nothing away.
"It appears so, milord," replied the knight, his response just as cryptic.
The deity frowned at the 'milord'. He never felt comfortable with being addressed as if he were a higher class of being (which he was). After all, he often grumbled, an elevated being shouldn't have to mind the influx of souls that came in everyday. Not to mention the fact that he needed to tend to the spirit world with his sister too. But he was getting off topic; Tagmec's deviation from protocol was the subject of scrutiny.
Sighing, he couldn't help but try to make another appeal towards the skeletal knight's form in addressing him.
"Please, I told you to just call me Grim," sighed the immortal, bringing a hand up to massage the lids of his eyes. He was getting tired. Perhaps time was catching up with him. After all, he was only the deputy deity of death. Soon, he would need to find an heir to take his place.
"My apologies, Grimmuercant," was the stoic reply.
Resigning himself to his fate, Grimmuercant, god of the dead extraordinaire, returned his attention to the matter at hand. "The girl, why did you not address her in accord with protocol?"
The skeleton frowned, though having no muscles to frown with, it was quite a feat. "The girl," a pause, "is special. I do not know why, Grimmuercant, but she is. The circumstances of her death, the fact that she did not actually die was, no, is compelling. She took to our arts like the dead to their graves, and it seemed unwise to let her dabble and not initiate her."
"So," hazarded the divinity, "she intrigues you."
"I suppose she does," answered Tagmec carefully. "But there is something else that I can not describe…"
Raising a brow, the keeper of death began to wonder. The girl was abnormally attuned to death and that which was related to the subject. Perhaps he did not need to find his heir; after all, she did come to him. Making a decision on the spot, the god gently traced the folds of space and sought out his prize. Finding it, he tugged the sword into existence before him, hanging in the air.
Tagmec stiffened in surprise. Smirking at the idea of 'a stiff' stiffening, Grim took the sword by the grip. It did not expand into its true form, but he wasn't surprised. Time was running out, and his fate was sealed it seems. He was a celestial being now and the sword was not made for those who could no longer affect the mortal plane as they pleased.
Tagmec gaped in disbelief. The sword in his master's hand was, to a mortal's eyes, a decidedly vicious looking thing. With the guard wrought in a vague impression of a skull and spines on one side for a cross guard and another cranium's profile for its counter-part, it was no wonder that it inspired a rather negative reaction. After all, it was a motif for one of the three taboos in most mortal societies (death, sex, and politics). The blade was broad but short, barely reaching the foot and a half mark. The blade itself was dark and looked more like a giant, mal-formed arrowhead that was surprisingly long. It was flat and smooth, and glinted in a rather ominous way. The pommel looked like it belonged at the head of a femur.
"Muertoguerra," whispered the champion. "Why…?"
"I'm getting old my friend," the answer was flippant at the surface. "It is time the sword was passed onto someone else, a new avatar to bridge life and death. The girl will do as well as any other. When she returns, you shall present Muertoguerra to her."
Tagmec did not answer. There wasn't a need for one.
Looking around, Kestrel frowned darkly at the undead that have been raised to kill her. She supposed it was a sort of compliment to be considered such a threat that the necromancer raised not one, not two, but three cemeteries full of dead bodies to vanquish her. However, Kess was considering the amount of clean-up she would undoubtedly be saddled with. The frown morphed into an angry scowl when she recalled the crimes that the necromancer had committed. Holding a soul unwillingly, forceful extraction of ether, illegal tampering with the soul. Those crimes, however, were not as bad, in her humble opinion, as the fact that he had been raising the dead to terrify and lord over his domain.
Kestrel was sick and tired of finding necromancers that just didn't do anything productive with the power they were granted. Huffing in annoyance, she was highly offended by the fact that these necromancers needed to be taken care of by people and other such enforcers like her. She knows that the living sometimes handle the situation themselves, but those cases were rare. Eyeing those around her, she drew her machete and dropped into a ready stance. She frowned at her weapon, she didn't hate it, per se, but she had wanted a scythe or at least a claymore but was forced to settle with a machete and javelin, which was strapped to her back. A longbow came standard too, summon-able, but that was beside the point, she wanted a scythe damn it!
The necromancer himself wasn't much to look at. Pasty face with hollow cheeks, manic slightly blood-shot eyes, and a ridiculously large mouth tended to undermine his image. Not to mention that the crooked nose, rotting teeth and overall unsavory feel that came with him did not endear him to many.
Grinning madly, the dead raising bastard gave one short command: "Kill her."
She had hoped that would be all. Rolling her midnight black eyes at herself, she should have known better.
"I shall add your corpse to my undead army! Perhaps I will take your soul for entertainment, see how much pain you could endure. And maybe I'll do a little of this… and a little of that and… hee-hee."
Turning a little green at the thought of another necrophiliac, Kestrel started hacking through the undead. Most dropped dead (again) at one blow from her and stayed that way. Ah, the perks of wielding a weapon forged by the dead for the dead. Killing the undead became a snap with one of these (order one online now for a phenomenal price) and she took vindictive pleasure at seeing the look of absolute horror on Nostro's (that's the name given to her by the file) face as she danced her way to him. Without preamble, Kestrel shoved her blade into the locket that contained the contract built by a necromancer and the god of the dead. The zombies behind her crumbled the moment the contract was demolished.
Wild mass of black hair shading her eyes, Kestrel's visage became rather intimidating as she held the machete over Nostro's broken contract and, more importantly, throat.
Voice oddly calm, Kestrel began explaining why she was here to break his contract.
"You've violated section eight of article D on the forceful summoning of an unwilling soul. You've violated said soul and attempted to tamper with the soul's ether as well."
At this point, her voice turned a bit menacing.
"Not only that, but you've also terrorized the surrounding villages and impoverished this fief. So, pray tell, why should I not kill you?"
Here she looked the trembling man in the eye. Wrinkling her nose, she noticed that Nostro had wet himself. She also noticed that Nostro's quaking had increased with her wrinkling. Good, thought the furious girl, he should know fear after he inflicted it upon so many hapless others.
"B-because you can not kill th-those of the l-living without contract…"
Grinning at him in a rather mad way, with her eyes shining, she whispered one thing to him: "I'm not dead."
Then she was gone.
Kestrel lingered around the impoverished village of Touseka, making certain that Nostro would not forget her. Looking about her, she was having second thoughts about not killing the man. The people that walked the streets were emaciated and slumped in gloom. The buildings were run down, windows were shuttered when there were shutters, and the atmosphere was just downright depressing.
Scowling, she could only hope that with the necromancer gone that Touseka and the other villages that had been under Nostro's thumb would recover.
As she trekked down the paths, idly wondering when the villagers would discover Nostro's empty fortress, Kestrel felt a call from the dead. A harbinger had arrived. Frowning, she turned toward where the messenger's presence was and made her way there, wondering why she would receive a message.
Finding the emissary of the dead, a construct in the shape of a crow, she quickly retrieved a letter, leaving the crow to dissolve into the air. She eyed the message at a quick clip and, upon finishing, did so again at a slower pace. Apparently she had been ordered by Sir Tagmec to return upon the mission's completion. Quirking an eyebrow in contemplation, she folded away the missive. Odd, Tagmec knew she liked to be around the living for as long as she could be spared. It wasn't like the dead bothered her but sometimes the desire to be around those that could breath was titillating. The fact that she could exert changes in the living world, something that the dead couldn't do directly without contract, was an added bonus.
Huffing in annoyance, she accessed the inter-d tesser sequence that had allowed her to reach this plane of existence. The usual tessering, commonly known as teleporting, did not need a pre-made gating sequences that inter-d tessering did. To travel between dimensions was much more difficult then traveling between points within a dimension. Shifting space and time was relatively easy as long as one doesn't tamper with the flow of time itself. That is to say, time traveling is difficult and messy at best and could kill at worst. Tessering between dimensions was a whole new kettle of fish. Not only was there the displacement of time and space to be considered, there were additional dimensions to take into concern. With teleporting within a dimension, most of the nuances of a universe can be handled without difficulty, as in there is no need to do anything to them, just maintain the status quo. With inter-d there were additional nuances to be aware of and the 'gap' between one reality and another to take into consideration. These differences made inter-d tesssering a hassle. After all, there's synching spaces and times to worry about and then the forceful bridging of two realities between the 'gap' and then replacing the person (or object, but objects are easier, less worrying about the whole alive part of the mess) in the desired reality. In addition to that, it's still necessary to take into consideration where the caster wants to be in the second reality. All of this was really troublesome and exhausting. So, gate sequences were set up to ease the transaction, relieving the caster of much of the stress that came with IDT.
Accessing the coordinate input brought about the familiar sensation of having the universe's attention upon her with hers focused right back (an odd sensation that could be best described as a connection being made in conversation where both parties understood each other perfectly, at times finishing sentences for the other and correctly at that). Kess wondered what the hurry was about. Was it something she did? Absently reviewing her past-but-relatively-recent activities, she couldn't find anything to fault herself with. Shrugging it off as she could be a bit biased when it came to herself, she decided that the quickest way to finding out what was going on was to speak to Tagmec. This set her off on a new train of thought as to why Tagmec didn't directly contact her. Waving it off as unimportant, she checked the settings to see that the coordinates would place her in Tagmec's office. Blinking at the direct access she had apparently been granted, she activated the gate.
Her vision shimmered and warped as the gate manifested around her. Script traced the air, describing the gate and its purpose, visible for but a moment. The writing was supposed to be universal; any caster may divine its meaning (if they could read fast enough). Anyone else that looked on would have just seen a slight shimmering at best and not even waver at worst. Sensation flooded her as she felt two realities merged into one and then she was feeling only one again as she reappeared in her superior's (psh!) office.
It was quite sparse; bare would have been a better word if not for the sizeable desk. The room was dark, with the desk practically blending into the shadows. The few windows there were was covered with ratty blinds. It was rather small as offices go with the emptiness lending to its deceptive size. Tagmec claimed that it allowed him to be intimidating but Kestrel chalked it up to him being cheap. Looking towards the desk (because Tagmec loved sitting behind his desk in his office feeling all smug like the fleshless arse he is) she found it empty of its usual occupant. She turned toward a window and found him facing it, but she could tell he wasn't seeing what was outside. She never really figured out how it was possible to read expression off a skeleton, but c'est la vie.
"Yo, brainless wonder," grouched the irate fifteen year old, "What's the deal? I wanted to keep an eye on Noseo. What if he figured that since I'm gone, those provinces will be his for the retaking?"
Tagmec turned wordlessly toward her. She was as irritating and impatient as ever, rushing into everything, even her pseudo-death. He kept staring at her without saying a word, as if he needed to firmly carve the image into his nonexistent brain.
After a while of being stared at wordlessly by Tagmec, Kestrel shifted uncomfortably. Her knight master and she had established a repertoire of sorts, taking pot-shots at each other at every turn. He was never the sort to take things lying down, giving as well as he got (and better at times, she grudgingly admitted). The only time he ever didn't return an eye for an eye was when there was something dead (she couldn't believe she was still thinking in those terms!) serious going on and he sometimes took shots even then. He was never this quiet and solemn at the same time. Shifting her weight again, she tried, a little desperately, to lighten the suddenly heavy atmosphere.
"Hey, I thought you weren't into flesh-clad girls," she quipped with a black brow arched tauntingly.
"Gods above, I'll miss you, brat-ling," grumbled the knight.
"Huh?" she articulated intelligently.
Having finally screwed his courage to the sticking place, apparently, he took a pseudo-breath (because the dead don't breathe), Tagmec rushed to explain what was to happen.
"This comes from my superior, as in the big brass himself. He has this nonsensical notion of sending you away as his emissary, muttered something about bridges and whatnot. It isn't my idea, but what can I do, you know? I'm his subordinate, and I- I can't do anything and it just isn't right, and I don't want this to be happening, I really wish it weren't. Gods above! Why did he suddenly feel old? When did he start feeling old? I don't under-"
Kestrel frowned at the pacing skeleton before her. He'd started after explaining, talking too fast for anyone to understand though so it didn't help her at all. Sighing in frustration, she marched up to the pacing fool and pushed against his armor, bringing him to an abrupt halt. Looking into his sockets, idly wondering at how exactly he could see without eyes, she glared him silent. He sighed, and somehow became more compact, shrinking into himself.
"Now, we both know you're a buffoon, but let's try to pretend for a second that you're not and can actually deliver a concise, enlightening piece of dialogue," commanded the petite lass. She marveled at the fact that while Tagmec was, supposedly, her superior it was so easy, so natural for her to take charge at times.
The knight took a moment to find his compose. The moment stretched and again the girl huffed in annoyance. Rapping smartly upon his armor, she bit out another order, sharp and demanding.
"Report, soldier! The relevant details, if you will. What is going on, where am I going, why am I going, how am I going, when am I going. We'll dispense with the 'who' part. Now speak lively!"
"Yes ma'am!" snapped the skeleton as his posture became rigid with his straightening. "Grimmuercant has given you the title of Avatar of the Dead. You are to go to a designated realm of the living, perhaps permanently. I will be setting up an inter-dimensional gating sequence here to transport you. As soon as all of this is settled, I will be constructing the port."
Kess stared at him, speechless. Well that answered those questions but not much else. He was doing that thing again, that 'thing' being precise to the point of driving all to madness. Ignoring the idly wandering part of her self, Kess reoriented herself to try to focus on the relevant bit of data that she had just received. Grumbling about the insensitive ways of men, she noted, was not helping her. This explained why he was so agitated. Ah well, she'll do what she does best, bite down and bear her way through this new mess that is her life (pseudo-death?). Forcefully relaxing her muscles, she began to pry more information out of the knight.
The bone knight eyed her warily, she may look as cool as a cucumber but her eyes gave it away. He idly wondered if she would find what she was missing on this path she was set on.
After receiving the Muertoguerra (which turned into a claymore at her touch and that in turn made Kestrel that much more bearable since she had lost her machete, javelin and longbow), Tagmec started constructing a gate sequence. As the port weaved itself into existence, he finally made up his mind. As the girl, young woman (he corrected himself), was about to activate the gate, he grabbed her shoulder. Turning to him curiously, she watched as he reached under his armor and brought out a knife. The blade was about 20 centimeters in length with a grip that was about 15 centimeters. It was rather plain, the grip worn from much handling. The blade was tapered and reminded her instantly of a fang with its slightly curving length.
"This is Fang (a proper name for it, thought Kestrel as she eyed the blade), and I have had it for countless years. It has gotten me out of many a scrape, and I hope that it would serve you just as well." With that, the knight handed the weapon to her gruffly. Handling it, she found the weight comfortable in her hand. Smiling slyly she eyed the skeleton.
"Well, if it's all the same to you," here Tagmec tightened his grip on his scythe at the tone of her voice, "can I have the scythe instead?"
A short crisp "No" was the deadpanned answer. Grinning, the mischievous child looked at the knight for perhaps the last time.
"I'll miss you, you potential lump of bread," and with that she activated the gate and disappeared.
With a snort of annoyance that was quickly followed by a sigh, the skeleton replied in a whisper to the empty office.
"I'll miss you too."
Zenhir liked having good days. They were rare and hard to come by. It was little surprise then that he would take a good day by the horns and be carried away with it. Nothing, he swore, nothing could ruin his good mood. This was going to be a good day, and by the gods, nothing is going to ruin it.
So he whistled a jolly tune as he trekked through the desert, wind and sand scrubbing his face raw through the scarf that was wrapped inadequately about his face. He had hoped to come upon the oasis he was told had been in this direction, but after three days of fruitless walking, he began to question the existence of this oasis. Cursing, he pushed on as he forcefully stretched his mouth into a determined grin. He promised himself a good day, and, with the gods as his witnesses, he was going to have one.
The sand and wind finally abated, leaving his face to bake in the merciless sun, not that the winds had been any good in the cooling department. Cursing at his empty canteen, he suddenly stopped- something was tampering with space-time.
Space contorted; apparently the gate wasn't all that efficient. A truly skilled practitioner would have been able to pass without disturbing space. Zenhir sniffed in a superior manner; he had no troubles with teleportation. This was obviously a novice, he thought until he noticed that the sequence was made for inter-dimensional transport, not local-dimensional transport. He raised a brow appreciatively, this was not the work of a deity. Whoever this is was quite skilled. He waited, rather impatiently, to see who (what) would turn up.
A woman, girl, teenager (that's the word) showed up, a mop of black hair elegantly covering her noggin a la bird's nest style. Lips that concealed a wicked bite rode under a sharp nose. Eyes of obsidian blinked owlishly at him. Zenhir did the polite thing, he blinked back, equally befuddled. A teenager wasn't supposed to be that skilled. He wondered if she had a canteen with her and whether she was willing to share. On a side note, she was mortal, mostly, and she wasn't exhausted, a peculiar state if she had made an IDS.
Kestrel wasn't sure she liked the fact that Tagmec had landed her in the desert. After a moment's contemplation as she observed the tanned man before her with graying hair under a beige turban, prominent nose, and funky beard that went every which way (it was rather thin and wispy, ditto the hair from what she could see), she decided that no, she did not appreciate being sent to a desert. As a matter of fact, she was probably going to grind his bones to meal and make her bread with it. It (probably) won't be just a (idle) threat this time around. She turned toward her impromptu companion and wondered at the speculative look upon his face. He wasn't planning to sell her apparent adeptness in 'magic' was he? As she eyed him warily, she wondered if he had any water on him. The sun was beating down on her something fierce.
Zenhir wondered at how best to ask a completely strange (and she was strange. Who in their right mind would be in a black get-up in the desert? Hello, at least have sleeves and leggings that actually covered, not those cut off things that weren't even proper! She'd be fried something awful in the sun) stranger for a canteen of water. After all, they just met and didn't even know each other's name. He wondered if it would be too forward to just- well- ask. Scratching his beard idly, his gaze speculative, he did not notice the slight frown that marred the teen's face. He finally decided, what the heck, and opened his mouth to inquire about water or, at the least, something liquid. It couldn't hurt.
Gobbledygook. That was what she heard: gobbledygook. The man shifted nervously as Kestrel stared at him blankly. He, awkwardly, spoke again. Again, no response (the same response, but it was little better than nothing). A third time he spoke, this time with gestures that looked ridiculous. Was he pantomiming water? She blinked at him as if he was stupid; did she look like she was desert ready? Trying to communicate this and the fact that they were really boned (because, why else would a native ask her for water if he had some to begin with?) to the idiot before her, she reached for his mind.
Zenhir tensed at the sudden contact. She did not just- he felt it again, that nudge at his psychic defenses. He stared, shocked by the audacity. Suddenly, his walking staff was twirling in his hand, a blur as he swung it at the uncouth cretin. Trespassing upon another's mind was repugnant, an offense of the highest order. No one encroached upon his mind and got away with it (not even an upstart teenager, damn it!).
She didn't notice the staff before, but she did notice it as it cracked against the cross-guard of Muertoguerra (the skull side, which, incidentally, protected her fingers). Nudging the blade, she extended it, and swung the claymore two-handed. The old-looking man was surprisingly nimble, dodging and counter-attacking in the time she needed to reposition herself, forcing her to dodge.
What followed was a quick exchange of blows that never really landed. Skipping back and forth, Kestrel danced her rather unwieldy weapon rather effectively, prodding at this strange man's defense. She was still mostly confused at the sudden onslaught, but she wasn't going to question the incoming wood that, decidedly, was not good for her health. The blade sang in awkward looking maneuvers, twirling and jabbing against a flimsy looking staff that was surprisingly sturdy. From the looks of things, they could have gone on for quite some time, but the sun decided to step in and left them both in an exhausted heap in two minutes flat.
Glaring accusingly at the idiot that brought them into such a state, she shaped her psionic energy into a drill and roughly pierced his defense. It was easier said than done, she practically had to bring all of her powers to bear and then some.
You stubborn old goat, what did you attack me for, you blinking idiot!?
Zenhir, suffice it to say, was not at all happy with an interloper in his mind. Feelings of indignation coursed through his mind grinding his thought processes to a stall when he felt accusation and fury in the thoughts that echoed in his mind. She was pinning the blame on him? That was absurd! One just does not barge into another's mind! It was rude and uncouth!
Hearing the splutters of his thoughts and gaining the general thrust of them, she could, grudgingly, understand the attack. Bah, culture, she was never really all that on the whole negotiation scene. Ah well, explaining her reasoning might help.
Our priority was to establish a form of communication, you dimwit. Here she felt a squawk of indignation, but she ignored it. Bypassing the whole language problem, thus, became priority. Simplest way to do that would be to use direct mind to mind contact. She knew she sounded like a brat, but she was stilled cheesed at the fact that he had attacked her for something so trivial. She hadn't knocked at his doorstep but trying to crack her skull open for that seemed a bit excessive.
He grudgingly conceded that there was reason to her argument, though it did nothing to endear her to him. After a bit of further contemplation, a tentative Zenhir asked his all consuming question.
You wouldn't happen to have a canteen of water, would you?
His response was a soul withering glare. Grimacing, he answered himself.
I guess that's a 'no' then.
There seemed to be no other way around it, so, sighing, he stretched his awareness out, extending his very self. Wonder of wonders, he actually found the 'oasis'. It was small, nothing really fancy. It was no island-of-vegetation-in-a-sea-of-sand deal, more or a watering-hole-with-a-very-extensive-well. It would do for a thirsty man, beast, whatever. Glancing at his companion, he debated upon whether he should inform the girl (too immature to be a teenager, he groused). Sighing at his gods-forsaken kindness, he turned to her to see her watching him with a brow cocked. Sighing again, he began.
I found a source of water. It's quite a bit that-a-way. Here he gestured vaguely behind her. Thirsty?
Without a word, she turned about, facing west if he were to check the sun, and started off. He blinked at the rudeness of the gesture. After going a few paces with the sands sucking at her boots (and the flattering pair of legs in them), she turned toward him, cocked an eyebrow and waited impatiently. Grumbling, he made to follow her. Frowning, he finally noticed that she was no longer having any problem walking on sand and discovered that she wasn't even walking, she was floating.
They finally made it to the oasis, via floating. Zenhir had given up walking as a lost cause, mainly because the strange girl kept smirking at him. That was insufferable, to say the least, and so he floated. The whole thing sort of degenerated after that and a race was on. When they finally reached the watering hole, there was a full blown argument on who got there first which engendered another, small scale fight (this had involved much sand being displaced and the two of them needing to bathe which provoked a need to draw water from the hole to provide the substantial amount needed to bathe in). Finally, the two settled down to talk.
After learning that he had attacked the Avatar of Death (twice), Zenhir was feeling mighty uncomfortable. It wasn't everyday that an Avatar appeared. Candidates for deity-ship were rare, and the Avatars were la crème de crème, the prime candidates themselves. He also found that Kestrel had no clue as to what the title of Avatar meant for her. Ah well, better not leave her with an inflated ego.
With that out of the way, another concern raised its ugly head; what course of action was he supposed to take now? He couldn't let just an Avatar wander around the world without a guide. Though she didn't appear to have access to all of the Power she was granted with the title, that was to come in due time. She could (easily) rip the world apart at a perceived offense. Besides, he was basically trained to handle such an occurrence, being indoctrinated and all by the Lost Avatar himself. On the other hand, he and this Kestrel girl were as likely to kill each other as chat civilly, almost (but not quite) pleasantly.
Sighing, he rued the day he met the Lost Avatar as he offered to guide Kestrel as she raised an amused brow at him. He wasn't that easy to read, was he?
Author's End Note: So, tell me what you think, and we'll see where we'll go from there. Ciao!