Fanfiction:V Translanka Magness 6
TEMPORAL VORTEX REPORT
-REPORT NO. 6-
[UNKNOWN TRANSFER RATE, SYSTEMATIC DATA MALFUNCTION]
CRYPTIC TEXT SYNCH RESULT - MULTIDIMENSIONAL TIMELINES
CODE - "MAGNESS"
CODE EX. - "FLAME TO MOTH"
The sun blazed in the sky like a great, looming bird, ready to pick and char anyone out in the light. A vast and voracious vulture tending to the dead as best it knows how. Parched throats, sweat-saturated pits, dry and burnt skin were all commonplace that day. People were on the move under that huge and hideous scorcher of a star. They didn't think they were fleeing it, but they inevitably were; seeking shelter from a burning fireball in the sky.
Gil didn't mind it much. He had been closer to the flaming fiend than any of these people walking to and fro around him, with him, could-or would-ever know. The heat never bothered him, especially not after the arduous and tedious work with the Mystics. They too had to flee, when the invasion hit its peak. Their cities in ruin, they had to rebuild. The heat was more intense, no matter how thick the encircling of forest was; you could just feel differences like that no matter how prepared you were.
People had accused him of being slow, dimwitted, and downright stupid before. Never, of course, right to his face-his helmet, anyways. But he knew for a fact what the little miss held in her possession. If it was something to do with battle in any ways, he would know. Zoah was no bunbling greenhorn to the goings on science and magics. It was obviously some magical device, whether or not she knew it, was another matter all together.
"MISS, WHAT KIND OF TROUBLE, EXACTLY, HAVE YOU GOTTEN YOURSELF INTO?" Zoah asked, cutting to the heart of the matter. He had told her he would follow her as far as the Guardia/Truce boarder, but no further. Some of his minor things were left back on the bridge (nothing, he thought, that anyone would want to steal, but you can never tell for certain), and he'd need them for his show at the actual fair.
They had left the bridge, the red-haired girl towing him by his right hand like any giddy child holding their Pa's hand, anxiously awaiting the fair festivities. But, of course, with a few differences; she was no child, he was no Pa, and the look on her face wasn't that of anticipation, but that of pure and unbridled fear. It was a founded fear and on some base level, deep in her heart, she knew it.
"MISS...?" Zoah shouted past her thought bubbles, popping them out of her present thought, but not out of her mind completely.
"Hush!" She said, "Do you always speak so loudly?"
"BUT MISS, I MUST, THE HELM-" He was explaining before she cut him off.
"Oh forget it! I don't care." She said, hurrying along the path of the road, "He's going to catch up soon, I can feel it."
"THAT WHOSE MEDALION YOU POSSESS?"
"Yes, I took it from him." She said, looking deeply into the shimmer of the metal Amulet.
"WHY NOT GIVE IT BACK?"
"There's no going back now. I know it. I saw it in his eyes." The girl said. Her eyes were trembling on the edge of kid-like tears. It would not be the first time in her life that she had cried so. She remembered long days of scratching at papers with colored wax as a child, crying just like she felt like crying now, "He's some kind of ghost or demon. And now I've damned myself. Damned because I'm a theif and I can't help it."
"EVER THE WORDS OF A DYING THEIF..." Zoah said with no real emotion showing. He was just stating it as you would state the hour of the day or your given name. It was not the first time he had seen tears like hers. It was not the first time he had heard words like hers and it was not the first time he spoke his next words, "I AM ZOAH. AND I WILL HELP YOU."
She looked at him apprehensively. On the bridge, in that moment back there, he looked so strong. Looking back further though, to the dead-white skinned man, he seemed like a powerless little boy, "Thank you." The girl managed in a squeeky little voice. She didn't believe he would be of much good when it came down to it, but he was as good a chance as she was going to get, "My name's Mel. I'm sorry about this; I think that maybe you should just go back though. I don't think you can help me now."
"TOO LATE FOR THAT, LASS..." He laughed at her remark and how she had already started off without him. He began to walk towards her and shouted, "I KNOW TOO MUCH NOW. IT WOULDN'T BE PROPER OF ME, THEIF OR NO."
"Then you'll both die." A mysterious-almost raspy-and emanating voice said just loud enough for the two of them to hear. They hadn't noticed, but somehow the people, the crowds, everyone was gone. They had gotten too far ahead, much too far. The people at the bridge were not the first of the day, but they came in intervals: sometimes short, sometimes long. This time, it was a very long break between and they were very far ahead.
There was an explosion the likes of which few had ever known coming from ahead on the trail. A large billow of dust, murk and black smoke rose into the air. Powder kegs out so far from the kingdoms? It didn't make sense. One girl in particular-now running full speed off of the bridge-knew what it was. It was a bomb. Although not your average gunpowder keg bomb; it was a bomb of pure darkness.
She came upon the scene just in time to see him, he had called himself Gil (although she had taken it for the false name that it was), heading towards a girl with red braids. As he approached, the girl shrieked, ran, and groped for something at her back.
"Watch out!" The girl who had just arrived shouted. He didn't notice her. He couldn't notice her. He was swimming in his own thoughts. His mind was a slate of pure, cold steel. He reminded her of the Wolfs, with their hungry, greedy looks.
The other girl produced a large, curved blade and threw it, hard, at the man with anger in his eyes matching the intensity of the overhanging sun. His hand flashed up at the blade and he caught it. The blade sunk into the leather of his glove, but he kept coming at her. The blade was held firm in his hand; he was gripping it even as it was shredding his glove.
There was no pain. There was only anger. The girl-Mel was her name, he had heard-had fallen onto her ass as soon as she let go of the boomerang. She was cowering and scampering off backwards more as a natural reaction than of actual fear, knowing there was no getting away. He spoke words that she didn't, and couldn't, really hear. All the fear was gone just then, in its place, a fiery realization.
He had already started the magic words for the Dark Bomb before he spoke to them. His single finger touched the man's metal helm before he could get another word out. Then, the blackness engulfed him, swallowed them both. She had started off beforehand and at his voice she stammered a moment and fled almost immediately. It wasn't a very large explosion, but by gods, the sound of it. It was the most unnatural noise she had ever heard; spiritual or electrical whines like thunder and yet not at all like thunder. The girl looked back, over her shoulder, and watched in voiceless terror as the blackness ate and ate and ate.
It was a ball of black light at first; it made a meal of Zoah's head as it spread down and outwards. The man too was overcome by the energy, but it was different, he wasn't being erased, it seemed to pass over him like a shadow. The Dark Bomb created a small dome around them (only it wasn't them anymore, it was just him) and then it vanished. The man was there and that fire lit in his eyes as he saw her, still clutching his Amulet and reaching for her boomerang behind her, just as he knew she would.
He heard a familiar voice scream at him-or for him-someplace off in the distance. He didn't look back, couldn't look back. His mind was a sharp needle of concentration and rage, long practiced, long harnessed, and forever known to him. He raised Mel's boomerang above his head-he didn't notice when he had caught it, it just seemed to have appeared in his hand-and it glistened in the rays of the sun; flares of light danced along its silvery surface.
"Young moths playing with fire burn..." He had said aloud, not really to her, or even himself, just another plain statement of face as boring as the weather.
...Shall we burn it?