Clouds of Meridian

[Kixie]

Section I: Chapter I

A dark cloud settles high above the land of Hydlaa. In an emerald forest, treacherous both for its depth and for its winding paths that call to any wandering being foolish enough to bound where the parchment of his trusty map lies blank. Deep ruts lie in the paths, although these very faults in the soil were once humble in their beginnings. Hooves litter the landscape from countless caravans, although any other remnants from these ambitious travels have now been swept away with the winds of time and of course the thrifty adventurer lucky enough to catch a glint of gold. Boulders now splashed with crimson lie scattered precariously along the meridian of the highway. No doubt revealing violent confrontations between the lawless and the innocent.
   
However, one boulder is adorned with a red wine much more recent in age. Upon the face of this great stone lies a battered rogue, with the garb darker than any shadow ever present in the realm of the living. Cuts garnish the limbs of the fallen shade.
 
As water falls from the boughs high above the silted road, a thin stream flows directly on the tattered jet butterfly. Thunderous claps echo from the heavens, and the ground shakes at their great command. The mushrooms that border the winding path shrivel abruptly with the anticipation of a confrontation with the building river.
 
The branches of the sagely trees shake with every collection of precious drops. With every sheet of rain, the fauna dips in mourning like the widows of fallen soldiers. The gravel is escorted away with expedience and force of a hillside creek. The forest once calm and settled is now shaken and visibly distressed. The sudden rains send the wildlife into a mad dash for cover, and even the proud Ulbernaut lets loose a grunt before shuffling toward a granite retreat.
   
The rogue stirs not, and as the flood now climbing up the sides of the road with great force begin to gain in volume, a crimson breath can be seen emanating from the limp figure in the brimming waters. Leaves fall from the heights above along with aimless branches and fauna. Even small insects too slow to get to cover, and not as resilient as larger wildlife fall into the dooming floods; now they are forever lost to the azure horror.
 
Darker and darker the skies transform until they finally rest at a shade of haunting green. In the forest, this could become a confusing complexion and to the untrained eye one could easily become disorientated as a strange pattern is created as leaves surrender erratically in the wind upon an olive sky. Men and women in the town of Hydlaa often refer to these drab pale skies as a harbinger of doom and misfortune. Children born upon these conditions are killed; this is not out of spite or hatred, but as a pity for any soul unlucky enough to be conceived into such a harsh embrace.
 
In fact one legend tells of a great bard just so unlucky; borne to a serving wench. The wench denied the sacrifice of her son, for she had been told by a wise yet enfeebled seer that her son by the name of Philli Etunz would live forever in history as a man of great wealth. She could not deny her babe the promise of such destiny.
   
A long story short, the bard grew in late childhood as a boy of great stature. Soon he learned many of the foreign tongues, and was even placed as a scribe to a great former Octarch, Winnebag DeCreole. His practice earned him much acclaim and he was offered countless opportunity to document various official proceedings. Eventually here say of his great skill spread among the underworld, and a mysterious figure of the Cabali confronted the boy. Last heard, he was to document the riches plundered from various misdeeds and activities. To this day, one can only guess where Philli\'s remains now lie, although most assume he lies still on the mountains of riches hidden away in a great horde deep beneath Hydlaa\'s bowels.
   
A stricken gasp takes form on the rogue\'s countenance. Her face rises from deep inside her hood, with eyes wide as brilliant diamonds collected deep within the dungeons of Laanx. Her whole figure shakes with the shock of frigid flowing waters, climbing ever quicker up the borders of the forest path. A rapid wall of water taller than many of the year old saplings now strikes the opposite side of the great boulder she rests on. Clinging helplessly the woman now flails in the tide of rushing water. However, now enfeebled her weak arms are no match for this behemoth flood. Now so similar to the tiny insects who previously were washed away into the cleansing tides, the woman desperately reaches for any branch or extremity to catch herself on.
 
Icy spines are now pressing deeply into her flesh as hypothermia begins to set in. A calming sleep takes her lids. She knows that this final embrace is surely death, and she fights the lullaby of the rushing water with every ounce of her strength. However, she is too battered. She has fought earlier in the night, and now she is no match for this worthy opponent. Softly she is drawn deeper into sleep, until her blue pallid lids close with a final sigh.

[Under the moon]

Amazing writing.

[Kixie]

Section II: Chapter I

A gilded sun sets the morning. A glorious dawn, the whole forest seems enraptured with a serenade worthy of Talad\'s breath. On the limb of an ancient oak stands a single marmot, which looks high above to the crimson filled morn with a Somerset gaze.

Showing no evidence of the violent events that transpired the night before, the forest stands now immaculate of tattered twig and debris. As if nymphs overnight had swept over the winding paths, the roads lay smooth as the Kran\'s built structure. The great azure monument shines now with full force. Light from the surface is feeding directly through the mammoth port, giving the cave ceiling a veil of light that seems almost divine in purpose.

The hulking Ulbernaut shuffles from his vast retreat with its empty gaze set the hills who shine now with an emerald reflection seen only twice a season. In unison the stalks of grass sway with a purpose often interpreted as Laanx great hand, influencing the very threads of life. The morning dew now begins sizzle; evaporating as the great beams of Talad\'s eye glance upon every tear. The sweet dew rises a perfume potent as the Reefol lily.

Some say the lily was borne straight from the gods own hand. When great stalactite bloomed with life, so it did just as strongly with a musk not since inhaled. And so, Talad looked to his own mane, and plucked a single hair, grey with age and sweet with Laanx\' breath. He held the single thread and pressed it upon both fists until the twine was set into dust. Talad took the dust and spread it upon the land with a great sweep of his hand.

With a mighty quake rose a field of the lilies immeasurable in length and indescribable in scent. However, the plant remains rare to this day for when Laanx had found that Talad had used the very hair tainted with her own sweet breath, she reaped the hills of as many of the lilies as she could hold in her arms embrace. The rest she burnt with a spiteful vengeance. Some say she hid the lilies far beneath when she retreated from Talad\'s hand, yet some believe a great garden was planted with the ashes she left upon the endless hills.

The steady creaking of a wagon wheel was heard traveling upon the forest floor. The oak wheel, a foot in height looked the years of many ages. Pulling the wagon was a man whose own age seemed to match his ancient wagon. However, the man held two great posts of pine to keep the cart steady, and steady the vehicle remained. His arms bore muscles primed over his long career, and his chest held decorated badges of honor borne not of gem or metals but of mutilated flesh. These various wounds included a great crater left by an arrow of flight faster and more powerful than a carkarass\' flight. Also, an extended canyon adorned his left breast, no doubt cut by a blade tenfold sharper than Endukai claw.

With a sailor\'s tune upon his lips, the man strode through the forest with the pace of men half his age. Strong in build and seeming sharp in mind, the man cleverly avoided many rocks and barricades that tripped countless other caravans. His eyes were never set, constantly darting. The noise in the forest was glorious in rapture, yet almost deafening in volume. While he enjoyed the sweet sounds of the waking forest, he did not want to die by them. An experienced highwayman could easily take advantage of these circumstances and send a full volley of arrows through the air before anyone would recognize the threat.

Suddenly the man stopped. The air no longer carried its sweet residue of morning breath. In fact, the songs of the forests inhabitants seemed still through the acre of oaks he entered. Something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong.

A jet black robe lay upon the ground, still wet from the torrential rains the night before. High above, a glove just as dark in pitch hung from a tree branch. Tattered cloth decorated the entire area, as if a Stonebreaker with his square jaw bit into the very flesh a pitch night.

Slowly and cautiously the traveler proceeded, ready to grab the blade from his boot. While he little experience with the blade, he often used it as a bargaining chip for the up and coming rogue foolish enough to cross his path. He preferred to use his own hands for battle; it was a lot cleaner, and although he was level headed, he had a disgust for blood.

Bile crept up his throat. A bloated leg of sickened pallor jutted out from beneath a boulder. Cuts deeper than his own adorned the naked flesh, still obviously feminine in origins after the mutilation. The man set down his cart, and reached for his Wind rune. He hoped he would not have to wait long for the Authorities to respond to his distress call.

[Kixie]

Section III: Chapter I

\"Errol? Errol! Are you listening Errol? Errol!\"
\"I\'m sorry what were you saying?\"

The soft faced Ylian deputy stood in consternation at the grey limbs spread forth in wild abandon. A smell of decaying pot pori and native seetha filled the air like wet fur on a summer\'s noon. A sky of canary shone with the brilliant hue of yellow diamond, mined from the deepest of Hydlaa\'s dungeons. The deputy shifted is weight from one leg to the other nervously as if stricken with an allergy to the sunken stench. For the past hour he had been deciding whether the pay of 300 tria a week was really worth it.

\"Errol, you\'re supposed to be writing this down! This is important information, and if we don\'t document each piece of evidence carefully, the case is lost.\"
\"I\'m sorry, sir. I let my mind wander. Forgive me. So as you were saying, the lacerations on the arms are approximately 3 inches in depth, and a foot in length? How wide were the wounds sir?\"
\"That\'s the interesting part, my boy. Look at these wounds. The edges. Look closer boy! Don\'t be frightened, she won\'t bite. Well, not anymore she won\'t. She\'s been dead... Boy! Grab me my runes!\"

Errol disliked being a lackey to the eccentric Sherif, but he needed the pay. Even if 300 tria was the rate for bartender, he lacked the coordination and certainly the personality to make it in the business very long. So, until he gathered his confidence, lackey it was. Lackey of the dead. Once he thought of it, the title had a bit of prestige to it. Maybe it was just the fumes. Or the mild hysteria induced from seeing a bloated Enki carcass on the side of the road. He gathered the blood rune from the Sheriff\'s ruck sack, and once he was sure that he was far from the Officer\'s ear he uttered something about dead kittens and carkarass dung.

Errol handed the Sheriff the blood rune, careful not to drop it. The rune had risen in price since a great raid on a caravan full of the pricey stones resulted in a whole shipment being pinched.

\"Thank you, my boy. And don\'t complain about the smell, you get used to it in time.\"

Errol gave a confused look, but sharply concluded that perhaps the old man wasn\'t as jaded as he had once thought.

The sherif reflecting an experience older than many wizards, flipped the rune in the air to activate the properties of the rune. The rune suddenly made a wild motion in the air, as if struck by a million arrows of shining brilliance. A sight common these days, thanks to the help of steadying magic such as a leveling glove, this advance magic was commonly taken full advantage of by inexperienced casters to keep the runes from overreacting or overheating.

In fact, Errol\'s previous superior officer took a bet of 3,300 trias that he could keep from overheating. A proud man, but unfortunately for him, not too wise. The rune left a scar on his right ear lobe that can be seen to this day.

\"Seems she passed approximately 28 hours ago.\"
\"Anything particularly interesting about that time, sir?\"
\"Well, I hear at that time of night it can pretty nippy. Oh, and people usually half dinner around that time too. It\'s also darned dark. Just the other night I woke early to get a cup of mead, you know, for the arthritis.\"

The sheriff let loose a grin higher in prominence than the highest court jester, and the display of teeth made a sharp characterization of his whiskers which were beveled with the sun\'s veil of light. Errol abruptly forsake all thoughts that the sheriff had any hidden intelligence at that very moment, but at the same time suspicious of this abrupt change of mood. Was he leading him, so that Errol may make the discoveries on his own, producing a skill and experience forged only with time and intense thought?

Errol looked once more toward the sheriff\'s featherbrained mockery of a grin. No way, he thought to himself.

\"Well go on... Sir? Sir? Is everything all right sir?\"

The sheriff\'s mood changed suddenly. A look of sobriety waked upon his countenance as the rhythmic pattern of hoofbeat echoed through the hollowed woods. A large craning bird of over 6 feet in length at the shoulder, stopped with a prestigious stance and a glaring eye. The bird had doll\'s eyes, which disturbed many who looked too deeply into the empty ebony pearls. That is, if the onlooker\'s scrupulous eyes weren\'t pecked out by the fierce bird.

Upon the steed rode Captain Brigady in full glory. A donned purple robe, embroidered with his own massive initials. The joke around the barracks was that Brigady had a hard time remembering his own name after a hard night at the tavern, so he consequently ordered the maids to sew his initials into him robe. It did him little good though, even without the inebriation the Captain was slower than the average kran in most opinions. It\'s not a mystery how he became captain however. The Brigady family was wealthier than a Cabali prince, and perhaps just as greedy.

\"Hello, how goes the... MY GOD!\"

With  much beguilement the captain teetered suddenly, and feel from his saddle. In a mess of feathers, the majestic bird sensing an opportunity for freedom let a deafening cry and sped off like a child with pockets full of stolen blacksmith\'s ore.

\"Ugh.... Revenol. Please, don\'t include this in the official report.\"
\"Certainly, sir. Errol, please remove the last events from the parchment.\"

With a wink, sheriff Revenol glanced over to Errol and make a mischievous gesture with his fingers instructing Errol to keep the documentation as it lay.

The sun was directly overhead when something stirred from beyond the forest\'s cover.

{OOC: I tried to go for a more entertaining style to initiate the reader to Errol\'s inexperience and dimutive appriciation for his job. I hope this doesn\'t bother anyone; I\'ll be sure to get back to a more accurate portrayal of the events later, but for now I wish to dwell on our current characters for a bit. :3}

[Belark]

Omg. Too much text. Sorry Kixie

[Kixie]

Section IV: Chapter I

A thunderous clap of thunder was heard throughout the halls, echoing and reverberating throughout the enormous room, not unlike the aggravated threats of a woken gobble as it shrieks into the black abyss of the sewer. The cause of this disruption was an infinite times more dangerous than any gobble that ever walked into the banished pitch of ebon darkness and filth.

   A man wearing a familiar cloak of darkly hue that seemed to absorb the very light that graced its fabric, could be seen swiftly pacing down the aisle towards a half ellipsis of prominent figures and counsel men. To better understand the following events, it may be better to describe the purpose of these halls and the circumstances to which these halls were erected, even the purpose to which they are commonly used for.

   These halls are those of the great Valmos Clan. The men and women who have stepped into these monumental chambers have been as mysterious as the very thieves and assassins who carry out the movement of the Valmos machine. Commonly seen by the outside as a political movement for the socialist movement of the native confederates, the Valmos\' most secretive plans are said to fall short of murder and domination. Donning dark attire and a hardened countenance, important figures of Hydlaa have entered with writs of execution for individuals ranging from striking farm workers, to the highest officials working in political office.

   In fact, there is rumor that this very clan was behind the abrupt debilitating illness that eventually killed T. R. Regenold IV. Regenold held the reins of power with a steady hand, guided by his own moral foundation. However, those with this conscious or sense of prideful duty do not get very far in the political machine, unfortunately. His father, was a particularly wealthy man, held between two factions; his son, and his mentor. Regenold III was overcome with grief every time his son defied not only his word, but the word of the party. He was proud of his son, but he prayed for his life. Regenold\'s father reflected for many days, and came to the only conclusion he could analyze as a fitting solution; he would throw money at the situation. For weeks Regenold the III paid off would be assassinations and opposing political factions with money, hand over fist.    However his coffers soon dwindled to an empty bank vault, and the deed to his house. Tension grew, and soon a writ was signed on his son\'s head once more. The father lamented at the thought of his son taking such an untimely and violent death. With his final tria that he received on the transaction of his opulent mansion, he paid Regenold\'s own assassin.

   \"Please, have mercy on me, angel of death. I plead to you, take this money. On this confirmation, I ask that you take an oath to me that you will not make my son suffer. He is my only son! I given him counsel time and time again! But, he is a strong man! He... is stronger than me. But even he is not strong enough.

   \"Take this gold, and slice his cheek from ear to ear with the poison of a Poe Poey plant. It shall  leave him alive yet, but in the passing moments he will take an affliction of silence, to remain dumb until the sickness takes his constitution.\"

   And so Regenold paid the assassin his last coin, and the assassin agreed to use the rare herb. Assassins of the Valmos clan, while thrifty and dangerous as a cornered gobble still take heed of their oaths and their sense of duty. Without it, what of their world would survive? How would the next generation pass, if all opposition was stabbed and all rule unheeded in the fires of hate? These assassins were dutiful, for they knew the true power they held. To take an entire life. That is something that no amount of tria can give back, so a high respect must be given for a source of death whose payment is on an infinite ratio from death.

   And so, by night the assassins of the darkest garb chased the wind itself to the window lattice of our brave, brave Regenold. He sat next to the fire with a large tome poetry upon his lap, and a tear upon his very cheek. The page opened was to this very poem:
   
   
   \"O! how cruel is the night!
   How your sharp winds will bite,
   And afflict with malicious blight,
   the soul of a thousand men!

   Now I stand with an iron fist,
   Ready to meet the Laanxian mist;
   To rebel from the troubles; desist!
   For I know truly troubles fold-of-ten!

   My very soul has now led me,
   inside this maddening cacophony,
   that shrieks from countless lonely
   clan, borne of useless whores and cretin.

   But, now I stand here dazed, and
   Alone but you shall taste bland
   pallet of my empty gaze upon land
   of those who wash ashore never heard again!\"
   
   And with the recital of those final words, the assassin stood above brave, brave Regenold. A crimson tear was shed from his neck, and it danced in the wind before landing with an abrupt din upon the fibrous page. Regenold inhaled from shock, and his assassin somersaulted backwards from whence he came, out into the pitch of Laanx\' mist never to be seen by Regenold again.

   The scar from which Regenold was afflicted, reached from earlobe to earlobe with the precision and dexterity of an endukai claw. Upon the wound lie a poison as green as ancient moss. Their suddenly rose a light in the room, that passed on Regenold\'s gaping wound, and it concealed it in a matter of moments. Magic of the Assassin\'s dagger had betrayed Regenold\'s ability to coagulate his wound with blood, and his neck bore no signs of assault. As his father had wished, the poison tore away his son\'s ability to speak, and for Regenold IV\'s final weeks he fought the poison like a maternal treppor protecting her eggs. End the end, Regenold\'s father died alone and homeless. His son, died with a procession of grieving. His sickness was attributed to pneumonia from his open window, and the sweat accumulated in his dripping wet vestments.

   But, now we shall tell once more of the events that are taking hold in the present. As the man\'s boots hit the floor, the sound of countless keys raucously chimed from his belt. This man was the keeper of the Valmos library, and his prestige was insurmountable among the counsel. The librarian had once been offered the position of counsel, but he preferred to guide the movement, not act. Besides, if the authority ever caught wind of the clan, Talad forbid!, he would have the quickest access to the hidden logs and written evidence. If he wished, he could \"alter\" any of the documents to his liking, even erase all evidence of his involvement to the Valmos clan if he liked; all with the utterance of a single word.

   The tintinnabulum of the keys came to a halt. A hand movement was alive in the librarian\'s hand, rigidly throwing his hand to his ear. His other hand raised, fist held high in procession, and his formerly lively hand mechanically met the elbow of his raised fist. When the salute was greeted with a single nod of the headmaster, the librarian stood at ease, then took a retreating step back from the elliptical counsel members.

   \"Great counsel.\" spoke the librarian with a cold voice and a wincing countenance.
   \"Yes, you have news?\"
   \"Indeed, sir.\", the libarian then shifted his weight uncomfortably.
   \"Go on.\" the headmaster demanded, waving his hand in accordance.
   \"Jet... Jet is dead.\"

   A great murmur rose in the room, higher and higher until it grew to the proportions of the great hall doors slamming shut by the very hand of Talad. The librarian stood silent while the counsel spoke for quite a while, but was then dismissed where he returned to his quarters.

[Kixie]

Section I: Chapter II

A full figured woman donning crimson attire, a darkened hued skin that shone with the brilliance of Laanx\' great metal temple, and a visage of contemptuous hunger. Her face and carapace betrayed her diaboli lineage, which was eastern in dialect. Her vernacular was slurred with heavy lisp, which together with stunning likeness to Laanx herself, gave an air of surreptitiousness.

   As she walked through the hyldaan square, she raised her eyebrows with a tempting gaze, gracing the stones with the foot of a highly trained dancer, playing her toes among each step with mechanical precision. Her sash at her hip wisped in the wind, which was was gracing the rooftops of Hydlaa, and pushing through the alleys with a suffering howl that to anyone who had resided long in the great city would know. Her hair, dark as the night\'s livid cover now joined her sash in the great dance of the wind. To any passer by, this contumelious woman would have truly made their cheeks flush with crimson as deep as her own lively hue.

   The square was filled with the hustle and bustle of city living, so that the diaboli\'s presence was all but ignored. A endukian girl paid 2 tria to an apple vendor, and the common adventurer was haggling with the tightfisted Harniquist with an excited speech, hand raised in threat. Countless individuals clamored together in auctions for a proper steed. Children even ran amongst the crowd, no doubt causing trouble to the local vendors and even pick pocketing the occasional passerby with a dextrous, sticky hand.

   One young ylian child in particular made his way through the crowd with a hurried glance through the sea of ylians and endukai. He made his way to a heavy kran of about 6 feet in stature. The kran was silent as the very night, and kept a careful eye on the surrounding clamor around him. His muscles as toned as the very bedrock, shivered with strength that was almost incomprehensible to the young ylian boy. A glow of azure shook around the kran, evidence of a magical incantation pulsing through his veins. Yes this was a very strong kran, no one to mess around with. The ylian boy thought for a moment, and decided to look for a better opportunity to test his thieving hand with. His eyes sifted amongst the crowd for  moment, before meeting the colossal kran once more.

   The boy shorn a smile of innocence, letting his crowned teeth be adorned with the fulgent luminosity of a high noon. Not a single cloud graced the sky above, and the sapphire cave ceiling stood as testament to the great hands of Laanx and Talad, with that great crystal as focal to the brilliant noon.

   A glint met the ylian boy\'s eye for a moment, and he looked quickly to the hip of the powerful kran. There at his belt was a galkard, renowned for it\'s ebon blade and it\'s ability to cut asunder even the most powerful of foes. It would fetch enough money to feed his whole family for more than a year; that is, if he could take it. This kran was not to be taken lightly, and his serious gaze was evidence enough of his ability to smash anyone foolish enough to test his sempiternal patience.

   The boy surreptitiously buried his face in the crowd, and made a half circle to the kran\'s backside. He then made steps towards the kran, keeping a cool composure that even the greatest of Cabali would be proud of. His eye calmly took aim at the prize. His hand left his pocket. His finger met the ebon skin of the galkard. Suddenly, he was in flight. He flew high above the hydlaan square, and the proceeding moment seemed to take a full minute to pass. His eyes for a single moment met the small area of land of which he had occupied, and there stood that mighty kran, one hand raised in his direction with feet braced two feet apart in a ready stature. The boy\'s mind raced and he realized he had been THROWN from his position into the air. Suddenly the horrid cries of the people in the crowd met his ear.

   There was a great crash, and the boy\'s hind end met the comforting embrace of stack of hay that was located on the opposite side of the square to which he had stood not more than 30 seconds before. A laughter rose up in the square, and those who walked by the boy who now lay in the straw with a confused gaze gave a slight chuckle at the boy.

   \"You\'re lucky, boy. If that kran hadn\'t been so forgiving I doubt you\'d ever lie eyes on your mother again, until she took her untimely visit to the death realm as well.\", a young merchant threw his words to the boy.
   \"I can look after myself.\", quickly replied the ylian boy with the spite of a rabid sewer rat.
   \"Oh, ok.\", The merchant\'s rebuttal reflected an ancient wisdom that did no justice to his young confident face. The merchant smiled and looked once more to his wares of ingredients and runes.

   The boy made his way from the great patch of straw, and swept his hand to his rear to remove any remaining needles from his aching backside. He looked around with a flushed face, shamed with being recognized by the entire square as a thief. The boy made his way amongst the people, as they gave him glances of distrust and whispers of aversion. His head hung low, he made his way to the center of the square. There a gust of wind met his hair, throwing his tuft into a great fury that whipped his forehead.

   The ylian sat down, and let loose a wind of relinquishing defeat. His eyes were drawn almost, from the crimson feet of a female diaboli. Slowly, his eyes graced her figure, from her carved calve muscles, to her trim thighs, to her alluring abdomen, her built buxom breasts, to finally her comely countenance. His eyes shook with unbecoming glance to her own great scrutinizing glare. Her haughty demeanor met the boy, with one of approval.

   \"Sewww.... Joo ahr th\'  yoong wone whoo tahkes flight ay-bove?\", said the diaboli in her lisped tongue and upturned lips in a comforting smile.
   The boy did not reply, first from awe but later from consternation. This woman had the air of a great conquerer who knew what she wanted and just where to get it. Whatever she wanted with the boy could not be to his own benefit. The boy sat silent and then raised his legs to his chest from his indian style position. His face was then buried in his knees in shame, and not another sharp syllable left his tongue.

   \"Eet is ok yoong wone...\", soothed the diaboli. Her hand was then disappeared into her small pockets, and it returned with the yields of her favor. A small apple, red as her own dermis and reflecting a perfect sheen on the ruby skin.

   The boy did not move, nor did he accept her great bounty. The diaboli gave a confused glance, before shrugging off the insult and heaving the hefty apple over her shoulder. She stood awkwardly for a moment, before the wind once more billowed her sash high above her head, and her rosy vestments wavered in the powerful wind. Her eyes made recognition with his eyes once more, but the young boy did not move.

   Suddenly her mechanical feet graced the cobble stones in a smooth repetition. Her arms waved wildly in the air, and her bewitching figure. Eyes, glazed with a maddening stare that seemed to press into one\'s soul, met all those around her. Men in their former clamor now stood still and silent, like a herd of animals. Hands opened and clasped closed with dextrous fingers which resembled tiny serpents that resided not far from Hydlaa.

   It seemed at that moment, that the entire square of men and women alike had their eyes on that tantalizing diaboli. Like a mad gypsy, her entire figure writhed about with the fury of a wounded beast. Her thighs pivoted in a spiral, that rose and fell with the bending of her knees. A single arm outstretched now pointed to all in the crowd. Those in the crowd stood with glazed eyes, that seemed almost trancelike.

   The diaboli looked possessed as the wind once more pushed her habiliments against her tight frame. Ebon hair danced upon the wind high above her, until it almost stood on end. Her eyebrows raised and fell with mien lustily directed at her aloof audience.

   The boy himself was enraptured with her an animalistic stare. He did not move, but it was not long before his mouth lie agape at her amazing dance. He stood, and walked slowly towards her in a shuffle much like a sleepwalker caught deep in the embrace of dormancy. Her arm now stretched to his, as if to take his hand in a final convergence. The diaboli\'s eyes now shone with the very fires of hell, as if candles had taken the place of her great orbs.

   The boy\'s hand met hers, and as suddenly as it had all began, they both disappeared in a blinding light. The crowd fell silent. Those who had once been completely entranced, now looked around in a slight stupor. A murmur rose, until everyone finally returned to work as if nothing out of the ordinary had taken place.