Peace Talk (C/Mythica/Job)

Peace Village—ugh. Never in his wildest dreams did Arcanas ever anticipate returning here, a place for some of the pettiest folks. Why, the last time he was here, wasn't it to steal something? He had a hard time recalling, since a great many things had happened to keep his mind occupied; he had gunned down a dozen or so folks in a bank, beat a poor man half to death for some frivolous unfaithfulness, burned a farm down, and that was his most memorable experience yet, but couldn't by the life of him recall just what he done. It probably wasn't very important then, he resolved.

He didn't return to this village to fancy his memory because nothing so trivial would ever entice him to come back to such a place, but there were other things that beckoned him. Magical Artifacts—they were the cream of the crop, the upper crust, the best of the best of the World of Magic and one of which had been rumored to be here in Peace Village. They were things His Lordship held very near and dear to his heart, so it was only natural that Arcanas held them near and dear to his very own, too. Of course, he knew very little about magical artifacts, but he was aware of their monstrous, demonic power sealed within them—it was a profound reason in why dark mages, or evil sorcerers, sought them so. But any sorcerer was evil in the eyes of Arcanas anyway, so it mattered to him little about who was seeking it, for an artifact in the hands of a sorcerer was a power too great for their unfortunate souls. If they were really so great and powerful as just about everybody had said, then it was his duty to retrieve them.

And retrieve them he would, as he had been lurking about Peace Village for several hours now, tracking the man who had been harboring such an artifact. Arcanas had decided to traverse discreetly for the time being, since apparently whatever he had done since his last time coming here had warranted for many papers scattered around just about every bulletin board in town with his armored face printed over it, and whatever sort of business they had with him Arcanas didn't want to be troubled with. While avoiding these confrontations, he was sure to find the man who held such artifacts.

The man dressed differently than the natives of Peace Village and was most clearly hiding something in his satchel. There were slivers of light that slipped in between the openings of its loosely closed top every now and then, and the light was tickling his curiosity far too much for him to leave now. So, he followed him to a rather obscure part of town, near the outskirts and far from any busy place. It was in an apartment complex and the man had begun to unlock his door. Arcanas seized this opportunity and without hesitation or a cautious glance over his shoulder, walked up to him from his doorsteps. He was many inches taller than him, perhaps a foot, and looked down at the bewildered man with his cold, dead stare through his empty-looking helmet.

The man began to tremble, "C-Ca-Can I help you—you, sir?" he sputtered wildly. Arcanas slowly took the keys from his trembling fingers and unlocked his apartment door, pushing it open without taking his gaze from the man.

"Hello. . . why don't we go inside? I'd love to talk with you. . ." Arcanas murmured in his low, grumbly voice. The man swallowed harshly.

The fudge recipe! Yes, that was it! That was what horrible, oh-so-awful thing Arcanas had done when he was last here in Peace Village. Some successful baker, restaurantor, or something of the like had been unfortunate enough to meet a grave fate once returning home. He'd turn on the lights and Kaboom! His house went ablaze, and his wife, his daughters, and his son would light up and reduce to smithereens by the time any Rune Knight could ever arrive. All over some silly recipe. Well, Arcanas had hoped the woman who requested such a tedious deed was happy, since none of it seemed to matter anymore once the night sky boomed a violent red.

Yes, the sky lit up and the ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-booming of distant canons rumbled his chest like a guitar bass blasting on an amplifier. And with each boom came a violent spark in the sky, where warm oranges and red flickered like fire and silhouettes of buildings reduced to nothing as the earth shook and canon fire spread. There was no mercy for the village children or the pregnant broads or the hardworking men of the town, a demographic garnering so much pity from where he was from, as they all screamed and then fell silent under the flickering night sky. Oh, it was wonderful! It reminded him of his days as Arc of The East and his famed crusades against the heretics and the sorcerers!

But a revelation came upon him as the canons kept ba-booming. "Is this sorcery?" he muttered to himself, grinning through his helmet. Although his face was veiled underneath the metal, any sane person could tell he was wearing a wild expression, both grave and invigorated at the sight. And what an awful sight it was! It all of ten minutes the village was in shambles and not a soul had crept in bliss. The glory of warfare and death was a pleasuring, intimate experience between men, women, and their blades and skill but never between their sorcery. The sorcerers of Fiore must be saved from their plight, he thought.

It was true. Not a soul was stirring among the flotsam—not even the estranged archeologist. He was sprawled among the rubbish on the ground, his dead corpse hugging Arcanas's leg miserably in his last moments. What he said or how he looked in his final moments? Arcanas did not know, for he never took his eyes away from the burning sky. But sometime along his death, Arcanas had retrieved the satchel containing the artifact and held it gingerly with both hands.

But the sound of another stirred among the silence—a girl? He loved women dearly, a took mighty interest in their succulent organs among other things, but he'd never think of one surviving this carnage. He raised his head from the sky, then to his satchel, and then to the rubbish in front of him. He saw nothing but spoke into the darkness anyway, "How. . .—tragic. Yes. . .  how tragic, isn't it?" he asked plainly.

Among all the carnage and rubble, the perpetrators of the destruction were quick to surround him. But even with deadly weapons pointed at him, he did not tremble and his heart didn't skip a dozen beats and thump out of his chest. He couldn't explain it, but he knew that it wouldn't be enough to crush the life within his corpse. Since his death, if his value for life wasn't already minute, it had reduced to only modicrums of value since—including his own. Frankly, he cared little of whether he lived or died or suffered a myriad of injuries during his quest, and projected all of his worry and passion towards his cause. So when these strange soldiers threatened his life with their weapons, he didn't stumble, but instead looked at them curiously with a interested 'Hooo?' dripping from his helment.

The voice—she'd spoken again! She was not among the soldiers, but there was some concentration of something of great magnitude so close to him that he began to feel nauseous. He looked up, and what looked to be some miserable throne of debris and flotsam sat a maiden who was not of the pretty kind, and her speech was that of a woman who was far gone. Were sorcerers always so ugly and pretentious? Arc wondered this solemnly but was far more interested in her power.

"Pray tell, did you do this?" he queried ominously, his armored fingers still gingerly wrapped around the satchel and choosing to ignore her demands for now. It was a question he must have an answer to before he continued with any chatter.

The maiden was clearly a bit far gone, since this wild look of anger twisted her face and contorted her words, yet it disappeared as quickly as it came. Perhaps it would've been wise not to anger such a tempermental sorcerer such as she, for such carnage was sure to follow if you did. Peace Village was one of what he figured to be multiple instances, since apparently the ugly maiden had mishaps with the Peace Villagers before his arrival.

The ugly maiden began to shift her attention from the artifact they both held so dearly in mind to him instead. Arcanas couldn't have conjured up any reason for this shift, but he supposed it was strange for him among all others to survive such a massacre, and with such leniency and comfort too. And he figured that it was strange for an armored knight to be wandering about peoples who went about so naked and exposed. As far as the ugly maiden was concerned, he could've very well been a villager here—but his existence right now convinced her otherwise, and correctly it did.

"Well, milady, you see, I was recovering this thing here—this instrument," he droned through his helmet as he explained, looking down at the satchel and prodding it boringly, never paying the transporting Mythica any mind, even when she had been only fingertips from behind him, "but I suppose it is a fruitless endeavor as it is now—ah, yes, it is pointless now. . . but you. . ." Arcanas tossed the satchel aside, and the artifact spilled out of its leather case, and he turned around to face Mythica, "you—you who brings so much death and destruction that it makes even the strongest of warriors break like twigs and feckless babes—you serve a greater purpose. . ." Arcanas continued to speak in his low, ominous voice that echoed throughout the destruction. He was grinning through his helmet and his cheeks were red with blush. This disgusting, vile creature of a sorcerer could better his education in their primitive ways.

Maybe to the maiden, Arcanas was blabbering gibberish, but in creepily broken movements, he retrieved the artifact from the ground and held it out to her. He began to breath heavily, "Milady. . . why don't you and I trade?

This maiden was a mysterious one, indeed. She spoke all riddlelike and laughed intermittidely—it was quite frightening, really. Or maybe to others, because nothing that had happened to him since his revival truly stirred him as much as the crackling, burning sky tonight. Was it really his nerves or his lack thereof, he wondered? Whatever it was, he was sure that it was a good thing, for in a land of dangerous foreigners, it was probably wise to not get stirred up too often, or else one might find themselves hopelessly frightened and miserable most times.

Apparently, this maiden served a great many of things: monsters, villainy, righteousness and what have you. Arcanas thought that, well, it was simply another way of preaching "I go where the wind blows me." She clearly wasn't much of a poet or minstrel, and the way she spoke was more pretentious than captivating or even menacing. She seemed far much older than she appeared since she seemed so senile and far gone that it'd be plausible to believe that she should've been in some sort of senior's home and the like.

"Ah, yes. . . of course. Where are my manners?" Arcanas dipped his head and grazed his chest with one set of fingertips, bowing all regal-like, "I'm Arcanas Vigil, and I serve—I used to serve a mighty Lord of The Pergrande Kingdom. . . but he is dead now, so, I carry out his righteous will and finishing what is unfinished. . ." he explained.

Arcanas raised his head, "Milady, this scene you've created is magnificient. If you confide in me what it is you will, it shall be done, and in exchange. . ." he crept closer now, inching her way towards her again, "bestow upon me some beautiful sorcerery. . . I am a knight of my word, Milady, and I promise only the sweetest of fruits. . ."

Arcanas wasn't very surprised about her reaction. Any person with a lick of reason and rationality would come to the same conclusion—an armored man requesting to be taught such destructive sorcery would garner suspicion regardless of his flattery and compliments. Patronizing this maiden wouldn't be the ideal method, it would seem.

With a ominousity mirroring her own, Arcanas raised his hands to the burning sky, Why, milady, is there a need of trust? If it is fear that consumes you, fear not, for no beast need fear a mouse such as I. Besides, milady," he reached down to grab a charred piece of wooden debris, caressing it gingerly like some precious thing, "you and I are not so different when it comes to ambition, for I wish to create a sky as pretty as this. . . as you have." Arcanas crushed the wooden debris within his hands, and it disitergrated into smithereens. Like dust, even. The black remains smothered across his metallic palms, his wild, dark gaze reflecting back at him.