Rise Chapter2

What she saw was nothing, only trees. Although a few of the globes of light had sparked back into existence once again a pale blue shade. But other than that there was nothing. No smoke, wind, or anything else out of the ordinary.
Anaiah gingerly started off again, jumping at every little susurration. Eventually she accepted that whatever had happened was in the past. The air had started to dampen and a thin mist hovered eerily. The wetness caused Anaiah's clothes to stick assiduously to her skin. She muttered under her breath about the annoyance. However ahead the outline of a small home etched itself into the scenery.



Jerome paced angrily back and forth across the length of the room.How is it that soldiers under my command are always so bloody stupid? He thought to himself, they should consider themselves lucky to be in the guard. They get food, water, living quarters, what more could they possibly need, and hope to gain by running away?!  He didn't even attempt to disguise the rage that twisted his features. The soldier that had brought the report stood uneasily in from of the older mans desk. He fidgeted trying to avoid Jerome's attention. Sweat dripped down his collar making his armor stick to him uncomfortably, he tugged at it trying to create some air flow. The thick stone walls provided zero protection from the unwavering heat. Maybe if they didn't have so many open windows all over the place. . .
Jerome stopped pacing with his back facing the soldier, the younger man could almost see the steam blowing out the other man's ears. He struggled to hide a smirk at the thought. He shifted his weight, Jerome cleared his throat.
"When was their absence discovered," Jerome asked blandly. "Has it been more than a day?"
"It was just this morning," the soldier answered quickly, "but we think we know where they went." Jerome turned toward the desk and slapped his hands down on it.
"Well where are they, spit it out."
"They're," he hesitated, "dead commander." Jerome looked up quickly in shock. However the shock soon morphed into anger.
"I see." He stood up straight and ran his hand along the hilt of his sword. "And why is this exactly? Did they add to their own stupidity by breaking their own necks? Where they such cowards that they killed themselves so as to escape my wrath?" He unsheathed about an inch of steel, "if that is so they deserve their fates. I have no room for weaklings I'm my guard." He was pacing again.
"No it wasn't that," the soldier said, mindful of his words. "They were murdered. Its suspected to be the work of the guild." Jerome pivoted to face the younger man.
"Why would those two slackers be on the list though? There is so logical explanation, it cant be the guild. Probably just some renegade trying to make a name for themself. Jerome said heatedly. He unbelted his sword and placed it across his desk scattering the papers that had occupied the space. "What does a guards sword represent?"
"I thought it was just a weapon," the soldier said nervously.
"Wrong," Jerome scowled at the younger man. He slid the sheath off and drew his fingers down the length of the blade. "It represents authority, and it is a sign of strength. Not strength in the sense that you can kill a man but strength in yourself. It is self control, humility, and judgement, with these qualities you can truly wield a blade. And wielding it is proof that you have those traits. Lastly it is a foundation, do you know why that is?"
"No, sir." The soldier said softly.
"It is a foundation because it is something that you can, in a figurative state, stand on. This sword will never betray you."Jerome looked the young man in the eyes. "Do you understand this?"
"I think so sir, but why exactly does it matter." He glanced down, mores conscience than ever about the weight on his own hip. His sword he had inherited from his father.
"It matters because it shows that deserters such as our dear 36 and Flin should not have blades such as this. Which is a fact I regret not discovering sooner." The soldier was silent, unsure of what to say. He had momentarily forgotten about the heat but now sweat had begun to drip along his form once more. Jerome sighed, "I suppose you should get back to work, I myself need to go on patrol."
"But you haven't gone on patrol for a whole of three years commander. Why the sudden interest."
"Ive decided its time we start trying to fix this city, Jerome belted his sword back on and walked around the desk. "Although to start with I need a pair of boots." He looked down at his bare feet, "I would prefer a well worn pair. My wife keeps throwing them out and getting me new ones that are rather stiff and allow minimal movement." He chuckled, "I suppose she thinks she's helping but it's just rather annoying. The crazy woman even has the servants helping her, it takes more effort than it should to dress myself." Jerome shook his head, "oh well, off with you, back to your station."
"Yes sir," he saluted and walked out after once more glancing down at his own sword. His boots thudded heavily against the floor as he stifly left. Jerome waited patiently until he could no longer hear footsteps. He then sighed and put on his shoes and tried to wiggle his toes, he couldn't.
A soft rap at the door echoed through the chamber, the man within the room ignored it. He was currently absorbed in the paper work on his desk and the annoying scritch scratch of his pen. The desk was one of two, the other had been lost. The pair had been specially made designed with several secret compartments, those spaces contained what would be considered the ravings of a mad man. Yet despite this there was a sense to the madness. Another soft knock sounded, the man glanced up but ignored it and resumed his writing as though the slight hesitation of his pen had not occurred.
A thin layer of frost draped over the various surfaces in the tall room. The heavy curtains in front of the window are stiff and adorned with rivets of ice that trace along the length of the fabric. A mist floated in the crisp air, yet the man payed it no heed, he sat writing away without so much as a slight shiver. In fact he existed red faced and sweating. Steam rose up off of the desk as his arm occasionally ran across the frost adorning it.
The knock repeated itself now loud and obtrusive, the man glared furiously at the door his eyes speaking of what could be labeled as impatience. A spindle of ice wound across the dark floor, serpentine in appearance. It extended out, branching off occasionally as it worked its way to the door. A few of the branches formed words, diagrams, they mirrored the text the man had written. Others formed their shapes in mockery of other text. "They're out there" formed from one particular trace.
The man's hair started to cool and frost over, as if the closer the needle of ice grew to the door, the closer the cold seeped into him. The more it corrupted him. His gaze grew feverish as he struggled to keep writing. The ice traced out his words as he continued, "I've finally submitted," wrote itself across the wall. "I see death over my shoulder and behind the door, the only thing to do is strike out against it."
With that the cord of ice faltered, and then bolted across the remainder of the floor and under the door. As well as racing through the hinges and around the brass door nob. Several chunks of cold crumbeled from the curtains and shattered , spinning in shards across the floor. A blaring ray of grey light flashed across the room as the curtains shifted. A muffled scream rose up and then abrubtly cut off.  A red sheen glazed over the icy tendrils that lay about the door. "Release the hounds of war" carved itself across the door.
The man smiled grimly, and threw his pen aside. His hair had gone white, and his eyes flashed from blue to grey as he stepped into the dead sunlight that lay across the room. He stood in it, only a moment, before striding to the door.
Outside the door extended a long hallway, the victim stood frozen in place, fingers of ice reached up his height and his neck. They arched and intruded between his lips, no blood pooled upon the floor. The only sign that he had bled existed on the ice, red handed. Down the hall stood a liveried servant, standing in place frozen by fear.

A loud sizzling rose up as one of the newer cooks slipped soup into the fire. Lena swore under her breath as she stormed across the room and ripped the pot out of the younger girls seared hands. "You fool, do you wish to be fired within your first week of working here?" Lena snarled.
"No, no," stammered the girl, tripping over her own words. The fire the girl stood at was the only one lit in the room, the rest of the kitchen staff operated using cold ingredients. The light shining through the open door existed as the only warm fixture. The girl only now appeared to notice this and grew wide eyed and shied away from the head cook.
"You were told to prepare the soup not burn it, do you really need anymore instruction?" Lena stated forcefully, "and the soup is to be chilled so put out that blazing fire or I might just throw you in it." One of the other helpers glanced up and gave an odd look at Lena before hesitantly going back to work. Lena ignored the attention and continued verbally thrashing the girl.
The fire behind the girl flickered menacingly as she creeper closer to ti trying to avoid Lena's battering. The heat of it feathered against the girls ankles and legs. As if cruelly beckoning to her saying, "embrace me and I'll take you away from this place." Yet the fire lived as the least of her worries. The one thing she should truly be troubled by slowly crept across the floor towards the noisy kitchen.
One of the other members of the staff stumbled through the kitchen, and out the service entrance without saying a word. This was not unusual, typicallybthe servants were required to go out either this door or the back door. Yet the wound that had decorated the side of the hurried worker had been. Lena frowned at a spot of blood that had splattered on the floor, not recognizing in entirety what it was.
The girl she had been scolding took Lena's distraction as a means to escape her wrath. The helper scurried off to a nearby sink to sooth her burned hands. Lena crotched down and wiped the blood up with her apron and then straightened. She inspected the substance, noticing with confusiong miniscule bits of frost.
Lena looked up following the trail of blood back out the entrance to the kitchens. "She came from the lesser wing," Lena muttered, wondering. She still did not fully comprehend what the blood could mean. Or the idea that the servant may have been fleeing. She did come to one conclusion however, that no one but servants and a few minor lords lived in that wing. Although the head of the house did have a rarely used study there.
A loud crash sounded behind Lena, followed by the telltale sound of broken glass clattering against the worn floor. The blood forgotten she hurridly went to hassel another worker. The fire also went forgotten and continued burning with an occasional snap. Yelling sounded across the room from the fire where a servant had somehow managed to break a shelf which had contained several plates which now lay shattered on the
floor.
The sound of footsteps approaching the kitchen went unnoticed, or was dismissed without a worry. A few of the workers were eyeing the remaining traces of blood trying to figure out what to do about it. Despite that they thought nothing of the footsteps. Not one member of the kitchen staff suspected the chaos that might soon appear.
A slight chill brushed through the room and slipped around the workers, enveloping them. The fire cracked and gave off a violent red shade. Shivering soon ensued accompanied by odd expressions.
The workers now picked up on the sound of an approaching figure they developed a small sense of panic that hinted at fear. It became colder and what could be illustrated as fog rose from the floor. The blood cracked and hissed, and began to freeze over. The workers took on a frantic appearance, standing around, unsure of what action to take.
A hint of frost bit at the air and formed from the fog, smothering the appliances in thin white fluff. A word froze itself into one of the counter tops, "forgotten." The fire flickered and sputtered, a worker gaped at it fearfully. The fires movement slowed and its color shifted to a sharp blue and then a vibrant white. It then stopped, gradually, starting at the tops of the flames. The fire froze. Yet still eerily flowed under a layer of ice.
A shadow flashed across the doorway and lay across the kitchen floor. Lena stood with a broom in her hand, fiddling with her apron near the blood stain. The door creaked slightly as a breeze crossed against and nudged it open farther, revealing a figure shadowed by the light beyond it. Everyone stopped fidgeting and eyed the shape warily, fearfully.
He stepped through the door, his foot made contact with the floor. The blood hissed again and a sliver of smoke rippled upwards. Another step, slowly. It was a man, whom none of the staff recognized. His face was twisted, and contorted. What appeared as scars traced across his skin, yet they glowed a soft blue shade which complemented the mans shock of white hair. His eyes shifted shades depending on the angle they were observed from, to Lena they appeared a sullen grey.
He looked. . . Sad. A filament of ice lay down his cheek, it might have initially been a tear. However this went unnoticed, the only thing present it the heads of the workers, "danger."
Ice rippled outwards from him, and the fire which lay encased. A soundless shriek occurred as the tentacles ran against a servants foot. then remembering the girl that had ran through earlier the staff tried to sneakily creap towards the door, unsuccessfully. The ice writhed in response to their movement, agitated it would seem. Its movement quickened and it reached out for the staff. Lena stood closest to it, and closest to the door. She backed away unsurely. No one dared to speak for fear of angering the man.
A loud pop slashed through the tense air, Lena flinched harshly. The blood had in a manner of speaking, exploded. A flake of red ice now lay by the mans feet. He stepped on it with a sickening crunch and grew nearer to the occupants of the room. Another spot of blood busted and sent crystals sliding across the now slick floor.