Arken the Lost

Wits of Lore II:1

Standing taller than most, his impressive stance belied the weakness within him. His face shown absolute confidence, not in smile, but in its absence. As his eyes slowly opened , his motionless body held, his gaze drew upwards from the floor to the hall in front of him. Around the corner from where he stood, there was a wooden door with a heavy iron latch- this he knew well. What he also knew with equal certainty was that two sentries of Regnum Romanum ranked beside either of its edges. In an instant, all thought dropped from his mind. His body held still, while any life signs he had previously exhibited visibly ceased. His movement forward was so smooth and swift that if one had observed him, they may have perceived that he was not moving at all, or perchance he had been in motion always, having never began, and that was his aim. He yearned not to be discernible at all, a striving towards nothingness. The last of his steps took him past the corner, then turning, he paused, again frozen in time. His vision met the sentinels, the door; he began moving again. Gliding through the passage, not an atom of aether stirred round his head. He arrived at the door, ear to ear with the soldiers, suspended once more, only the hairs of his brow rustling unheard. His long beard glowed ashen below the wall’s torches, telling his life to be a great deal longer than did his eyes, with the cold, iron grip of pale blue, still of a young man with purpose. The stares beside him had not converged, still as straight and firm as his own posture at this precipice. One hand crept out of his robe towards the handle, lifting with the caution of a midwife, he pulled on the door. It was within that moment that the wood of the guard’s pilum hit the back of his head.