Sir Callad [Knight_of_G] Keera [Lightascetic] Griskin [Beefish] ________________________________ White-scorched stones stood around in a circle. Rising from the ground like the very bones of Hyrule, they arched and weaved between themselves, casting a shadow in the grassy plains. Architecture lay weathered in the hundreds of years that had been flung against them, decayed a little, yes, but still unmoved, ancient, silent. They balanced the old time between them, like a memory locked inside the land itself. How long they'd been there was anyone's guess. Even the grandest trees could not know the deep mysteries of those oldest ruins. Twisted a little, but structurally a masterpiece. Scrawling images of pigs and horns and jagged, unfriendly faces murmured vaguely along the walls. Barely there, like a dream, or a nightmare from the past. Griskin touched the outline of a pig-face, half cracked from time, but the blazing eyes still touched him. It was an old familiarity, like ancestry, or genes. He debated within himself of what the picture actually was. He could think of at least three things. Boar. Moblin. Or... Grunting softly, he faced the looming archways over the structure. they descended towards an ominous stairway. Crooked, uninviting, but oddly open. As if there were no need for further warnings against whatever was contained inside the old, broken sore in the landscape. It compelled and repulsed him. Like pure temptation, mingled with the scent of death. A mausoleum in the ghostly flesh of ancient kin, opening its arms for an embrace. Followed closely by his ever-hating octorok's eyes, he walked into the arms of the ruins. Down into the depths of history. Silently, as if he wasn't moving at all.
Sir Callad Bolge was on a mission. He'd heard rumors of some ruins in the area that supposedly held an artifact of symbolic renown or magical might that was associated with Ganon in the past. He was come to destroy it. He peered into the distance and saw something glinting in the sunlight. Something neither green, nor blue, nor brown. White stone, hewn from faraway quarries and brought here, built into something. He'd found it. He grinned before turning to his companion, the little Kokiri known as Keera. "I think I see it, over there." He pointed.
Keera was all too happy to join Sir Callad on his quest. A truly gallant knight, he'd done many a good service for her ever since she'd first bumped into him. His request had surprised her, for she'd always pictured that she would be the one needing his help. But whether it was because of her skill in healing, or because Callad had merely wanted a travelling companion, here she was. Not being one to complain, Keera didn't want to make it known that her feet were beginning to throb from the excessive walking. They'd been in search for some ruins, but being that her legs were shorter than Callad's, the distance was more of a challenge for her. Or was it? She looked up at him, noting that he was wearing seemingly heavy armor, and she was not. Maybe this walk had made him wary also, but even if it had, Callad was very adept at hiding his fatigue. Of course, the one who had it easiest was Melda, who floated lazily between the two of them. Her fairy companion had been fairly quite during the walk, and was probably enjoying the fact that Keera wasn't in danger for once. Callad's announcement broke her from her daydream. Melda flew a little higher to get a better look- maybe she'd been dozing, otherwise she would have seen it. Keera raised herself up on her tiptoes, following his cue to lay eyes on the ruins. "I would say so! What do you think, Melda?" "Sir Callad is right." She chimed, drifting back down to Keera's eye level. "I doubt we'll find anything else that quite matches the description around here." Keera looked hopefully at Sir Callad, hoping that the walking portion of their adventure would be put on hold soon.
Like a grim, earthen ribcage, the white stone curled over his head, forming a ceiling down into the deep black. He drew a green hand across the wall as he sauntered down the stairs, preternaturally unafraid. He felt the grooves and cuts in the stone as they grew more detailed towards the end of his descent, like a sketch in progress. Why did he feel so at ease in the old tomb? He dismissed the question as Grudd gurgled, it cautiously stepping down a few feet behind Griskin. Together they stood, staring into the dark corridor ahead. "What d'ya think-" the low echo of his voice startled him out of his own familial trance. "What d'ya think is in there?" Did it really matter? The scrawling images, it promised his dreams. A time when his kind had a culture. Maybe that was the difference. There had been scant legends of a treasure which lurked in the deep dark of the ruins. One affiliated with monsters. Familiar with pig-faces and fangs, and sharpened claws and animal features. That myth resonated in his heart with black songs. He moved forward. His eyes adjusted to the bare darkness. Grudd's little limbs skittered onwards, clicking against the floor as it seemed to pace up and down. The grey wall was a penumbra in his vision, he gripped the old stone and felt his way around. After going on for a while he started to question the place. How would he know if he were lost? Leaving Grudd at the bottom of the stairs, the edge of his fingers found some new depictions in the white rock. Griskin squinted, but still the image was ambiguous. It was like a gaunt figure, with weak, bony limbs, but clothed in thick armour. It reminded him of a Stalfos. Shrugging, he continued fumbling against the wall towards oblivion. He followed the wall for what might have been minutes, or hours. At some point he reached an opening, but the wall passed over it and continued on. In his peripheral vision a blue blur stood and hissed at his feet, waiting in the archway. Grudd. How did that little monster get past him? At that realisation he paused. What was that image on the wall a little ahead? He'd seen those gangly arms before. The image of the Stalfos. It was distinct, in a particularly strange pose like a runner. It was the same picture. His arms fell away and sank by his sides. What? He turned around. Grudd's blue orb stood defiant against the black doorway. They were in a circular room. At the bottom of the stairs. He had been going in a circle. Huh.
Sir Callad took one look at his travelling companion and immediately felt compassion for her. She was practically begging to stop with her eyes. But, rather than stop, Callad decided he'd help in another way. He grabbed her about the waist, raising her quickly. Her protests were rather panicked, right up until he sat her on his shoulders. "There you go. That way I can do all the walking, and you can just enjoy the view. Sound alright?" He didn't hear anything for a moment, and then a quiet, "Thanks." He used his recently acquired power, something he'd learned was called, 'Bladed Healing,' and took Keera's pain away. He grunted at the new pain in his own feet. "Sorry, stepped on a rock." He hadn't, but he didn't want her to feel indebted to him over so trivial a thing. Besides, while alien to him, journeying with a companion was something he'd enjoyed so far. He was... less restless? Less... feverish, perhaps? He did not feel quite as driven to strive forward relentlessly, never minding his own health. As the knight continued walking, the ruins became clearer. They looked like some sort of fortress, ruined and broken through the ages. The towers were broken open, by catapult and time. The thickness of the stone was something to be spoken for. It was thicker than Callad was tall. Powerful magic and projectiles had broken this place. This was the war he was walking into. Still, he chose to continue. The ruins grew closer, and taller...
By his actions, Keera knew that her being carried was not up for debate. Glad as she was for Sir Callad's assistance, she couldn't help but feel guilty. It was most peculiar- no sooner had Keera stopped walking, the throbbing in her feet subsided surprisingly quickly. Atop his study shoulders, Keera could feel the lazy winds sweeping along her back, gently playing with her hair. When he grunted from hurting his foot, she was about to offer some healing, but he seemed unhindered by the rock he had stepped on. Melda adjusted her flying height to remain beside her master. The closer they got to the ruins, the more impressive they were. Keera could only imagine the kind of life that had existed here, years before the structures had fallen into disuse. As they neared the entrance- silent and somewhat eerie- Keera tapped Callad lightly on his armor to signal that she was ready to dismount. With nothing more than a grateful smile to him, she turned her eyes to the ruins once more. "Do you think anybody is still here?" It was all too apparent that it was abandoned, but Keera wanted reassurance that they weren't going to bump into any unexpected company.
Wherever in the ruins the pair had found themselves, it had long been made redundant. Griskin guessed that the room might have once been a storage place, like an underground silo. Or not. Who was to say? He pulled out the haze in his mind with a shrug, and bent his abdomen towards the exit, eyes still darted from one image to another. Hooved feet travelled up a few steps, but stuck still afterwards. Griskin slowly turned again the face one of the archaic carvings. He was compelled. With one broad finger, he traced the groove, followed the line and formed a crude shape in his mind's eye. A sharp pain leapt up his shin, and a tiny, jagged pebble bounced down the stairs. Griskin's eyes rolled around, his face followed, found its target, his little octorok companion. The pig's facial muscles compressed together in a series of crinkles, an expression of clay rudely twisted. Grudd reflected its master's gaze with equal hostility, firmly raised on suckered limbs, secure as a landmark. Griskin didn't break the connection by words, but shied away from Grudd's pure white eyes silently. His tusks protruded like a pout. Words were not necessary for either of them in that place. His heart felt like a rope being pulled in two directions. Ancient needs, like a barbaric pulse through a dead king, and Grudd's chastising leer both threatened to drag him into something he was unsure of. The power of the magic in that place was profound on the moblin, sticking to green skin like sweat. It was tainted by old demands. This rope wouldn't give in yet. Neither side would have satisfaction before he had taken time to think. Griskin forced his knees to bend, sat himself on one of those low stairs. He battled through the cloud over his head, tried to penetrate his true thoughts. Jabbing away at the foreign, yet familiar feeling with all the powers of his meagre mentality. What was that smell? Keen animal nose picked up a faint odour. It was marinated in the scent of grass blades and dirt. Flesh. Cloth. A distant warning. He wasn't alone among those forgotten pillars.
