The Curse of Eternity

Death Eleven

Fire!

Intense fire flares within the Immortal Lord, settling and burning, burrowing deep in his core. Instincts tell him this is not a normal or mortal fire. Standing under a snow cold waterfall flowing from the pool faucet, he hopes the icy chill will calm the raging flame. To his dismay, it does not. Clouds of steam swirl angrily when water contacts his fire-kissed skin, turning the room into a glorified steam spring. The Immortal Lord steps from underneath the cascade, knowing it's futile to continue. Smoke continues to billow from his frame as it instantly evaporates the moisture.

Up the steps he travels and out of the pool towards the left wall where the inscribed marques to the pool water control lay and presses his right hand against the plate which controls the faucet. Focusing his Lous'rife he calls the rune Retha holding it tightly in his mind. The marque hovers in his third sight looking like the letter O. With his will he pushes the marque to the plate and it flows down his arm in crimson sparks.

The water ceases.

The raging fire becomes increasingly uncomfortable and forever remaining internal he knows it is sparked by Desolation's power and fueled by her blood.

Suddenly the firestorm cools and the billows of smoke recede. The Immortal Lord knows Desolation, also, has succumbed to slumber.

What in the twelve depths of Eternity has she done to me?"

Never in his centuries of life had he felt so alive, energized, and indestructible. Desolation's Lous'rife courses along his skin, the very way her blood travels within his veins.

Bending at the waist, he reaches for the clothing he'd tossed aside. The cloth bursts into flame the moment it comes to contact with his skin and stupidly he stares at the burning shirt clutched in his hand. When the flame reaches his palm his arm lashes and flings the ball of fire into the tub. A sharp sizzle ensues accompanied by the scent of burnt fabric.

"Okay, let's not do that again."

Using his third sight, he focuses on the power burning within his soul, his Lous'rife, and the Lous'rife he'd gained from Desolation. A black flame burns brightly beside his own, but as he studies it closely it is not black, it is violet, green and blue. The darker the colour the more powerful the being, or so it is said.

There has been much evidence suggesting the darker the Lous'rife the more powerful the being is, but there are also cases where it is not so. His Lous'rife is crimson but he is much more powerful than any mortal.

The study of Lous'rife and their colour have been under observation for centuries but the magus are not any closer to proving right or wrong of the theory.

Ignoring the dark flame, the Immortal Lord focuses his own Lous'rife and shapes it into a sphere, gently pushing it towards Desolation's fire.

At first, the flame resists the sphere but with persistence and a force of Will, he manages to envelop Desolation's Lous'rife within his own.

His skin cools.

Once again, he bends at the waist, hand hovering tenuously over his trousers. He taps it quickly, testing whether the cloth will burst into flames.

After deeming it safe, he grabs the trousers, hastily dons them, and makes his way back to his rooms.

Desolation lay in the same position he left her. Her heartbeat remained its steady tattoo. Her breathing concerned him, it is shallower than before. He stood staring for a few breaths trying to decide if he should intervene but after a few candle flickers her breath matched the beat of her heart.