Of Blood and Loss

X: The Castle

Achilles flopped to the ground, his legs screaming "I'm used to walking, but those valleys are hellish. I don't have that in Betula." Hercules laughed, "Fuckin' hell. You ain't been to Folk, huh." Achilles smiled and shook his head. "Empty valleys and golden towers from what I heard." Hercules nodded. "And Ancients, a lot of them."

They were now closer to the centre of the crater, the wind that howled at the cusp was converted into a serene silence. The air was fairly unmoving, the trees stood proud and still. The lake shone back the great sun into the group's eyes. The strangely shaped land let out beautiful, contorted flowers. Their stems twisted and twined yet their flower bloomed all the brighter. The flowers basked in the sunlight, all different colours and shapes. The sky held no clouds, allowing the light to gleam every inch of the seclusion. Hercules, Venus and Achilles head inside, to see if there was anything they could salvage. The Valleys had worn them down, if they didn't mind, Morgan wouldn't mind a good rest. The Boy let them know he just wanted to explore a little, have a look around. He danced his hands along the overgrown grass and beautiful flowers. As beautiful as the place looked, as wild and free it made him feel,

He pulled and tugged and clawed until a small chunk of the earth began to rise up, and then finally. A skeleton. Black and decrepit. He noticed something about the body, it looked to be a human skeleton but looked as if it was made of roots, veins, loose thread. It was as if someone stitched cobwebs together to form the bone. A weak construct forming a fake skeleton. It made Morgan very uneasy to look too deep into; as he could see through the gaps between the dark veins and saw only emptiness. He placed the unholy sight into the ground, the scar in the earth where the feeble body once lay. He patted the dirt, and although the flowers were now even more contorted, seemed contempt and still glowed in the sunlight. Morgan smiled despite what he saw. He picked himself up, and as he looked into the tower he couldn't help but think about his Father. Ancient hunting, this is what he was doing instead of caring for him? This is what he gave up his son for? Morgan caught himself, took a deep breath and looked around. He wanted to Bathe in the Lake a little later, and the Flowers freaked him out now. He couldn't help but feel Every pretty petal hides a black soul. The forest lay ahead of him, barely swishing in the air. He stepped in, and it felt alien. The roots of the trees held each other, Morgan sometimes struggled to dance between the trunks. The roots were a maroon he hadn't seen before, it was so vibrant and warm. Akrasia was all city, and Trädlandar was all dirt and grass. It was pure and untouched. Morgan, in his wonder, discovered a small clearing. The trees were a lot less tight together, but the canopy still hung thick overhead. He was unsure of what he found at first, these grey poles sticking out of the ground, with what seemed to be helmets resting on the tip. He got closer and saw these sticks coated in vines, wrapping around the edges. A sword. The green roots clutched the blade, it grabbed the guard of each sword as if it were holding it in place. Some even had small flowers decorated around the vines; but every single one had a bunch of flowers, resting at where the blade had lodged itself. He picked it and studied it, in itself, it held several bells and smelled like the sweetest flower. He was reluctant to pick it, but luckily the flower was not held by a black corpse. Morgan smiled slyly. Morgan then looked up the sturdy, decayed blade and rested his gaze on the helmet. It was more of a hat, as it offered no metal. A leather tricorne, a very dark grey. Maybe it was by design or time, but it appeared cracked, a pattern had formed like giraffe print; yet instead of Khaki and Copper, it was Midnight and Crow. It sat on the pommel, looking sadly to the ground. There must've been about 10. It was a rather sad grave for a rather happy place. Morgan looked at every grave, each hat had something different about it. A Stripped Feather, a necklace that sat around the guard and grip, a flower that sat on the hat (somehow perfectly preserved). He stroked the hat, and maybe it was the heights, but he felt a deep coldness. Morgan had not felt such a warm, bright place to be so dismal. The more he looked, the more details he could find. Small dates, names and symbols etched into the hat. Love hearts, The names of their Blades, When they joined... and then a much fresher time of death. Morgan bent down, picked a single flower and began to leave the forest before he found a detail he wouldn't like to see.