Yardie (prime)/Five Years Later...
(Five years ago, Yardie traversed the streets of Icemule Trace, leaving a life behind, looking for a second chance at life. Five years later, Yardie lives a life of atonement, reveling in the simplicity of normalcy. Little does he know that the past has kept eyes on him...waiting for the opportunity to tear his world apart.))
((Shoutouts to Leifa and Emperia for their permission to mention their characters, and a special shoutout to the QC I received in the hopes of keeping continuity. I'd mention names, but I don't want to get anyone in trouble.))
The orange door to the bungalow on the northwest boardwalk remained unlocked for visitors and citizens alike. Today, he wished he had taken that simple measure of security. Little did he know that the color of the door held a secret, a clue to the bungalow's mysterious past.
Wrendiel.
The old Faendryl’s sheer size melded with the soft golden teakwood soda, turning the marshmallow pillows into putty. He looked like a living fixture of the flat, the furniture shifting into his gravitational pull.
“Skunk,” he greeted, the word corrosive as acid. “I love what you have done with the place.”
Yardie locked onto the elder warrior, his hands raised, palms out, shifting in front of the young adopted girl. “Spinnerette. Go. Mist Harbor. Get help if you do not hear from me at the top of the hour.”
Spinnerette lowered her arm, sliding toward her back pocket, toward the black hilt of her silver dagger.
“Now.” It was a shrill whisper wrapped in a command. The Panicky Phantom, known for his quick thinking and nervous disposition, held his eyes closed, muttering under his breath until light footsteps approached the door. Then, the latch clicked into place, and Yardie exhaled relievedly.
Wrendiel stroked his chin, his lips twin crescents. “Long time, Skunk.”
Yardie rubbed his temples. “That’s not my name.”
The warrior chuckled. “You carry many names that are not yours. A horde of personas carried under that frail body.” He studied the contours on the rogue's face for any reaction, but found none. He let out all the air from his lungs. “Fine. We will use Blade, then.”
Yardie’s mithglin-hued marbrinus sleeves hung loose as he lowered his arms, the coiled wrist following suit. “You should have been the Blade.”
Wrendiel stroked his chin with a gentle touch hidden under a callous, battle-worn hand. “And serve Korvath?” Laughter rumbled from his chest, gravelly and guttural. “Our glorious leader, selling away the art that felled Despana.” He leaned forward, and the couch groaned. “Many are awakening to the truth.” He ran a finger over the glaesine on the driftwood coffee table and then nodded at the immaculate glint. “Enomna saw through the illusion of greatness.”
Yardie clenched his jaw. “The Betrayer was aligned with you?”
Wrendiel shook his head. “As I said. Many are awakening. They do so of their own accord.”
Yardie tapped his foot impatiently. “What do you want, Lord Wrendiel?” His voice hung even and steady like his flat-knuckled hands.
Wrendiel’s smile showed a sliver of a sharpened fang. “You are seen. You’re watched. Every nail you paint. Every pie you bake. Every tame act you commit in the hope of abandoning the life you left behind, we watch, inevitable as your guilty conscience. You are troubled by ghosts, Phantom. Or did you forget Niadriel?”
That name was a razor cutting Yardie’s skin, leaving him raw and exposed.
Wrendiel picked at his knuckles. “Five years ago.. Screams under the aurora. Then, an entire village, silenced. The air smelled of brimstone, and the coppery aftertaste of pooled blood lingered. Scorched flesh and the beating of the summoner’s heart—clutched in the vathor’s hands.”
Wrendiel rose like a grizzly bear from his hind legs, massive, imposing, bearing down on the Faendryl cub. “And in the madness, you escaped, disappeared from the slaughter, saving only yourself. Oh yes, we exist like the Senary, and we never forget.”
“The Senary is a myth,” Yardie growled, “and I am no longer a child swayed by mother’s nighttime tales.”
“The Senary is an idea, Skunk,” Wrendiel spat back, “fueled by Faendryl ambition to grow without limits, freed from the shackles of the Patriarch, the Basilica, and the crafted rules suffocating us like weeds on ripening fruit. We are that idea manifested, its shape, formless, but ever growing like a virus.” Wrendiel paused, like a predator opening its maw, ready to punctuate its prey’s murder with a fatal bite. “The Basilica cannot watch everything. They could not even watch the Patriarch’s deceased mother, no different than you could watch your own.”
The comment landed like a knife between Yardie’s ribs, twisting with the memory of the last time he saw his mother. He clenched his fist as if holding imaginary daggers.
Wrendiel sauntered with measured steps, like the longtime father figure looming to chastise his surrogate child. “They sent me, Yardie, not to end you, but to lift that blanket of protection and comfort you have draped over yourself these past five years. One day, the mask will slip before your fellow Faendryl. Perhaps, Leifa. I wonder what the Imaera worshipper would think of your treachery. Or what about the youngling you have taken to keeping an eye on? Emperia, is it not? I wonder if her father would approve of his daughter galavanting with a traitor? We could tell them. Or perhaps, we will pry that mask off your panicky face. Perhaps from that Spinnerette child you have taken under your wing. You cannot hide forever, Phantom.”
A multitude of threats lodged in Yardie’s esophagus. None escaped his lips. They did not have to. Those intense, indigo-limned amethyst eyes melted Wrendiel with their gaze.
Off in the distance, a jackal’s howl pierced through the rustling of the sea breeze. Yardie glanced up from the corner of his eye and gave a knowing smirk. “You should go, before you join your brethren who made similar threats,” Yardie sneered as he rubbed his sleeves before opening the door for the giant Faendryl. “I am not alone.”
Wrendiel moved imperceptibly fast. By the time Yardie reached for his katar, the mountain had disappeared through the ajar door, leaving the faint scent of sweat and war. He breathed out the dread through his mouth and nostrils. Closing the door behind him, he leaned back and steadied the frenzied pulse caused by his past demons. He closed his eyes, swept by images of the life he left behind, its forgotten presence cloying like a foul stench, and muttered three words.
“It never ends.”