text: Upon the evening before the quaint town of Midspire was encased in crystal, Clyde Cohen staggered towards the town's central palace -- strands of his violet hair whisked in a gale spurred on by a sea of the same shade. To say he was running late -- if you were so generous as to call his awkward stumbling a 'run' -- was an understatement, for Clyde's legs had been abused to such an extent that a hollow numbness infesting the limbs prevented him from telling which was which. “*Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn...*” he repeated, trance-like, suddenly halting and gripping over his knees in sharp inhales. As he composed himself, the reedy fifteen-year-old glanced at a towering structure overhead, his dread increasing tenfold on sight of it alone. Well known to the public as the abode of Sir Brinson Of Midspire; the Palace of the Duke of Cohen's hometown. And if he had picked up on anything after inspecting the stout man's many public speeches, it was that he valued punctuality over all else. So, with his wristwatch already confirming he was ten minutes overdue, and plus his senseless lower joints proving still to be only worsening with each step he dared take, Clyde winced upon thought of his prospects. Rubbing frantically across the skin of his thighs -- as though forcibly restoring their stamina by touch -- Clyde spent rapt attention plotting out the most efficient course across the bustling markets to the upper segment of the settlement. None of these devised routes seemed able to feasibly maneuver him in a timely fashion, and yet Clyde couldn't force himself to give up here. He'd already devoted too much just to lose to poor time management. With slight apprehension, he stood broadly, and extended an arm. Allowing his eyelids to droop over his vision, the purple-haired teen reflected on himself inwardly. The motion of his passing blood vessels and encompassing molecules -- their form, overall direction, movement -- all of this he processed as a passive observer, allowed to inspect by a greater force. From an outsider's perspective, this would have all appeared to take place within the same uneasy breath. A sudden bird's cry from above alerted him, and light hit his pupils once more. “Huh, a sandpiper?” Circling above, the bird hovered skywards, and with nought but an idle thought, Clyde commanded the creature to flap down before him. It landed on his wrist, talons carefully hung at an angle as though it were purposefully avoiding harming its master. “How'd you get to the Forgone Isle, little guy?” He inquired with a gentle stroke. “Barchan sandpipers like you should be all the way back in Osiss, not halfway across the Ruptured Seas.” Seeing as the Sandpiper was, well, *a bird*, it obviously didn't respond -- instead glancing away aimlessly in the strange sort of way such creatures always do. Like they're both incredibly stupid, and yet remarkably wise at the same time -- an odd sort of duality. “Well, if you don't mind me controlling you like some evil puppet-master for a moment...” Telepathically willed, it shot away from his reach someplace among the high-reaching clouds and settled. Clyde crossed his aching legs upon the ground -- his ever-more late attendance becoming increasingly worrisome -- and rested both palms upon his lap with closed eyes. Yet again, an intense, practically spiritual connection to the inner workings of his blood flow resonated with Clyde on a deeply fundamental level -- a level of what, exactly, he didn't know. When he next attempted to slide open his eyes a mere second later, it was as though he had to push against some looming force -- like a thin wall he must penetrate. With the methodical ease of someone whom has completed a task endlessly throughout their lifetime, he prevailed. A bird's-eye view expanded far below him, and the harsh whippings of the airflow struck him momentarily off-balance. With a gulp that came out as a strange chirping, Clyde slowly but surely adapted himself to the airborne beast's form. In a quivering of wind, he burst along with the direction of the breeze -- riding it in the same manner a train would upon rails. '*Think, think...*’ he thought mentally, scanning the landscape for any place that may serve as a speedy shortcut to Brinson's domain. '*If I show up half an hour late, not even blood manipulation will save my crippled chances...*’ And then... he found it. Barely contained in the corners of his peripheral vision, a sizeable wheat field expanded someplace between Midspire's trading center and the more wealthy portion in which the Duke's palace sat. Although sprinting wildly through the crop-growing pastures would make Clyde appear quite the fool, and possibly be an even longer distance than the roads themselves, not having to journey through the networking alleys would boost his arrival time majorly. Maybe to the point his shot at persuading Brinson wasn't nonexistent. '*Are the farms private property? Ah, screw it!*’ With a tinge of concentration, he severed his connection to the Sandpiper and immediately began dashing. He'd been resting just long enough for his thighs not to feel like they're about to implode on themselves, but for too little for an echoing pang in his knees to still be very much present. Nevertheless he endured, and after hopping over many fences, a handful of stray sheep, and imprinting the grass' green texture upon his jeans, Clyde was only considerably late instead of alarmingly overdue. Crossing a stone drawbridge, Clyde ceased his approach when a burly guardsmen crossed their arms to reaffirm authority. “What time do you call this, son?” Hailing from the highlands of Strasor, Andreas was a bulky, dark-skinned guardsman serving the Duke personally -- presumably in an attempt to escape the civil unrest of his homeland. Clyde didn't blame him for it; he wouldn't want to stay put in a country on the verge of all-out war either. He glanced to the wayside, his embarrassment plastered over his face like it was forever stuck cringing. “I understand this is completely unacceptable, but-” “Save it.” He interjected in a gruff voice. “Just hand over your ID and be on your way.” At first, the word 'ID' caused tremors of fear to implant seeds of panic within him, but Clyde quickly remembered he'd had the foresight beforehand to bring proper certification. From a rucksack slung across the boy's shoulder haphazardly, Clyde revealed a piece of bland-looking paperwork, and handed it over to the inspecting Andreas. The moving wall of muscle perused its contents silently, before abruptly speaking up. “AB- blood type, huh? You don't see a Possession user everyday,” he looked the boy up and down, taking particular focus on his hair. “Then again, you don't see people like you all that often.” Clyde couldn't help but wince at the comment. The irregular shade of his hair had always been a sensitive topic for him. “Well, back on track, I'm gonna' need you to demonstrate Possession -- should be harmless. Had someone with an Intoxication blood type sneak in the other day and attempt an assasination on the Duke himself. Can't have that happening again.” “What?” Clyde spat, rather rudely. “Do you know how late I already-” “And whose fault is that?” Disgruntled, Clyde grudgingly obliged, commanding the inhabitants of a nearby ant nest to reveal themselves. After Andreas had finished marveling over finally locating the source of the invading pests, Clyde entered. In a walking motion so brisk it only didn't pass for running as doing so within that place would be outright insulting, he traversed a network of mahogany stairways, velvet carpets, and vast dining halls. All in all, he managed to arrive at the Duke's office fairly swiftly -- for someone twenty minutes late, that is. “Sir I must apolo-” Clyde cut himself off at the image that confronted him. Two more guards, much-like Andreas in build, conversed hurriedly with Brinson. By the unnerved expressions donned on them alone, Clyde couldn't help but be overwhelmed by a sense of close, inescapable danger. His pupils turned next to the disturbed thin line that had become Brinson's lips, and it was almost like the tension in the room was manifesting as an engulfing water -- and he was caught up in its tides. He was so enveloped with the trio that for a moment he'd almost neglected taking in the room itself -- the rest of the palace has been lavish, but this place was so filled with riches Clyde wouldn't be surprised if he could purchase a street or two with its valuables and still be left with a hefty sum. “Yes, yes, prepare as you will.” The Duke gestured with a flurry of the hands. “Leave me to my own affairs, for I must think.” As both guards left, exchanging raised eyebrows at Clyde's presence, the teen remained standing gawkily, unsure of what to do with himself. After a minute or so, Brinson finally acknowledged him. “I assume you were the one to send the manservant application... Clyde, is it?” “Yes Sir. I apologise immensely for my lack of punctuality, I understand this is reason enough to outright decline my application.” Clyde gripped his fists for support, wincing slightly. “If there's anything I can do to redeem myself...” Brinson sighed, stood up from his leather armchair, and faced a set of windowpanes at the room's side. He overlooked Midspire with a somber expression. “I would usually take you up on what you said, dismissing you without a second thought.” There was the promise of continuation in the man's tone, so Clyde remained deadly silent. “But with the future foretelling what it does, I cannot refuse extra hands. Pack your things, you can stay in one of our guest rooms for now before I find someplace more permanent.” On the verge of exclaiming in pure glee, Clyde bowed over and over, and over again -- to the point it was almost comical. But the Duke's words continued to unsettle him. Raising his head, he asked rather sheepishly: “Mind me asking, but whatever do you speak of?” Without answering verbally, Brinson lifted a finger at the window. Clyde was surprised to see the Duke was plagued by a brief tremble. But that surprise was nothing next to the exhilaration of emotions that overcame him as he saw what the Duke was truly pointing at. From the vantage point of a view this high up, Clyde could see over the entirety of Midspire, and what he saw beyond his home-town’s border caused him to physically gag. Husks. Thousands of husks. In simpler terms, brainless fiends birthed right from the toxic waters of the Ruptured Seas themselves, acting as witless servants to their long deceased master. Whilst a few of the things were expected every now and then, a town this far inland shouldn't be facing hoards in the *thousands.* “How... how are there so many?” “Look closer.” Biting a quivering lip, Clyde did so. In the center of the crowd, almost too far away to make out, a grey-haired man approached with a sly smile upon his face -- cloak billowing behind him. Brinson grimaced harder at Clyde's horrified expression, pity in his eyes. “We suspect it’s Vargen, White Cell of the Cells Of Igon. I don't know what that organization wants with Midspire, but trust me, you won't want to be out there when they finally arrive.” An intangible frenzy of half-connected thoughts circulated Clyde's mind, none of them fully coherent. “Do the townspeople know?” he inquired desperately. “My guards have just been informed, the populace shall know shortly, but I fear the further reaches of town won't hear in time.” “Don't you have a Possession type on hand to spread the message? Bird flight wouldn't take long.” Brinson chuckled grimly. “I'm afraid that blood type isn't as common as you so believe.” Defeated, Clyde remained silent. The one benefit to being raised in an orphanage, if there were any, is that you never had to worry if your family were in danger -- no matter the circumstances. But even so, could he really allow his chance of helping slide when Midspire had done so much for him? Despite all their wrongdoing, they had raised him without complaint after all... “If you would allow it Sir,” he began gradually. “I myself am a Possession user, so...” Brinson's eyes suddenly widened, hope flaring in his pupils. Dashing behind his patterned desk, the Duke scrambled to write something, before briskly tossing it over to Clyde. “Some of my guards who remain ignorant of our current situation are on post near Midspire's main entrance. Carry this via a bird to them as soon as you can. Back away if things get too dangerous. I have enough blood on my hands already, I don't need to stain them further.” Hastily nodding, Clyde sprinted out of the room -- note in hand. By the time he'd rushed through the entirety of Brinson's palace and finally emerged outside, Clyde's lungs panged in more places than one. He would of just possessed a creature directly from within if possible, but animals tended to avoid the smoke heavy airs above the Duke's domain. He assumed a crouching position for the second time that evening, and as he willed a bird to emerge above, nothingness devoured his field of sight. In bird form he took a wide stretch and- His eyes shot open. Befuddled, Clyde began to wonder what possibly could have caused the abrupt disconnection when he felt a weight in his lap. It was the same bird from only a moment prior, but instead of lively and chirping, a limp carcass. In its motionless beak, Brinson's torn letter fluttered. Numb, it didn't take long for Clyde to notice the shard of violet crystal protruding through the fallen creature’s chest. “What the...” His voice was hoarse, and only whimpers escaped his throat when he saw the surge of purple light bursting across town. No, not light, the reflecting sunlight had tricked him. Rather, this too was crystal. As a fang-like shard of the stuff tore the grass beneath him, thus knocking Clyde swiftly unconscious, his only regret was that he hadn't acted soon enough. Not even he could protect Midspire from its impending destruction.