Rasalhague's Blessing.

The cold woke him within the dark recess of his cell. It was the type of feeling that wrought despair from the weak and shattered the strong alike.

It was wet, cold around his form. Slowly h adapted to that feeling. Letting the liquids shift around him as he did so. What was it? His tongue flicked out slowly, painfully. The taste of copper filled his mouth and he knew. It was a puddle of his own blood.

A hand came up to press against the ground, his right. Yet, as soon as he moved it the limb burst into an unbelievable pain as the fiery scars darting it started to flare to life.

His eyes didn't need to open for him to know what it was. It was the burns of Mr. Glass, an artistic display wrought upon his arm during a brutal battle with the Therian assassin.

What could he do for it? With some proper equipment the burns could have been treated but he didn't have that luxury. Why was it so cold? A shuddering breath left his lungs and as it did he felt I thtere.

The chill of an ice magi's wrath. His body was covered in it, perpetual ice parasites feeding off his mana circuitry to maintain there frozen status. It left him withous sense of most things.

What had that woman, the Fenrir matriarch... What had they said? You'll forget the feeling of emotion so great is my cold. That brought a smile to the nobles face.

Emotions? He'd never felt them to begin with. All his had been mockery of how he observed others behaving. That was what he'd been. An actor who'd sought to mimic the things he saw as useful.

An actor who played the hero while being the villain Osrona needed. Now though, were was he? It was underground that was clear. A base of the Syndicate, that was the only thing he could think of.

He'd been a fool to languish in peace and retire to his deskwork. Thinking this threat had been dealt with but it was clearly starting to make a come-back. That wasn't something he could allow.

Both hands came to press against the dirt, slickened by his blood. He felt every inch of his body protest as he went to move. This was the issues with a night of violence. He could feel the burns from Mr. Glass scorching his nerves, first degree based on the pain.

Then there was the razor thin crisscrossing of pain from the magi of Riptides. He'd been wounded already so the beating taken by them had been hard to bear. Though, the worst was the gashes and tears across his body. Earned during a brutal battle with Cameo, Meter, whatever name he went by now.

He'd thought of ending the unstable bunny-fanatic over a decade ago. When he first noticed there violence and power, but that had been so long ago he'd never considered it being a mistake until now.

He could feel the pain from those lashes into his chest, they'd scoured his frlesh through the coat of mail he wore. Yet, the most insulting to him was the tear across his fece. The lose of an ear. It made hearing anything difficult. He just heard the fuzzy after-effects of sounds.

Pushing he felt the earth leave away. His muscles screamed as they tore themselves apart. The last insult to him happened in this cell, the frost that cursed his body. His teeth grit as he pushed harder.

Up he went, onto his knees but it was better than the alternative. His gaze shifted around the cell. The image's he saw were clouded by blood, some of it still clogging his eyes half-shut the rest his own and those who'd been brought here before him.

It was a hell for the Pellaux, this wasn't where he wanted to die. Yet, it was becoming ever more likely that this would be his end. Unless he fought his way out, there was no mistake in his eyes. This was his only option.

Leave of his own power or die, there would be no rescue form the First Light. No rescue from the City Watch, not even from his retainers. So, what could he do within this deep prison? His hands came to feel around his body. Searching for the hidden pockets he kept his materials stored away within.

That's when he found it, the chunks of raw Nyeshk, a smile crossed his features at that. So, he'd a chance to forge a weapon after-all. He just had to figure out how to do that without a forge, his body screamed in protest but his eyes searched the prison cell once more.

It was empty, they'd left him here to rot. That would be there biggest mistake. The man couldn't even stand, he kneeled there within a puddle of his own blood. It was the same position he'd been in when he thought Cameo was going to kill him.

Now was the time to focus upon the ore before him. Slowly he collected what he could form his own stores hidden throughout his coat. Finding the bare minium number of pieces to attempt a forging.

This was something he'd only tried a few times before and at those times he'd been at full health and in a peaceful setting. Now he'd have to showcase that talent within the most inhospitable location he could think of.

First Emote Break

Slowly his eyes closed as he reached out towards the heaves. Reached out towards the gift that was Rasalhague's light. It was so far away, normally he'd always avoided the depths for how difficult it made it to feel the light of the stars.

Now though he had no choice, upwards he reached through the stone and dirt and roots. Higher into the sky he felt his spirit call. Reaching out to the star's spirit form so far away, form a place of weakness and desperation. It was as if he'd been rendered a non-magi once more within these caves.

"Rasalhague, M-my purpose is s-still c-c-clear, I will t-tame these serpents and put the w-world into it's proper o-order. Just give me y-you're blessings." His words came out of a swollen tongue, the chittering of his teeth within the chill causing discomfort but worse was that stutter to his normally perfect speech.

Sraasha had been right. He would be rendered a mockery if he ever escaped this place. It was unlikely that he'd be able to resume a life of politics with such disfigurements and marring of his speech. His teeth grit as he reached out for the star's blessing ever more.

His mind faltered for a few moments as he  struggled with that fear. What would he do as a Pellaux if his ability to lead his city was compromised? It was those thoughts which prompted another memory.

He could see them as they'd left the manor that day. The wife he'd never expected to take. A wretched beast-kin found within the forest. A stuttering fool of a mess who'd by all rights deserved to fade into obscurity.

Yet, he'd fallen in love so long ago and taken her as his wife. Things had since cooled but he'd always been there for her. Always been there for the beautiful daughters she'd given him. Little Aren and Elrya. Would he leave them to grow up with out a father?

No, that wasn't who he was. He wasn't a man to wallow in self-doubt and beg for help. He knew his purpose and he wouldn't be swayed from it. His mind reached out and he urged a connection with Rasalhague once more.

This time, with his mind clearer and focused he felt a rush of the power cosmic. Flowing into his veins like a great flood. He could feel the chill, feel the pain and fatigue of his body pushed to the side as his eyes focused.

This was the overflowing strength of a star, what it menat ot push past the weakness of his body and reach for greatness. To reach for the heavens!

His hands came out, radiating raw cosmic power as he fought through the dampening effect of his collar. Gripping the raw ores he'd twist and bend it. THe metal melting and turning to a liquid in his very hands. Hands that burned with the heat and yet he couldn't give up. He could fee the rushing power of Rasalhague in his bones and wouldn't give up that feeling until he'd achieved his goal.

Painfully he began to shape and twist the steel in his hand. Sliding it out into a mighty length of Nyeshk. As it took shape he could see that the work was hideous, there was no signs of a masterwork here. No, this was the product of desperation.

Painfully he'd lengthen the molten nyeshk, where his hands left the metal cooled. Hardening into a jagged line of hardened metal. It was all one blade, pitted and marred with imperfections but it was all he could forge given the circumstances. If he could just use it he would be able to kill one of his captors and escape.

All it took was the opportunity.

With bloodied, burned hands he looked down at the weapon. It was literally forged within his won blood an by his bare hands Next came the process of enchanting it. Slowly he brought a bloodied hand up to scratch the runes of power into the blade.

Marking out the runic power of Astya upon the blade. Olden gifts