Lucian Grey ? District's heart ? Dojeran
The oncoming gale of frozen winds pelted relentlessly against the thick folds of black cloth that draped and coiled around Lucian's looming frame, a mere man would have been completely cast asunder from their snow clocked heels and thrown into the great torrent of the storm. However, Lucian was a Hunter, it would take a far more than the death touched kisses of the mountains to fell a creature such as him.
?Keep it up V, we're getting closer to the heart of the district.? The yellow eyed hunter howled over the raging winds, a feeble attempt at communicating with the skulking, black monolith of fur following briskly in his tracks.
?If my writings are correct!? A phrase Lucian had repeated many times upon their journey to the broken down ruins of
Dojeran, the words a kindling hope in the back of his mind.
?Than that's where the chaos began, and where we'll find our path to the North?
Lucian remained silent and strained his ears in the hopes of a more illustrious response from his ever stalwart companion, however; he had come to settle for the occasional grunt of acknowledgement that rose just ever so softly above the roaring of the mountain drafts.
?Time has not been kind to the district of
Dojeran? Lucian rambled, his face highlighted with splotches of pink outlined in skirts of white flesh, a clear indication of the blood draining from his very being. Even his fingers had begotten the virtue of colour, transforming into pale, rigoured claws clutched together to retain as much of their warmth as was possible.
?It's a wonder anyone lived here at all.? Lucian's foot fell to the floor, his sole drenched in a thick dust that caked around his heel as it entered some hollowed out crevice. Curious, the hunter diverted his gave from the broken and worn path to examine the oddity, enveloping his ankles. At first, Grey has assumed it nothing but a build of of soot after the explosive attack on the district, dictated in his journals, it wasn't until he crouched down to inspect the frame that he realised the horror of what he had stepped into. It was a mould of ash, the last remnants of a being who had been caught of the crossfire of the Osaian attack. The frame was hard to make out but it had to have been the long faded body of a young child. Caught in the cloak of molten smoke, choked and burned alive as it swept through the district indiscriminately claiming the lives of the urchins and thugs that survived day-to-day in this wasteland.
I should remember this...
Lucian lifted his head high, the very act a defiance against the invisible blows of nature, to catch a glimpse of the place he had supposedly once called 'home'. Broken monuments of stone and brick raised from scorched earth, the corpses of broken buildings. Large, volcanic stones, black as sin frozen in the still form of waves, churns and lakes. And finally, gritty cocoons of fallen comrades and enemies felled by the magical eruption.
?Welcome home? Lucian breathed almost silently as he caught glimpse of the looming mountain greeting them, just beyond the districts heart.
