[Shards of Immortality] Illyasviel, Rygal - Spellbound

[Tabby]

Spires of ice erupted from the frozen core, jagged-edged crystalline profusions that reached out in every direction, following the flow of magic in flawless harmony. Layer after layer solidified, entombing each layer beneath it in an icy coffin as the turgid mass slowly took a more defined shape, as inchoate magic formed a definite structure, as chaos became order constrained by form.


Illyasviel chuckled, once, a small sound that barely left her throat; the ethereal smile tugging at the corners of her lips was the only sign of her amusement a moment later as she regarded the frozen flower slowly forming in the palm of her hand. Detail work was - almost embarassingly more difficult than just impaling people on giant murderspikes, but the delicious irony of using the horrific, unending power of a demonic lord, a fountain of corrupting, hateful magic that had destroyed an entire kingdom and torn it from the Material Plane entirely as a simple byproduct of his hatred, to make an intricately detailed flower statue was hard to ignore.


Huddled on the windowsill of one of the immense stained glass windows that dominated the interior of the vast cathedral, so far away from the world she had once belonged to, even far from the work that dominated the life she now led in a rare moment of relaxation, Illya found her focus taken up entirely by the slowly-forming flower in her hands, carving out ever sharper reliefs in the base while extruding petal after petal. Perhaps she ought to be doing something more useful in her downtime, training or getting to know the other Generals - she hadn't been here all that long, and her Overlord had seen fit to hurl her into the front immediately and constantly, making use of her already-honed tactical acumen and rapidly-growing mastery of the magic she had arrived already equipped with. Too busy to spend much time around the tower, very few of her compatriots even familiar by face, much less name.


-But there had to be some value in beauty, she decided, in turning nightmares into dreams. The same power that had destroyed her world could help forge one worth living in for others, a safer one in which no one else would ever have to experience what she had survived - all under her Overlord's capable rule, for who else had the wisdom and charisma to rule an entire plane? When the time came, she would return to the front, to fight and kill in His name, but for now - in an empty room, a cathedral so oddly reminiscent of the one she had left behind in the Sororitas, she could relax for a a transient instant in time.

 

[WlfSamurai]

Such a simple scene. A pretty young woman sitting by herself, quiet and focused on her magic. Such beauty and perfection would normally have been wasted on Rygal; his heart a frozen fortress of stone impenetrable by petty emotion. Honor was the closest thing he had to feeling anything.


Yet, as he looked on from the cathedral's entrance, something within him stirred. Something that he had not felt in years. Something he had stabbed, stomped, and torn from himself. But there it was, a thimble of warmth buried inside. The feeling stopped him cold and held him in awe. He could nor more move than think.


Taking a deep breath, he attempted to center himself and draw on his will. With his ability to think restored, he mentally reached into himself to examine what he was feeling. Love was too petty a word—or too simple—for this emotion. It was more than that, deeper and stronger. It was as if he had fought countless wars alongside this woman, shedding blood, sharing rations, sewing wounds; like she were a sister-in-arms. Yes. A sister.


With realization came reason. He had never seen this woman before, having only recently been "recruited" by the Overlord. How could he feel such a strong, deep connection? It didn't make any sense. His curiosity overtook him, forcing him to stay and watch. Completely still, as if he were observing a doe lapping from clear pond, he stared.

 

[Tabby]

There was a curious warmth that flowed through her magic, through her, as though the chill of winter became a comforting embrace from a familiar friend. The brisk morning melted away, replaced by all-encompassing comfort; focusing entirely on her work, caught in her own personal bubble of nirvana, Illyasviel lost track of the world around her, even her immediate surroundings - there was only her and her magic, meticulously, almost lovingly crafting the intricate floral fascimile.


It was a thrownback to simpler times, when all she had to worry about were the unrelenting expectations of her teachers and parents. How ironic that at the time they had seemed unreasonable, impossible, when now she shouldered the burden of a dead kingdom and her Overlord's overwhelming dream, a dream that subsumed all in its path, snaring them with the promise of a world worth fighting for. There were thsoe who joined for the power, the feeling of control - Illya took no shame in admitting to herself that she was immensely enjoying the ability to finally legitimately practice the tactical and strategical acumen she had honed throughout her short lifetime, to learn from experience and glorious trial and error what she had once been forced to glean from ancient books.


But that was in service to an ideal, she fiercely maintained, unwilling to entertain the concept of a love of battle for its own sake. There was - nothing wrong with taking pleasure in one's work, was there not? Satisfied with her rationalization, Illyasviel inspected her work; each hill, each valley, each extrusion flawless in its craftsmanship, and yet in terms of overall material, so very small; the entire sculpture was only about the size of her fist. Her smile grew wry as Illya realized that particular metric would lead to most things being many, many fist sizes - she did not have particularly enormous hands. For better or for worse, she amended to herself with amusement that danced in her eyes and in the smile curling about her lips, poorly restrained in the moment as the ambrosia of magical essence sustained her.


With its job done, her task complete, the barely visible tendrils of energy coiled around her slowly dissipating into nothingness as they sank into the ground, the walls, the ornate window against which she gingerly leaned. The welcoming warmth evaporated alongside it, ushering in a world so plain and endlessly cold that for an instant Illyasviel considered extending her break further, to craft something else; a moment of unusual hesitation, but the fleeting embrace of essence sapped her will and motivation.


-But in being forced back to reality her senses once more came alive, the silvery-blue glow of her quintessence fading from her vision, Illya became abruptly aware that she was not alone as she had been when entering the trance. While still struggling against the dulling aftereffects of her reverie, she allowed none of the weakness to suffuse her body; Illyasviel's head snapped toward the intruder with military precision, her surprise at both his existence - and a few moments later, his form - masked under the cold steel of her august gaze. A bear. A... humanoid bear. She was frustrated for a moment at the inability to reconcile the existence of such a thing before her mind kicked in, reminding her of the existence of the Pantheons, those with humanoid bodies and yet bestial heads. Fascinating. Having met none during her existence in Granorg and very few since, Illya found herself momentarily curious.


Still, if he was here now - he would be a fellow General, in her Overlord's employ, and likely the harbinger of the end of her brief break from the front. Likely someone had found another army for her to lead, or another set of fortifications for her to demolish.


Holding back a grim smile at the thought of getting to test some of her latest ideas - what, couldn't a girl plot magics of mass destruction while on sabbatical? - Illyasviel rose adroitly, her movements stately, regal; long-past lessons on etiquette came to mind as she strode towards the man with the uncertainty and hesitation of mere moments ago thrust from her mind. "You bring tidings of my next assignment? I am prepared."

 

[WlfSamurai]

Rygal manages to shake his head. "I . . . " He swallows hard doing his best to regain his wits. "Excuse my rudeness, I didn't mean to stare. I'm Rygal Therren, General of the Overlord. And you are . . . ?"

 

[Tabby]

Illyasviel recoiled on her heel, caught entirely off guard by the lack of further orders; in going from one state of extreme focus to a watered-down but still single-minded dedication to returning to duty, she had never considered preparing for someone to come by for any other reason. And why should she? The Cathedral was deserted at best, actively avoided by most - and the few that did rarely evinced interest in her, generally there solely to worship detritus from their past lives.


She bit back a caustic scoff at such zealotry, realizing that her excuse for being here was little more solid; both she and they shared a common thread of taking solace in remnants of their past lives. In a familiar setting, no less. For her, anyways. That anyone would prove interested in her personally beyond the initial sizing up as a possible threat to established power bases - something Illyasviel had tread cautiously about, having seen enough politicking and worthless power plays in the court of Granorg to last a lifetime - had not been projected as likely, nor did she have a ready-made response.


But at least he was a fellow General, so there was that connection. Illya hesitated, almost imperceptibly, hedging about opening up to anyone she didn't know before ruthlessly crushing the weakness under the weight of her stubbornness; taking her momentary lapse of composure as a challenge allowed her to bring more of her will to bear - a curious application of reverse psychology to herself that Illya was aware of, almost amused by, but more than willing to abuse if it lent her strength.


Rounding on herself in the aftermath of an internal struggle which took only an instant in the real world, the glacial avatar of demonic frost spoke, her words clipped, precise; "Illyasviel Malzahar." -He didn't seem like such a terrible sort, really; there was something disarming in his fiercely proud eyes and warrior's coiled posture that slipped beneath her defenses, dragging forth a small smile that shone through in her eyes more than it managed to tug up the corners of her rebellious lips. "I have met few other Generals willing to brave this makeshift sanctum. Well met, Rygal."


Determined not to fall into the poisonous curtseys and bows of the nobility she left behind so long ago, Illya opted to extend one hand in the eternal gesture of greeting, of the meeting of two worthwhile individuals, ready to grasp his much larger hand in a firm grip if he reciprocated.

 

[WlfSamurai]

The battle continued within him as Rygal looked the girl over. She was not what he had perceived her to be from far away. What stood in front of him now was a creature of magic; her blue and piercing eyes were unnatural but beautiful and her hair glimmered different colors as she moved. Like a perfect sculpture of ice, the girl seemed confident and stoic.


He had thought that speaking with her would alleviate the stress in his gut as he continued his internal struggle for answers. Something . . . was drawing him to her, something they both shared. Four sentences between them and he felt he could trust his life to this girl.


As Illyasviel Malzahar extended a hand Rygal wondered what role this girl played for the Overlord. General? No, he could see she had power, but it couldn't be that much. Sorceress? Maybe. Advisor? She's too young. And why was she here? No one else seemed to come to the Cathedral for any important reason. Perhaps he'd find out.


He clasped his massive fury paw around her delicate hand. Then, he stepped back and bowed deeply in his own greeting method. "Well met, Illyasviel Malzahar. Forgive me, but what capacity do you serve under the Overlord?"

 

[Tabby]

"I am the hammer of my Overlord's will, and the anvil upon which His foes are dashed." Her words were clear, her tone level; Illyasviel spoke with conviction, with the force she applied to everything worth doing. There was pride in her voice, but in her work, not her position - an answer delivered with absolute sincerity before her mind could taint it by considering petty wording. And why would she not? Illya felt honored to be part of such a grand undertaking, honored to be an integral part of it; what would hiding that truth beneath honeyed words accomplish?


And yet Illyasviel's expression changed in the aftermath of her immediate proclamation, her smile twisting into something more wry than before. "Or, if you prefer it in the common tongue: siegebreaker, strategist, and tactician alike." A small part of her mind wondered why she was bothering clarifying for someone she had never met, much less known, but she continued regardless. "Currently in between campaigns, but waiting for orders to allow me to take the front once more. Our goal may be noble, but there are a great many short-sighted individuals who cannot see the beauty innate to them until properly educated."


Was this - Rygal a new comrade, she wondered, or simply one of the many she had not yet met? For that matter, was he always this curious? Hurm. Maybe it was normal for Generals to talk about what they did. "And what of you, Rygal?"

 

[WlfSamurai]

Beautiful. Smart. And, a a true General. Rygal poured over the emotions once again, picking them apart. Had he not felt true love before? This was not the same feeling as with Kasha. In addition, this was unbidden. This girl — woman was attractive enough, but Rygal had not been stirred by carnal thoughts since Kasha. And it was both a subconscious and conscious effort he always continued to repress such feelings.


"I, like you, am a true General. I've only ever felt alive with the drums of battle at my back. I yearn for a chance to take the field with warriors, again. Tell me, have you won many battles, Illyasviel Malzahar?"

 

[Tabby]

Illyasviel blinked, almost took a step back before she steeled herself, caught off guard by the obvious question for reasons she could not explain. Her immediate response - all of them - died on her lips before it was even granted life as the merest apparition of a frozen wasteland flitted through her mind, a ghastly spectre of the Granorg she had once known - an eternal monument to the battle she had not been allowed to fight, one she could not have won even if she had been granted leadership. There was the recoil, again, a reminder of her own failure.


But she refused to shy away from the truth, to accept blissful ignorance of her nature. Whether by her endless drive to better her many flaws or simple stubbornness, Illya forced herself to follow that yellow brick road to the abyss, skirting madness as though it were an old friend - and perhaps it was. The battle she had not been able to fight, but wished she could. If she had possessed the power she did now back then - could she have won? Unlikely. Even without the minor issue of how so much of her power was simply borrowed - stolen from the one she would have fought. Perhaps that was another facet to her motivation for self-improvement, Illya decided; chasing a shadow forged in fear and bound by hatred.


She considered scoffing at herself, but - who was to say that what drove her was any different from what drove her fellow Generals? Her Sisters at the Order? They had all been forged in the molten harshness of life. Each would bristle at having their raison d'etre challenged, and rightfully so; she was doing herself a great disservice by treating it as so unimportant.


"...Those worth fighting." No hesitation. No fear. The words rolled off her tongue with the absolute certainty of belief, the simple fact that she could never have saved Granorg in the first place, no matter how she might wish it otherwise, suffusing her mind. Illyasviel's right arm rose, open, limp hand clenching into an iron fist as it reached the zenith of its ascension, the back of her hand visible to Rygal - and the network of glowing lines, raw magic coursing through her veins, all too visible. "-And I bear the scars of those that were not."


Perhaps it was the scar tissue that connected Generals.

 

[WlfSamurai]

"I like your spirit." Rygal eyed Illyasviel's markings and their obvious magic. Then he looked past her to ornate stain-glass windows and the rays of light that poured through them, spilling color on the cathedral floor. "Tell me, why do you serve our Father?" It was direct, but his curiosity was clawing to get free. If his guess is right, her next few words would be the sweetest he's ever heard.