Kysharok - Part 8 - Fantasy

   He ignored the searing hot pain that shot across his back and was able to spin around, jump back a few paces, draw the sword from his back and face his foe. Having better view of the being, now, he found him to be wearing the same garb as a young Mage student, possibly only twenty years old - which, compared to his own seventy years which was quite hidden from his face, given the nature and lifespan of Mages, was a painful sight.
   The young man wasn't moving in any normal manner, either. He was sluggish, and seemed to not be able to lift his feet all that high, and instead seemed to drag them along. His posture was much the same, but he was leaning forwards more than he ought to have been - indeed, he should already have been on the floor, flat on his face. As Varai took another few steps back and to his right, he found that the young man was leaning forwards even more than he thought. Something seemed almost to be holding him up from above, like he was some kind of doll...
   "What's wrong with you?" Varai asked aloud, though in truth he didn't expect an answer. He grasped his sword in one hand and held it out before him. The sluggish figure changed his course to adjust to Varai's slight change of location, and it was clear he was after him, though he knew that much already. Something was very wrong with this student, but he couldn't do anything to help him until he knew what it was. He wasn't trained for that, though - he was a warrior, a soldier; he had faught in territorial battles, he'd won the scars, he'd won the duels - he'd even fought for and won his place as regiment leader, before later giving it up. But he wasn't a medic, a scholar, or any type of person interested in illnesses or other such things. He had wanted to prevent harm from coming to his people at all, not heal them.
   The figure continued to approach, and continued to hiss like some kind of reptile as he drew nearer.
   Varai's face knotted into a glare. "What's wrong with you?" He asked again, this time, foolishly, hoping for an answer.
   Nothing close to a response came, instead he continued to hiss, though perhaps a little louder, and was now only a few feet from the tip of his blade. He took an aggressive stance and prepared to counterattack, hoping at the same time that the man would stop before he had to. But he didn't. He kept coming, and Varai saw he had no choice but to defend himself.
   The movements remained sluggish though, so defending himself was simple enough, but he was still reluctant to bring harm to the disturbed individual, but after a few tens of seconds deflecting clawing grasps, his frown and resolve deepened, and his sword was briefly bathed in blue-white light. A moment later, and the figure was frozen in mid-reach.
   Varai lowered his sword to his side and took a step towards him. He still held the same forward-leaning posture, and still appeared to be held up by some unseen force. As he looked closer, he saw the eyes to not actually be completely white; there were traces of the iris, but it was extremely pale, but the pupil seemed to be completely nonexistant. The lips were thin and pale too...in fact the whole face had some kind of dead, ghostly hue.
   He shook his head gently as he looked upon him, but grasped his sword as he heard someone call his title.
   He looked past the frozen figure before him and back towards the Sanctuary's towering building. Another man was approaching, this one clad in a long black and golden coat. His hair was white and, though loose, was swept straight back. He was followed by another man, this one wearing only a black coat over his Vankar.
   Varai dropped to one knee and bowed his head as they reached him and stopped alongside the statuesque young man. "Sancturist Arthalun."