Crimson Ascension

Hexion was the mysterious breath of the six realms bound by the sixfold corridor, the energy that swam in the air unguided by the currents of the wind. It was so for all living beings, Empyrean or otherwise, but to Draven, it was the answer to the many mysteries that set his life into motion.

It also held the key to his salvation.

He had long since lost count of how it had been since he stepped foot in the obsidian room, the timeless chamber located somewhere inside the Sixfold Corridor. A part of him stopped caring about it altogether. How long it had passed didn't matter, as long as he did everything in his power to prepare for what awaited him upon his return.

The runes etched in his core hadn't been difficult to engrave—not after how long he had spent mastering the lines for each symbol—but getting the circuit to a point of perfection had taken time and pain. Every attempt, every failure, was never easily erased. The consequences of his failure cost him hexion and time, but he had to get it more than just right.

He needed the runic circuit to be flawless.

That had been an easier thought than done, but time was on his side. After countless attempts, runes flared with power in his astra, their light shining with a mesmerizing perfection belonging to a work of art performed by a talented craftsman. He had even tried to do the same with Morph's astra, eager to enhance the serpent's power—their power—but the symbols never flared to life.

It was puzzling. Mysterious. Both sources of power lay inside his soul, yet only the astra originally belonging to him had the authority, the right, to make the mysterious symbols come to life with power. Morph himself admitted he couldn't see them any better than blurs.

With this avenue of power closed, Draven turned his attention to the Az'Tenri Circlet. Without his body, ascension in the Empyrean ranks was impossible, but that didn't mean he couldn't amass power inside the Sha'Vitri artefact, the black ring that had melded with his very essence.

He fed it hexion, letting it flow from his astra, following the pull of the circlet until the flaring sun was devoid of fuel to burn. The liquid stored in his reserve wasn't enough to trigger the circlet into unlocking a point—not even close—but all Draven had was time. If one attempt wasn't enough, he beckoned more from the rift, imbuing it with his will until he was ready for another one.

Again and again. It was a cycle that brought him peace. Purpose. It helped him quell the intrusive thoughts that flitted inside his head, saying what he had accomplished wasn't enough, accusing him of failing. No. It would be enough. He would make damn sure of it.

There was no room for mistakes this time. Draven knew the moment Finn brought him back would mean they had run out of time in the Old World, that the Ruler of Shadows had caught up to them. The moment he exited the corridor, he'd have to fight not only for his life, but that of his brother and friend.

The threat of death was a powerful motivator to strive for progress, if Draven even needed one. Beckon. Imbue. Absorb. It had become his mantra. The circlet absorbed every shred of hexion he collected, accumulating it in the way of unassigned attribute points.

Draven Von Astrais
Providence: Dyad Vessel - Refinement [Greater]

Malediction: None
Path: Blood - Eminence [Lesser]

—

REC: Flame Heart [+10]

DUR: Reforged Body [+10]

ART: Hemomorph's Mantle [1/1]

—

+20

Twenty points. That ought to be worth something, Draven thought to himself. If he were to put everything in Durability, perhaps he'd have a chance at lasting longer against that monster. Each successive point augmented his body to a lesser degree, but their gains, minute as they had become, would eventually pile up to give him an advantage.

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"Morph?" Draven opened his eyes in the corridor, standing up. He cracked his neck even though his body didn't feel sore. "It's about time we do something about this mantle of yours."

The red serpent emerged from the skin on his hand, wrapping itself around his arm and making its way to Draven's neck. It spoke in a voice that didn't echo audibly, but inside his head. "The Hemomorph's Mantle? Yes, its name is indeed poor in taste."

Morph had long since learned how to form sentences properly, but to Draven's surprise, it sounded like Helvan. Draven wondered why it chose to emulate the Chroner's authoritative and grave tone, and part of himself even wished for it to stop—the last thing the world needed was another Helvan.

"Not the name. I don't think I can do anything about that." Draven shook his head, summoning the armour around his arms and legs. "It's incomplete."

"I thought you liked it that way? Doesn't it aid our Dyad Vessel?" Morph hissed, wrapping itself around Draven's right arm to take a better look at the armor forged of congealed blood. "Gorgeous scales."

"I sort of changed my mind after losing one too many limbs. What's the point of storing pain if I have to keep spending hexion to ward off death with each blow?" Draven let the armor fade with a thought. "It's inefficient."

"Well, if one thing is missing, it's the tail." Morph nodded. "How can we fight without one?"

"Absolutely not. I'm not getting a tail."

"Pity." Morph sighed, its body melding with Draven's skin, before saying, "I'm afraid I can't help you, then. No tail, no deal."

"Dammit, Morph! It looks creepy." Draven felt his face redden. "I'm not some sort of animal. It will look ridiculous."

"Ridiculous?" Morph jumped out of his skin, rage and indignation filling his eyes. "It will look magnificent! The very sight of its scales will put the fear of death in your prey's hearts, you will see."

"I'm not used to fighting with a damn tail sticking out of my back—"

"Look around you, Aiden. What else do we have but time?" Morph lowered his tone into a whispering tune, eager to make his argument. "Promise me you will at least try it. If you can't see the benefits after that, I won't insist."

"Fine." Draven chuckled. "I've told you countless times, it's Draven. Not Aiden."

Morph ignored him as usual, weaving the hexion from his astra, emitting it outside into the shape of an armour. It stood in front of Draven, forged of crimson scales and thick plates of crystallized hexion, a terrifying depiction of a beast who no longer lived—the Hemomorph. He had to admit; it looked fearsome.

The helmet had a triangular shape, with a thinner end near the jaw and a pair of pointy horns trailing back in a seamless flow that did not seem uncomfortable, though it served no other purpose than its impressive looks. Plates covered his chest, hiding the thin layer of red scales that ran underneath, leaving no room for gaps.

The plates might do a better job at stopping attacks, but Draven did not like the idea of losing his freedom of movement. He let his hexion meld in the armor, shaping it tighter, slender. The pieces of forged blood became denser, concentrated—a compromise between flexibility and protection.

Draven congealed hexion in his knuckles, shaping the gauntlets to assume a shape that better suiting the delivering of punches than slashing with claws. Spikes grew along the spikes, knees, and shins. When he was done, the Hemomorph's Mantle looked like a piece that belonged in the art gallery of a rich lord.

Morph didn't complain, for Draven had left the tail untouched. It burst from his back, longer than a leg, covered in a mixture of scales and plates that ended in a double-edged blade.

With a thought, he assigned the creation to the slot in the Az'Tenri Circlet, summoning it onto his body moments later. It fit him like a well-worn boot. Although the armor looked bulky, Draven was surprised to find it didn't impede his movements at all as he walked.

The tail moved with a will of its own, as Morph controlled it while attuning its actions to Draven's thoughts in a synchrony that allowed him to know what it would do even though he was not the one driving it to action. With a flick of his tail—he had to suppress a wince at the thought—a piece of the obsidian ground parted under the sharp crimson blade.

Draven's eyes widened. The blade cut through stone with the shocking ease, and its speed was beyond a normal sword strike, more akin to a whip cracking on its target.

"Well?" Morph hummed inside his head. "You know, I can feel what you think about it."

Draven sighed. "You were right. Can't argue against having a blade—"

The air in front of him twisted as the shape of a blurry man tore reality asunder. "Draven? Draven, abyss take me, answer me!" He looked around, eyes passing over him, unable to see anything, searching for a voice of guidance.

"It is time, Finn?" Draven willed the armour away.

The blurry man's head snapped back in his direction, face becoming clear and assuming the familiar features sported by Finn. Instead of a playful smile, his eyes darted around with panic and urgency.

"We don't have much time. Quick!" He extended his hand.

Ready? Draven thought to himself.

We've been ready for years now, Aiden. Morph hissed, the thirst for blood clear in his tone. That thing will regret the day it met us.

Draven took Finn's hand, closing his eyes, all the while hoping the serpent was right. He had done everything he could, given the circumstances. That had to be enough.