Supercilious gazes, paramount smirks of overpowering contemptuousness, a land bereft of deafness appeared quiescent in the midst of Eros's mind, indifferent faces egotistic and monarch sovereignty the sole sight to grace his heterochromatic gaze. 'Why?' Eros inwardly questioned, his optical orifices bearing mottled hues lost of light, devoid of responsiveness,
'Why are they smirking? Do they think they've accomplished something, weren't they simply chosen because of the gifts they were born with, aided by their natural beauty? So why? Why do they appear so ascendent in their place?' The boy continued, his question bearing not origin of abhorrence nor avid antipathy, merely undiluted pellucid fascination.
However, such apathy prepossessed not the impassioned mind of his antecedent Gemini peer, the beauty who dominated his margin, that of Fiamma, her geminate jewels of ruby scintillating with a lambent malignance, palms craft of ivory transparently incandescent, bathed in body of lucid scarlet radiance. "Ignore her, Eros." Fiamma snarled, her orders bearing feigned monarchal reverence, a tyrannical commandment that failed to fall upon the ears of the youth, for her voice carried not in his direction but in that of Areata, an edict of subdued acrimony ordained upon Fiamma's self.
However, before Eros could utter his requite, the myriad female figures would find their attention drawn, beckoned elsewhere by the booming vociferation of the solitary disciplinarian of the domain. A jacket of grey, a dernier cri virgin killer drape embedded with an emblem forged of ostentatious gilded halcyon, a haughty woman bearing fibrous satin head stone grey and eyes chiselled off the same masonry, twin boulders that merely looked at the attendant males with a hyperboreal frigidness, a flagrant apathy. Numberless words bearing neither voice nor body uttered between Fiamma and the twin figures, their visages appearing to start, steps impassioned they moved, discarding the doublet males, a notion Eros failed to beguile, his body instinctually lurching into precipitous animation.
"Hahaha, look at him! Like an untrained dog, he follows after you, Fiamma. Have you failed to discipline him as to the most primitive mores?!" The girl ordained Areata jeered, much to Fiamma's discontentment, for with every utterance that deluged from the beauty's orifice, the antagonistic wrath that scintillated within her gems only grew further luminescent. At the same time, the scarlet that marred Fiamma's plain of ivory appeared more distinguished, nourished by Eros's naive display of unenlightened unperceived affection. "In that case, allow me to teach him."
"You're not allowed to join us. You can merely watch. A deific privilege, I know! To stand in the same realm as us that is the sole blessing you and all the males gathered possess." Areata chortled, a stygian root of blackness blossoming amidst her palm. "Now, stay put," The girl continued, as within but a fraction of a second, the land before Eros lay graced by roots of black, umbral seeds that exuded from Areata's open palm, akin to myriad knives she hurled such objects, keratin blades possessing origin of cadaverous skin.
"Areata!!" Fiamma bellowed, fulgurant conflagrations smouldering within twin basins of ivory, her eyes of ruby glistening, with a light foregone of compassion, that of cultivated, calamitous resentment.
"W-what? Why are you mad? It's not like I was going to hurt him or anything. I-isn't that right, Christiaan?!" Areata stammered, her pupils of twin void focused solely upon the ink-haired teen who emanated from the backdrop, his figure languid, deprived of rest yet forced into spasmodic motion. "See, even my attendant knows I wasn't trying to hurt your…." Areata started, yet, such erroneous justification failed to emanate amidst the dissonant domain, for her cry of righteousness would be cut short by yet another incongruent throe birthed exclusively by the realm's singular disciplinarian.
"Areata! Fiamma!" The pedagogue instructor cried, her motive transparent to all who heeded her cacophonic cry, the existence of the twain espers.
"A-ah, sorry, Eros, I need to go," A muffled apology that of sultry cupidity exuded from Fiamma's strained lips, her mind wrestling with the notion of parting with the polychromatic youth, yet, it wasn't Fiamma's heated breath that Eros heeded, but the parting words of Areata, her dissonant cry a perpetual pestilence upon his cowled orifices.
"Christiaan, why don't you welcome the boy?" Areata stated, her throe akin to that of a sovereign order, one which the youth dared forbid, for such notion was a transcendent taboo, that of empyrean blasphemy. An apprehensive tremor palpitated amidst Eros's benumbed visage, a Siberian chill of innate repugnance blossoming ceaselessly amidst the carrion realm of his stomach, a torturous glacial anguish that only further grew with the disharmonic parting of Fiamma.
Seconds, in mere seconds, Eros found his realm antecedently stagnant, incoherent and silentious ingressed by sound dissonant, a nauseating, perverted descant statement needing not providence from the heavens to decipher, the origin lay clear before the youth, hair of ink and eyes of lurid blue leered condescendingly upon his minute form, with lips forced into an insolent, cavalier smirk, such words were birthed. "Hey~ You're that useless prodigy, aren't you?" The boy dubbed Christiaan stated, for his words lay rhetoric, venomous, a hateful spite championed by Areata.
"Ye-" Eros started. Still, his words appeared aborted, asphyxiated by Christiaan's imperious, disdainful divulgence.
"Hey~ Why don't we have a spar, you know, some training? Now that you're an attendant for a B-rank esper, don't you think you should try better yourself, refine your ability so that you're not exceedingly useless? They always leave some weapons out for us to play with," The boy hissed, once more his words needing not Eros's chaste validation, akin to a serpent the youth spat little more than lies, the betterment of Eros a disdainful, reprehensible thought he dared let smoulder within his conceited brain. "Isaurus can be the judge, so you have nothing to worry about," He continued, pulling upon Eros's dazed arm, guiding the boy, marching him to a realm of which dominion he possessed not.
Dredges of earth spasmodically littered the heavens, a tempestuous storm manufactured by the congregation's incautious advance, an impetus that Eros attempt nought to impede, his visage disinterested, apathetic to the idea skirmish, after all, Christiaan despite his vindictive malignant intent had a point, if Eros wished to progress down the clandestine path prophesied by Psyche having some fundamental grasp of battle would be a necessity. An eerie sense of foreboding blossomed not in Eros's mind but in the perpetually venomous pits of his peers, his unsung struggle a neglected notion that plagued not their conscious minds but the alternative.
The decaying sky, inseminated by the offspring of Gaia, weltered, innumerable bodies of fragmented dust appearing conjoined upon the carapace of its mother, a canvas of eerie halcyon dauntingly loomed before the boy, a painted Aurelian body accouched by anatomy of vanquished sand, a wall, the ouroboros infinite extremity of the pseudo colosseum. Yet, it wasn't the drab plain of gilded gold that entranced the boy, but the scintillating luminescence of silver, for upon a rack craft of ornate olive wood appeared the origin of such cadaverous luminescence.
Weapons, innumerable bodies craft of emboldened steel, from broadswords with edges dulled surpassing a metre in length to extensive, imposing spears, every common armament appeared placed poignantly upon the device, their mutual bodies blunted, in a vain attempt of ephemeral damage. "Come on now, pick a weapon", The youth bearing title Christiaan sneered, his lanky arm effortlessly embracing a longsword possessing a body of 1.2 metres, yet, his words fell upon incognizant, absentminded ears, for Eros's heterochromatic gaze of pink and brown lay enraptured by an item that glistened not in the new dawn light.
An arched figure, arciform and warped, it appeared erratic, quivering upon its stand held only by the tether that embraced the broad items body, a bow, reverent to the sun, it exuded a phantasmal halcyon glow, as though vivacious, its antecedent self that thrived upon such ephemeral excrement. Commanding a height of 150cm, it almost dwarfed its bewitched observer, craft of wrenched vine body. Its visage appeared mangled by even the slightest zephyr.
Yet, Eros lay enamoured, his eyes glossed, hollow, devoid of thought.
He merely moved.
His hand outstretched, an instinctual grasp bereft of ambiguity, skin of unprofaned, virgin snow embraced the weathered items blemished body, intertwined upon a finespun silken handle, Eros simply pulled. A paramount sense of feverous ecstasy enraptured his mind, a parting of pure pink in the form of twin cushions angled into an inattentive, ignorant sadistic smirk. The item's body appeared perfectly sculpted for his visage, his back embraced by newfound skin of leather, a quiver pregnant with myriad arrows, the tips dull, without apex.
"A-are you ready," Christiaan mumbled, his voice instinctually faltering while his brain appeared embraced by a newfound emotion. Uncertainty.