//Closed//Just sit back, sit back.

(occurs prior to registration)
equipped runes:
red / Warrior rune.
yellow / Phero rune.
blue / Fortune rune.



This dream . . . I'm sick of it. Hell, I'm probably dreaming now. No, I'm sure of it, I'm dreaming. Do you think it means something when you have the same exact dream over and over but you still wake up frightened even though you know the goddamn ending? A dream is an unrealistic or self-deluding fantasy yet it feels so . . . real.

Perfect silence.

Perhaps the soporific was a mistake. Within the returning vision Distol had initiated himself, fragments of the derelict sphere constantly cascaded around him. Subsidence. As routine Distol lacked sovereignty over his own physique. Concern crippled him as his right hand automatically raised aloft and seated in a state of utter tranquility was that familiar, mundane, fulvous-colored orb: Soul-Eater. No further procedures were executed or revealed as his surroundings appeared to cease movement, too. Inky dark eyes surveyed the lifeless ball with carefulness, however, nothing seemed to truly transpire. With Distol's eyes briefly abandoning the orb and contemplating the sector an unanticipated lambency escaped the weightless circle fixated upon his flesh. The substructure beneath his feet begun to quake and the expanding illumination that occupied his hand appeared to come alive, birthing such a divine brilliance that he became momentarily blinded. Distol's head adjusted and vision returned just when the biliousness seized him. His head lowered and his eyes observed a veiled operation which sundered his chest. His torso was torn; divided whilst the abnormal dazzle pursued the abrupt wound and rummaged through him like a talented predator. Suffering forced Distol to his knees quickly, however, his right hand held the orb proudly upright and firm as if required. Distol's lifeblood painted the unpigmented surface beneath him as the hunt within forced him speechless and dull, yet he desired to grieve as the roller coaster of pain crippled him.

'How long will you fight it, Mr. Beoulve? It searches for your s-- . . .' that voice . . . was it even a voice? Realistically there was nothing audial. What he had perceived as a voice was simply writing and the cynical font once belonged to him. The blood that descended from his body spelt the words in front of him, however, the final word lacked completion. Distol's weakened eyes attempted to concentrate on the final characters, however, when he believed he could interpret them everything went suddenly went black and for a brisk second he felt as if he was falling from an unidentifiable height.

At that point Distol sprang up uncontrollably. Originally he had become quite luxurious while in complete control over the sizable backseat of the struggling 'junker' of a vehicle. Distol's eyes recollected his condition and he quickly calmed without suspension from the transporters. He leaned forward and tapped his knuckles against the window which separated the front and back of the vehicle. The purpose of such an oddity most likely served as an unsuccessful attempt to relate to a big city taxi. The passenger unhooked the latch and forced the small window ajar. "What?" The voice was rather impolite and hostile, however, Distol overlooked it. "How much longer?" The aged man snickered and shook his head as he cleared his throat in preparation, "Use your eyes," the man pointed out into the distance and Distol followed his finger frontward with little excitement. Once more Distol returned to the seat and reclined. His eyes closed and he considered questioning the purpose behind several things that had involved him. Albert Crost, his previous employer had not only sent him here, but also died in such a short period at a facility he woke up in. Though death has become recurrent within his life such an incident perturbed the Rune-bearer. Also why the hell was he there?!

With the grand entrance of Caislin Hallows steps away the car came to an unanticipated standstill and shook Distol back to reality. The boxy window opened and the passenger's familiar voice stated simple unexpected words, "The rest you walk." The window closed and Distol heard the trunk unbolt and lift with a whimper. Distol exited the makeshift cab and hurried to the trunk with fears of the duo driving off with what few yet important belongings he owned. The white Rune Case was the first to be retrieved and shortly after was a much more simpler suitcase. After that a travel bag was placed over his head and slung over his backside. Distol benevolently lowered the trunk and when the couple learned of the action the vehicle accelerated and changed direction. Without hesitation Distol gripped the cases and begun to travel the remaining distance to the academy of sorts.

Another month, another new student, thought the almost middle-aged man as he stood at the gate that led into the courtyard. Behind him, the wind whistled softly through the open iron gate, but he was listening to the groan of gravel ground beneath the treads of a car as it pulled up to the school. While the pavement practically led to the front stoop of the castle's main entrance, with a round-about so that a car never had to turn around to leave, the car stopped short of his post. The creaking of the brakes grated his nerves as he watched it parked and his weathered face creased in mild irritation. Normally, an annoying sound would not be enough to agitate the ex-hunter but he had been anxious about the new arrival since first perusing the young man's file.

When the car pulled away, its tires kicking up pebbles and a cloud of dust, Gunnar stepped towards the young man that had been left behind. By decree of the headmistress, it was his job to oversee several aspects of the school, though most of them allowed him to keep out of the spotlight. After years living a life of being both hunter and hunted, he enjoyed the comfort that the solitude and shadows provided. There was one job that did not afford such a luxury and it was to perform the same task that he stood out in the light of day, road dust painting the stiff leather and rubber of his brown work boots gray.

As he approached the new arrival, the muted sound of leather scraping across denim drifted to his ears as his holstered revolvers brushed along his thighs. While he had hoped to find safety for himself at the Hallows, he had brought the old guns as a precaution, and though he had yet to use them other than for target practice and a single warning shot, he was glad he had them. The cold steel was an old comfort that his fingertips often sought in strained situations, just as they did while he stopped in front of Distol.

“Are yah Distol Beoulve?” he asked in a gruff voice coarse from years of breathing prairie dust. His face was equally effected by years spent out on the harsh plains of Montana where monsters and cattle roamed. Before he had come to Caislin Hallows, he had categorized creatures in two ways: human and monster. Sadly, that simple policy had ended shortly after crossing the threshold into the castle. And under the watchful eye of the headmistress, his tolerance was being tempered. When the world had been black and white, it had easier to distinguish friend from foe, but not even the ex-hunter himself fell into either category any longer. Gunnar lived as a shade of gray. He was protector to human and supernatural, hunter of those, whoever or whatever they might be, that would threaten his charges. And he was not a man who accepted failure.

With an unblemished mind the future scholar's stroll was suspended when Distol acknowledged the gentleman safeguarding the mouth of the questionable university. Like usual his mental capabilities were appraised, simply from viewing the gentleman he learned a series of both important and unimportant things. For instance he learned of the man's origin by his posture and mien. Analyzing his articulation proposed a western origin --Montana--, or more specifically the northern or eastern subsections, but none the less absent of sophistication. Yet expertise was established despite their brief encounter also. Both sagacity and maturity reinforced such a presence and an imperceptible awareness automatically requested admiration and civility.

Distol's attire was a reflection of his future registration which included that black pea coat and dark-wash grey jeans which repelled the occasional chilled gale. As always Distol was quite aware. The man's hands in front of him stalled at the revolvers which enlightened Distol; intrigued him. The stranger at the moment was uncommitted and lost in a bewildered predicament it appeared. Distol realized this, but if required he'd skin those sidearms and exhibit an unforgettable mastery that enabled him to survive thus far, however, there was the chance that Distol Beoulve could trounce him with ease. For the best outcome Distol remained watchful yet calm.

Thankfully this event was no pageant of prowess and the elder held warrant and authority.

"Are yah Distol Beoulve?"

Distol's earliest reply was a nod of his head before his voice arrived loud enough for his escort to perceive, "That is my name, cowboy." Cowboy. Until a name matched the profession such became his label.

“If yer gonna look somebody ovah, boy, yah bettah learn to do it more discretely,” rebuked the ex ranch hand. Distol's eyes had given him away as he scrutinized the warden. “Mighty bold to do that so openly. I've known men who'd kill yah for less than that.” The older man paused, examining his latest charge from toe to head. “My name is Gunnar Sigmund, and I don't need another cocky upstart runnin' 'round here, so don't be thinkin' of causin' any trouble, yah hear me?”

There were more than words exchanged between the men, information passing in subtler means. Already, Gunnar wasn't enjoying the image that Distol's behaviors were conjuring in conjunction to the dossier he had read concerning the former test subject. Never before becoming one of Ailis's agents would he have imagined how far her network of connections extended. It was yet another aspect of her gray world that she had introduced him to and so far it had proved invaluable to the ex-hunter in gathering information. After all, she had used the same web of contacts to originally learn of him and locate the reclusive gunman.

Despite delving into a world that blended black and white, sometimes beautifully, Gunnar still did not care for the shades that lived in the shadowy world. Before, life had been simple: shoot or don't shoot; but, working as Ailis's right hand, he often found himself in league with creatures he used to shoot on sight. Gunnar's latest charge bothered him more than any other that had crossed into the courtyard of Caislin Hallow's before as he was a young man that would have made Gunnar conflicted even when he lived a comparably simpler life. Distol represented something in between black and white, a human that was no longer quite human. It did not matter to the ex-hunter whether or not Distol had willingly taken on the transformation, only that he had. Already troubled by how badly his trigger finger often itched around some of the students, he did not like the idea of having around one more ward that would make even his former self question everything.

“That's my only warnin', now get goin'. Riley'll see to yah in the registration office.” Gunnar turned, a sign that he was allowing Distol to continue to the school.”

Challenge after challenge-- how dare he summon a varmint whose potential lacked limits. Distol cared not how his ogle was garnered. His felt the muscles in his right hand tauten, his blood cooking. Hopes filled his head and the equipped runes energized. Distol was human. He felt as this ranch-hand felt, however, he was not nearly as unworldly in terms of rationality and mental capabilities.

This man is in your way, Mr. Beoulve.

"Mighty bold to do that so openly. I've known men who'd kill yah for less than that."

Communication was historic. Both of the men forged several opinions of one another though Distol's own were most likely much more favorable and friendly. "Do not worry yourself, Mr. Sigmund. I fear your warning has nearly," a pause, " . . . crippled me," thankfully the augmented boy didn't offer a smug or smile or further hostility may prevail.

Personally Distol knew nothing of this black and white world that plagued the musing of Gunnar Sigmund. To Distol existence was a stratagem and everything influenced something and in return it became modified, thus a game. If cowboy had been absent Distol's language would the gunslinger be so hostile? Would his words abandon rancor as they had? This is why life itself is the most comical game of all and also it is the most important gamble. Was he worried? Fuck no. Concerned in the slightest? Unnerving more like it. Consumed with blood lust? Only when threatened.

Simply from his introductory evaluation of the man he regarded him as able and sharp-witted. His cradle over his preceding life as a hunter remained and Distol related to him to an extent which allowed forgiveness.

"Registration office, gotcha Mr. Sigmund." Feet enabled once again his stride returned. His eyes eluded Gunnar and roamed yet again. Was this what excitement felt like? As he roamed ahead his right hand arose and waved; a gesture of adieu.

Gunnar Sigmund was quite an oak.


[Possible exit.]

“I’m sure,” muttered Gunnar in response to having ‘crippled’ Distol with a simple warning. The gunmage doubted that words alone would keep the former experiment in check. For the time being though, it would have to do. Gunnar gave a nod, acknowledging that Distol understood where to go upon reaching the school.

As the younger man approached Gunnar on his way to the gate, the ex-ranch hand remained turned to the side so that Distol could pass, even though there was more than enough space to allow the two to stand abreast in the entryway. After Distol had crossed the threshold, Gunnar knew the young man counted as one of his charges and he was bound to keep Distol safe, just as he was sworn to protect all others that entered the grounds. Though, Gunnar wondered, as he watched the modified man continue his journey to the keep, if he might have to save Distol from himself. A weary sigh slipped from the administrator’s lips, knowing that his task was not an easy one. It was then that he noticed the flick of Distol’s hand, a simple wave, a politeness that the ex-hunter had not expected. Lifting his own hand, he returned the gesture.

For many long minutes, Gunnar remained stationed at the gate, even after Distol had disappeared from view. “Gonna have tah keep my eye on ‘im.” With a shake of his head, Gunnar turned and left the courtyard, heading into the school through one of its many side doors.

[Exit]