The pride and joy of Erde Nona was the city of Arcadia, and beyond it was the volatile expanse of land known as the Hinterlands. A veritable stranger in either location, Chrollo Lucilfer learned rather quickly that the difference between the two was the only thing that many of the people around him ever seemed to care about. In his own world, a similar dichotomy existed, and that unfortunate reality made him feel at home when many other people in his position might have felt aimless.
It was a pity, therefore, that bitterness was the thing that tied the two universes together for someone like him.
In the southern portion of the Hinterlands, the man sat at a campfire, not comfortable with the more sophisticated sights, sounds, and smells of the city. In truth, it was the first time he had managed to be alone with his thoughts, at least since they had quieted by the disruption caused by his rather forceful departure into Erde Nona.
His face showed little more than a somber stillness, the gloss over his eyes reflecting the pages of his Skill Hunter, the book that held the essence of abilities that he had amassed from his victims over decades of work. There was a time when the book was thick, with each page containing a Nen ability that he had coveted from another person...and obtained, whether by trickery or by force. It was one of the few things he had allowed himself to feel pride over, though he told only his closest associates of it.
Now, the book was empty, with each page containing nothing but a colorless canvas, waiting to be covered. All his carefully laid plans, all of his work, everything had been taken away, or had been reversed somehow. Yet, he could feel his own energy still emanating from it.
Chrollo felt despair for but a single moment, but then he broke free from it, snapping the book closed.
“Time to go.”
The Hinterlands awaited, and before leaving Arcadia, he had heard about just the place to start.
According to the local mutterings he’d managed to drain in passing, few people dared to try to cultivate anything of value, whether monetary or sentiment, in the Hinterlands, particularly close to the open roads where cutthroats and bandits had begun causing a ruckus. That’s why it was a surprise that an entire family had raised a modest farm in a place easily accessible to the masses.
Chrollo’s boots crunched the earth of the path that led up to their land, though as soon as the farmhouse came into view, the ground became much softer, as though it had been aided by a large, even uncommon amount of moisture.
He found that his lips had curled into the slightest of smiles. They called it watermancy, but he could only see it as an opportunity. He needed to know more, but the matriarch of the family, Ariel Pellbrook, was a piece of work; stubborn, proud, and powerful enough to strike fear in most of the brigands that dare threaten her land. People like her didn’t divulge information easily, even if she stood to benefit from it.
In other words, as he took the first steps into the ground that immediately surrounded the house, he figured it would, at minimum, be interesting to meet her. When she appeared suddenly, a jagged orb of conjured water magic held in each palm, he realized that he had probably undersold it.
“Identify yourself,” she barked, her voice echoing in rasps. Looking at the woman, her appearance was something that in some ways was in opposition to her chosen element; tanned, leathery skin from what was sure to be years spent out in the sun, wild and graying hair, and a fiery disposition that was sure to make some of the greener bandits leave on sight.
Chrollo’s face revealed nothing---his own reflex, built over a lifetime of suppressing emotion. He simply stopped moving, looked her directly in the eye, and raised his hands, palms forward.
“I’ve heard you’re looking for able adventurers for some sort of job, so I suppose that’s what I’ll call myself,” he replied, his tone firm and cordial enough. “Chrollo, if you need a name. Will you allow me to speak to you?”
“Another one,” she sighed; her expression softened significantly, though the magic in her hands remained. She did, however, take enough steps forward for them to be in a comfortable speaking range. “Okay, then. You want to take the job. Great, you’re hired. Did you need anything else?”
Another one, he repeated in his head. So I’m not the first.
“I only heard in passing, so I’m afraid I don’t have many details,” he replied, his hands still raised. “A particular brigand has been giving you trouble, and you want him returned, preferably as a corpse. Is that the long and short of it?”
Ariel gave a derisive laugh; almost a scoff. “No need to beat around the bush, boy. He’s my traitorous fool of a son, Peter, and it’s my duty as his mother to see him dead. Outside of that, I don’t give a damn, though I should warn you that you aren’t the first to come asking about him.”
“So I’ll have some competition, then?”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps they’re dead, who knows? All I know is that they haven’t come back, and it’s been a few days now.”
“Fair enough,” Chrollo shrugged. “Would you happen to have any clues as to where they are? A hideout, perhaps?”
“Well, that’s the thing,” she snapped back, finally deciding to dispel her own magic and lower her hands. “I know exactly where they are. They want to be found.”
Chrollo’s lips pursed together, and his brows furrowed. “Why?”
“Why does any young man do anything?” she spat. “Arrogance. There’s no law out here, and they know I can’t leave to get ‘em. That’s why I’m hiring you lot. Anyway, I have a map that I had drawn from another poor sod who came for work but ultimately declined. Let me pull it out for you.”
His eyes trailed from her cold eyes and landed upon a visage he glimpsed through the front window of their farmhouse. A young man had been watching them, but scurried away once their eyes met. Chrollo gave no indication that he saw the young man, but turned to look back at Ariel once he noticed that she was holding what he needed. “And your family is sure Peter has to die?”
“The family is not paying you, Chrollo,” she snapped back. “I am.”
“Right,” he responded, and with the map now firmly in hand, it was clear that there was nothing to talk about. He had turned to leave, but something caused him to pause and look over his shoulder.
He considered asking what sort of proof she wanted, but decided not to. She likely didn't need to think about the head attached to her son's shoulders.
It was a pity, therefore, that bitterness was the thing that tied the two universes together for someone like him.
In the southern portion of the Hinterlands, the man sat at a campfire, not comfortable with the more sophisticated sights, sounds, and smells of the city. In truth, it was the first time he had managed to be alone with his thoughts, at least since they had quieted by the disruption caused by his rather forceful departure into Erde Nona.
His face showed little more than a somber stillness, the gloss over his eyes reflecting the pages of his Skill Hunter, the book that held the essence of abilities that he had amassed from his victims over decades of work. There was a time when the book was thick, with each page containing a Nen ability that he had coveted from another person...and obtained, whether by trickery or by force. It was one of the few things he had allowed himself to feel pride over, though he told only his closest associates of it.
Now, the book was empty, with each page containing nothing but a colorless canvas, waiting to be covered. All his carefully laid plans, all of his work, everything had been taken away, or had been reversed somehow. Yet, he could feel his own energy still emanating from it.
Chrollo felt despair for but a single moment, but then he broke free from it, snapping the book closed.
“Time to go.”
The Hinterlands awaited, and before leaving Arcadia, he had heard about just the place to start.
According to the local mutterings he’d managed to drain in passing, few people dared to try to cultivate anything of value, whether monetary or sentiment, in the Hinterlands, particularly close to the open roads where cutthroats and bandits had begun causing a ruckus. That’s why it was a surprise that an entire family had raised a modest farm in a place easily accessible to the masses.
Chrollo’s boots crunched the earth of the path that led up to their land, though as soon as the farmhouse came into view, the ground became much softer, as though it had been aided by a large, even uncommon amount of moisture.
He found that his lips had curled into the slightest of smiles. They called it watermancy, but he could only see it as an opportunity. He needed to know more, but the matriarch of the family, Ariel Pellbrook, was a piece of work; stubborn, proud, and powerful enough to strike fear in most of the brigands that dare threaten her land. People like her didn’t divulge information easily, even if she stood to benefit from it.
In other words, as he took the first steps into the ground that immediately surrounded the house, he figured it would, at minimum, be interesting to meet her. When she appeared suddenly, a jagged orb of conjured water magic held in each palm, he realized that he had probably undersold it.
“Identify yourself,” she barked, her voice echoing in rasps. Looking at the woman, her appearance was something that in some ways was in opposition to her chosen element; tanned, leathery skin from what was sure to be years spent out in the sun, wild and graying hair, and a fiery disposition that was sure to make some of the greener bandits leave on sight.
Chrollo’s face revealed nothing---his own reflex, built over a lifetime of suppressing emotion. He simply stopped moving, looked her directly in the eye, and raised his hands, palms forward.
“I’ve heard you’re looking for able adventurers for some sort of job, so I suppose that’s what I’ll call myself,” he replied, his tone firm and cordial enough. “Chrollo, if you need a name. Will you allow me to speak to you?”
“Another one,” she sighed; her expression softened significantly, though the magic in her hands remained. She did, however, take enough steps forward for them to be in a comfortable speaking range. “Okay, then. You want to take the job. Great, you’re hired. Did you need anything else?”
Another one, he repeated in his head. So I’m not the first.
“I only heard in passing, so I’m afraid I don’t have many details,” he replied, his hands still raised. “A particular brigand has been giving you trouble, and you want him returned, preferably as a corpse. Is that the long and short of it?”
Ariel gave a derisive laugh; almost a scoff. “No need to beat around the bush, boy. He’s my traitorous fool of a son, Peter, and it’s my duty as his mother to see him dead. Outside of that, I don’t give a damn, though I should warn you that you aren’t the first to come asking about him.”
“So I’ll have some competition, then?”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps they’re dead, who knows? All I know is that they haven’t come back, and it’s been a few days now.”
“Fair enough,” Chrollo shrugged. “Would you happen to have any clues as to where they are? A hideout, perhaps?”
“Well, that’s the thing,” she snapped back, finally deciding to dispel her own magic and lower her hands. “I know exactly where they are. They want to be found.”
Chrollo’s lips pursed together, and his brows furrowed. “Why?”
“Why does any young man do anything?” she spat. “Arrogance. There’s no law out here, and they know I can’t leave to get ‘em. That’s why I’m hiring you lot. Anyway, I have a map that I had drawn from another poor sod who came for work but ultimately declined. Let me pull it out for you.”
His eyes trailed from her cold eyes and landed upon a visage he glimpsed through the front window of their farmhouse. A young man had been watching them, but scurried away once their eyes met. Chrollo gave no indication that he saw the young man, but turned to look back at Ariel once he noticed that she was holding what he needed. “And your family is sure Peter has to die?”
“The family is not paying you, Chrollo,” she snapped back. “I am.”
“Right,” he responded, and with the map now firmly in hand, it was clear that there was nothing to talk about. He had turned to leave, but something caused him to pause and look over his shoulder.
He considered asking what sort of proof she wanted, but decided not to. She likely didn't need to think about the head attached to her son's shoulders.