It was deathly silence in the hallways, a veil over the whole of reality. You could find shadows, just shifting in and out, most of them never stopped to talk to each other, had placed to be, things to do. The veil, the hallways were often negligible, but a staple in the life of every Nightcrawler. Hundreds and thousands of years of renovation made the Hallways more appealing. Parts of it of it was littered with piles of ... garbage, while other parts of it were more organized with structures, locker rooms and other item storages. Nightcrawlers died, but the things they stored in their remained, and it was not lootable either because realistically only another Nightcrawler can invade this dimension, this hallway.
A man sat in his chair, drinking a cup of tea. Normally, this was a bad place for a cup of tea. Only the Nightcrawlers found warmth within the cold embrace of the hallways, only they had lived within the lifeless walls of the hallways. And yet, warmth permeated in and around the man who sat in his char, as if he was able to affect the hallways with his mere presence. If you looked at the watch on his wrist...time was moving! Normally, time did not move here. A nightcrawler can spend decades here without ageing an instant, but right then, around this man, time was not a standstill. It exists out of the temporal loop with the rest of the hallways. In effect, it was impossible for any other nightcrawler to even realize he was there, despite him being there.
This was the only place where he could relax and be himself, away from the world, and away from his people. He let his natural thoughts flourish in his mind, freely letting them occupying his consciousness. His first worry was regarding his own son. His son was unlikely able to handle the responsibilities that came with being the clan leader. Strength wasn't the first line of qualification for his clan, but ability mattered the most, the ability to move through the dimension, the ability live up to the expectations of his peers, but it seemed as though he didn't have the mental fortitude. Perhaps he was to blame? Maybe he was too loving, doting on his son as his own parents should have when he was young. Instead, before he was a teenager, he was a warrior. A warrior trained to fight at the highest tier in the realm. It was thrilling, but it also honestly made him less social than he was supposed to have been. He made friends through battle, lifelong friends.
His lifelong dream was to make his clan acceptable. Nightcrawler way of doing things involved hard discipline and temperament that did not allow for failures. Everyone walked the fine line between life and death. It was the acceptable premise for their livelihood. The years of continued existence along this mindset was all but guaranteed, had it not been for the demise of more than 80% of the whole clan. The Outsiders were to blame. The Lightning God, in particular, was an undisputed calamity for them. Records didn't lie, he's seen them, in the clan's sacred treasury. Only he was allowed inside, and those he succeeded, those ancient leaders of his clan. The Lightning God could not be stopped, he could not be touched, even by the grace of the sect lord. He'd slain all of them, single, cold-hearted strikes from the infamous Lightning Cutter. Generations were told these stories, as lessons. Perhaps it was a good thing that the Lightning God lineage vanished from the realm after his death.
The complication arose when Ali was born, the son of his best friend. It wasn't his birth, but the realization of his powers when the boy turned 16. The boy possesses that cursed bloodline of the fiend responsible for our trying times. Voices whispered to him in the dark. Voices told him to annihilate the boy, but he'd taken strict measures to not let such thinking persevere. At least, he was able to prevent them from brewing a flame of war, of hatred that ran deep. But he wasn't able to really prevent the emergence of rows upon rows of people trying to assassinate the would-be heir to Shea's throne. It was as if everyone had subconsciously come to the conclusion that the Outsider boy was precisely the only one who would succeed to power. Maybe it was a good thing that the boy chose to disappear.
So did an Assassin!
The man sitting in the chair enjoying his tea let out a sigh. She was the only heir to her grandmother's legacy, one of true Nightcrawler way. Her hair may have turned grey, but she was still a deadly force to be reckoned with. The mad didn't think too much about her. She wasn't going to change her ways anytime soon, and whether or not she realized it, he needed her to fulfil the exact role that she was. He was, of course, aware that she was sleeping with that man. More likely, she did not think much about it, but he did, the man counted on it. He would've continued sitting there until the tea had finished, or it had turned dead cold. Either premise was fine by the man, until, a sudden change occurred. It was extremely minor, subtle, and a vibration that no one else could really sense because the source of it was on his hand.
The man looked down at his left hand, the hand holding the cup of tea. He had a ring on it, with a deep blue gem sitting at the centre of it. The vibration came from it. And when it did, a sense that an anomaly had been born spread through his consciousness. It was almost like a plea. Something which should not exist had come into being. Normally, the ring was specific with its reasoning for disturbances. Not this time, no. The Marvel of the hallways also lay in the fact that it was a vast consciousness, a mainframe for those born within the clan, those with the cores that spoke to the Blind Assassin. This was why he was able to locate any nightcrawler no matter how deep he or she had traversed within the hallways, and bring them out. At this moment, the Key was telling him that something absurd had occurred, but, it was also unable to locate the source of it, the reason for this feeling, almost as if the reason did not exist on this side.
Is it her? The man wondered, she was the only one that's left the realm after all, and the only Nightcrawler he was unable to maintain contact with. The Goddess of Betwixt closed any and all communications from the Outer World from happening and so it was natural that he was unable to find her. It didn't matter and he did not let it bother him. But this, this bothered him. Should I talk to Raikia, or send someone to go look for her? The man wondered in silence.