Round 2 will begin 4/8 at midnight Eastern. Please note additions to the rules and regulations, and good luck.
Due to my forgetful ass, you get an extra 12 hours to post. You will have until 4/22 at noon EST to complete your thread!
Printable View
Round 2 will begin 4/8 at midnight Eastern. Please note additions to the rules and regulations, and good luck.
Due to my forgetful ass, you get an extra 12 hours to post. You will have until 4/22 at noon EST to complete your thread!
The sun rose high over Radasanth, heating up the stones that built a strong foundation for a town with many personalities. Cobblestone streets shone brightly, soaking in the heat that would keep them warm long after the sun retreated to the west. Large buildings of marble and granite appeared to glow, an impossible bleached white speaking to the ageless history of the governmental architecture. The underbelly of the city saw the sun last, which had to rise highest to reach its darkest, wettest crevices and dry out the stench of stale whiskey and acrid urine. So were the people of Radasanth; a range of glorious, pedestrian, and vile.
“Vile” was of course a simplistic label, and one which Storm Veritas had long since sought to shake. He had made plans that would move him up in the world, pulling him from his socioeconomic shackles into the realm of the wealthy elite. One simple job to be executed, and the monogrammed cufflinks, bespoke suits and silk ties would be more than a clever façade. After today he would be infamous, wealthy, and very busy building a compound in Alerar. After today he would be called many names, but average would never be one of them again.
He popped back and forth from foot to foot, a nervous tic in the midst of the large gathering of mid-day Radasanth, all the fame-chasers who sought to catch a handshake of the Coronian Senate as they made their foolish waltz from their public breakfast to the Parliament. A few drops of sweat ran down his fingers and moistened the paper he was holding, which he checked once more to confirm his mission.
Holy shit, it looks better every time I glance. Half a freaking million crowns; this guy must be a real son of a bitch. I think my own airship would really look nice sailing over this square. Take a piss on these assholes from a thousand feet…Quote:
12 PM – Senator Franklin Woodheight
Last to proceed, typical company of three.
Execute and escape without question.
Collectible award of 500,000C (Crowns Royal) direct upon arrival to port.
His fantasy was interrupted by the jostling of the crowd, calling to the parade of senators that strolled through the open avenue. A thirty-foot path was made in the street, as large metal railings and an armed guard every hundred feet ensured that the boulevard was devoid of the plebeian class. Dressed in a baggy brown tunic and hair tucked under a tight bandana, the unshaven magician looked the part of any common blacksmith. Gazing across the street, he met eyes with his accomplice, who was ready and returned a knowing nod.
Any time now. Come on, Franky, get your fat ass out here! I’ve got a yacht to catch and whores to visit…
The message had come in only hours earlier; the urgency driving up the price dramatically. Today was the voting day, where the Senate would decide upon tax structure. Franklin Woodheight had become quite famous for spearheading the bill, which would cost the wealthy business owners considerably, but earn him votes amongst the huddling masses of pitiful humanity. His emergence from the Rooster’s Yell Restaurant was heralded with a wild yell from the crowds. The short, rotund man smiled widely behind a bushy, mid-gray handlebar moustache. He waved a large top hat to the crowd before donning it, surrounded by four soldiers as his own procession began.
Storm felt his heart beat like a bass drum in his chest. The group had taken their time, as morning had long since yielded to the lunch hours; he suspected the politicos had enjoyed a few drinks of wine and juice with their self-celebratory message. His brow held back a few drips of sweat as he pilfered a long, thin wire from the leather satchel tucked under his arm. Nervously, he hid his hands under his tunic as he wound the wire tautly across a few fingers of each hand. Catching eyes with his partner in crime, he blinked twice to indicate the plan.
Four of them. I take the back two and the mark; you take the front two and control incoming.
The crowds were taut and wild as Franklin Woodheight and his convoy of guards approached. Each step was a heavy thump in the chest of the assassin in waiting. Storm assessed the guards surrounding his mark. Long swords, shields, and armor to the collarbone; a helmet on each left them as walking tanks. As convenience would serve, they were walking metal tanks.
The wizard muscled his way to the railing, pushing his hip and side against the rail and elbowing enough space to move. His body tensed as the convoy moved past, the older politician grabbing a confused glance as he continued by. The last guard was a foot beyond him when Storm made his move.
He acted more quickly than anyone could have been prepared to react to. He attacked the first guard from behind, and his wire was over the head and across the throat in a moment, before the crowd could offer any collective outrage. Twisting violently, the thin wire sawed through skin and flesh, thick blood pouring down the front of his chestplate as he futilely grasped at his throat. The crowd roared at the scene, and the three remaining guards turned their attention to the apparent madman.
From his defensive posture, holding the dying guard before him as a shield of metal and meat, Storm kept his clutch tight on the garrote, ensuring death for the first guard. Simply extending one finger from the chain, he pointed and blasted a sizzling arc of crackling white electricity at the next guard, the only one remaining between him and the now-terrified politician.
The rails about him fell as the crowd began to descend, other armed guards taking aim at stopping the assault. They would be far too late. The second guard was frying inside of his armor, and the horrendous aroma of burning flesh would soon follow as his body fell lifelessly to the cobblestone street. Spinning on his right foot, the electromancer released the clutch of the first guard, allowing to him to fall in a bloody heap. As if produced by sheer will, a long, thin dagger had appeared in the hand of the assassin. With the agility of a leopard, he sprang mercilessly upon the politician, driving the knife under the jaw and through the man’s tongue, palate, and brain.
The crowd had hesitated – a natural reaction in a moment of abject shock and fear. The remaining two guards should have been on him by now. Luckily, his accomplice had suffered no such hesitation.
Night after night since his defeat to Elijah Belov and Nanashi in the Citadel, the Telgradian revisited the valley of the Jal Shey lords in his dreams. Every detail was etched like a rune into his memory; the tiny flecks of glass that glistened within the beige bricks of rough sandstone that comprised the numerous Jal Shey temples and the dawn sun that hung low, pouring brilliant orange across the horizon. The sky was blood red, and the furrowed clouds were every shade from palest pink to deep crimson. A warm breeze stroked the sands away from his feet in wisps and bristled through his brown locks, disturbing them. Shinsou remembered how the wind whistled as it cut through his feral, incisor like teeth, leaving a tingling sensation in his maw. He remembered how his rough, jet black skin cracked in the morning heat, and how the razor sharp nails of his claws twinkled in the dawn light.
The Jal Shey soldiers by his side were waiting patiently. They had been expecting a Telgradian counterattack to come today. The Jal Shey seers were always right, and Shinsou knew what would come of their omen.
The first blood of the war would be split in the sands of the valley this day.
“Cavum Ira, my lord, should we inform lord Temperance of the omen?” One of the black clad Jal Shey cultists asked, standing to attention at Shinsou’s side as rigidly as any of the stone pillars that littered the gusset of the valley. He dared not take a breath out of turn in the presence of his master.
Cavum Ira. That was the name for it. That was the name for that form, for that murderous power I felt in the Citadel! Shinsou, looking in on his own dream in the third person, had forgotten much since his imprisonment in Kokushi, but now he remembered his Jal Shey namesake. Just repeating the words sent a cold shiver reverberating down his spine.
Cavum Ira, the Judgment.
“No. Let them come upon us,” came the booming response in a tone so distorted it was almost ethereal to behold. “…and we will grind them into the dirt ourselves. There is no need to disturb-”
Cavum Ira’s chilling voice was cut dead by something moving in the corner of his black and gold eyes. The sound of sand sifting underfoot accompanied the anomaly. The beast shot glances to each of his cultists present, who with such precision and synchronization ceased their talking and rested their hands on the hilts of their weapons. Nero-Ky, Shinsou’s retainer, still mid-way through cleaning and stripping down his unusual sword, put a finger to his black lips and motioned for the assembled squadron to be silent, slowly reaching down and clasping his blade within his scarred hands.
Telgradia approaches. The slender, white haired commander whispered to Shinsou, who nodded in reply, cracking the bones in his hands. The form of Cavum Ira began to emit a black, horrible, stomach churning energy. His dark claws clenched around an invisible hilt of air, the basis of which would form his dark matter if so required to be called upon.
Suddenly, all went very, very quiet.
The silence and anxiety was short lived as a male hooded figure darted from behind a Jal Shey needle monument on the valley’s edge behind Shinsou and his men, his feet pounding the sand and scattered shale rapidly. Cavum Ira wasted no time. His dark frame roared into action, scooping his clawed hand from the ground with a feral roar and guiding it expertly into a powerful upward arc. The figure’s hooded head snapped back violently on contact, a pitiful whimper escaping his lips and his long, matted black hair whipping the air about his head as the sharpened claws of Cavum Ira’s powerful hands carved a jagged crevice up the assassin’s chest and neck.
A pair of once bright, alert eyes that had gleamed beneath those black robes faded. Their last moments saw Cavum Ira’s enraged visage snarling back at them, the beast’s blackened face smattered with crimson splashes from the force of the brutal attack. The body of the Telgradian, carried by its own momentum, rolled carelessly over a fallen column on which some of the Jal Shey cultists had been sat and clumped in a bloodied mess in a pit of gravel, a crimson pool forming below the face-down corpse.
“Kill them!” Cavum Ira, “Judgment” of the Jal Shey, growled, “Saturate the sands with Telgradian blood!”
All in all, it had taken about ten seconds for the attacker to enter the small valley, charge at the Jal Shey and finish up in a crumpled, mangled heap near the steps of the Jal Shey’s main temple, but those ten seconds had passed almost in slow motion. Only now, with Cavum Ira’s cry echoing across the sands, did Nero-Ky and the rest of the men truly react. The rangers scrambled to arm themselves and then approached Cavum Ira immediately, forming a circle of defence around their commander. Cavum Ira moved in tandem with them, snaking around the fallen column he had been in front of moments ago and flicked his right hand out. Tendrils of black and purple electricity danced from his fingertips, sawing at the dawn’s air before a second flick of the wrist formed the structure of a lance of dark matter.
“There, behind the temples! They’re circling round!”
The assassins could be heard long before they came into sight. Their quick footsteps pressed heavily into the ocean of sand that blanketed every uneven surface for miles around, the crunches of their feet upon the golden grains and the pounding of their breath upon the morning air the only signs of their existence. To the un-trained ear, it was as if the patter of raindrops had reached the Jal Shey valley. To those present, it was the coming of death’s agents.
The cultists clung to the hilts of their swords tighter as the noises grew closer and closer and, collectively, anxiously awaited the first attack. Their eyes tried to follow the shadows of their assailants as they phased in and out of the standing marble columns like ghosts, but their opponents were so fleet of foot no-one could trace their movements. The growing number of audible steps, mixed with the rattling of chains, and above it all the tell-tale crackling of stone and lint as tens of men flanked the valley told the Jal Shey that they were badly outnumbered.
Suddenly, Cavum Ira picked up another sound; the familiar hollow rumbling of hooves.
“Nero-Ky, prepare the men!” Cavum Ira roared with his back turned to his commander.
“Cavalry incoming!”
Before Nero-Ky had even had a chance to respond, they were in view; the hooded men from the mouth of the valley and their outriders from the beaten gravel track into the clearing appearing in perfect formation. The ranks of black hoods, their curved, polished sabres unsheathed, ran towards the group from all angles in a nightmare sprint. The fine dust kicked up from the horses' hooves formed a cloudy trail behind the two mounted assassins charging in from behind.
“I’ll deal with the riders!” Cavum Ira bellowed, almost screaming. “Kill the skirmishers, take no prisoners and show no mercy!”
Whatever Nero-Ky had yelled in response was lost in the chaos. As he started his blurry kamikaze sprint over the dusty wasteland and across the valley carving a path between the rows of ceremonial Jal Shey temples, the smooth surface of his dark lance gleaming in the beautiful orange glow of the sun, Cavum Ira’s mind raced. He tried to calculate the possibilities open to him for killing his targets, consisting of two archers on horseback. It would not be an easy feat, of that he was sure. But whatever the method, he had to do it now. Any archer that crossed the threshold between him and the first row of temples would have free reign of the field.
All around the beast were the sounds of projectiles whizzing past his ears mixed with the battle cries of his cultists left in the clearing behind him. Ahead of him, Shinsou, in his most powerful form, could now see the maddened brown eyes of the beasts that thundered towards him, snorting and hissing clouds of white vapour into the morning air as their mounts let loose a volley of arrows that barely missed him.
I’ll send you to hell, Telgradian!
The hulking form of Cavum Ira slowed, calculating the speed and distanced required for his planned assault, and then suddenly dug his clawed heels into the floor as the lead horse threatened to career into him, pivoting on his right heel and thrusting the dark lance into the beast’s neck. As the horse let out a shrill scream, it threw its rider and collapsed to the sands along with Cavum Ira.
The other rider stormed by on his mount, too fast to intervene, and instead let loose another arrow that slammed into the dusty floor next to Cavum Ira’s arm. Grabbing the wooden shaft, the Jal Shey beast pulled it from the barren earth and turned just in time to meet the concussed, staggering form of the thrown rider standing over him with a dagger like some sort of drunken grim reaper. With a single thrust, the beast plunged the arrow head into the unprotected chest of his attacker, piercing his heart and killing him instantly.
I’ll obliterate you all!
The second black-robed assassin had already dismounted, but as he approached Cavum Ira was already back on his feet, snarling ferociously. Dancing upon the murky silt of the clearing with great fluidity for such a beast, the Judgment thrust his deadly claws forward and then spun at the last second, disembowelling the man easily on the backswing. Another two hooded men tried to flank him, jumping out from behind a burial mound in an attempt at an ambush.
Cavum Ira grunted, simply swooping left to right whilst anticipating the slow and clumsy motions of the men, who, like the others he had just killed, had great trouble fighting at close combat with any degree of fluency. With two strokes of his blade-like nails, he severed the head of one of the black-clad men, and then drove his entire arm into the heart of the other, who fell, choking to the ground, blood spattering upon the beast’s face with what could only be seen as satisfaction in the Jal Shey’s countenance.
As the last of the surviving assassins scrambled as fast as their feet could take them back towards the entrance of the valley, Nero-Ky approached a blood-soaked Cavum Ira. The beast was barely out of breath, smeared in the blood of his enemies, and had succeeded in driving terror into the heart of his Telgradian enemies.
Shinsou!
A voice echoed in his mind as the blood soaked valley of the Jal Shey lords faded to black. Gradually, the scene warped into something more familiar. Shadows danced along the cracked plaster walls of a bedroom as candles burned in oil lanterns over the doorway. The pungent smell of rising damp wafted into the Telgradian’s nose, stirring his senses in a way he would have preferred to not have experienced. As he slowly opened his eyes and adjusted his focus, Shinsou could see that the strange voice that had jarred the Telgradian from his slumber belonged to a strange face. Framed by dark hair the colour of tar after, it peered over him, over his bed, and blocked his view of the tavern’s timber beam ceiling.
“Shinsou, wake up!”
How many hours had passed since he had fallen asleep, the Telgradian wondered? As Shinsou sat up, only the irises of the Caucasian man in his room stood out on first glance, an icy, careless stare piercing young man’s face. It was then he recognised the gentlemen as one of Sorian’s messengers. Shinsou briefly met his gaze before glancing towards the window, thinking upon the significance of these dreams. The dark power of the Jal Shey that Bane had approached him about in that vision in the Citadel was coursing through him again. He could feel the throbbing weight of Cavum Ira inside him, tearing at his heart. It was disturbing. In fact, it was almost maddening.
“I have a message for you, so get up!”
The images from his dream momentarily crumbled from his mind as they were torn apart by the weight of the messenger’s words and the severity of his tone. The black, pulsating power within dissipated back into his gut as Shinsou began to take in the reality of today; a freezing cold, stormy Radasanthian dawn. Heavy rain began pelting the windows, and suddenly the view of the looming Citadel through the flawed glass was distorted by thick streaks of water. The Telgradian stared icily at it.
“Sorian wants to meet with you. Collect your things.”
Standing near two bodies with growing pools of blood around their necks, a red-haired woman held on tightly to her knife. The blood flowed into the cracks of the cobblestone. As promised, the remaining two guards were dispatched, but the pale-skinned assassin had a rather disgusted look across her freckled face. Although she was mostly obscured by a white cloak and a wool scarf with alternating black and gray stripes, she was still highly recognizable by her shoulder-length red hair and piercing green eyes. As much she would've liked to admire her handiwork, the perturbed masses demanded more blood to be spilled. With her free hand, she reached into her pocket and picked out a glass medicine bottle that was filled with a thick, black liquid. Its top was missing, instead replaced by a patch of burning cloth.
With no time to spare, Storm braced himself as the woman threw the bottle at the ground, causing a dark, choking smoke to expand and fill the immediate area. All of the people who entered found themselves stumbling out moments later, coughing as if their throats were on fire. A warm, oily smell spread faster than the smoke, causing even more panic in the crowd. Neither of the two assassins could be found, leaving a grisly scene and a commotion big enough to put the city on high alert. Within minutes, the crowd dispersed and the military flooded into the area. A high profile hit like this in broad daylight was no laughing matter, and at least one of the parties involved wished that they had better circumstances to execute this plan.
Not long before, a message arrived for the Senator from his bodyguard, stating that they’d be hidden in the crowd, offering protection as per usual on the day of the next vote. However, no such protection was conferred today, because the bodyguard was dead, and the message was forged. After all, the ice wizard responsible for the Senator's defense had met a rather unfortunate end at the hands of Rayse and Storm. An untouchable politician was rendered quite vulnerable; an unreachable prize quite attainable. All Rayse had to do was find someone audacious enough to shank a person in broad daylight.
With the dull roar of the crowd becoming further lost in the distance, the woman clambered up to the roof of a stone building, in-between rows of hanging linen. In the corner of the roof, overlooking a service road that lead to the port, there was a brick that was lighter, newer than the rest. The woman removed the brick and pulled out a satchel and a Damascus longsword. The satchel contained half a dozen more of the small items that were used to create the explosion, although all but one were filled with a clear liquid and they were packed into even smaller shot glasses. The rest of the bag was emptied to reveal an assortment of throwing knives, although they were quickly placed back into the bag.
After shedding the scarf and dropping it on the ground, the woman was no more. Instead, Rayse Valentino was in a cloak, which he also discarded to reveal his black vest, blue shirt, dark slacks, and laced black boots. He gave the scarf a contemptuous glare.
They didn't tell me I would look like a woman when I put it on. I'm never wearing that thing again.
Not that it mattered, because the illusory woman's face would likely be plastered on every wall for the next month. Rayse took a deep breath, his heart still racing from the ordeal. He didn't expect the murder to bother him this much. What's more, there was another factor at play in the form of the message they procured just hours ago. Rayse made it look like they were doing a job for someone else, but he was the one who wanted the Senator dead. He was going to pay Storm via a proxy, but now a new party was in town. Never one to turn down an opportunity, Rayse ran with the shady story. He wanted to know who had this kind of money and why they wanted the Senator dead. If they represented competition, all the more reason to investigate.
Throwing the satchel over his shoulder and strapping the sword to his back, Rayse prepared to descend and meet up with Storm halfway to the port. If it was a trap, he was as prepared as he could have been.
Sorian opened his eyes to the bland room he slept in. Sat upright in the old wooden rocking chair while his faintest of movements allowed for a silent wooden creak as it rolled forward and then back again as he adjusted himself. He had fallen asleep again, this time, sat down before he had even made it to the bed. His tired eyes still dozed to the waking world, the deep ocean blue hue was long gone, and his iris now featured a pale blue, appearing almost grey at first glance. He yawned, rubbing his eyes and scratching his beard as he tried and failed to make any reasonable attempt at getting up. Mornings were never his strong point and now they were as hard as ever.
He looked around the room, the tidy bed still looked tired and overused, the unlit lantern on the bedside table had leaked at some point, the table now covered with the spilt droplets of flammable oil. His own short sword, as basic as a sword could be, was left idle on the floor, still within its scabbard and appearing discarded and forgotten. Sorian wasn't sure of the last time he had drawn it from its scabbard, but its days of common use were long gone.
He stood up, stretched his back and adjusted his cloak and trousers. He always wrapped himself up in his large black cloak, not just for warmth, but because it masked his true shape and appearance. It was a trait he had grown up with, although, if he revealed himself now, he felt less than a shadow of his former self.
Why must everything feel such an effort...
He hated this life, he hated being in this room, unable to afford somewhere more lavish and appealing to his tastes. He had always imagined reaching a legendary status, and yet somehow, someway, life had found a way to stop that from happening. He was bitter, angry and hateful of others, not just anyone, but those that had made it, those that had reached the success that he truly deserved.
I'll never forgive you...beast...
Sorian had been part of the once presumed legendary group, the greatest of the soldiers of Corone that had set out all those years ago; to stop and take down the most fearsome of beasts, Sunwing, the Dragon. They had failed that day, he, had failed that day. For what could a normal human man do? Skilled with a sword, fast and intelligent, but lacking in the supreme power of a dragon. Sunwing had killed them all, fried them to a crisp and eaten their remains; only Sorian survived.
Now here he was, an old man, past his prime and aching in the mornings while he tried to arise to the morning sun. Only a single beam of warm sunlight peaked over the neighbouring building and reached the wooden beams of the tavern floor. Sorian held his hand under it, the warm feeling pleasant to his old cold bones as he wriggled his fingers.
"Another day and I'm still alive. I will find you again, Sunwing." His deep voice croaked out as he cleared his morning throat. It was dry and desperately needing refreshment. Sorian wandered over to the window, observing the less wealthy below. The tall buildings of Radasanth shadowed the streets and the walking pedestrians littered the roads already, which made Sorian feel he was probably one of the last to awaken. this day.
You should all know my name...
He looked at them with regret, the normal men, and woman of Radasanth should be respecting him, should be treating him like a hero, but instead he was a nobody, not even a failure. At least being a failure was something, and Sorian was neither. A good month ago, he had teamed with Elite Optic and various others of considerable power, to attempt a second time to take down, Sunwing. The battle was brief, and not a man had fallen, not a soul had been taken from this world as they combated the beast of death.
Then why did it pass with such neglect? Why did no one sing his name in the streets? Why did no one call for the name, Sorian. They had killed a beast that day, but that was the problem, it was a beast, it just wasn't the beast.
He should have known at the time, Sunwing could never be defeated so easily. The beasts skeleton that now lay in the mountains, it was that of another, smaller, younger dragon. Sorians quest to kill Sunwing, was not over.
"One day, Sunwing. One day I will claim your life, and reclaim the glory that I am owed. Not today, but one day."
Still, until Sunwing reared his head once more, Sorian had other things to accomplish. His hatred for Sunwing, and his promise to kill it was a morning ritual, and for now, would remain so. Each and every time he awoke, he would remember those days of the past, and he would vow for vengeance.
Sorian would soon leave the silence of his overnight room. While the exact time of day would elude him, he had never slept for that long anyway, so he would guess it was still late morning. He arrived downstairs rather quickly, having collected his sword, it remained hidden beneath the mass cloak that he wrapped himself up with. Arriving at the bar, he returned his key, took a long drink and then refilled his canteen with the fresh water.
He had no intention of staying in this place any longer, and with his black cloak shrouding his face, but for his beard, he immediately left. It was much brighter outside than it looked from the window, and even the light shade from the buildings wasn't enough to stop him shielding his eyes for a moment.
He felt the cool breeze sneak under his cloak, and the smell of the fresh air was much more appealing than that of the dull dry inn. He quickly walked with more vigour as he approached his destination, only a few hundred yards from his own inn, it was patrolled nervously by two town guards with spears and fancy studded leather armour.
Behind them in the small alley, a bizarre pile of bones, enlarged and accompanied by various skulls and an obscenely large weapon. Sorian smiled as he arrived, somewhat to the guards relief as they stopped their minor but important patrol. They weren't there to protect the bones but to protect the civilians themselves from the monstrosity the bones would form. The undead creature that was Elite Optic lay scattered and waiting. Sorian didn't know if he slept, or if this was simply through ease of being unnoticed, but it was time to greet one another again.
The bones began to rattle, and then rising like the son of the king, they not only compiled, but formed the great stature of a giant skeleton. Elite Optic, once Marcus Heroptic, a great warrior from thousands of years ago, stood in his fearsome skeletal form. All three men stared into the dimly lit alleyway as the skeleton appeared to stretch and wiggle its bones until it was completely formed.
Then, leaning down, Elite reached and grabbed his mighty two-meter long sword. The guards trembled inside at the sight of him. The twelve foot high Elite Optic was frightening to look at, and it was their job to ensure that the townsfolk understood his presence here. They didn't need panic in the streets, with fear spreading of the attacking undead; he wasn't here for that. He was here for the Citadel, and Sorian had negotiated a safe passage within the town streets. Albeit, needing these two, somewhat fearless men, to walk him there.
Sorian waved on one of the guards, his task to pass on further instructions to a man named Shinsou Vann Osiris. They would meet him soon enough.
Elite turned to face Sorian as he placed the meaty, rusty old cleaver on his back. "Are you sleeping even longer these days, Sorian?"
"No." He bluntly replied.
Elite stepped out of the shadows, his sizable frame coming into full view for the locals on the streets. A few shrieks still filled the air, but as long as the guard remained calm beside him, panic did not fill their hearts with fear. This way, they could at least reach the Citadel without any trouble.
"This is a tiresome affair, Sorian. Are we finally making are way back?"
"We have more people to slay within the Citadel, therefore, patience is required."
Elite enjoyed the sound of that. Another fight, another war and the potential to spill the blood of yet another mighty opponent. Elite had been getting stronger once more, and the more people he battled, the greater his strength became, in time, his former glory could be realised.
I hope this one is as exciting as the last. With so much scent of blood in the air, it all feels so exciting.
"Are we stuck with the same..." Elite pondered on his word of choice. Ally? Friend? Worthless weakling? Shit head? "...Man?"
"Yes. We accepted these terms when we accept this challenge. Regardless of his more fragile frame, he possesses some; aura, magic or power of some sort. He is no mere moral such as I. I would not call him just a man."
"You yourself were under great duress in the last battle. Were you not within the Citadel walls, I suspect you would be looking for a new body?"
Elite inspected his own arms, the rock hard bones of Elite were no normal bones, and would not break easily. No crack remained from his last fight, not a single fracture or scratch, and not because of his own physical power, but because of the magic of the Citadel. That fascinated Elite, and his own curiosity grew each time he entered this magical place.
The giant building slowly came into view as they walked up the long sloped street towards the centre of Radasanth. Its towering presence was something to be admired, and as fancy as the multi-storey houses were around them, only the Citadel itself, was big enough to house the frame of Elite Optic. It's very height bled into the low cloud cover, and its stonework, even from this far away, could be admired.
Elite's flaming eyes lay focused on its cloud line height, and his mind filled with thoughts of battle and blood.
"Not long now, Sorian, not long now."
The girl with the blades had cleared the two remaining guards with skill and precision; her knife diving swiftly across critical paths. She also produced a large explosion with the production of the blast-bottle. It was something like the grenades that Storm had witnessed in Dheathain; some explosive liquid in a shattering-glass chamber, itching for a breath of air that would allow it to feed. Upon receiving that holy breath, the blast created a substantial cloud of smoke and flame, along with a deafening boom.
An acrobat, Storm leapt high and sailed gracefully over the first few rows of the mob scene. The crowd itself was too gripped with fear to attack him, and they created a fine blockade from any guards stuck in what would be known as the Parade of Blood. Without hesitation, he sprinted, the wind ripping across his face as he screamed ahead of any pursuer. There were a few good outlets; his first option was available as the chaotic roar gave way to dull white noise and abject horror upon strangers reformed into slack-jawed confusion. He sought the shadows, ducking between two tall brownstones and using their network of back alleys to redirect himself towards the exit of town. The alley was only touched by the high sun; the scent of mildew indicating disrepair. More importantly, the characteristic urine odor was absent; he was alone.
Too f*cking easy. Radasanth has gotten soft in my old age.
His sheer speed had built a fine gap between him and any pursuers; he pulled away at the beard he had constructed; the intricate amalgamation of putty and his own hair came free in a singly tug. Relieved, he rubbed his smoothly shorn jaw and quickly tugged away the bandana and terrible tunic, using them to mop blood from his face and fingernails before throwing them in a heap in the alley corner. A quick spray of electricity popped the evidence into a small, controlled blaze. Pulling taut his cuffs and collar, he began to walk towards the main road as he considered this swimming success.
I should have thought of the female disguise, that was much easier on him. How many times has Karuka batted her eyelashes and conned the stupid into underestimating her?
Besides, tall and lean, I’d make a much prettier girl than the stocky ginger he pulled together.
A smile crept across his face; he couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of the ordeal. The plan had been thrown together, but the lack of coordination from the Radasanth guards was jarring. It was too simple. With as many adventurers as came through town, it seemed preposterous that a few talentless humans would be left in charge of protecting the talentless humans that governed the people.
His heartbeat hadn’t recovered yet, the pulsing thump still frenetic and his skin remained a touch flushed. The sense of wrong wouldn’t escape him, and it had nothing to do with filleting that pretending palm-presser politico tub of administrative goo. No; he had been down too many roads to fail to notice a trap when he felt one, and his paranoia clutched to his brain like a disease, clawing at him. The last minute notice, the ease of access and poor coverage, and the swift escape all seemed far too convenient.
Keep your head down and get out of town. Rendezvous with Rayse and we’ll sort this bullshit out. Hopefully over a tall bottle. Hopefully over…
…Holy shit…
A familiar form loomed over the large street he emerged unto. It was Elite Optic, the gargantuan soldier-puppet he had partnered with to kill Sunwing. He towered in contrast to the tavern, his head stretching high and above the edge of the single story thatch roof. Beside him, a large, multi-story brick tenement had given him some cover. Everything about the appearance of the great, heartless monster came together as a seamless mosaic. He was massive, brutally strong, and likely completely invulnerable to electricity or stabbing instruments. He was the perfect weapon to kill Storm Veritas.
Standing in the middle of the street, the experienced but impulsive wizard did not yield. He had fought through traps before, even If they were neither damned near twenty feet tall or made from animated skeleton. All had become clear to the pretentious wanna-be aristocrat. The big bony bastard was sent to stop him, an insurance of sorts from his promisor. For five-hundred grand, he’d have to tempt the fates.
Here comes a perfectly terrible idea.
Storm began walking directly at the enormous construction of cartilage and bone. His eyes scoured the streets for large grates, metal signs, or sewer caps, or any other potential artillery. He’d meet the trap head on, aware he was quite literally well over his head.
“Elite, you big son of a bitch! I thought things went a little too easily, but see they sent you to stop me. What did they end up paying you? You’ve always seemed cheap…”
From the second floor of tenement, a metal fire escape ladder suspended behind the behemoth, held in place by a simple toggle-hook designed for quick egress. Waving his hand as though in greeting, Storm sent a precise pulse to the hook, which sent the ladder swinging in a defiant screech towards the impossible undead soldier.
Quote:
For the sake of record, bunnies are approved.
The Drum and Monkey Tavern was located in the centre of Radasanth, deep within the winding labyrinth of filthy alleyways and grotty passages that comprised the complex innards of the city. It was a crooked, quaint and almost decrepit sort of building, barely propped up by its cracked limestone walls and just about protected from the elements by a brittle slate roof that looked as if it had been held together with tape and spit. Almost any time someone slammed the heavy front door, fragments of splintered shale tile would rain down over the pavement and pepper the vermin scurrying in the gutter below.
Yet, despite its apparent structural poverty, the tavern still boasted a healthy turn out. Through the bird-shit stained glass windows, a handful of oil lanterns burned brightly and the even in the early afternoon shadows of patrons jigged merrily about against the inner walls. Myriads of conversations crept through the crevices of the doors, catching the ears of those passing by. These types of back alley inns, traditionally, tended to play host to all sorts of rough, mysterious types.
It was fair to say it wasn’t really Shinsou’s type of place, but it was far enough from the types of people he wanted to avoid for it to merit staying in. At least that’s what he had thought.
The Telgradian hadn’t gone looking for trouble but once again he found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time, and all he had done was leave his room and come downstairs to pick up his gear. Shinsou, with golden eyes locked firmly on his prey, held the cold damascus edge of Enpera steadily against the jugular vein of the stubby gentleman standing in front of him and, for the final time, challenged the man to move out of his way.
“This is the last time I’ll ask. Move. If you don’t, I’ll cut your throat. I have a busy day ahead of me, and whatever your problem with Sorian is can be taken up with him. Not me. So, for the last time, move.”
Before the short, stubble wracked man said a word, a friend of the offender decided to clear up any misunderstanding about the reputation of the tavern Shinsou was in. Soon, a wooden bar stool found a whole new purpose as it was launched an almost admirable distance across the tavern’s breadth before colliding with the back of Shinsou’s skull. The former emperor’s legs folded underneath him, a trickle of blood forking down the back of his pale neck as he fell, and the dwarf went for him.
“You’re going to give that old bastard a message from Tryll! He’ll never fuck with me again!” He screamed in Shinsou’s dazed face as he pinned him to the rickety wooden floor, throwing a balled fist into his right cheek. The Telgradian’s head recoiled horribly off the wooden, sticky beer soaked planks that made up the floor.
Everything was fuzzy around the edges. The blow to his head hadn’t done him much good, but Shinsou was still holding his sword, and although he wasn’t in the mood for slaughtering random people the Telgradian wasn’t partial to getting gang beatings either. Deciding actions would be more effective than words, the bruised Telgradian kicked the floor to his left, pushing momentum onto his side, and log rolled with his miserable mount to his right. With a deft thrust forward, Shinsou’s blade slid neatly between the folds of flesh covering Tryll’s kneecaps. The dwarf cried out in horror while Shinsou, bloodied and beaten, challenged the other patrons with a cold stare, his sword still stuck in his victim. They backed off from around him and his new friend slowly.
“Oh dear, what a predicament you appear to have gotten yourself into! One twist of my wrist and that nasty looking wound isn’t closing anytime soon.” Shinsou announced with a great deal of smugness tucked away in his voice, gesturing dizzily towards the tip of Enpera. “Now, if you’ve got business with Sorian, take it up with him yourself. I’ve got things to do!”
It took less than twenty seconds for Shinsou to brush himself down, pull his blade out of the dwarf’s leg and get the hell out of the tavern.
It was now half past midday, but the Radasanthian air still seemed bitterly cold for this time of year. Even wrapped in the thick of his trademark white greatcoat and a smattering of uniform underneath, the chill of the wind seemed to cut through Shinsou like an icy, serrated knife. It wasn’t any warmer in the cold shade of the alleyway, where he stood with Sorian’s messenger on the cracked pavement some minutes away from the chaotic scene they had left behind.
“I can’t even get breakfast without someone baying for my blood. The sooner we get to Sorian, the better, because I can already see today is going to be shit.”
The Telgradian wiped the dwarf’s blood from the flat to the tip of Enpera with a white rag. It was well known that a sword’s worst enemy was rusting, and it was important to ensure that his weapon was well maintained at all times. Shinsou took considerable care to ensure he wasn’t taking any chances with his. Blood had a surprisingly adverse effect on weaker metals and, as it turned out, he would be relying on his weapon a lot from then on. With this in mind carefully sheathed the clean blade into its ivory and marble sheath, neatly lashed to the inside of his greatcoat, and turned to face the messenger boy, who was smirking to himself.
“What?” Shinsou enquired grumpily.
“Your day isn’t going to get any better I’m afraid” the messenger chortled to himself, lighting a cigarette with a concealed match. “Whilst you were fighting with Radasanth’s pond scum, I overheard a couple of guys talking about something big that happened about half an hour ago. It sounds like Franklin Woodheight was assassinated. There will be guards crawling all over the town and people running around panicked like headless chickens. It’s going to be pandemonium out there, which means Sorian will have to move. Problem is, I don’t know where to, and he has no way to tell me if he has. We’ll have to go to the original meeting place and see if he stuck around. It’s a long shot, though.”
The sound of Shinsou’s response rang heavily in the messenger’s ears, and echoed through the straight alley with a granulated ambience.
“Oh, fucking great!” Shinsou hissed, slapping a palm against his forehead. “That’s absolutely stellar! So now we’re being led on a wild goose chase as well? Great! Thanks very much Senator Franklin! That selfish fat prick should have saved someone the hassle and topped himself in his room! It would have been more than he deserved after the scandals he was involved in! But no, instead he gets himself killed in public!”
Shinsou brushed aside a bang of brown hair and stiffened his arms, straightening his back as he did. The messenger sighed, resting his hands on his hips and shaking his head.
“Calm down, Shinsou, for god’s sake. I’ll get us to the meeting place. Sorian was very keen to meet with you, so he won’t just disappear. We'll find him. Wait here and I’ll check to see if the road is open.”
With that, the messenger started edging towards the direction of the main road. Two child shaped blurs bolted past him and disappeared ahead, laughing as they played together, seemingly oblivious to the chaos that Radasanth’s latest murder had thrown upon the citizens. Shinsou turned, paid one last glance to the narrow corridor behind him, and faced in the opposite direction. Suddenly, a tingling sensation erupted within the pit of his stomach. It was then, as the sensation settled that the swordsman felt it; a power that felt like a sudden burst of light amongst a gigantic sheet of icy shadow. It was faint at first, barely even registering in his gut, but became heavier quickly. Shinsou had felt that same power not too long ago in the Twilight Mountains. If he was right, the Telgradian knew this to be from the lightning mage he had worked with during his battle with Sunwing, and the intensity of the light suggested an aggressive intent.
Is that Storm Veritas?
As suddenly as the first power had, a second energy manifested within the range of Shinsou’s senses. This one he recognised instantly as it clashed against the first. It was bathed in electric red and felt as if a kiln of dark, burning energy had overturned inside him. It was inhuman, evil and unmistakeable.
Elite Optic…and where he is, Sorian is. And where Sorian is…
“Hey!” Shinsou yelled to the messenger, who was pacing back through the alleyway towards him from the road. “I think I know where Sorian is, but we need to go right now. Do you have a route into town? I can give you directions.”
“No problem,” The messenger retorted, brushing his pale skin and dull grey clothes down.
“…follow me.”
Oh, for fuck's sake!
Turning another corner, Rayse encountered another trio of guards, all of them with questions. Considering he just left some in the dust behind him, he couldn't exactly plow through this next group. Jumping into the air, Rayse unsheathed his sword and sent a wave of heat through his right arm, engulfing the sword in flames. His strike was swift and decisive, exploding into flame on impact and sending a guard crashing towards the ground. The other guards barely lifted their weapons in time for Rayse to duck under and slash upwards, nearly cleaving the next poor sod in half. The last guard, ready to shit his pants, turned to run, but didn't get as far as the blade that stuck out of his neck. The contractor pulled the sword out, the flames burning the blood to clean. While it was still alight, he placed the sword back into its sheath. The fire caused the sheath to glow red but not burn through the material.
Why are there more of them the further away I get from the crime scene? Isn't it supposed to be the other way around? Or maybe there are just more of them towards the direction of the port... In which case, I need to find Storm.
There was no way to find his accomplice on street level, so Rayse took to the rooftops, jumping from one thatched roof to another. There were a couple guards in his way equipped with bows, but he dispatched them easily enough. He hadn’tt expected this kind of death toll.
It didn’t take long to find Storm, or rather, find him by proxy. The massive skeleton monster stood out like a furboar in a field of snow. When he saw the magician preparing to engage it, the edges of Rayse’s lips sank.
The fuck are you doing?! Did you get made or something?
For whatever reason, Storm was supposedly caught. As much as Rayse would have liked to see how this turned out, he couldn’t stay on the sidelines. Bursting through the window of the multi-story tenement building at the side of the battle, Rayse ran up the stairs to the roof. There was a garden up there with vines stretching across wooden supports, and blocks of dirt contained in meter-long stone boxes.
From up here, it was possible to get a good read on the situation, and the inevitable commotion Storm was about to cause. He looked down at the skeletal creature, more than annoyed at having to deal with one of their kind again. It looked as dangerous as a Servitor from the Plane of Unlife, although much more morbid.
Is that a goddess-damned rack of skulls on its back?
Ripping off one of the wooden supports, he shoved it under one of the dirt blocks and lifted it enough to get a good grip from its underside. He pushed it towards the edge and lifted with all his strength, flipping it over and watching it fall toward Viceroy Skullmonster, Captain of The Skeletal Division of pissing Rayse off.
Sorian would have said something had he really believed that Elite would listen, but as so few managed to understand, Elite was a mind of his own. He was no slave or ordered golem to Sorian, he was a former human who had reached a level of immortality that Sorian himself desired.
Is he mocking me? How intriguing.
Elite stood bemused, wanting to grab his belly and roar in the deepest of amused tones. It was a shame he no longer had a belly, no body of which to tingle at the anticipation of battle, no heart of which to pump the blood and adrenaline around his body. For his was a body of death, of bone and lifelessness. Yet, within that skull, within that magic abyss of fire that forever burned, he was still alive.
Elite found himself focused on the amusing man. Whether he had met him before or not, Elite never cared what he was or who he was; he was just another human being. The barely recognisable man; black hair, blue eyes, and brown tunic, he couldn't be any more average. Yet, his heart raced strongly but steady, somewhat fearless to Elite Optics presence, and Elite could smell it, deep within his undead soul.
He focused so much on the arrogance of the man before him that Elite paid little attention to anything else. So as the rusty metal stair structure flung open behind him, he failed to notice it. The sly attack was a clever one, and it crashed with a weighty force into Elite's Bone rack. It was more than enough to knock Elite from his current position, and he wobbled forward, surprised and displaced as it took several steps to halt himself.
The human part of Elite was furious, was it an accident? Or an actual planned attack that had caught him off guard? He wasn't so sure and he hated the thought that he had been so focused on the man's comment that he had not paid enough attention.
Then a mighty crash echoed around him, crumbling brick and dust flew into the air as what appeared to be a small part of the building collapsed beside him.
Sorian barely moved as it landed to his side, just about shielding his face as from the flying debris as small chips struck his face like a fly crashing into a window. He knocked the dust from his beard, and wandered off, a little bit of a skip in his step to avoid being caught up in the melee. There was nothing he could say to Elite to change the situation, and the outcome would never matter anyway. For Elite was immortal and had the falling brick and mortal smashed his skull, then it wouldn't be another day before Elite would be back in the world of the living.
Sorian watched as Elite gripped his sword, collecting it from the ground having been knocked clear by the falling ladder, then he stood tall once more. That emotionless face looked at the arrogant Storm, and in that moment, as they stared back at one another, only Sorian could see the true face behind the old stained bone. That barren skull of red burning flames was more than just a single face; it was a face that watched every lie a man told, it was a face that lived when another's died, it was a face that had lived through a thousand years of death and laughed as the mighty fell before it. Because if they won the battle, they could never win the inevitable war of life and death.
"Congratulations Storm Veritas. You've entered a very unique list...that I can't wait to cross your name off."
Elite meant every word and he never forgot a name from his unbreakable memory. The panicked screams of the morning locals finally shrieked into the streets, and even the so called protective guard began to back off. His spear, while decorative and sharp, was never going to touch either of these two.
Elite reached back, the steel ladders, had not only smashed Elite in the back, but had dropped free behind him. Elite raised it from the dirt, gripping one of the centre spokes with his free hand, and then tossed the steel ladders back at Storm. The two protruding bar frames, now a double edged blunt spear that threatened to protrude through him.
Elite, immediately steadied his sword.
The sound of his name spoken loudly across the fifty foot expanse across a heavily trafficked street in Radasanth sent a shiver down his spine. It seemed to him some form a breach of etiquette, given that he had just committed serial murder, although it was hard to argue that releasing the massive ladder into the back of Elite wasn’t a more rude introductory note. Similarly, Rayse had re-emerged, devoid of his female cover. It appeared that Rayse’s assault had had similarly disappointing results. The good news for Storm was that the thought of any guard nearby was completely vacant of the persecution of the assassins, given the omnipresent nature of a simply humongous clunking skeleton holding a sword that appeared longer than any man.
The bad news is he shrugged off that ladder like a f*cking Coronian Chatterfly.
The ladder came at him with a loud groan of twisting, defiant anger. It rolled about itself in a direction roughly parallel to the ground, crashing and bouncing some fifteen feet from him. The violent collision to the street tore a large brick free from its mortar, while the wizard poised to use an electromagnetic wave to redirect the looming framework.
Nothing. Shit, too big, too fast. Shit shit shit.
The ladder was too much for his abilities. Between the free space of iron, its significant weight and velocity, the projectile proved far too imposing for Storm to easily overwhelm with his electromagnetic fields.. He leapt desperately above the rolling ladder, avoiding abject disaster. The rolling metal structure still clipped his foot, sending him toppling down to the unforgiving street. He landed with a hard, sudden thump, only partially able to catch his weight on his hands before his face kissed the street with the finesse of a sledgehammer to a rail spike.
Oh, well f*ck me.
Still very aware of his surroundings, Storm sprung up to set his eyes on the bony behemoth. He spat a sludgy combination of acid tasting, abrasive dust-blood gel, which didn’t amount to much but felt much better out of his mouth than in. Crisis momentarily averted, he brushed the dirt and dust away from his dress shirt, oblivious to the tiny blots of blood his scraped hands left behind. He was of a transformed personality as his mind scrambled, thinking solely tactics and battle mechanics. The range of the looming opponent with that impossible sword would be spectacular; it was a fool’s errand to engage this abomination in any sort of melee combat. Storm allowed his eyes steal a glance at the thatch roof of the Tavern. The higher ground appeared appetizing, but leaping there begged the opportunity for Elite to knock him out of the sky like a child batting a softly-lobbed ball.
He would induce action, hoping to get the looming goliath to overextend, perhaps expose some weakness.
“Ooh, I’m on your ‘list’, am I? I suppose there’s not much unique about lists of those more handsome, or better kissers, correct? And I KNOW you’re not speaking of some macho dick-measuring contest because…
“Well…” Veritas let his eyes fall to glimpse exposed pubic bone. The juvenile in him would not be denied.
“Hah!”
If there was indeed man somewhere amidst the bone and thorn abstraction, he’d just pissed him off.