MQ: When Blood Runs Cold

[Christoph]

Follows The Lords of the Night.

The soles of Christopher’s black leather shoes crunched briskly along the frozen gravel road. Dark clouds rolled across the sky like a stampede of demons, driven forward by the icy Salvic winds. Chris knew that a layer of snow would soon blanket the fields of golden grass and pine-covered hills. After that, the blizzards would start to sweet the countryside, burying everything in their path with a vindictive glee. Such was Salvar; such was his home.

And he was home. Finally, after over a year of travel and dangerous and unwanted adventures, the weary chef’s hometown was in sight. Soon, he could just kick back, relax, and just while away his time in the kitchen or with an open book on his lap. Maybe he would work on learning some new, harder spells from his books that he’d hidden in his room. He gazed contentedly over the town from afar. It was all as he’d remembered it: stone houses with shingled roofs and smoking chimneys, a modest marketplace where imported fruits and vegetables were peddled, and, of course, the Golden Grass Inn. He smiled at the sight of it. It was the tavern that he and his mother owned; it was where the chef learned to cook.

Chris thought of his mother, Lara, and wondered if she would even recognize him. She had been the one to send him off in the first place. The Golden Grass Inn was hugely successful, and she’d wanted to open up another in one of the growing frontier settlements. Running two taverns would have required double the amount of supplies and fresh produce and grain was very expensive in Salvar, especially during the winter. For this reason, they came up with a plan to save an admiral amount of money. With two busy Inns to keep stocked, they realized that it would be far more efficient to have larger quantities shipped in from warmer southern regions rather than going to local vendors. Christopher’s job had been to travel to Scara Brae and Corone to meet with various merchants and warehouse owners and use his negotiating skills to work out beneficial contracts to keep the two taverns well stocked.

Unfortunately, a trip that was supposed to be over in three months took far longer than he’d expected. A civil war breaking out in Corone and an unhealthy collection of other problems on that forsaken island kept the poor chef stuck there for months and months past when he was supposed to depart. Even once he finally returned to Salvar, the home stretch of the journey was wracked with trouble. Following suit with the rest of his trip, what seemed like an average ride home with a merchant caravan turned out to be even more trouble.

As it happened, that “merchant” caravan had actually been a small pilgrimage of Ethereal Sway priests and agents operating in disguise. That alone would only have unnerved Chris a little bit. Unfortunately, they happened to come across a town under a dark siege by the vampire lord Kincaid and none other than a legion of zombies. Zombies! Hadn’t he gotten enough of those rotting abominations in Corone? He, his friend Elijah, and a strange Elvin girl with a massive sword got caught up in the small war against the undead hoard and their master. It was a wonder that they made it out alive.

Despite the strangely friendly rapport he’d established with Malachi, the leader of the band, he was very relieved when he parted ways. With Chris and Elijah heading north to the Great Bridge across the Akyar Kakka River, and then east to get to Chris’s hometown, after a fairly comfortable week at the city Lovstek, and Malachi and the caravan going south to Knife’s Edge, the chances of either of them getting into any more trouble dropped considerably. He was especially glad to be away from the Sway agents after some of the rumors that he’d heard – troubling news about the powerful monarchy and the omnipresent church being at war with each other, leaving the rest of Savlar in the middle.

On the other hand, Chris remembered as he retrieved the vanquished Vampire’s sword from it’s hiding place in his bedroll, all that trouble hadn’t left him empty-handed. He gazed affectionately at the elegantly crafted blade, its bluish metal gleaming even in the gloom. He traced his thumb across the intricately engraved runes and glyphs. It was a magnificent weapon. He could feel the power coming from it making his hand tingle and sending a shiver down his spine. If he could unlock the mighty sword’s secrets, there was no telling what he could accomplish. The priests had claimed that the blade was evil, but Chris didn’t buy into it. He felt called to it; he was meant to have it.

And since he wasn’t even able to make it one more week on his way home without running into more trouble, he’d even gotten a chance to test it out. The fact that it was because he got into a duel with a strange woman who’d only been defending herself against a band of crazed killers was something to be ignored. It wasn’t Chris’s fault that she’d been so efficient at defending herself that he’d thought that she was the attacker and rushed to the aid of the wrong side. At least he was able to straighten it out and get her to a shelter to recover without getting eaten by her pet dragon. On that note, who in the hell brings a pet dragon around with them? Fortunately, she would probably be gone by the time he got back to the makeshift camp, if she hadn’t already woken up and taken off. Hopefully she wouldn’t try to eat Elijah when he returned from a neighboring town.

As the weary chef reached the top of the last hill and found himself looking down at the town he was born in and grew up in, a smile came to his face as he forgot all of the hardships from the past year. He wanted to break out in a sprint down the hill, but that sounded far too cliché. Instead, he strode calmly and casually down the hill, wearing a bright smile on his face. It wasn’t until Chris entered the town did he realize that something was wrong. Nobody rushed out to greet him, the usually bustling town square was all but empty, and the Golden Grass was silent and dark.

“What the… where is everyone?”

[Witchblade]

She felt vulnerable. There was a helplessness to her situation that gnawed away at her very mind and soul and prevented her from truly resting, truly sleeping. Yet no matter how much she struggled to free herself from this darkness that encased her, nothing moved. Nothing shifted. It continued to surround her and be the only thing she could focus on, if focusing meant that her consciousness came and went as the seconds passed. Thoughts came and went with nothing tangible for her to truly grab a hold of. Like sand they trickled through her fingers, leaving only a bittersweet trace of what could have been.

Time was lost to her. Days could have been spent within this state and she would be unaware of it. The darkness would come, tempting her with a freedom from this hellish place only to pass again and leave her alone. Always alone. There were no comforting dreams to cling to, not even nightmares for her to run from, just an emptiness and a feeling. That same vulnerable feeling she could do nothing about.

Witchblade was slowly becoming aware. She could feel something uncomfortable digging into her spine, something she couldn’t bother moving to correct, unsure if she even had the strength. There was a chill in the air as it brushed against her face, but not the rest of her body. There was something covering her, keeping her warm and some other thing was repeatedly nudging her hand, something with smooth, almost leathery skin. The moment her mind caught up with her body and pushed away the remaining darkness from within, the halfling snapped her eyes open. She had been unconscious, and unable to defend herself. She had been completely at the mercy of anyone or anything thing. The last time that had happened she had…she had…had what?

The thought dissipated as her eyes met a blinding whiteness that was so intense it pained her and she was forced to squeeze her eyes shut as tight as she could. Little pinpricks of light danced in her vision and a pain within her skull was beginning to blossom. Having the sensitive vision of a vampire was sometimes a burden more than a help and now was one of those times. More than she could count had it quite possibly saved her life though.

For a few moments she continued to lay there with her eyes clenched shut. The pain still burrowing deep into her skull and becoming nothing more than a constant feeling she could forget about. But then she realized that nudging had not ceased, in fact it had grown more frequent as if whatever or whomever it was realized she was conscious. It felt familiar.

Slowly this time she opened her eyes. Just a crack at first, to allow her to grow accustomed to the bright light. Then she completely opened them and stared up at a blurry mess of grey, white and brown. Blinking a few times she finally found the ability to clear it and bring into focus some kind of makeshift shelter above her head that protected her against the gentle fall of snow. It looked like a bunch of branches all meshed together in some way that was supposed to protect against the elements. Rather pathetic looking if someone was to ask her, but no one seemed to be doing that. Then again, there was that nudging on her hand that just didn’t seem to want to quit. The one that kept slipping from her mind. Why was she having such a hard time focusing?

Bracing her arms on the ground, Witch attempted to push herself up only to have her arms sink into something soft and pain to go shooting through a multitude of areas on her body. It was almost enough to send her back down on the ground, but she was a stronger creature than that. Instead she endured it and pushed herself farther up, cursing the weakness within her the entire time that would make her feel such a thing and nearly succumb to it. Once in a sitting position she looked down to see the worried eyes of Daegun staring up at her.

“D-Daegun?”

She forgot to use her telepathy. Something she rarely did and she paid for it as the taste of blood flooded her mouth. The strings that held her lips closed having ripped through her flesh just enough to make her bleed.

Daegun practically purred to see her awake, moving and talking. The little guy rested his front paws on her thigh and gave her a little nudge, his large black eyes no longer looking worried but happy instead. She gave him a small smile in return, running her hand across the top of his white-scaled head and down his back. It was at that point she noticed her leather armguards were not upon her arms and instead there were white bandages stained blue covering her. Looking at her other hand she noticed her upper arm was bandaged as well and the stuff her arms had sunk into was snow.

Snow?

Then it all came rushing back to her. She was in Salvar. She’d come here for, for… she couldn’t remember. But knowing her it could have been something as simple as getting away from Corone. She didn’t think there was anything in Salvar she wanted. Small images from what had occurred within the past day were coming back to her. She’d been attacked by a group of those Cultists’s, the ones she had previously met here in Salvar, the ones who seemed to know something about her past. She had been winning against them until some filthy human had shown up and turned the tables, distracting her and giving them enough time to call upon some kind of magic that had practically incapacitated her. The feeling of it coursing through her veins was sickening and weakening all on it’s own. Though the human had been a nuisance before, he had come around to her side and well, she was still alive wasn’t she? Let’s just say the cultist bastards did not fair so well. But where was that human now?

Glancing around her, all Witch saw was frozen trees, bright white snow and…nothing. Giving the wind a quick sniff, the halfling found his scent but it was faint. He must have left many hours ago and she could not sense his energy nearby. She couldn’t remember all of the fight yet, but she was rather certain the human had changed course to help instead of hinder her. After that he must have tended her wounds. The thought of that made her sick. Thinking that some human piece of trash had been touching her while she’d been unconscious and even then, that she’d needed the help. Pathetic. She was disgusted with herself.

With hands still stained in the blood of others and her own, the halfling began to rip the bandages from her body. She didn’t need them. The majority of the wounds had already healed themselves leaving not even the slightest scar behind. The other, more severe wounds would probably follow in the next half a day. As she tore away the ones from her right hand, she noticed some strange mark on the back of her hand. It looked like some kind of rune to her and was actually quite small, but she had no idea how she’d gotten.

Glancing around the snow covered ground, Witch noticed a small pile of sticks and a blackened area the human must have used as a fire pit.

“Daegun, make a fire please…”

She knew she wasn’t up to travelling yet. As stubborn as she was, that would be the worst thing for her wounds.

[Elijah_Morendale]

Lately, it seems that Lady Trouble has this knack of trying to get in my pants. Everywhere I go, it seems that there's always some sort of horrible situation that I somehow get tangled up in. The elven girl who tried to kill me and the drug run back in Scara Brae, my dealings with that jackass loan shark and the Citadel battle he threw me into in Radasanth, the vampire hunt that I was nominated against my will to join just weeks ago, and the various barfights that Nadia started that were scattered in between.

And now, as the cherry that was stepped on, picked up off the ground, dusted off, and placed onto my proverbial sundae, I can't find my hometown. So basically, I've been wandering aimlessly around the vast, lonely, barren countryside of Salvar for a couple weeks, freezing my ass off. I've seen a handful of villages, none of them mine. I could tell this because they had names--a quality that my own hometown lacked. Each time I'd stop, I'd ask a few questions, get a few weird looks, and be on my dejected way. Apparently, "excuse me, has this town been named recently?" doesn't go over with the natives all that well.

The journey had been made worse by the fact that Nadia doesn't quite know how to keep her damn trap shut. Normally she would nag me about having another one of her "training sessions" despite the fact that it wasn't Thursday night, but other times she would say something completely unintelligent to the point where I caught myself swinging a few fists at her translucent form in order to get her to shut up. It really sucks when one half of your brain is cheerfully trying to destroy the other.

Currently, she was dancing around me, playing air guitar and screeching out the melodies. "Come on, chief! Sing along with me!"

I buried my hands in my coat pockets and hung my head. "I don't think so. You're just squealing various sequences of vocal frequencies that hardly falls under the definition of a melody."

I must've used some pretty big words, because Nadia stopped and began to slouch over. "You're no fun, you know that? No wonder you can't seem to keep a girl for more than two weeks."

"Since when did my love life have anything to do with your inability to sing?"

"It doesn't. But you still can't find a decent girl."

I threw my hands up in the air. "That's because every time I start to like one, you go ape shit and try and kill her! That has a way of scaring off most normal people!"

Nadia grinned. "Let's just say that I have high standards for us. Lest we forget, you aren't the only one who gets action. Remember Alicia back in Corone? Now that was one fine piece of ass. I wouldn't mind having another go at her."

Another day, another pointless exchange.

We continued in silence to a small camp that Chris had given me directions to before I left. The camp itself consisted of a beige canvas tent and a shady-looking structure made with sticks, leaves, and a tarp. Neither of them looked very reliable--I guess I expected something with a little bit more class, with it being ol' cheffy boy's camp and all.

"Hey, Christoph, you there?" I was greeted by utter silence. My footsteps crunched in the snow as I approached the tent. Something told me that he would be in there, probably busy cooking himself lunch. But when I pulled the tent flaps open, something else greeted me. The light that poured in revealed a very pale, very dangerous looking woman. Her long, black hair fell all around her thin face, her eyes, as red as Nadia's hair, glaring at me in between the thick strands. She was dressed in all black, with white, blue-stained bandages wrapping her arms.

"Oh, uh..." I chuckled uneasily. "S-sorry..."

Then I heard the snarl. I quickly turned my head to see a small, white dragon; lips curled and teeth bared, ready to tear me to shreds. I would've provided a better description of the beast, had I not immediately screamed in terror and taken off.

"Oh fuck! A dragon! Someone, anyone, HELLLLP!"

[Molotov]

“I bloody should have stayed in Shanleh,” the mutant thought bitterly. “Too many bloody wankers want to kill me, every bloody other place I go…” Molotov’s adventure in the cell had failed spectacularly, as had his short term companionship with Damion Shargath. After those failures the mutant had decided to head to Salvar, a place where his relative anonymity had prevented anyone from developing too great of a grudge.

However, Salvar was little better. Perhaps the people here had no interest in killing Molotov, but they seemed to be very intent on killing each other. Surprisingly, given his track record, Molotov had managed to stay out of the politics and the violence so far, but he had already been questioned an inquisitor representing the order of the Ethereal Sway. The mutant had been convincing enough to let the inquisitor leave him alone, but the incident had made it readily apparent that he was going to have to pick a side in this fight if he wanted to get out of Salvar alive.

The only problem was, from the best that Molotov could gather, the two sides in the fight were the church and the king. He hated both of them.

Now, as he approached the Golden Grass Inn, one of the few places in Salvar he felt actually served acceptable food, he could tell that the Civil war had reached the inn too. The entire town seemed desolate, a ghost town of shadows instead of the vibrant place he remembered. There were people there, but it was still a ghost town. The expressions on their face, panicked and desolate, confirmed it. Molotov shook his head angrily. There were few things that the mutant hated more than authority figures, but one of them was being denied a good meal.

As he approached the Golden Grass Inn, he saw another man standing by it, one who was even more shocked than he. “Guess this poor sod must have really liked it then…” Molotov thought pityingly. “Guess he’s never eaten at that bloody Silver Inn place in Radasanth.”

If this had been closer to Knife’s Edge or any other metropolis, Molotov might have been tempted to just go on his way to the next tavern. However, not only was there no other place for good food around the Golden Grass Inn, Molotov didn’t know of many other places in the area that sold things edible. For the past three hours, the only vendors he had passed were selling seal pelts, and that was something the mutant had absolutely no interest in.

Since there was nowhere else to eat, Molotov lit a cigarette. He turned to the man standing near him and offered one with a slight grunt. “Bloody hell,” he said. “I used to love this place too, only thing in this whole damn frozen continent that didn’t taste like potash, if you know what I mean. Where are you goin’ for a meal now?”

[Christoph]

Christopher’s gaze was so intently locked on the Inn, glancing back and forth between the locked double doors and the shuttered windows, that he didn’t even notice the other man approach him. What could have happened to transform a bright, lively town into such a gloomy shadow? More importantly, what could have closed down the Golden Grass? His mother had always said that she would never close, even if the entire town burned to the ground. Yet, the town stood, physically at least, and the Inn was dark and empty. He gave a confused and depressed sigh. His mother surely had a good reason for it.

At that point, the chef became aware of the man next to him. He was an odd-looking character, with a strong jaw sporting a well-kept goatee, strange tinted glasses, a metal stud in his lip, and a bullring in his nose. Of course, an average casual wouldn’t have noticed any of that under his hood. Chris was the type to pay attention to the little details, though.

“A meal?” he asked, shaking his head. “I used to work here; I live here.” The stranger’s face formed into an expression that looked something like pity.

“Oh…” He paused. “Can I grab a bite, then?”

Chris sighed wearily. “I guess. If there’s any food in there.” It must have been nice to only have food to worry about. “I’ve been gone for a while… the lock looks the same as it used to, though.” The tattered chef produced an old iron key from his coat and inserted it into the lock. It clicked and he pushed the door open.

“Hello? Mother? Is anyone here?” He heard nothing.

What he saw was the ghost of a tavern. All of the tables and chairs were exactly where he’d remembered them being, as were the glasses and the rags. Nothing was damaged – even the whine bottles were still there – but everything was covered in thin layer of dust, at least a couple weeks old. The Inn was a ghost, but it was recently deceased. Chris started toward the locked kitchen door, key in hand, but he stopped in his tracks upon seeing a piece of parchment pinned to the wall behind the bar.

“What the hell?” he asked, taking it down to examine it. The few lines of text on it were written in silver ink with sharp, precise letters. “This has the seal of the Ethereal Sway.” He read it.

By the order of the Ecclesia of the divine Ethereal Sway, the Golden Grass Inn has been closed under charges of conducting blasphemous activities, inciting civil unrest, harboring heretical fugitives, and the possession of illegal sacrilegious objects. This establishment is now under the legal ownership of the Church, and will not reopen until after a more thorough investigation.

Sacrilegious objects? His eyes widened instantly as the paper dropped onto the counter. My books! He turned sharply and ran up the wooden staircase in a panicked sprint, leaving the stranger alone by the bar.

“Hey… what about that food?” he called after him, annoyed. Chris didn’t hear it, though.

He reached the second floor only to find a wooden board nailed over the door to his room. The sinking feeling in his stomach got considerably worse. He yanked on the board, but it refused to budge. Growling, he dropped his back, slid the magical sword out of his bedroll, and wedged the blade behind the wood to pry it off. It took a few more moments to remove the cursed board, and when it finally clunked onto the floor, several of the runes had been burned into the wood. As it was, he didn’t have any time to notice it.

Chris threw open the door to find his bedroom in shambles. His bed had been torn apart, his dressers opened with their contents sprawled all over the floor, and closet was a mess. Some of the floorboards had even been torn up. A shiver ran up his spine and he clenched his teeth. They’d found the books that he’d hidden under some loose floorboards. They weren’t just any books; they were books of arcane lore. It must have been witch hunters from the Ethereal Sway. There was not other explanation. That was why the Inn was shut down. But where was his mother? Had they arrested her? Where did they take her? Gripping his forehead, the chef sat down on the foot of what remained of his bed. He’d come home to find his entire life gone

The walk down the stairs seemed to drag on like a trek down a mountain. A dark shroud seemed to be covering everything. He didn’t even know what had happened, let alone what to do next. When Chris returned to the dining room, the stranger was still there. He’d pulled up a dusty chair and was looking fairly bored.

“You all right?” asked the strange man with a degree of indifference. The chef exhaled slowly and shook his head.

“Not really, no…” he murmured back. “I… I’m going to get some air.”

“You should wait on that air for later,” said a familiar deep voice. Chris glanced toward the door and saw the massive frame of Mike, the other cook at the Golden Grass. His red hair was just as shaggy as Chris remembered, and his stomach still hung over his belt. “You’ll need it more then.”

“Mike!” Chris exclaimed, smiling for the first time since arriving. He darted over to greet his old friend and was rewarded with a massive, chest-crushing hug. “Where’s my mother, Mike? Where’s Lara?” asked the younger chef, struggling to breathe The fat cook’s round, bearded face got grim as he set Chris down.

“Chris… you’d better sit down,” he replied. “This might take a while.”

“What’s going on, Mike?” asked Chris tentatively, worry and fear infecting his voice. Something completely different had infected the stranger’s voice, though.

“If this is going to take a while, is there any way a man can get a meal around here?” asked the stranger. Mike gave the odd man a sideways glance and then sighed.

“I… don’t have a key to the kitchen anymore,” replied the hefty chef.

“Here,” Chris interjected, tossing the stranger his battered metal key. The man looked at it for a moment, and then back at the two cooks. “Just help yourself, there’s bound to be something left in there.” The cloaked man needed no further prompting; he stood and made his way to the kitchen. The younger chef turned back to Mike. “Anyway, what happened?” The red-haired giant took a deep breath.

“You’ve been gone for a long time,” he began, still seeming to be collecting his thoughts. “But you should know that for most of that time, our quiet little down remained the same. Everything was going as it normally did until two weeks ago. We knew that the civil war would reach us eventually, but we were expecting something else, like armies marching through and wrecking the place.” Chris sighed impatiently. “Two weeks ago, a band of… of agents from the Sway came through. We’ve never been a very religious town, but we stayed out of trouble. But the war had clearly made them suspicious of everyone, which made everyone afraid, which only made the agents even more suspicious. To them, everyone was a heretic in hiding, and that all they needed to do was rout the heretics out. The first place they started at was this tavern. It’s where everyone spent their evenings, after all. They went to Lara and asked her for the names of everyone who spoke out against the church in the Inn, or anyone who liked to come here instead of going to church services.”

“My mother would have never betrayed—” Chris because, outrage building in his voice. Mike cut him off.

“Of course she wouldn’t have, boy!” boomed the massive cook. Chris leaned away, startled. Even after all of his terrifying adventures, Mike still frightened him a little. The red-haired giant took a deep breath. “Gods, she should have just played along. She should’ve just said that everyone was loyal, and only had good things to say about the Sway, that they all were pious and went to their church services.”

“What did she say?”

Mike’s voice went dark and he looked down at the oak table. “She got bold… foolish. She told the interrogators that they had no right to harass her or her customers. She told ‘em she wouldn’t stand for their oppression. She yelled at their young leader, asking him what gods would give him the right to terrorize innocent people. Your mother was a brave woman, Chris, stronger willed than any man in this town or that witch-hunter caravan. But she just went too far.” Chris’s eyes went wide as his mind connected the dots and filled in the rest of the story.

“She was a threat, someone the townsfolk would get behind,” said the younger chef. Mike nodded somberly. “They needed to remove her and make an example out of her to keep the town in line.”

“They killed her,” stated Mike, his voice more tormented than Chris had ever heard it. He knew what the older man was going to say. He clenched his eyes shut, digging his fingers into his skull. “The black-haired devil claimed she was a witch. Rubbish! Lies! They planted some ‘heretical’ books in the Inn, closed the place down, and burned her at the stake. Nobody dared speak out against them after that.”

Chris was silent. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. What was there to say, anyway? His mother, his inn, his life was gone. Swept away in a single fell motion. He had nothing left. Nothing. Lara dared to speak out against injustice. At first, all he could do was blame himself. It was his books that they’d found. If not for those, there would have been no evidence to use against her. Then he realized that they would have found a way to get rid of her regardless. ‘But I only use sorcery as grounds to arrest citizens that I was going to arrest anyway.’

His eyes snapped open and he struggled to speak. “Mike…the leader of those agents… what did you say he looked like?” Mike raised an eyebrow.

“Young, black hair. He walked around with this black staff with metal all along the outside. Green eyes with scars running up his neck, like something clawed him to pieces.” Mike growled. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget that face.”

“Malachi…” Chris stood up without another word, scooping up his belongings and heading for the door. Mike stood up after him, grabbing him by the arm.

“You’re going to do something damn foolish, just like your mother!” Mike pulled Chris back as though her were a child. “I’m not going to let you get yourself killed.” The younger chef narrowed his eyes at Mike.

“Let go,” he demanded slowly. Mike refused, shaking his head. Anger welled up inside of him like a furnace constantly being filled with more fuel. “I’m warning you, Mike. Let me go or I’ll—”

Mike scoffed. “You’ll what? Punch me?” Chris growled, spinning around and ramming his other hand into the cook’s chest with surprising force. His eyes flared, practically glowing with fire for a split second as his glare burned into Mike’s face. The older man recoiled.

“You don’t want to know what I’ll do it you.” Mike needed no further urging. He let go instantly and took several steps back.

“What’s happened to you, Chris?” asked the red-haired cook, his voice subdued and uncharacteristically fearful.

“After today? All of most terrible things imaginable.” With that, Chris left the abandoned inn, completely unaware of just how catastrophically wrong he was.

[Witchblade]

Eventually Witch had moved into the large tent. Staying out in the cold was not very appealing to her and the human did not appear to be coming back anytime soon. So she took full advantage of what he’d left her with. Laying back on the course material of the tent, the halfling had no idea what she was going to do next or just how she was going to do it. With some of her wounds still healing the best course of action for the time being was to remain here, but on the other hand she didn’t want to be here when the human returned. She was more likely to want to rip him to pieces than thank him for what he had done. After all, if it weren’t for him she wouldn’t even be in this position.

Lifting her hand, she stared at the intricate pattern of the rune covering her pale skin. She didn’t know what it was or what it could do, which was worrying. She must have somehow acquired it during the battle with the Cultists. Heck, she didn’t even know if it was a rune of not. It could be some kind of magical glyph or ward that was placed upon her. Yet her body appeared to be responding normally to her. Just what could it be and what was it’s purpose?

Feeling a nudge at her hip, the halfling looked down to see Daegun pushing at her with one of his clawed paws.

“Not now, Daegun… I’m not in the mood.”

His entire demeanour seemed to fall slightly, as if she had refused him the greatest pleasure in the world. With his head bowed, he moved off to a corner of the room and curled up into a little ball. Though she felt a little sorry for him she couldn’t really be bothered at the moment. Her mind was preoccupied and she didn’t have time to play with him.

Letting her hand flop back down to the floor of the tent, Witch was about to check her wounds when she felt someone in the area. Her entire body tensed as she entertained the idea of it being more of those Cultists come to finish her off. Practically snarling, she propped herself up on her elbows and reached out with her senses. He was human and heading in her direction but he didn’t feel like one of the Cultists. They had a taint to them she couldn’t quite describe. Something to do with the magic they used, something that changed the way they smelled and felt. It was a small amount of relief that he was indeed not one of them, but then who was he and why was he heading here? He wasn’t the human from before, no, she knew his energy signature and this was not it.

His voice rang out through the area and Witch was just beginning to entertain the idea of answering him, when the flaps of the tent parted and she got a good look at the human herself. He was dressed rather oddly and was a bit on the scrawny side. And there were spectacles covering his face for some kind of absurd reason. Perhaps his eyes were not very good. She didn’t get a chance to get a very good look at him, for the moment her dragon started growling the man’s face turned from one of slight embarrassment to downright fear. Then his feet took over and he fled the tent.

Smirking, the halfling watched as Daegun, teeth stilled barred, quickly ran after the human. Though small the little guy was quite powerful and perhaps being a little too protective of her recently. Which may or may not have something to do with the recent attack she had. Either way it was quite adorable of him to consider her well-being and attack the human and it made for an interesting sight. Getting to her feet as quickly as she could without ripping her wounds open, the halfling parted the tent flaps and stepped outside. By this time the human had only made it a few feet and Daegun was quickly closing the distance he had on him. With a leap, the small dragon crashed his body against the back of the human’s legs, throwing him off balance and sending him tumbling into the snow face first. When he tried to scramble to his feet, Daegun once again launched himself at the human, knocking his small body against his side and sending him onto his back this time. As her pet jumped up onto the man’s stomach and prepared to rip the flesh of his neck wide open, Witchblade decided it was time to stop him.

“Daegun, enough.”

Though he obeyed and no longer attacked the human he did not remove himself from his position upon his chest. In fact, he stayed right there. His pure black eyes were glaring death at the man if he so much as moved an inch in the wrong direction.

“I’d stay as still as possible is I were you human.” She couldn’t help but snarl the last word at him. Pathetic, disgusting creature. He sees a baby dragon and starts screaming for someone to save him and runs for his life. It sickened her. He should learn to save himself. There weren’t always going to be heroes running around with big, shiny swords ready to protect the weak and the innocent from what society marked as freaks and murderers.

“Just what are you doing here?”

[Elijah_Morendale]

I was moving full speed away from the tent, kicking up powdery snow with each step. My heart was gearing to explode out of my chest as I looked back to see that the small dragon was giving chase--and catching up.

"Oh shit oh shit oh shi--!!" I gasped in surprise when I could feel the dragon ram itself into the backside of my legs. I immediately stumbled, falling hard to the ground. A small bit of snow got up my nose and tingled as it melted. Without a pause, I tried to get back up. I was scared. Of all the times that it would have been nice for Nadia to take over and go all murder death kill mode on another sentient being, she was nowheres to be found. I'd have to remember to scream at that redheaded figment of my imagination later.

I was nearly to my feet when I felt another incredible impact against my side, knocking the wind out of me. A silent scream left my open mouth as I looked to the side. The young, white dragon was just landing on the ground, his teeth sharp and ready to tear me apart. The cold snow went down the back of my shirt as I fell on my back. Before I could get up or grab my dagger to defend myself with, the creature pounced on my chest, pinning me to the ground. Frozen by fear, I could only look as the snarling beast sat ready to open up a new breathing hole in my throat. Then, for some inexplicable reason, it stopped. Yet, the heavy little bastard didn't get off me.

Nadia suddenly appeared, lying on her side in the snow and propping her head up with a hand. "Oh, there you are," I harshly whispered at her.

She smiled, and her mouth opened to say something, but I heard another female voice instead. It told me to stay still. Nadia must've heard it too, because her face immediately contorted in confusion. I turned my head to the other side to see the creepy woman standing several feet away. The bright sun shone off her pale skin, making it hard to look at her. I didn't know where the voice had come from, but it was pretty obvious that it was her. "Hey," I rasped at her painfully, "is this thing yours? Would you mind getting it off me so I can breathe?"

The woman seemed to ignore me as she spoke further. But, her lips didn't move as her words filled my head--telepathy, I think it's called. Good thing she used this, I'd hate to see what her mouth looked like if those strings tore through them. Nadia, on the other hand, wasn't terribly please with this woman's abilities. "Tell her to get the fuck out of our head, chief!" She was bearing her own pearly whites, much like the dragon. "Make it stop before I kick her and her nasty little pet in the throat!"

I clenched my eyes shut and silently told Nadia to shut up. When the both of us were calm again, I looked at the mysterious woman once more. Speaking hurt while the dragon sat on my chest--something I supposed I would have to get used to, it didn't look like it wanted to budge. "Look, I don't know what's going on here, but a friend of mine said that he would meet me here. His name is Christoph. Kind of tall, got a bit of an afro, wears a dirty chef's jacket. Have you seen him around?"

[Molotov]

Molotov hadn’t cared to determine what had happened to the Golden Grass Inn. Instead, once he was offered the key to the kitchen, he went inside and grabbed the meat and cheese necessary to make himself a sandwich. The Golden Grass Inn had a surprising amount of cured meat for such a fine eating establishment, and Molotov was quite grateful for that. He haphazardly made himself three sandwiches and wrapped two of them in fish delivery paper and then stuffed them into his pockets. The third, he began to eat, and was chewing his first bite as he emerged out from the kitchen.

A rather fat chef now stood between Molotov and the exit. “I’ll give the key back to your friend…” Molotov said.

The chef seemed unmoved.

“Bloody hell then,” Molotov said. He tossed the key towards Mike. “Take the bloody key, and give it to your friend next time you see him.”

The chef snatched the key, but then returned to standing between Molotov and the doorway with his hands folded over his chest. As Molotov got closer, he realized that the fat man was no threat. The mutant could sense a strong desire emanating from the chef, but he could also tell that the man was far too rattled and scared to offer any resistance were Molotov to push him away.

“Well, you got nowhere to be,” Molotov figured. It was true. He had got his food, and he had no other pressing concerns. He looked around the Golden Grass Inn and was struck by a brief moment of sympathy. “Let the poor sod have his say,” Molotov decided. “You don’t have to do a bloody thing he asks, but just give him a moment’s peace.”

“What do you want then eh?” Molotov asked.

The chef stammered. “Go after Chris…” he said. “Please, I know I can’t stop you, but he’s going to get into trouble if he runs out there on his own. He’s just shaken up now because of his mother, but if he’s not careful, then he’s going to wind up in more trouble than he knows what to do with. Please, you have to. You’re a friend of his.”

Molotov sighed. “Don’t tell me what to do,” he replied. “Bloody hell, I barely met this Chris before he gave me the key to your kitchen… and I’m not a sodding babysitter.”

“Okay, please,” the chef said again. Molotov could practically see the man’s hands clasping together as he spoke to Molotov, as if he was desperate enough for help that he’d even pray to the mutant for it. “Please, you don’t have to know him, just help him…”

Pensively, Molotov ran his hand across his jawline. He realized that he was going to have to pick a side in the Civil War if he wanted to get out of Salvar alive, and perhaps looking after Chris would be his fastest way out of Salvar. He looked at the chef who was appealing to him so desperately, and Molotov decided that he would look after Chris, at least for a little while.

“Alright then,” Molotov said. “I’ll help him but let me go.”

“Thank you,” the chef replied. Though he only spoke two words, relief flowed profusely through them. “I don’t know I can bear to lose anyone else.”

“Alright then,” Molotov repeated. He was a bit overwhelmed by the gratitude for a decision he was making based on his own self interest. He patted the chef on the shoulder and then headed out the door.

Once he was back in the cold, Molotov wrapped his dragonscale cloak around himself tighter. He looked up ahead and saw the chef who had given him the key earlier heading off into the distance. “Eh, hold on mate!” Molotov shouted. “Look, whatever’s going on, it can’t be so bad that you don’t have friends to help you, right?”

It didn’t take long for Molotov to catch up with Chris. Politely, he extended his hand and offered up an alias that would suffice for the time being. Molotov knew, even with the Civil War going on, the government of Salvar would still be interested in apprehending him.

“I’m John Lydon,” he offered. “And you?”

[Christoph]

Chris had already walked clear of the town by the time the stranger caught up with him. His maelstrom of thoughts was so chaotic that he didn’t notice the other man at first. After all, he’d just lost… everything. His family, his home, and the life he’d left behind were gone by a random act of fate.

No. No, this was not the work of fate; his life was destroyed at the hands of men, men corrupted by power. They were men that would surely leave a wake of ruined lives in their path. But, he realized on the verge of despair, there was nothing he could do. Nothing.

It wasn’t until the stranger got within a couple feet and downwind of Chris than did the chef actually take full notice of the man. He smelled distinctly of old wood smoke and unwashed socks. Granted, Chris wasn’t in any position to judge; he hadn’t had a decent bath in weeks because it was far too cold to wash up in rivers and streams as he’d used to do.

“My name is Christopher Knighton,” he replied, taking the John’s hand, gripping it in a firm handshak before starting to walk again. The stranger followed after him. Chris fought down an annoyed sigh; the last thing he really wanted at that time was the company of strangers. “I trust that you found the food well enough. Is there something else that I can help you with?” John gave and irritated grunt, clearly not about to be blown off, whatever his motives were.

“Look, you have no bloody clue what you're doing,” John growled. Chris didn’t stop walking, but the formidable man following him kept talking. “That fat sod back there, he's scared shitless for you. He looked at me with begging eyes of a scalded puppy telling me to come after you. Now if you're going up against whatever wankers did that to your inn, you're going to want me with you.” Chris stopped in his tracks so abruptly that John almost ran into him. They had gone quite a distance into the forest by that point and were now surrounded by a picket of sturdy pines.

“What?” he asked incredulously. “I’m going to want you with me? Did you eat the wrong meat from the kitchen or something? Good gods, I don’t even know you. I just met you less than an hour ago! I don’t even know if John Lydon is your real name! Seriously, the last thing I need is help from you.”

The young chef groaned and started walking again. Before he went more than five steps, a large wall of translucent, frost-covered ice formed out of thin air directly in front of him. He almost ran squarely into it, but his reflexes saved him. Chris glared back at the man calling himself John. There was clearly much more to him than met the eye. That, however, only made him harder to trust.

“You sure about that?” John asked snidely.

“Well done, very impressive,” commented Chris, his sarcasm rising to match John’s. Rolling his eyes, the chef called up his own magical energies and melted a man-sized hole through the ice with a touch of his hand. He strode through the gap, walking faster than before. The other man just wouldn’t back off, though, which frustrated the already flustered chef as he reached the edge of his camp. “Listen, I’m fine. I don’t need your help. Whatever situation this winds up getting me into, I’ll be able to take care of it myse—" His words caught in his throat as his eyes fell upon the scene at the camp.

"What the HELL is going on here?”

[Witchblade]

To say that things had gotten interesting before Christoph returned was an understatement. The halfling had been downright enjoying herself for a change, but like all things her enjoyment sadly needed to come to an end.

The halfling parted her lips and practically snarled at the human when he mentioned the name Christoph and gave her a description of his friend. Unconsciously, her fingernails hardened and lengthened ever so slightly, turning into claws that she clenched tightly against her palm, cutting into the soft flesh therein. A fresh well of blood began to drip down from her fingers and into the snow as she carefully controlled the emotions that were bubbling up inside of her.

Did she know Christoph? Of course she knew that fucking piece of shit! He was the reason she was like this, he was reason she had been unconscious, helpless and completely at his mercy while he… touched her. Bandaging her wounds or not, she didn’t care, he had been touching and she was not about to let that go so easily. If he had told his friend to come here and wait for him then he would be back, eventually and maybe, just maybe she could use this worthless bag of flesh to her advantage. The human most likely had some kind of compassion in him, after all, he’d come to the rescue of those fucking cultists so easily, he was sure to want to save his friend and get rather bloodied in the process. Maybe if she was feeling rather generous she’d kill him quickly so he wouldn’t suffer too much, then again, he had saved her life in the end. Perhaps she’d spare his life completely. Her mind was not yet completely made up.

That sword of his would be the real problem though. She didn’t know what it was about that weapon, but there was power in it and he clung to it like a second skin. It was the only reason he had won their little fight, if it had been down to skill and prowess alone then there was no way he could have won against her. But that fucking sword...

For the briefest of seconds her eyes left the downed figure of the human and instead turned to the female lying in the snow beside him. She wasn’t real, not only did she not produce any smell or any energy signature, but she hadn’t been there moments before. Only when the human had thought of her had she appeared, perhaps his mind was degenerating and she was a figment stuck there, or perhaps she was some form of demon. Either way, she didn’t care as long as she didn’t try anything funny. Not that she could technically hurt the halfling, after all she wasn’t real.

“Please bitch, deal with the fact that you only exist in his mind. You couldn’t hurt me or my little pet even if you wanted to. Though it would be humorous to see you try.” The grimace that her face had turned into softened slightly, turning to more of a sardonic and twisted smirk as she turned her attention back to the man and his rather frightened and wide-eyed glaze.

“Oh, and your friend… I killed him.”

The fiery little imaginary friend of his suddenly burst from the snow she was lying down in. Her shrill voice echoed in the silence and nearly rent the head of the halfling making her glad it was only on the inside of her brain and not actually from her ears. That screech she had could probably make her deaf in five seconds flat thanks to her sensitive hearing. Then Elijah’s face twisted into something close to a crazed expression that left him looking far less human and more like a demon. She liked it, it fit him. When he went to move though, the dragon on his chest, growled and barred his teeth once more.

“Aww, does that upset you little human? Does it make you want to kill me?” The smirk on her face only continued to twist into one of pure pleasure. His friend was still alive, but this little bag of flesh didn’t need to know that… for now.

Snapping her fingers, the white dragon resting upon his chest slowly and begrudgingly gave up his post allowing the human to move about freely. She wanted to see what he would do next and whether or not he would have the guts to attack her. She didn’t have to wait long either. The silly little human rushed to his feet and reached upwards, wrapping his hand around the worn handle of a sword sheathed upnon his back. Seeing him pull the weapon from it’s sheathe and hearing the familiar ring of it in the air only caused her to shiver slightly with the anticipation of battle. Not that it was going to be much of battle.

He charged. His steps were clumsy and not thought out at all, not only that but the grip he had on his katana was too tight and his muscles too tensed. The crazed look in his eyes and the anger burning through him made his moves easy to read. All the halfling had to do was turn her body to the side when he raised his arm, smack his forearm with the back of her hand to throw off his aim and close the small gap of space between them. With that done, she wrapped the fingers of her left hand around his throat and began to squeeze, careful not to use her full strength. When his hand came back up with sword at the ready, she merely grabbed his wrist and twisted it back, forcing him to release the toy.

Instead of the desired result, instead of him possibly begging for her to release her hold, he did something she had never expected. He grinned psychotically at her and choked out a few mangled laughs between his strangled gasps for air.

“It takes five pounds of pressure to crush the human oesophagus, want to make a bet on whether or not I can do it?”

She laughed and tightened her grip around his throat, feeling her claws pierce the soft flesh as her ears filled with the sound of him struggling to breathe. It was such a sweet sound. One that was broken too early by a familiar voice. Turning her head, Witch stared at the human who had both nearly killed her and yet saved her at the same time. Releasing her grip on his friend, she let him fall into the snow as she turned her attention to Christoph. Her boots pressed into the snow as she began to move in a slow circle around Christoph, her hands tensed at her sides as her nails once against lengthened just a little bit more.