A Profit Far From Home

[Poetra]

Kith? Is that you?

Someone was holding her gently, and something cool was running over her lips. Parting them slightly, she could taste water. Her eyelids felt weighted by lead, and she struggled to open them. The sound of voices penetrated the fog in her mind, hundreds of them, a degree of panic in them all. The acrid stench of lightning mingled with hot metal, unwashed bodies, and burning flesh, burning her nostrils. All of her senses now awake, her eyes finally opened, but not to the familiar face she had expected.

Hovering above her were two strange men. One, a formidable figure wearing a hood, glowered at her, though her panicked mind managed to register a hint of kindness in the azure eyes. The other was a boy, probably around her own age, who did not appear threatening. Terrified by their unfamiliarity, Ren planted her hands on the floor and tried to sit up, then push backwards, away from them. Her efforts were thwarted by the steady hand that had been supporting her head.

Turning her haunted, smokey-blue eyes on what appeared to be her captors, she fought to recall where she was. Events poured slowly into her memory, until finally she remembered moving to talk to the guard, and the sign. The shock had less impact than before, but the idea of being sold to another human being still turned her stomach. Completely terrified, the cleric could not stop her quivering lip or the tears that welled up in her eyes.

"What are you going to do with me?" Her voice sounded far away and scratchy, as though she had a cold.

The panic of the crowd drew her attention, and she peered out at them, though the burly guard above her blocked her view of the door. It seemed as though everyone suddenly had a better place to be, though their wild gazes often referred back to the ground in front of the cage. Following the glances, she noticed some people laying on the street, their bodies smoking slightly. They appeared to be dead, though Ren couldn't tell for sure. She longed to go to them and help, but her bag was with Kith somewhere in the Salvar wilderness.

Overhead, clouds began to roll in, and the breeze that had kept the warm day mild, cooled and quickened. Shivering slightly, the cleric sneezed, the soft sound reminiscent of a cat's sneeze. It's probably going to rain... But what will happen to me? Is this what my Goddess wills of me? A hot tear escaped, rolling down her soft cheek only to splash on her chest armor. "Please... don't kill me..."

[Malagen]

He damned well should though. Kill her, kill this young looking runt with the halberd, seal up the cage, kill the bastard that used his flashy magic and earn himself a nice little bonus for dealing with an uprising deftly. And yet even as the uncanny electricity shook the reinforced wooden bars of the cage and the slaves started to pour out of the cage, breaking around him and the girl like water on rock, Malagen didn’t move. Unfazed by the bedlam that ensued around him, his eyes were locked on the beauty that opened up her eyes in his arms. And like a giant machine in whose cogs a pebble got stuck, he simply froze, his usually calculated and eerily cold mind stuck in a perpetual string of calculations that led nowhere.

“Wh... Why is this happening?” a voice in his head spoke, and unlike his own that was colorless and empty, this one was afraid, afraid of the change that somehow was awoken. But once the shroud in front of his mind’s eye fell and he looked at her in something more then just a slave, he remembered and he knew why he couldn’t slap her, why he entered the cage. Why he went against everything he was up until this point in his life. The hair, the scared glassy eyes, the fair innocent look on her face, the way she moved, the way she talked... Everything about this girl reminded him of Dharnia, the first woman that managed to crack open his thick shell and chip the ice that formed around his heart. The woman who found death at the end of his blade. That was the only explanation he could muster that would at least hold enough water to bring some reason to the storm in his head. And he would be damned if he allowed that to happen again. The dark man turned towards the beardless brown-haired man that entered the cage.

“Take her away from here.” he simply said to the man, getting up to his feet and stepping away from the black haired girl that crept away from him as if he was devil himself. He couldn’t blame her; seconds before he was ready to stab her in the throat and do the same to her would-be saviors. But right now, when the maelstrom around him pulsated with unnerving power and the marketplace turned into a free-for-all uncontrolled stampede, he knew he couldn’t allow something to happen to his Dharnia... or whatever the girl’s name was. Just before he was about to leave the cage and enter the river of people that heedlessly trampled this way and that, Malagen half-turned to the diminutive woman.

“Run away. I’ll take care of the slavers.” he spoke, his voice still not breaking away from the usual flat chill that disheartened so many of his victims before he would thrust his sword into their flesh. With that spoken, his dominant figure entered the fray, the tide of people evading his imposing figure that walked away from the cage and towards the small set of wooden barracks that were the slavers headquarters.

He knew their exact count, fifteen of them including the old geezer that like to call himself The Boss amongst other, ego-stroking titles. They weren’t terribly skillful with a blade; a pack of wild boars with a chip on their shoulders and a body intoxicated by some local brew. But there were fifteen of them, which meant fifteen blades to dodge and fifteen lives to kill. Even in Malagen’s calculations that was a hard game to play. The odds were stacked against him, his trump card cocked, locked and ready to rock as his focus once again rose to its peak. All that was left to do was play the hand until the end and gather the chips.

He was tired of this mind-blowingly dull job anyways.

[Storm Veritas]

Sometimes, success is haunting, a taxing thing that comes to us when we deserve or need it least and cannot benefit from it. Such was the case with his own lightning-laced assault. The four guards fell free from the cage, yet the outburst of activity was far too overblown. There were many more watching than Storm had originally assessed. In a matter of moments, the townspeople were scrambling, and two strangers came to the back of the trader cart and prison. The first was wide eyed; a youth that looked surprised to find anyone there. The second was another causeless rebel, dealing a knockout punch to the slowly rising guard. Others moved, and the guard tending the delicate girl was moving as well. Things could not have gone either better or worse.

No good deed goes unpunished; what the f*ck were you thinking?

Anonymity was now out of the question; while he doubted the first to find him knew that he had caused this melee, someone had to have seen it. He became wrapped up with the event, and doubts of his own highly-wanted status left him creeping slowly, backpedaling into the evergreen trees which marked the back of the cart. He was completely unaware that none of these men had any desire to strike him down or expose him. To have such an outpouring of general goodwill and concern for the liberation of slaves was an abstraction; a prospect far too wild for him to conceive.

There were eyes on him now, far too many eyes, in fact. These people would identify him, point him out, make it quite commonly known that the man who had freed the slaves was the wielder of the lightning. An extradition would take place, and he would be pulled back to Radasanth. Away from the lands of Salvar, back into that fetid place, that wretched prison that dominated his memories of Corone.

”There’s no f*cking way I’m going back there. No f*ckin way!”

His words to the men behind the cart likely fell on confused ears, as a terrified Veritas was certain that he was seeing the beginning to the end. There was no option now. He had to leave. The fate of this girl, this pleasant little damsel… it was no fate of his. This was the time for self-sustainment, for the propagation of life, for the extension of his own days. He would not be caught.

He turned, and the inviting ring of trees welcomed him in their cold, dark embrace. He spun about his right foot and made a bolt for the hard firs, ducking his head to enter them quickly and seamlessly. It would be dark enough here; he would be ok.

The set of trees was no forest, but extending some three or four hundred yards, he could escape sight. He moved swiftly, ducking and darting and leaping back and forth between the tall and prickled pines. His feet found soft soil, pressing wherever he could find no leaves or sticks or stones. It was a silent retreat; a very necessary escape.

Better. Safe now.

He was nearly positive none had chased him, none had followed so far as he knew. From a perch behind one exceptionally thick trunk, he slid a head around the corner, glancing back at the spot. His curiosity was answered quickly, as he could see the back of the cart here with a surprising ease. His eyes pulled taut into a squint again, his body low and alert and tight. He watched, the consummate voyeur, awaiting the next set of events about the cart.

It was a strange thing; Storm could neither scrape the courage to stand face to face nor discard the outcome of what he had set in motion. He would have to hope the girl would be safe from here.

[Daedalus]

What the f*ck is going on here?

Banazîr found himself unable to think fast enough to understand all that was happening around him; time and events flew by him unheedingly, as if he was somehow removed from them. An unfamiliar youth with a halberd darted in behind the cart and knocked out the guard who was getting to his feet. The man he had come upon suddenly behind the cart fled into the forest, casting fearful glances behind him and muttering about something. The guard who had entered the cage now left it and headed for a nearby barracks, leaving the woman alone with the same youth that had knocked out the guard; all the other slaves were fled already.

But while all this bustle and hustle went on around him, Banazîr stood alone, silent and confused. What am I supposed to do here? If the hand of Fate or some other being has guided me here, then to what end? What purpose? Am I merely a pawn in a game beyond my comprehension? Is there some deeper meaning to all this? Or do I hallucinate, fantasize; do I project my own unreasoned suspicions onto the world's happenings? His mind was in turmoil, boiling with possibilities, but his next thought was hesitant, grim, plaintive:

Am I merely insane after all?

Banazîr shook his head. This was no time for such thoughts. The commotion in the crowd was dying down now; the guards that had not been knocked out or killed by the blast were beginning to come round and get to their feet. What shall I do? Whatever it is, I must do it fast. Should I merely leave, and forget this incident? But he could not find it in himself to do such a thing. Something had pulled him here, and he must know what. It was not mere curiosity that motivated him: it was anger. Someone or something else had controlled his actions by bringing him to this place, and the phenomenon was not unique: he had been compelled to do things against his will before. If he but knew the source of his compulsions, he would be one step closer to destroying them forever.

As Banazîr pondered his decision, his powers came slowly trickling back, and he remembered the guard who had so interested him before. If he was going to stay at the scene of his compulsion to investigate, as he had made up his mind to do, he needed someplace to start. The apparently emotionless guard had interested him before; he might as well continue his examination now. Last he had seen of the man, he was heading for the nearby barracks. He looked up, and found to his surprise that the guard was still walking towards them; Banazîr's introspection had not lasted as long as it had seemed to him. Striding briskly past the one guard who had managed to get to his feet, and was now emitting a long, low moan of pain, he moved after the tall, dark man, waiting for his talent to give him more hints as to the man's nature.

[Zerith]

Of all people Zerith seemed to be the one that was beloved by lady luck. Could one imagine just how surprised the youth must have felt due to the hooded man’s actions. Somewhere in Zerith’s head he believed that the guard would have just dropped what he was doing and attacked the youth. Yet for some reason he didn’t even reach for his weapon. He even trusted Zerith to care for the girl! Of course whatever the motive was for the guard’s sudden departure wasn’t exactly the first thing on Zerith’s mind. Somehow by chance he ended up with the job of helping this lovely girl get away from this place. A task he would be sure to accomplish, or die trying.

Things didn’t end there either. Shortly after the guard climbed out of the cage the stranger who caused the initial chaos took off and disappeared amongst the trees for some weird reason. Was he hiding from something? Or was he suddenly scared that something bad would happen? Whatever his reason for leaving were he wouldn’t be the only one to make a sudden exit. The boy, the youth that was using the cage for cover went off in his own direction, which seemed to be after the hooded man. In Zerith’s opinion the only reason the youth would have wanted to follow the man would be because of temporary insanity. If the boy was insane or not could have been anyone’s guess but Zerith wouldn’t stop him. He wouldn’t stop any of them from going in their own direction now. All that mattered to him was getting out of here with this girl. To where exactly he had no clue but he could always figure that out later.

The first thing he’d have to do would be to make sure the beauty knew that the youth didn’t meant to harm her. Hell for all he knew she could have been thinking he was here to kill her or make sure she stays in slavery. So to try and make the girl feel a little more safe Zerith did the first thing that came to mind, he calmly looked to her and smiled. The smile was a warm, friendly one. Definitely not the type someone would give you if the meant to do you any type of harm. It was a gentle smile, one that should have been able to show that Zerith was nothing near a threat to the girl, rather a kind soul that with time and getting to know each other she could eventually trust.

“I saw you in this cage,” Zerith began speaking softly. “When I realized there was going to be a slave auction I wanted to help the people behind these wooden bars escape and somehow thanks to some others that was exactly what happened too. All the people that were held in here have already left and now that hooded man has told me I’m to take you away from here as well. So I want to make it clear to you that I not here to hurt you in any way. Instead I’m going to help you get out of here and back where you should be.”

With that said Zerith reached his left hand out for the girl to take, “Let me help you up. If you don’t think you can walk yet I’ll carry you if need be as well. I do suggest we find you something else to wear though to keep you warm, it feels like it’s going to get a little chilly. We can find something amongst the goods some of the merchants left behind if you don’t have anything though we should get going before either these guards get up or other guards come after us. Yet that’s only when you feel up to it okay?”

Everything Zerith wanted to say was finally out of his mouth. He explained why he was there and told her what he was planning to do. The only thing missing was an introduction. That was only added after he thought of it.

“By the way my name is Zerith and although the circumstances aren’t exactly what I’d want them to be at the moment it’s still a pleasure to meet you. Even if I don’t know your name.”

[Poetra]

The chaos surrounding the slave auction was dying down, yet it continued to overwhelm the confused cleric of the Goddess. The giant man left, giving charge of Ren over to the younger man around her age. Another man darted out from behind the cage toward the guard, but she couldn't follow the purposes behind any of it. Finally, her temporary guardian spoke, giving her small insight into his own motives. He seems genuine... I wish Kith was here! He would know what to do!

In her mind, Ren could hear his calm, no-nonsense voice, ordering her to remain steady or fall. Taking to heart his demeanor, his rock solid presence, she firmly grasped the offered hand of the boy she now knew as Zerith, and pulled herself to her feet. Still shaking inside, her countenance was now contemplative, though her naievete was still clearly readable in her smoky azure eyes. Her legs wobbled slightly under her weight, but she ignored it, concentrating on the escape.

"You're right, I will need something. Perhaps a cloak?" she answered, her teeth chattering slightly as a gust of cold wind cooled her skin. "And my name is Ren..." Faltering slightly, she was not sure if giving her surname was wise. After all, he could be anyone! Pressing her lips together, Ren decided not to finish the introduction, choosing safety and anonymity over courtesy. "Where shall we go afterwards, though?"

Before waiting for an answer, the girl headed for the exit, the cold bars finally proving too much for her. To the left and across the street, a merchant had abandoned a mercantile cart. Quickly, she rummaged through the wares, though all she could find were tunics of various sizes. Well, it's no cloak, but it covers everything, I guess... Choosing a crimson pullover tunic made of linen with a large golden star embroidered on the front, she slipped it on and turned toward Zerith. The bright fabric stood out like blood against her pale skin, the sleeves far too long, and the hem riding up along her upper thighs. "Well, will it work?"

[Malagen]

The slavers burst out of the barracks with a groggy expression on their faces, their wobbly legs taking them out of the soothing darkness of the interior and into the blinding light of the day. But even in such state they were able to see that something is amiss, the heavy ruckus of the crowd echoing in their ears tenfold. That was the price they were paying for another night spent at the local whorehouse, drinking until they had more then their fill and until some sleazy filthy woman took them to her private chambers. Then somewhere before morning, when the first cockatrices were creaking in their deafening raspy voices, they would trudge through the streets until they found their bed in the barracks... or the ditch at the side of the road. Whichever looked cozier during their intoxication.

Today all of them seemed to pick the warmth of the bed sheets instead of the cold mud of the smelly ditch, and they were all out by the time Malagen made his way to the slaver’s quarters. Their sword hands held to their weapons just tight enough for the heavy blades not to fall from their grasp while their other hands seemed to be scratching over their personal areas in a slow animalistic motion. They were a band of walking dead, every sound to them was amplified to the point of madness and every movement something they had to put all their minds to. Not to mention the fact that their skull seemed about two sizes too small for the bedlam they awoke last night. Suffice to say, they were an easy prey.

Malagen’s hands slipped beneath his cumbersome coat, his fingers deftly wrapping themselves around the smooth hilts of his sabers and twisting them just hard enough for the blades to make a dull metallic click and release themselves from the clutch of the scabbards. In such manner, with his hands behind his back, looking as an old man with a back problem, he stepped in the middle of the circle that the slavers started to form. This was it. This was what he was raised for. All jobs aside and the money whose jingle meant food on his table, but what was about to take place was the very thing Malagen was made for. Battle. Destruction. Strife and spilled blood and horrific screams of gurgling throats that failed to inhale air and only managed to exhale crimson life liquid.

“Malagen? Wh... What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be...” but that was as far as the man got with his sentence. The demon in black moved with deadly swiftness, his hand producing a perfect silvery saber (help upside down) and launching it in an upwards motion. It didn’t exactly decapitate the man... Instead it slashed diagonally from his throat, splitting his skull like a melon. This served as a wake up call for the others, but the call didn’t come fast enough for the man on Malagen’s left. The second blade emerged from the insides of the dark figure’s attire, the katana bladed saber slashing the throat of a young looking lad. His brown eyes stared in disbelief, his hands desperately trying to stop the massive hemorrhage. Sweeping his blade sideways as he put his body in a hasty circular motion, two more were moved down, one of them receiving a slash across his eyes and the other falling to the ground after a precise slash at the base of the neck. Only seconds later and two twin slashes later two more were lying in a puddle of blood that was growing by the second. The rest backed away, shook their heads, decided to play it smart, wait for their chances and strike when the right time came. Little did they know that they could wait for that time for eternity and they would still end up waiting. Because the Dram Messiah was a machine and machines made no mistakes.

And then the thunder ripped through the massacre screams and even before he was smitten by the gun round, Malagen knew what just happened. His emotions happened, that was what happened. The damned black haired slave happened. She blurred his calm, made him do something out of the ordinary, made him rush into the battle without accounting all possible factors. And the factor that was left out of the formula of success was The Boss. Grinning widely behind the muzzle of his five foot long rifle, the slave master looked with satisfaction as Malagen’s massive body spun backwards and collapsed onto the dirt with a huge puff of dust. The pain was riveting, ripping through the placidity of Malagen’s mind as he tried to bring himself back to his feet. No suck luck. The bullet alone nearly tore his right shoulder apart, and even if that wasn’t the cast the remaining slavers were on top of him already, their feet falling all over his body like an evil rain. He slashed at them once with his healthy hand, chopping of one foot at the knee, but those remaining mercilessly mowed him down. It was only a matter of time when one would strike his temple. And when it did the world went dark and death came for the evil swordsman.

***

Except it didn’t and it took Malagen only about a minute to regret that it didn’t. A dull thud and an excruciating pain brought him back to life, the sound of a rib cracking just adding to the relentless wake up alarm. His muscles convulsed with ache, and yet his visage remained the same, no cringe, no painful cramp of his facial lines. He learned to deal with pain a long time ago and pain alone couldn’t break him. When he finally managed to open his eyes, his first sight was a darting fist that struck him straight into his left cheekbone, making his head fling backwards. His arms and legs tried to move, but the only thing they managed to produce was the clinking of the chains that held him bound to a wooden wall of the barrack. Once his head was finally back in the right position he could see the same faces that he saw before he blacked out outside. The slavers were all gathered up, their fists and knuckles more then ready to revenge the death of their comrades before they kill him in the most painful manner possible. Gathering the bloodied spit mixed with fragments of his teeth, Malagen managed to find enough strength to launch the unsightly sickly matter at the closest of the guards.

“Bring it, you wuss.” he simply muttered in a weak voice.

They listened to his dying wish and they weren’t about to stop until the man was minced meat.

[Storm Veritas]

From his spot in the woods, everything appeared to be going according to what he hoped would resemble “normal”. The rescuers freed this girl, this doe-eyed maiden, and shuffled her off to be disguised amongst the townspeople. He had actually done something good, and some small part of him welled with what must be pride. The girl would be safe, and he could escape.

That’s enough. I’ve got no time for charity cases anyway, no matter how nice an ass they may have.

As he turned to the wood, however, there was an explosion of sound and a melee ensued. The wooden barracks door thundered open, the word of an uprising no doubt at hand. Storm pulled himself down, a low, crouching machine as he rambled forward. He cut through the woods smoothly, his head swiftly bobbing from side to side, deftly dodging the low-hanging timber and stepping quietly around dry leave or loose twig. His eyes were wide, soaking in bedlam as he gazed.

The good slaver, were there such a thing, was attacked by a throng of men. Although he fought mightily, he was quickly overwhelmed, and a barrage of miscreant animals was about him. Clubs, pitchforks, even a few firearms… it appeared too late to save the brave warrior. This enraged the wily Veritas, as the slaver seemed not so distant from himself. A weathered veteran, no hero in the true sense, but a man who does what he has to do. This was a man that deserved a fighting chance. The supposed-diplomat kicked his shoes and untied his hair as he began a charge. Moving forward, Storm’s eyes flashed about the square before the cart; the safety of the girl, the other brave emancipators, and townspeople caught in the crossfire would all come to question.

But “Storm Veritas” can’t return to town. They know the man with the hands of lightning. Not in public; not if you plan to leave any survivors.

He paused, quickly pulling off his shirt and tousling his hair. Kneeling low, he pulled up the moist earth, smearing long thin strips of mud across his face. His lean, athletic physique was unlike what anyone would expect of the banker-type who had literally shocked the world. Within a period of thirty seconds, he was a monstrosity, frenetically running forth on four points. In his hands, the two daggers that he used so skillfully. He assumed a wild gait, charging from the woods like some neanderthalithic cretin. Looking up through bright blue eyes, he saw a circle around the man in black. He was being tormented, assaulted.

Time to change. Become a monster. Save mercy for those that deserve it. You are NOT a human.

He burst from the woods quietly, now barefoot and clad only in mud-covered slacks. The pants were pulled tight across sinewy legs, and his wild ebony hair streamed to his shoulders. He emerged from a section of forest distant from where he had gone in; and he ran forth on his knuckles and feet, a bizarre leaping jaunt that spoke of some missing-link style creature.

Before him, there was one man with his back to Storm, a club reared and ready to bludgeon the man in black again. Storm leapt, striking the man between the shoulder blades with a mighty two-footed kick, driving both daggers through the sides of his throat in some carnal game of piggy-back. The man crumbled to the ground, a heap of crimson covered gore as Storm turned wild eyes to the man on his right. A tall, gaunt drunk with thick white stubble looked down at Storm from above the line of his rifle; yet the un-cocked hammer told of the tremendous hesitation. His eyes told the rest of the story. It was the unmistakable glare of confusion and fear, exactly what the outnumbered Veritas would need.

With long rivulets of blood streaming down his face and hairless chest, the maniacal man-beast swung the dagger from his low crouch. The cries for justice and retribution ushered by the slavers had ceased, replaced with a confused, unsettling silence. The twisted kriss dagger tore through the lower leg of the slaver, and Storm lunged from his crouch, striking the man somewhere near the face as he bent down to assess his wound. The spray of blood was cleansing; some tribal shower of savagery, allowing Veritas a respite from his many crimes.

Yet they will know who you are. They aren’t THAT stupid here on Salvar.

The other slavers turned to him as the man in black stood again. The two were outnumbered roughly ten-to-two, but they seemed odds more manageable. Were the others to face the firefight, this could all be over quickly.

[Daedalus]

As Banazîr followed the man, though he felt his powers returning, he could sense nothing but the shell he felt before: cold, emotionless, indecipherable. But he got no further in his examination as the doors of the barracks burst open, parting to reveal a staggering mob of guards. Without warning, the guards' collective hangover hit his mind like a sack of bricks. He gagged, and another question rolled through his already overburdened mind. Why does my empathy always peak at the most inopportune moments? Focusing himself, he overcame the nausea, and looked at the scene before him, with both his biological and spiritual eyes opened wide.

The tall, dark-haired guard without emotions stood in a quickly-closing circle of half-awake slavers. Conflict lurked beneath the scene, waiting for an opportunity to emerge; yet, focusing on the guard who was the center of the storm, Banazîr could feel dimly an excited, almost feral anticipation. This puzzled him almost as much as the shell he had encountered earlier; This guy is taking on a dozen or more guards, and he's not worried. Then another thought hit him, almost as hard as the guards' hangover. He's gonna get slaughtered.

Still, Banazîr could not find it in himself to do anything but watch as the latent conflict rose to the surface—and emerged in a shower of blood. He stared, transfixed, as the guard exploded into action. Banazîr could feel a river of adrenaline rush through the man's veins—or was that his own chemistry at work? Was it his hand wielding the dual sabers, slicing through jugular veins to release the swiftly-flowing blood within? There was no difference at this point; Banazîr felt himself drawn inevitably into the inexorable killing-machine that was this man he observed. As the man's sword mowed down guard after guard, Banazîr's imagination followed the tip of his blade, partly in empathy, but mostly in gruesome fantasy. He could not really feel this man's muscles as they moved in deadly rhythm; but his overactive imagination combined with his talent to produce a form of self-hypnosis.

Some small part of him spoke, shocked, confused, alone: What is this I feel? This is not me. I am not doing these terrible things. I deny this! But he could not break free. Though he had killed a man himself once, still he was an innocent compared to the bloodshed witnessed here. And, like any innocent, he could not but be fascinated by the antithesis of his own uninitiated state.

The gunshot tore his soul as much as it did his ears. He found himself kneeling, his fingernails biting into the palms of the clenched fists he held over his ears. Banazîr was himself again; the gunshot had taken empathy as easily as it had innocence. In their place was anger, and Banazîr's chronic curse: madness. As he looked up, witnessing the chaotic crowd of vengeful guards, he saw as it seemed to him a pack of wolves—subhuman, insensible, without morals of their own and likewise beneath his own. He did not remember that the man himself was a slaver, nor recall the fear of the slaves as he had entered the cage; all Banazîr felt was rage.

His sword seemed to draw itself as as the previously unnoticed Banazîr advanced on the guards, so fixated was he on his prey. Though not a particularly skilled adversary, he felt confident of his abilities now; he was fully conscious through his madness, and knew exactly what he had to do. As focused as the guard he had been observing, he let the guards distract themselves with the savage that burst out of the woods to attack them. By the time the first guard heard his approaching footsteps and thought to look away from the attacker from the woods, Banazîr's father's sword was already hewing him, limb from limb. His screams rang loudly, but not loudly enough to match Banazîr's own.

[Malagen]

It would be wrong to say that Malagen made peace with the fact that he was about to die at the infuriated hands of the hungover slavers. To make peace with your own mortality one would have to be worried about it, clench to it, want to prolong it in any way possible. To the Dram this was all a game of facts, the whole world was just a collection of story snippets that were really just bits of information in one big formula that always led to the same result. Life was not something he would desperately cling to simply because there was nothing in his life to cling to. He was a bastard child of insane Ferioh shamans, his mind plagued by their teachings that exterminated everything human from him. He was an empty shell, drifting endlessly on the tides of fate, aimless, meaningless. In such life, death was not something to fear. It was a reward, a welcome ending of a dreadfully long and cumbersome path.

And yet that same fate that gave him one-of-a-kind in every hand dealt seemed the very same thing the kept throwing him this minute bits of hope, pieces of patronizing pity that always ensued when the matter at hand would become too dire to handle. This time it came in a form of a bestial man, a shirtless woodsman that came charging out of the grove like a bat out of hell, mowing down one of the slavers with his daggers and shattering the face of the very same bastard that nearly turned Malagen’s shoulder in grinded heap of bone chunks and torn muscles. And as if that wasn’t mocking enough, another leapt to aid the dark man, and it was none other then the same young runt that he briskly chased away from the cage only minutes ago. He seemed to be in an enraged stupor, relentlessly massacring the flesh of the man that was soon no more then a handful of bloodied stumps lying in a puddle of crimson liquid sprayed with limbs and entrails. It was a disgusting scene, a prime example of what infuriation could induce in a person, awake something they never thought they could do. But on top of that, it was a pointless carnage. Malagen was a murderer, there was no argument about that little fact, but Malagen made clean kills. This, this was the decimation of everything human about the victim and ultimately the significant loss of energy.

Energy that the dark man lacked at this point. Because even as the two enraged men stepped in to unleash their fury at the sluggish slavers and the aforementioned slavers turned their attention to the new would-be heroes, Malagen slumped to the ground like a lifeless corpse. His chains were released, the two savages more important then the wounded soon-to-be-dead goody two-shoes that wanted to play the role of the knight and free the slaves. And they weren’t too far off at their assessment. The severe blood loss that came as a direct result of a wide open wound in his shoulder combined with the fact that he probably didn’t have an unscathed rib left in his body worked well in their favor, bringing Malagen face down in the dirt and struggling to keep his consciousness present for the last crescendo of the unlikely show.

Truth be told, the Dram Messiah was ready to play dead until the slavers deal with the two attackers and he really does become a rotting corpse. With nothing to live for, there was nothing to fight for, nothing that would await him as a reward beyond the dirt and the sweat and the spilt blood. And then a man that was until recently deprived of all emotions gifted himself the greatest gift a man can give to himself; pride. And this new backbone whispered in his ears, telling him that he was better then a bunch of weaklings that couldn’t hold down their liquor, who had to pay for their women and who held a blade as deft as a ten year old with a mental illness. He would not be brought down by their festering ilk. He was better then this, and because of that he deserved death from somebody who was indeed above him, who had the authority to claim his life. No, he would not submit to them, bend to their weak wills and die like a wretched dog. No, he would arise, arise and defy.

When he brought his bulky figure back upright he was a goddamned apparition, an eidolon of darkness with a bloody face and azure fire where eyes used to be. He rose from the earth like a phoenix, his body as serene as his one-track mind that regained the uncanny focus and set Malagen back on track. He was a wraith, standing behind the upset slavers that approached the two saviors like a summoned demon, eying the remaining seven foes only for a blink of an eye. What followed was clinical gore that scythed through their ranks effortlessly.

His healthy hand grasped one of his sabers in an upside down manner and ignoring the fatigue in his muscles, the sluggish movements of his limbs retained the lightning haste. He brought the slim blade from the right in the horizontal motion and even as the man heard the high-pitched swish behind his back he knew it was all over for him. Yet, his head didn’t even start to roll down from his neck and the comrade at his side suffered the same fate as Malagen brought the blade back and completed the double slash. The two bodies that toppled over managed to disturb the remaining five, making their heads dart backwards in order to assess this new intrusion. The first man that turned his head got his skull split open with a diagonal downwards slash, spilling his brain matter all over the dirt and leaving the remaining eyes bulged open and looking at eternity.

He didn’t have much left. The swift outburst that took three lives in less then a second took heavy toll on the dark man and he probably had one, maybe two shots worth before even the new backbone that raised him from the dead would buckle under the physical laws. “Only one thing to do... Make them count.” and he did. The fourth man, a rather plump looking bald fellow in his mid forties thrust his blade at the apparition that sprung to life behind their backs and Malagen reacted as an apparition as well. His body spun sideways, his long black hair and his heavy coat following as a slight delay that nearly made the man look as if moving in a blur. This made the man pass beside him and struggle forward as his weapon struck air, but even as it did so it was met by a backhand strike of the blood drenched saber that went straight through the side of his gut. It made the man spin around his vertical axis like a rag doll, his painful wails sweet music to Malagen’s ears.

His sword hand trembled, threatening to become as lifeless as his other arm that was flinging uncontrollably at his other side. His knees gave out a welcoming cry, teasing him, calling him to allow them to buckle. His vision blurred to a heap of broken images and deviant colors and starry nebulas. Only his ears still fulfilled their god-given duty, and they were enough for him to hear a man circling around his weary body in order to blindside him. With a flick of his wrist, the dark man let his blade fly sideways, pinning the man to the wooden wall as his shivering hands dropped the short sword and groped the blade that stood out of his chest.

Staggering backwards like a drunkard, Malagen collapsed onto a wooden bench, his slumped shoulders and bowed figure a clear sign the man finally gave in to the weariness. It was alright now. He gave them hell. That was all that his pride demanded of him. Don’t fade away. Burn out.