Third Target: The Dark Apothecary

[Godhand]

(Closed)

Godhand slowly raised his hand in the air, taking quiet pride in the fact that the undead shrunk away from it, before bringing it down with a chop over the head of the war-magi he had held by the shoulder. The man's head recoiled as if blasted by a shotgun and his body went limp in the mercenary's grip. Godhand gave a quick snort to clear his sinuses of the smell of rot before dropping the now neutralized zombie and scanning the remainder of his troops for anyone looking to make a move.

He was surrounded by a small contingent of Rangers. Well, they'd once been Rangers. At some time during their sleep the warriors had been turned by Xem'Zund; so great was the Necromancer's power that the formerly proud elven defenders did not even have to be bitten to be turned into his thralls. And, of course, it fell to Godhand to put them down for the long rest after they switched over to the Scourge's side. It didn't matter to him, obviously; he didn't know any of those guys. But a lot of other elves would have had serious qualms about murdering their own kind before they began to show any outward signs of zombification.

What remained of the corrupted Rangers were now much more disorganized. Now that he'd slain the person who had been, in life, their leader, they seemed to blankly await orders from Xem'Zund himself or one of his generals before taking any further action. That was probably the downside to being turned without actually being infected, at least for Xem'Zund; once their immediate leader was vanquished and without anybody there to give them orders, they simply reverted into vacant-eyed statues. Had any of them actually been bitten, they'd be mindlessly shambling towards Godhand like the animals they were.

Now that their wasn't any real danger, the swordsman was free to pick them off at his leisure. One of the things that pissed Godhand off the most about killing zombies was unless they were burned or dismembered, they were always still potentially at the Necromancer's beck and call. And since the gunman couldn't go around starting fires everywhere he went, this usually meant he had to go through a very messy, tiring process to neutralize them with any finality. Sure, he could have waved his sheath over them and taken them out for good, but the archmage that'd enchanted it had warned him against overloading the vacuum, so for the moment he had to do it by hand.

It was as the warrior tore off the last of the creature's arms that he finally wiped his brow, climbed unto his wagon and set a course for the nearest town. He knew this sort of thing didn't count; there were still four of the Scourge's high generals to go. Unless he neutralized them as well, the elves would keep on struggling with a losing war.

[Mage Hunter]

It had been three weeks since she had landed in Raiaera. She had been in Elven territory only a handful of times, but even as she did so, she knew that there were stares in her direction. The Hunter was a novelty to these people, a potential enemy or ally. Some people obviously were wondering just what someone armed so thoroughly was doing in a losing fight. She was interested in blood, but not the elves for once.

The Necromancers had to go first. Make herself a hero before she systematically slew through the ranks of the remaining Bladesigners, so she could escape with perhaps enough heads to return to Alerar, the conquering hero. That was her plan at the very least. As she moved through the area of the small village she could smell the stench of death. It pervaded the environment nowadays, saturating the skin and the food, forcing her to put up with its offending odor. It was a stench more pervasive than that of the so called "High Elves".

While the Guard had stopped her and asked her intentions in the area, they certainly couldn't just disallow a living person from retreating within the perimeter of the town. Even as she gave them no concrete answer, The hunter was aware of the eyes on her weaponry. Her own eyes darted about from under her cloak as she moved with a wistful grace. She had not had the fortune of seeing an area so thoroughly corrupted by Necromancy, but now that she had, she could honestly say this was going to go faster in her favor than ever before.

She could kill maybe one or two of the higher ranking members of Xem'zund's order of Necromancers, and perhaps in doing so clear a path for herself to Eluriand, and gain her the experience in fighting the mages she needed to be a decisive player in this war. It could even gain her enough money that she could survive in this Gods forsaken country longer than the week her money was projected to work. Walking down the street she would often wait to occasionally read the auras about people, looking for magical influence.

When anyone could be a necromancer, it paid to be paranoid.

[Godhand]

Godhand understood the kind of horrible, horrible work this was when he'd taken the job, but there were some things he wasn't expecting. Or at least, not expecting at the degree they were. There were a lot of terrible things about being in Raiaera during this war: the famine, the pestilence, the rot...One of the things that was really exasperating is that he couldn't just climb into the back of his wagon and go to sleep when the sun went down. The countryside was positively THICK with undead abominations; if he gave them the benefit of being able to sneak up on him while he was sleeping then they'd end gnawing on his neck before he could do anything about it. Worse than that though, worse than anything else in the entire Goddamn war was something a lot of people wouldn't have even thought about.

It was the smell.

The scent of Xem'Zund's corruption sunk into his clothes, his skin...He even had the paranoid delusion that it'd manage to get behind his eyeballs and he'd be living with the damn stink for the rest of his life. That, more than anything else in the entire God-forsaken region, scared him. Who could imagine carrying that sort of rot with them for the rest of their lives? He'd tried smearing flower oil on his upper lip, but that was about as effective as spraying perfume on a turd. It was maddening.

He had to take the job, though. He needed the cash. Godhand didn't know exactly where all of his gold had gone; he estimated he'd sunk most of his savings into the sheath, but the NWO's treasury was quickly depleting itself as well. Which was weird, because he'd made it clear that the only reason anybody could dip into it was for an emergency. Ugh, as if that would have stopped those Goddamn swine. Raelyse had probably spent half of it by himself just on whores and frilly suits. Add to that the fact that The Company's efforts to expel the manor's former occupants had left it a bombed out shell of it's former self, and the repairs easily reached up to four or even five figures. It was nearly every day that he had the same conversation with Jame, who claimed that he was something of a handy-man.

"Can we fix it?"

Followed shortly by

"No, it's fucked."

So, there he was. Squeezing some coins out of this whole debacle while those Goddamn apes relaxed and got into his whiskey back home. An unintended consequence of his actions was that some of the elves were starting to look to him as something of a hero. Godhand knew that it wasn't anything he deserved, though. The only reason he'd been paid to take out the Necromancer's generals was because they were currently decimating the elven defenders. The warrior knew that if the war was going the other way, he'd have gotten paid to assassinate whatever was left of the high bard council. It was in the best interests of the powers that be to drag the war out as long as they could. Weapon dealers...

As long as the blood was pouring out, the gold would keep pouring in.

[Mage Hunter]

Moving down the street Drusilia was finally getting exasperated with the furtive looks. Either the guards would make their move, and she would respond in kind, or they would not. It was tiring to her, to be subject to the rather flimsy behaviors of the Raiaeran guard. Further, she was here for legitimate purposes, since she was after all heading for the capital city of Eluriand, if only to figure out how to get into the City and ply her trade.

As her eyes took on a blue tinge she once more searched amongst the groups of people. A few Elves were scattered about the area, and it became clear that these were the mere peasantry, even as the guards moved about. The Hunter's gaze moved unflinchingly over the guards, who glowed a faint blue, possibly from rather ineffective wards against necromancy. It seemed someone fancied themselves a mage, or perhaps a cleric, still as she looked upon the peasantry, she found her first surprise.

One of the Peasants, a woman was glowing a bright blue. Not the shade of blue the Hunter had learned was a magically touched individual, but one who drew upon the winds of Magic. Her eyes narrowed as she watched the woman. Her walk moved her into an alley way as she pulled the bow from its resting place, beside one of her long swords. As she strung it she watched the woman with intent eyes. She seemed to be fiddling with something in her bag, before Drusilia smirked seeing her pull out something from the bag, a small vial.

Immediately the arrow was pulled as she smirked letting an arrow loose. It flew through the throne as people screamed, hearing the arrow fly through the air, only inches from their heads before the woman's hand was impaled by the shaft. As the guard approached the woman more approached the Drow weapons drawn as she merely rested against the wall, a predatory grin on her face.

"Drop your weapons, and you will not be hurt!" The guard replied firmly as the hunter's smile widened.

"Vith tir," She replied giving a rather rude gesture to the guard's for their time. One of the guards began to draw weapon before the other guards near the woman shouted for their patience.

The woman was dragged screaming for mercy in front of the Drow as she looked impassively at the ruined hand of the woman. Her eyes cold as she grinned in mockery of the woman's desperate pleas. Even as the guard handed a vial over to one of the other guards, "She was found with this..."

"What is it?" The other guard asked as he frowned.

Drusilia immediately plucked it form the guard's hands before she studied it and sighed, tossing it back tot he guard, "I suppose they never taught the guards to recognize Wormfang poison. A drop of this stuff would have killed the populace, placed in a well."

The guards all froze as the woman looked at her hand and whimpered in pain. Drusilia immediately drew her blade before it was shoved through the woman's chest, leaving it to exit somewhere out her back as the Drow shoved the sword deeper. As the woman screamed in agony she let her grin widen before she pulled the blade from its fleshy sheath. Kneeling to wipe the blood off on the dead woman's shirt she began to walk as the guards looked at each other dumbfounded.

"Drow, wait!" One of the guard shouted as they moved up to the woman.

"Yes?" She asked questioningly.

"Please, stay in the village a bit, we've had a rash of deaths, and you may have prevented another. Perhaps we could use one of your-"

"What’s in it for me, elf?" Her tone grew colder as she looked at the pleading guard.

"Why did you help in the first place?" The guard asked dumbfounded.

"I was bored, and she was a mage," The hunter replied with a shrug.

The guard stammered before he said bluntly, "We'll take care of you until you move on."

The Drow smiled as she said, "Now, we're getting somewhere."

[Godhand]

It was about three hours later that Godhand finally reached a town. It'd gotten hit hard by the war, but then which place in Raiaera hadn't? What once were sprawling valleys were now dark and hostile wastelands, and the grand architectural achievements of the elves that had once been their pride and joy were reduced to soot-covered refuges from the Forgotten One's marauding armies. Hell, the only real stronghold left was Anebrilith, and even that one was in danger of falling into the Necromancer's hands at any moment. And he knew, of course, what would happen if that city were to fall.

It was the last refuge of the elves, apart from the all but abandoned Velicë Arta. Hundreds of thousands of refugees, nearly the entirety of whatever remained of the once great elven nation, were swarming over the port, hoping for another desperately overtaxed ship to arrive and carry what few women and children it could back to safety. If Xem'Zund were to finally breach it's walls, all of it's famished and terrified denizens would be laid to waste. And then they would rise once more, and the size of the Forgotten One's army would be multiplied one hundred fold. The swordsman wondered just what the Necromancer would do then. With the land of his arch-nemesis' finally conquered, and his millenia-long crusade at an end, would he turn his terrible gaze west to Alerar? Would he turn his sword against the closest thing to true elves that remained after his slaughter of Raiaera? And if so, what then? If he managed to occupy Alerar and bolster his armies with their dead, there would be no army on Althanas that could stop him.

And then, of course, was the fact that very few veterans of the Necromancer's original crusade remained. It seemed that whatever men had once stood against Xem'Zund's might had been claimed by death, and had taken with them any knowledge they might have had of his vulnerabilities. Where once Devon the Starslayer, mighty hero of the war and the most noble of swordsmen, had stood against the the Forgotten One's wrath, now there was only Godhand Striker. And he didn't even want to be there himself.

Troubling thoughts on that cold Raiaera morning. He waved to a guard as he led his wagon down into the stables, giving his horses a chance to rest. He then wordlessly gave the same guard a hundred mark note. He didn't need to say what it was for; they both understood. If he left his wagon out unwatched then the refugees would strip it down to the core. A hundred marks now could save him a lot of grief later.

[Mage Hunter]

The apple was lifted with a casual grace as she shined it up. Her eyes looked at the fruit, a sigh of boredom leaving her lips before she gazed about. She had probably refilled her reserves of food, enough to get her to Anebrilith, and possibly further. The problem was there was no one worth killing out here near the edge of the Alerian and Raiaeran borders. She needed at least one head, one trick she could use to get her put somewhere important, and not waste her time slaying the casual undead that graced this doomed land.

And no mistakes would be made, this land was doomed.

The Drow sat on the porch of a building overlooking the crowds. Most people flitted about as they tried to live some semblance of a normal life, others seemed keen on talking with her, only to receive a rather rude comment in Drow, or questions about how dumb they were, only to confuse them. It appeared not many people actually spoke Drow, and with the exception of a few of the guards no one knew the insults she was throwing at them. It amused her to say the least, almost as much as the state of this country.

How they could think they had defeated a Dread Necromancer was certainly the punch line of a fantastic joke she was keen on learning. Xem'zund had decimated the Elven lands, and even she could see the beginnings of his corruption choking the very life from the land. It didn't take a Hunter to know that they were doomed, and yet people still fought. Better to pull out, and diminish his returns, rather than fight and engorge his fattening Army.

Of course, this wasn't exactly a popular opinion, and she wasn't keen on giving the advice. The fact that they had even lasted this long was probably the result of some Elvish stubbornness and the luck of others. She doubted any elf had struck a telling blow against Xem'zund's forces in months, let along the entirety of the renewed war. Her eyes once more drifted to the apple before she took a bite from it thoughtfully. The fruit was delicious, though she knew it was probably the last of its kind. Food such as this would spoil soon, and then they'd have nothing to replace it. Xem'zund was starving them out.

Her eyes flitted about watching the various people as she tried to gauge their threat to her. Some ranked so low she didn't bother with them, even as her bow rested against the wall beside her. A few of them bared further scrutiny, like the guards. She had barely managed to last long enough dealing with their rather flimsy whims. Another minute and she could have been cut down for what she did to the Elf Guard who had told her to stand down.

Still as she rested against the side of the building watching people go down the street she couldn't help but notice the stares. Apparently the war that had torn their races apart had caused more grief for the elves than she thought. As a smile graced the Hunter's deadly lips she relished in the attention. The fact she had saved them surely would chafe their better nature. To owe anything to a Drow must have infuriated some of them.

Just the way she wanted it.

[Godhand]

Godhand was famished; he was walking down the street, trying to pick out a halfway decent place to eat, but it was easier said than done. Half the places looked like blown out bomb shelters. The other half had been destroyed entirely. Jesus, even this close to the border the Necromancer's hold could be felt. Finally, he found a simple brick tavern that looked like it wouldn't quite collapse at any moment and walked in. The place was...Well, it was holding up anyway. About half of the bar had been cordoned off paper-thin mattresses had been strewn all over the place. This building, too, had been transformed into a refugee center. Not a good one, mind you, but I guess when the war was going this badly you'd take what you could get.

The warrior took a seat on the only remaining free table. Soon enough a surly man in a dirty apron walked up to him.

"What are you, some sort of big shot? Can't come to the counter to order like everybody else?"

Godhand clucked his tongue without even thinking about.

"Save the 'tude, guy. Just tell me what's on the menu."

"Meat."

"What? What do you mean 'meat'? What kind of meat?"

"Just meat. That's all we got."

"Jesus Christ. Alright, how much?"

"Two gold pieces."

"Tcht. Pricey. Alright, I'll take a 'meat'."

"Alright. How do you like it: burnt to a crisp or bloody as Hell?"

"Are those my only two choices?"

"For two gold pieces they are."

"Most places in Radasanth will give you a full course meal and a glass of good ale for two gold pieces."

"You're a long way from Radasanth. Besides, these are inflationary times."

Godhand looked the barman in the eye, grit his teeth, then relented and rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.

"Ain't that the fuckin' truth. Alright, I'll take it bloody as Hell."

They made him wait way too fucking long for what was basically singed meat, and when the barman came back he handed him the plate with obvious disdain. Godhand stared warily at the dish of the day. It looked fine, he supposed. It looked like meat, anyway. But it smelled off somehow. Sweaty? Gamey. Something like that. But his stomach rumbled and he knew he had to make due.

"Is it good enough for his highness?"

"Yeah, yeah. Hold on..."

The swordsman picked up his fork and knife, and even though the knife was decently sharp cutting the meat was still a startlingly difficult task. As the blood poured out of the pink flesh, Godhand hesitatingly brought it to his mouth. As soon as he bit into it that 'sweaty' flavor rushed into his mouth and he nearly gagged. He tried to tough it out, but he couldn't even chew through the meat. Finally, he spit it out in outrage.

"What the fuck are you serving me, shoe leather?!"

"Horse meat, miss prissy pants."

"God, that's vile! Look, take that back to the kitchen and burn it to a crisp. I don't want to catch ebola."

The barman snorted and picked up the plate before turning and walking back to the kitchen. Godhand shouted at his back.

"And GOD HELP YOU if you spit in my food, you fucking ape!"

"Yeah, yeah!"

Godhand gave a frustrated sigh and looked around. Sure, it might've been a little harsh, but you had to be tough with these swine or they'd walk all over you. Still, he felt real bad about the whole scene when he noticed one of the war orphans staring hungrily at the lump of meat he'd spit unto the floor.

It was just one of those days...

[Mage Hunter]

As she relaxed upon the front of the tavern she saw many things. A human male had entered the town, riding upon a cart with two horses. Tossing his money around he seemed keen on protecting whatever was in the cart. Frowning as she eyed the older man she let her eyes take on the blue tinge of scouting out the competition. Looking upon the warrior she frowned when the scabbard at his side didn't glow blue, but instead seemed to dim.

Non-magical things didn't dim. It was only when something was charged with the opposite energy of magic that you could see they were...

Immediately she found herself at her feet her hand grasping for something to throttle that human with. The bastard had something that reeked of anti-magic. It wasn't his, no, there was no way some common scum human could produce such a substance, even she had taken years of training to figure out how it came to be. The fact that someone of such low breeding could have one of these sheathes, was a heresy of the highest order.

Perhaps he had scavenged it...

...yes. That had to be it, the man had to have taken it off of one of her fellow hunters. That was likely, humans were a thieving breed, and she could see a hunter falling under the curse of undeath. She'd just confiscate the sheath from the man after she found out where he had gotten it. Better to keep such treasures in the company of one who could use them, rather than allow them to be out in the public, perhaps broadcasting that the Mage Hunter's were in fact a farce and could be killed.

She quickly gathered up her belongings, the apple left to rot in the road as she forgot about it in her hurry. She moved swiftly through the sea of people, which parted upon seeing the dark emotions running behind her eyes. Under her breath she muttered many curses in the Drow tongue as she closed in on her target. The Huntress would not take her eyes off the white haired man one second.

As she entered the tavern she had seen him go in, the man was yelling about how he was not going to stand for the food. A derisive snort left her as she moved across the room boldly. Not even bothering with pleasantries she pushed back a chair and sat unceremoniously across from the human. Her eyes simmered with anger as she spoke, her voice thick with anger and her Alerian accent, "I would like to know, what a filthy cretin such as you, is doing with a sheath charged with Anti-magic. Did you take it from another Drow? Where did you get it? I will not tolerate obfuscating the situation."

[Godhand]

Before he could even settle himself down again a drow burst through the door of the refuge, all fired up and demanding to know where the swordsman had managed to get a hold of his sheath. It had been a long day and Godhand wasn't quite sure how he'd take her advancing on him; on the one hand, he was glad someone had noticed how exquisite a piece his scabbard was. It truly was a masterpiece. On the other hand, he didn't like her fucking tone. Godhand looked up at the woman wearily before reaching into his coat and pulling out a Salvarian cigar. He drew a small needle he kept in a pouch on his coat for a single purpose, and that was to gently drill a hole with it into the cigar's mouthpiece. A lot of people just bit off the crown and spit it out but he always thought that was tawdry and low-class. Besides, this kept the flavor.

"I bought it. I bought it for twenty five grand in Corone. Now what business is that of- Hey, stop that! Jesus!"

In the confusion of the drow's entrance, the kid had managed to creep up on where Godhand had spit out the meat and popped it into his mouth eagerly. Just then, the barman came back and dropped the dish with a clatter unto the swordsman's table. The warrior bit into his unlit cigar and waved the kid over before handing him the plate with revulsion. He'd lost his appetite anyway.

"Just take mine. God."

The boy looked at Godhand gratefully, his lips still glistening with the piece of steak the warrior had spewed out. Godhand gave him a weak smile, one that couldn't quite hide his disgust, and waved him away before turning back to face the huntress.

"Now, what did you want?"

"You bought that? I somehow find that hard to swallow, that some random vendor in Corone could replicate anti-magic, let alone enough to permanently imbue that item with it. Tell me the truth before I carve it out of you, human."

Godhand furrowed his brow and puckered his lips, slowly nodding his head as if understanding. Then, faster than anyone in the bar could react or even see, he drew his blade and froze just as the tip was millimeters away from the mage hunter's pretty, if scowling, face. Two weeks on the road in the middle of flavor country had completely exhausted his patience.

"Before you carve it out of me, huh?"

[Mage Hunter]

The blade was brought to a halt mere millimeters from her face. To her credit, she didn't flinch, she didn't gasp, and she didn't react in any way that would befit the prey. She only smiled softly, revealing teeth as she pushed back from the table, her chair sliding to a halt at least a good foot from the end of the blade. Her eyes never left those of the human's as she drew her own long sword. The blade was held, tip to the ground, almost as if too heavy for her.

"I do not idly threaten human-"

"And I don't care about the both of you, either get out or kill each other. I won't have you ruining my business," The man replied as he eyed the both of them. Her face turned to a scowl as she looked upon the Elvin tavern owner before she looked back at the human, giving him a moment that he could have killed her.

Drusilia eyed the mercenary before she spoke, "As I was saying, before the tender interrupted, that sheath is saturated in anti-magic. That is not a common occurrence, and certainly is not something that would naturally occur. Only a few people know how to make it, and even fewer how to push it into something like that sheath. The fact that sheath has not discharged with how much necromantic magic surrounds us means that has to be a hunter's sheath. Now who did you kill to get that thing, and where did you find him?"

She tensed as she prepared to fight her eyes focused keenly on the older human's own irises. He would betray his move to her before she would have to strike him down, and take the sheath for safekeeping. Her eyes narrowing as she took it upon herself to avenge the perceived slight.

The boy that the human had given his dinner to was sitting in the corner chewing tenderly on the meat as he tried to stomach the ill timed meal. The stalemate seemed to be a standoff which only a twitch would end as she waited for his response. Her world had become the grizzled veteran as he stood opposite of her. Finally she spoke, perhaps giving air to her concerns, "I will not have some disgusting human violate the corpse of my kin. So either hand it over, or prepare to suffer the consequences of grave robbing."