Necrosition: Brink of Extinction

[Godhand]

Godhand sat in the back of the wagon, the gentle rocking lulling him into a sort of exhaustion-death as he blew a beautiful plume of smoke out of his mouth. He sucked on his cigarette like it was an oxygen tank underwater, letting the delicious haze crawl up into his nostrils and sinuses and massage his brain. He was tired. Damn tired. This wasn't even his war, but he was still forced to chase the Necrosition, vile bastards that they were, up and down the continent. And he'd seen things during the chase. Awful things. He wasn't squeamish; this wasn't his first time in a battlefield. But the wrath and sadism of Xem'Zund's hordes was beyond anything he'd ever seen. Towns, razed in an instant. Children dying only to spring right back up and shamble along with the procession of undead. Blood and bile haging in the air, so thick you practically drowned in it.

And the rot. The essence of the Necromancer that festered and writhed within anything it touched. It was starting to drive him a little crazy. The smell never went away, and he could only barely mask it with his cigarettes, which were quickly running out. But yet it remained, like a devil on his shoulder, poisoning everything he touched. He hissed out another stream of smoke and dug around in his jacket for his flask. Godhand took a deep swig, and considered his circumstances. He didn't like what this place was turning him into. The things he saw were bothering him less and less, and it worried him that he might be turning into just another Goddamn animal. He'd seen what this war did to people. Turned honest men into savage swine. And he wasn't even that honest to begin with.

He capped his flask and put it back into his front coat pocket, near and dear to his heart. The mercenary leaned back and tried to let the gentle gallop of his horses lull him to sleep. It was Drusilia's turn at the reins, and he knew a good opportunity to rest when he saw one. Sometimes when he woke up he honestly thought he was having a nightmare. That this all just couldn't be real; that nature and life couldn't be this impossibly cruel. But then he just took another drink and convinced himself that he was just being too sensitive and maudlin. That he had a job to do; people were counting on him. Not the elves, obviously. They couldn't care less. But people back home; the closest thing he had to a family. They had confidence that he was the best, that he could handle it.

And he'd be damned if he let the rotten bastards down.

[Mage Hunter]

"So, who's next on that list? Who's left for that matter?" The lips flew from the mouth of the exiled drow, even before she realized their importance. She was feeling the urge to hunt and kill another abomination, and even though her right shoulder was still bandaged from where the blade had pierced her skin in Eluriand. The dwarf that had done it had saved her life with that maneuver actually.

Really that whole situation made her feel far younger than she ever had. The dwarf was babbling on about how things used to be, and implying she was far too inexperienced to understand anything properly. What she hated more than anything was the fact the diminutive humanoid was right. It was frustrating because as much as she felt she was fully trained, she had in the course of the last month seen so much outside her scope that she was not ready to deal with.

"Let's see." Godhand dug into his pocket for the fading yellow paper, unfolding it in his hands. "Nialon Sunscar and 'Lord' Coldin Crowley." The words jerked her out of her musings before she shook her head. There was only two to go? The job was almost done, and where would she be then? The mercenary once more stopped her train of thought when he spoke up, "Hrmm. Could get messy. I suggest we don't be heroes and just take 'em one at a time, but frankly I've had it with this Goddamn country. Can you handle Sunscar?"

The Drow furrowed her brow in thought before she nodded softly, "I'd need the sheath, otherwise I'd have no way of finishing him off..."

Godhand narrowed his eyes. The air in the cart was still as they measured each other, until the mercenary finally sighed. "Alright, but don't double-cross me or else I'll kill you, your family, and so on etcetera. "

"I'll be sure to feign terror later on," The reply dripped with friendly sarcasm. She had been traveling with the guy so long, she just couldn't think about being angry at him anymore. He had almost become a comrade in arms.

"Meanwhile, there's something I need to do back in Corone. I'll leave you one of the horses, but taking the cart. I'll be goddamned if I ride bareback all the way back to Radasanth."

"I don't know about you, but riding bareback can be quite a thrill..." Drusilia replied a faint smile crossing her face. She let the weight of the words slowly pickle his brain before she spoke, "Take care Mercenary, with luck I'll see you somewhere down the road, with one more soul in that sheath."

[Godhand]

Godhand winced at her 'bareback' comment, fumbling with and nearly dropping the pack of cigarettes he'd found in his coat. If he rationed 'em just right, he might be able to fight off the nicotine shakes until he got back to Corone.

"Oh, don't you start up with that shit. I'm all wound up as it is." The mercenary flicked open his lighter and lit a cigarette. Normally he would have offered her one for the road, but it was a long way to Radasanth and he'd already made enough accommodations for his traveling companion. "And remember, if you try to make a run for it with my sheath...", he casually made a stabbing motion in the air, paused, then stabbed a couple more times for emphasis.

----------------------------------------------------------

When he finally arrived in Radasanth he had red eyes, cracked lips and was dangerously close to suffering a bout of terminal psychosis where he'd rampage around midtown, toss the guards around like children's toys and eventually crash after twenty men beat the mortal shit out of him with huge clubs. But, luckily, he wasn't quite there yet. The guards at the gates must have thought he had one of those faces, though, because in an act of uncharacteristic empathy they'd waved him right through without bothering to check if he was carrying any contraband. Thank the lord for small mercies.

By the time he'd found a stable his steed was half dead from exhaustion, which wasn't a surprise considering he'd dragged a cart made to be drawn by two horses what seemed like halfway across the continent by one. He felt bad for the poor beast but he had more pressing concerns on his mind, not the least of which was finding some way to track and kill Coldin Crowley. Normally he would have just followed the corpses, but given that in Raiaera the corpses seemed to have no trouble getting up and walking about made that impossible. Not only that, but they were just too damn many of them. He was sure that at this point Raiaera had more zombies than people per capita.

But that all became a distant worry once he found a halfway decent restaurant in the upper district of Corone. He'd muscled his way past the reception, this wasn't a dive, and seated himself at the first table he saw with a spare seat. The patrons at the table started to make a fuss but they quieted down once the maître d' rushed over, blurting out apologies in seven different languages before leaning over conspiratorially and whispering to the patrons who the man was. The lady's face instantly brightened, no doubt she thought it was terribly exciting to share a table with a contract killer, but the gentleman instantly excused himself and dragged his wife away. The mercenary lit the final cigarette he had which he'd saved like a silver bullet, before either the most fearless or just plain ignorant waiter came over and explained that there was no smoking allowed in the restaurant. Godhand froze for a moment, and the tension in the restaurant rose to near unbearable levels. Finally, he snuffed out the tip of his cigarette and put it back in it's carton.

"I'm sorry. I didn't know."

[Mage Hunter]

It had been quite some time, with Drusilia finally breaking down and saddling her horse. It had taken her awhile to find one, as quite a few towns had been burnt to the ground, and with it anything of use. The looks of the areas never changed, merely how close to the northern mountains that marked Salvar's borders loomed ahead. She no longer cared about such trivial things, she merely wanted to get on with it, and find her target.

Nialon Sunscar was a half-elf, never truly accepted here in the land of her "blessed" cousins, but never truly rejected like she had been. The talk surrounding him spoke of a swordsman of superb skill, a man who used the rapier as Drusilia attempted to use the bow. He was versed in some necromancy, and some magic, but in the end, she had nothing truly to go off of. The last Nialon had been seen, he was going toe to toe with the Bladsingers during the Day of Untold Agony, when the walls of Eluriand fell.

If this was true, and Eluriand was his last known whereabouts, it would be suicidal to attempt to reach the inner realm, where Istien University stood out like a beacon of hope. Drusillia held a little respect for those that remained in the university, despite its blasphemous magic. It wasn't that she hated the people, merely their methods. It was a change that had slowly gripped her since Aegon Warsmith had fallen to the sheath that even now had taken the place of her second long sword, sheathed at the small of her back.

Even now that long sword was strapped to the saddle she had stolen from the remains of what had to have been a Raiaraen soldier's mount. The saddle had been nearly covered in maggots, and she had ended up using her own blanket to cover the beast before setting the saddle upon it, maggot free. The soldier's body, like those of the townsfolk that had surely perished in the necromancer's advances had been conspicuously absent.

It felt like a war of attrition against the underworld, a war that could never truly be won. While the forest was green and the grass similarly so, Drusilia could not help but see a faint haze of red about the lands. Perhaps it was the blood that had been spilled, or even perhaps it was the fact she had merely been here so long it had worn the edge of her anger to a subdued passion, she couldn't say. Now that she was wandering the roads heading slowly for the ruined capital of the once glorious Elvin nation, she felt alone, perhaps more than ever.

She hated to think of what Godhand was doing, but really she had nothing better to do. Her companion on this trip through hell had left her, with a horse and the very sheath that had forced the two of them upon this bloody path. While her horse's hooves thundered with each gallop down the roads, she felt a wistful sigh leave her lips. With every night she had finally collapsed out of the saddle too tired to stay upright, she felt too vulnerable.

Had she fallen for the Mercenary?

She didn't know anymore, but she knew one thing. Nialon Sunscar had to perish, so the Necrosition couldn't threaten Ettermire. With luck, he would be looking for her, and with greater luck still he would fall to her growing skills with the sword. Still, she had much work to do, and little time left to do it. Surely by now Godhand had reach the Alerian port of Etheria, and from there had gained passage to Radasanth.

Even now he could be heading back, and she still had not seen the man she had been set upon killing.

She refused to let Godhand Striker down.

[Painkiller]

Why was I in Raiera? The answer to this question makes little sense, even to me.

My memories are as foreign to me as the snows of Berevar, and my mind is full of unanswered questions. Only the most ambiguous of answers are revealed to me while I sleep, and they are as unsatisfying as the rations in my pack. In my last dream, a massive figure comprised of human corpses appeared before me, his head disappearing into the clouds his above us. His words drip like bile from his rotting lips, and horror grips my soul when I recall the sound of his voice.

You will go to Raiera, he declared in tones as deep and heavy as lead doors slamming. There, you will be found by an outcast who carries the souls of the dead. Do whatever they ask of you.

And there my dream ends, to my inconceivable frustration.

I feel compelled to follow this abomination's orders, despite his horrifying appearance. He is my guiding light in the darkness, and I must do as he requests.

Through the course of my journey across Raiera, I have heard tales of a man called 'Godhand'. The people speak of him as a hero, claiming that he has imprisoned the souls of Xem'Zund's generals within some sort of magical sword. Could he be the one the corpse-man had spoken of? Only time will tell...

---

Kurze wandered aimlessly down a deserted road in the middle of the Raieran wilderness, her gaze locked on the ground a few feet in front of her. What was she doing here? She'd been wandering the wilderness for over a week, now, and she was no closer to locating the mysterious Godhand. Her journey had left her once-pristine robe in rags; what had once been a brilliantly white cotton garment was now stained a particularly nasty shade of brown, and most of her visible skin was caked with a digusting combination of human viscera and dried mud, thanks in part to a small scuffle with a group of zombies she'd stumbled into just a few hours earlier.

The relative tranquility of the last few hours was interrupted by the sound of thundering hooves. The mentalist's weary eyes slowly lifted from the ground to meet the source of the oncoming hoofbeats, her expression just as bleak as her physical appearance. Her grip on her spear tightened as she prepared for the worst; the lone rider was probably just as weary as Kurze, but with her luck it could end up being Xem'Zund himself.

[Godhand]

Godhand placed the fork and knife down on the table, removed the handkerchief he'd used as a bib, held his face and wept. Sure, a more discerning man would have noted that the meat was slightly overcooked, that the gravy wasn't thick enough and the wine was all wrong, but Godhand hadn't eaten a decent meal in a month. To him it tasted like pure glory. The tears were streaming down his face and the waiter didn't quite know how to react. A bit of the more alarmist folks working there had warned him that if the mercenary was displeased by the meal, he was liable to fly off the handle and demolish the restaurant at the foundations using nothing but his hands and his psychotic outrage. It was thus extremely unsettling for him for this reputed monster to sob openly at the end of his meal. He tremulously stepped forward.

"Was...Was everything to your satisfaction, sir?"

"God bless you..."

"What?"

Godhand composed himself.

"Nothing, nothing. Here," The mercenary pulled a handful of bills from his pocket and pushed them unto the man without even looking at them.

"Sir, this is far too much! I am but a waiter!"

"Hey, don't...Don't sell yourself short. You bring people food. Don't you know that a good meal, served well, can change a man's entire day? Hell, can change his entire life?"

Godhand stood up and straightened his coat out, giving just a barely noticeable nod to the waiter before walking out.

Outside, it was beautiful. Now that he'd had eaten, he felt an extremely pleasant sense of lethargy. The sun was bright, birds were chirping; now that the sense of urgency was gone, everything seemed magnificent again. He truly had the sense that life and the gods were intrinsically good and kind, and no evil could ever last in the world.

He had the good sense to snap himself out of it. He still had a job to do, after all.

When he got there, the place was just like he'd left it; a bombed out hellhole that no sane person would ever choose to live in. He was still in a relatively good mood, so he decided to play a joke on his friends. He kicked open the door and shouted.

"Freeze! Radasanth police!"

Then had the good sense to dive out of the way as he was greeted by a hail of gunfire.

"Alright, alright! It's just me."

He walked into view slowly, careful to avoid getting shot by anyone still on edge. The gang was all there.

[Mage Hunter]

It had been three days, and she was still a day's journey from Eluriand. Once in her youth she had hoped to see the Elvin city, if only to burn it to ash. She had grown rather patriotic in her youth, and perhaps it was that single minded thinking that had seen her become a Mage Hunter. Still it was odd to be accomplishing on of her goals, if only for the exact opposite reason she had initially set it. It still shocked her to think of how much she had changed during this war. She had gone from a bigoted single minded woman, to a cunning and ruthless hunter in the span of half a year traveling with the Mercenary.

Lost in thought she had almost missed that there was a person in the center of the road. She had been galloping down the road full speed when she saw the young Elf. At a sort of crossroads that would take her either up to Salvar, or on her journey to Eluriand. Immediately Drusilia brought the horse from gallop to trot, and then to a mere steady walk. She reached down and grabbed her bow, still strung for the constant vigilance of being knee deep in the Necromancer's main territory. She was perhaps fifty feet from the woman, more than enough room to react should she attack. Nocking an arrow she aimed for the Elf, before she spoke firmly in common.

"If you are alive, and wish to remain so I would suggest telling me what you are doing so close to the Capital." The words held a coating of ice, the coldness of suspicion and betrayal that had hallmarked the Drow's life to this point. Even in Ettermire she had been trained in subversion and coercion, if only to protect her from the other scheming Mage Hunters. They were people who would certainly try to use her for their nefarious deeds, if not sacrifice her for their games. It was after all how Drow advanced in the Alerian Army. The weak were not permitted to live long, and a weakness of mind was as deadly as a weakness in body.

She remained still on the horse, making sure to keep the arrow pointed at the chest of the girl. Realizing just how stupid such a shot would be, she slowly traced the arrow higher before aiming right at the face of the woman. A faint wind rustled the nearby trees seeming to pull at the cloak Drusilia had been wearing, and using as a makeshift blanket for herself. Her eyes held a hint of Malice in them as she studied the girl, waiting for a reaction. If she was going to kill the girl, it would be in her best interest to do so in a way that would make her unfit for future reanimation, rather than merely pierce her heart.

It was then she made the ultimatum, "You have ten seconds. Ten..."

[Painkiller]

Kurze 's eyes lock onto that arrow as it's leveled at her skull, her mouth agape. Even with her many psychic powers, she didn't have a chance of dodgng that arrow if it was fired. Attempting to retain some semblance of poise, she raised her spear into a ready position, preparing to defend herself... then dropped it to the ground with her fumbling, inexperienced hands.

"I'm waiting for someone. 'Striker'. I'm supposed to help him," Kurze said quickly, her eyes locked on the archer's weapon.

An eyebrow rose at the mention of the name before she spat, "And who is this 'Striker'? How do you even know you'll meet him?"

"Godhand Striker. The one who carries the souls of Xem'zund's minions with him - I don't know that I'll meet him, but I was told to help him." Kurze explained, her hands trembling as she slowly raised them above her head. A sudden realization dawned on the mentalist. "Are you the drow who travels with him?"

"Vith," The word was muttered under her breath before she spoke, "If I were to say yes, what would that mean to you? Obviously I'm not with Godhand now."

"What would it mean to me? Look, I - I know you have no reason to trust me, but if you are the drow I've heard so much about, I must come with you. I will do whatever you ask for as long as I travel at your side."

"That's well and good Elf, but how can I be sure I can trust you? With me killing off members of the Necrosition, my head would probably be reaching a premium price. How do I know what side you're on?"

"So you are Drusila." Kurze nearly cracked a smile, but suddenly remembered that she had an arrow pointed at her skull. "You can't be sure. I could list the reasons why you should trust me, but why would you believe me if I said I didn't care about this war, or if I claimed I'm not after your bounty? I'm not asking you to trust me, though. Bind my hands. Take my weapons. Gag me, blind me, just take me with you," she pleads.

"I ride for Eluriand, what good are you in a fight? I'm riding into the midst of the Necromancer's very forces to take out one of the final members of his Necrosition. I need to know that if a fight breaks out, I'm not babysitting you."

"Honestly? Not good," Kurze admitted feebly. "I managed to take out a group of zombies a few hours ago - there were five, maybe six of them - but I don't know how I'd fare against a member of the Necrosition. I can keep myself alive, though, and I won't get in your way." She pauses for a long second. "If I'm killed, my blood is on my own hands, not yours."

A critical eye looked over the girl, and the spear on the ground. Finally a derisive snort and a muttering in drow left her lips, before she lowered the bow and put the arrow back in its quiver, "If you slow me down, I'll kill you myself. Lets go."

Kurze stooped to retrieve her weapon, cursing her previous blunder beneath her breath. Without another word, she scrambled onto the saddle behind Drusila and tentatively placed her hands on the drow's waist, holding on for dear life. She was riding into the middle of hell, and she knew it; the thing she didn't know was why she was doing it.

"Thanks."

[Godhand]

He didn't need to do much convincing. They were all good old boys that'd ridden with him before, and lucky for him, more than a couple of them were paranoid psychotics that didn't like being in one place for too long. They'd had about all they could handle of Radasanth, so when he came knocking with his request they took it well. It was a good thing, too. He was tough but tired and he didn't think he could ride the lightning all the way to the end without some serious assistance. Sure, he had the mage hunter but more and more that seemed like an apprenticeship rather than a real partnership. Her last assignment bore more than a passing similarity to a test. If she managed to take down Sunscar by herself then she was ready, whatever that meant.

With his instructions delivered and his boys on the move, Godhand found himself with a bit of time on his hands. He didn't relish the idea of plunging back into that hellhole so soon after escaping it, and so decided to treat himself to a bit of luxury before going back to the grind. The swordsman strolled comfortably through town and entered his favorite barbershop. The barber was relatively young, but he had good hair so the swordsman trusted him. Never trust a bald barber; he has no respect for your hair.

The man, who as far as Godhand knew was mute, cleared out a chair and, wasting no time, swept an apron over him.

"Just a little trim today, Bruno," The mercenary didn't actually know the barber's name; he just looked like a Bruno, "And a shave would be nice."

The haircut came first. That's just the way it worked there, and Godhand respected that. The scissors delicately snipped away and every once in a while Bruno would gently push his head in one direction so the mercenary knew which way to turn to give the barber a better vantage point. The man had a light touch. Pretty soon that was done, and Bruno placed a towel around the mercenary's neck and warmed up some lather. He spread it over Godhand's face, which now sported a rough and uneven beard from the only rudimentary shaving he was allowed to afford it during his travels.

Godhand shut his eyes and dreamed he was floating in a sea of warm milk as the barber began his work. A good barber was a luxury to Godhand, and Bruno was one of the best. He couldn't trust just anybody to shave him; a lot of people would have cut his throat the first time he exposed his jugular. Not Bruno, though. The man was a saint and a hermit as fas the mercenary knew; he'd never heard of him involved with anything shady.

Too soon, he'd finished. Godhand lucked at himself in the mirror, still drowsy from his earlier nap. He looked sharp and clean. Now he just needed some better clothes.

[Mage Hunter]

3 days later, the outskirts of Eluriand.

It had taken them vastly less time than she had expected. Had she been the one planning the siege of the capital of Raiarae she would have ensured no reserves or reinforcements could come by blocking every major road. Then, if they moved it would be reduced to a trickle where ambushes could destroy the forced, before they could mobilize in any useful fashion.

Of course, this also depending on being somewhat afraid of the prospect of new troops arriving to help the enemy.

It was quite a different story when the casualties of battle could be resurrected, to join the enemy in a dark tide seeking to smash against the entire culture of the so called "high elves" and wash them from the face of the earth. The fact that they had not done so was a testament to the surviving forces, but if a stop gap was not put into place what dwindling resistance remained would be destroyed.

She paused upon one of the parapets along a wall that surrounded the once grand city. Her eyes observing the carnage below, houses destroyed, with plumes of smoke and dust rising higher. While even more districts of the capital joined the growing funeral pyre of the once grand city of Eluriand. Her eyes narrowed observing the forces, before she hissed, "Vith."

She had taken to cursing in her own tongue, trying not to unnerve her elven companion, if only for the sake of the job. Drusilia didn't care what happened anymore to the elf, she had proven capable enough. The city in ruins, it would be a miracle if the High Elves could even rebuild after a second destruction of their once grand city. It had been a slap in the face to lose it not once, but twice to the enemy of the Undead.

The sound of a rock slowly falling next to her caused her to jerk, looking for the source of the sound. Sword was drawn, even as she heard a soft chuckle. Atop the parapet she had no cover, which annoyed her, further she was exposed to whatever cruelty her assailant could employ. Still the sounds of boots scuffing against stone could be heard as slowly, from the direction of the falling rock she saw him.

Each step of boot seemed eerily placed, as if the man was in a dance only he could imagine. The man wore leather pants, padded for extra protection, and a similar vest across his chest. A silken shirt, tattered and destroyed from obvious signs of battle adorned what was his arms, and at each hand sat fingerless gloves. Had the story ended there, perhaps he would have seemed a formidable warrior.

Still, he wore so much jewelry to make even a noble blush at the sheer vastness of it. Necklaces jingled as they beat a staccato tempo against his chest, even as his boots continued to click against the floor before it ended with a rapier being drawn, Drusilia hand not even managed to think before she had parried the blow with a bit of the expertise she had learned from hacking apart the zombies that had surrounded Anebrilith.

"Such beauty, I would ask your name, but the dead have ways of talking about here. How is it that one of the few exiled Mage Hunters of Ettermire has come here, to seek her death?" She found herself looking into faded blue eyes; to the point it seemed a milky haze had overcome them. The prolonged life of their owner gave him a ghastly pall of death.

"I seek death, but not my own," She hissed as she pushed back as hard as she could. The man leapt adroitly back, giving her some breathing room, even as she hefted the sword getting accustomed to its heft. Sparing only a sideways glance she spoke firmly, "Kurze, fall back, you aren't ready for a Necrosition member."

"Someone has gotten arrogant in her time with Godhand Striker. I suppose you think you can defeat me as easily as he defeated Edorad, with the help of Seth Dahlios, or perhaps as easily as Grimstone, who you had no hand in? I know all about it Drusilia, you've spent most of your battles combating the mana that saturates Raiarae. You are hardly fit to serve even as a trollop to the mercenary who has killed so many of my friends," The half elf's voice grated on her ears, even as he grinned devilishly.

The half elf thrusted forward, and Drusilia sidestepped bringing her sword up in a cleave sure to take the man's arm off. She was forced to watch him shift weight and bring a punch forward that sent Drusilia back a couple of steps. Capitalizing on the opening he began to thrust forward with the rapier in a swift flurry of attacks. While she attempted to defend against the blows it was clear who had the advantage as blood sang through the air from the dozens of minor wounds.

Falling to her knees she clutched at her chest, glad she had invested in the armor, had she not she would have been dead, as it was the arctic hide was in desperate need of repairs. Nialon meanwhile cooed above her, "Don't fight it, I counted myself hitting your chest several times. Since lightning hasn't struck yet, I'm betting your body is slowly shutting down, and with you disconnected so much from the winds of magic, you'll be dead in no time."

He moved past the Drow even as his laughter rained down from the parapets. A boot kicked Drusilia in her side before he raised his eyes to the elf, "Ah, now for the little friend, what ever should I do? Perhaps I should pierce your heart, and allow you to die upon my Rapier? That seems a fitting end for your kind, after all the blade singers lined up to dance with me. We all know how that ended."

Pain, Feel free to fight for a little bit, before bunnying Drusilia entering back into the fray. My post will explain what happened during that interim, so have some fun poking at Nialon. Keep in mind he’s roughly level 5