Round 3: Champions of Lornius vs. Chivalry and Savagery

[Dissinger]

Your thread will open at midnight Thursday (00.00) hours and last for two weeks! Good Luck!

[Glories of Myrmidion]

The heavily armoured knight laboured for breath, though he had done little more than approach the precariously swaying shuttle that promised passage to the Floating City overhead. The air tasted peculiar this close to the esoteric arcano-tech: thin, diluted, as if somebody had watered down a cask of good ale so as to serve the last of its dregs to the inebriated midnight crowd. On one hand it barely sustained his muscular form. On the other at least it was clean, which was more than he could say for the slums he and his companion had just emerged from. Jehan drunk of it in desperately blessed relief, barrel chest heaving like the bellows of a forge and setting his mail a-tinkle.

Not once did he let his guard down. The open killing ground they had just crossed kept away the unsavoury tails who had tracked their progress through the shanty town, but the interior of the gilded spire housing shuttle station and accompanying machinery offered danger of a different sort. Eyes of amber-flecked sea green, nestled deep within craggy features and ensconced by the glimmering metal of his barbute helm, swept like a tidal wave across the immediate vicinity. Small groups of well-dressed folk eyed him suspiciously, once again making him well aware of his status as an outsider, a foreigner. The looks they gave Throm would have on another day sent the orc into berserk rage, except the orc's eyes lay elsewhere as he sniffed suspiciously at the outlandishly luxurious decor. But something in the way they clustered, something in the way they whispered fearfully amongst themselves, caught Jehan's attention.

Hushed tension hung heavier here than in the thickly cast shadows, far heavier than could be explained by their foreign presence amongst these xenophobic folk. He wanted to know why.

It didn’t take him long to work it out. Two plainly robed figures, one visibly more irritated than the other, kept a close watch on the passengers waiting to board, distinctly out of place in their rich surroundings. The handful of ceremonial guardsmen ostensibly keeping the peace here paid them curiously little heed, likely trained to ignore those so far beneath their station. But their mere presence charged the hall like a powderkeg primed to explode.

Hackles on the back of Jehan's neck shivered in sudden chill, something in his honed warrior's instincts screaming incoherent warnings...

The shorter one glanced his way. In one fateful instant, clear blue eyes pierced Jehan and Throm to the bone, laying bare their flesh and soul like sheaves of inked vellum. Only once before had Jehan felt so helpless, when at the age of thirteen he had sallied against a rampaging drake that skewered his mare on its claws and pinned him spread-eagled to the dirt beneath sweatily dying horseflesh. In the space of a heartbeat he relived every terrified second of those long, breathless moments: never sure when the drake would swoop back to finish the job, never sure when his screaming mount's death throes would crush the remaining air from his lungs, never sure when the agony in his broken leg would creep up his spine and render him unable ever to ride again.

He credited long years of training that he displayed no reaction beyond a thin sheen of sweat, well concealed. Subtly he shifted into a defensive stance whilst Throm, no doubt battling demons of his own, took the opposite course of action and brandished his axe angrily. The robed figures seemed to pause for a moment before moving to meet them, their carefully measured steps instant confirmation of Jehan's instinctive appraisal.

"At least they’re not pussyfooting about it this time," the orc offered as a snarling aside, eliciting a wry smile. The knight swallowed one last time, throat bobbing in finality, before stepping up to present his shield alongside Throm's.

"I am Jehan Leitdorf, First Knight of the Order of the Golden Eagle and acting ambassador for Olbina of the Five Dukedoms." His strident challenge shattered the uneasy silence like a sledgehammer through stained glass. The device of his knighthood, its namesake beast emblazoned on a field of sable, shone through the remnant shards. "My companion is Throm, also representing his peoples. We travel to the Floating City to pay our respects to the government of Lornius and to open trade dialogue, and as such are under the protection of this nation's law."

His eyes narrowed as he gauged the robed figures' response. Unsurprisingly, however, it was Throm who had the last word.

"Piss off or sod off, on your feet or on the ground," he spat, growling defiantly. "Choice is yours."

[Silence Sei]

The piercing azure eyes of the shorter robed figure twitched back and forth between the two men. The two warriors approached the same situation with different methods; one outright declaring his intentions while the other stealthily shifted his posture. Most would have never noticed the knight changing his stance, but the robed figure’s orbs had evolved more into crystal balls than eyes, predicting the various follow-ups that would come from such a movement.

“We don’t need this,” the other robed figure grumbled, his dissent rewarded with the back of a hand into his head. The taller figure lurched forward only slightly, selling the hit better than the blow itself. As his body moved, the two metal handcuffs crept out, binding the wrists of the taller man. He turned to look towards the smaller figure. “Do. That. Again.”

The words, spoken more as a dare than a request, gathered some of the guard’s attention. The nobles also turned to look at the bold challenge, the wind created by their arcane airship wafting the sweet smells of differing perfumes through the air. It was a nice reprieve from the stench that this man and his prisoner had accumulated during their journey. They reeked of blood and soil, of sweat and turmoil. The way they stood, straight up, shoulders out, told everyone around that they had seen their fair share of fights. It wasn’t until a particularly rough gust of wind blew through the area that the brown, tearing hood of the shorter figure came off of the head of the shorter man.

There were gasps from the crowd at the sight of the orange hair, a jarring color when compared to the cold, blue eyes. His normally pale skin had become darkened from the sun of Lornius in the past few weeks, but the figure garnered more attention now that his identity had been revealed. Standing amongst the nobles and guards, waiting to board the transportation was none other than ‘Silence’ Sei Orlouge, Hero of Radasanth, Avatar of Alerar, liberator of countries.

His eyes shifted towards his companion, then back to the other two men. Before anyone could speak up, the Mystic’s hand reached up, grabbing the hood of the taller figure, a small puff of dust rising into the air only to be blown away by the man made winds. The second man’s identity now revealed, the guards suddenly took action, weapons at the ready and aimed at the two warriors. Though they stood their ground, Sei could see the slight shivers on the skin of the soldiers, a sign of fear. They were afraid of the combined might of Sei Orlouge and Max Dirks; Hero and Criminal.

Both Sei and Dirks raised their hands up, the handcuffs now glistening in the light. Sei looked around at their situation, surrounded by dozens of Lornius guards, and smiled. Their armor was pristine, their swords and spears sharpened to a fine point, their shields engraved with the symbol of the Lornius army. These men would provide an ample enough distraction for the men who had issued their challenge.

“Gentlemen,” the voice boomed into the minds of every guardsmen, their weapons unrelenting at keeping the fugitive and his friend at bay, “I am Sei Orlouge, here on official business from Corone. I have come to deliver the wanted criminal Max Dirks to the justice of Lornius. If I am granted passage upon your ship, I promise that I will ensure this heathen is brought into the cells of Terrinore.”

Perhaps it was the fact that Terrinore had allegedly been closed for years, or maybe that Sei was known to be Max Dirks’ closest friend and confidant. Either way, the guards tightened the grip on their blades, taking a few steps towards their targets in a unified formation. The innocent nobles had begun clearing out by this point, probably more afraid of getting blood on their silks and minks than of the physical harm that could come from being a bystander.

Sei's hand went towards his head, his thumb and index finger rubbing his temples ever so slowly. “Great plan Sei,” Dirks growled.

“Oh to Haidia with this”, Sei looked towards the soldiers once more, “You know what? That orc is the true Max Dirks.” Sei’s finger pointed towards the men that had been watching the events transpire. “He’s the one you want.”

Such a ruse would not have had any merit if not for the psychic’s ability to force persuasion upon people. The guards, though righteous in their intentions, all turned towards where the mute had pointed, their weapons shifting with their bodies as they closed in on the adjacent pair of warriors. Sei looked to Dirks, running straight towards the airship. With any luck, the higher-ups had given up their ride this day.

“And that, my friend,” Sei smiled as he ‘spoke’ to Dirks, “was Plan B..”

[Max Dirks]

Like all of “Silence” Sei’s schemes, “plan B” failed miserably. Dirks could only watch helplessly as the elevator’s doors slammed shut and the machine immediately started to ascend to the heavens. Regardless of Sei's persuasion, the mere mention of Dirks' name was enough to put the shantytown under lock down. He was sure he heard a loud warning horn sound from above as well. With a loud cry, Dirks slid to a stop and threw the Ixian cloak and the fake shackles to the ground. He pulled out his Beretta and fired two shots at the hoisting cables, but his bullets were unable to penetrate the heavy steel wiring.

“God damn it,” he screamed, turning to the Mystic. Every decision Sei made lately had taken them further from their goal. The plan was supposed to be simple: sneak into the country under the guise of the Lornius Corporate Challenge and steal the anti-magic amulet to awaken Dirks’ long lost love. However, Sei’s ridiculous crusade to protect the innocent from Dirks’ wrath had led them from one impossible situation to another. Not only had they ruined the tournament, but now the entire country was hunting them down.

Dirks couldn’t even explain the sheer idiocity of the current plan. The criminal was to Lornius what Xem’Zund was to Raiaera. Everyone in this god forsaken country wanted to kill him on sight. Why Sei would want to announce their presence this close to the Capital City was beyond reason. In fact, a better question was why Dirks even agreed to this plan in the first place. Did that fucking cherub use force persuade on him again? Dirks had half a mind to kill his “friend” right then and there, but if he killed Sei, then Starlynn would be lost forever.

Dirks grit his teeth and forced himself to calm down. By this time, the guards not affected by Sei’s force persuade skill were closing around them. Dirks took a deep breath and looked into the air. Ever since the mishap at the Lotho Mountains, Dirks knew it would come to this. With a flick of his wrist, Dirks holstered his gun and moved himself behind the Mystic. He put his left hand on Sei’s shoulder and pointed his right at the elevator ascending quickly above. “Fly…” Dirks whispered coldly into the Mystic’s ear.

[Tusk]

If not for his association with Jehan, Throm would have believed all skraelings mad beyond comprehension, excuse, and pity. The mismatched pair were insulted and assaulted at every turn on the hated isle of Lornius, a bastion of weakness and base intolerance. The people here were like a dry pile of boom-powder and he was a chunk of flint just waiting to be struck and now, at last, the sparks were flying. Throm was elated.

There was every reason to cut and maim, to crush and slaughter. The adrenaline and the rage flowed free, and as violence loomed, the orc dreamed of a bloody future for this place – a near one, when his people came to conquer instead of talk. Why had it ever seemed wise to talk?

One of the stupid skraelings tried to skewer Throm with a spear so flimsy as to seem a toy. He turned the blade aside and, ignoring a half-hearted shout or protest from Jehan, he brought his hacking blade down on the shoulder joint of the guard’s armor. The soldier didn’t scream, to his credit, but went down on his knees as blood welled up and flowed in rivulets down the silvery plate. Their tin clothes made them slow and clumsy.

“You fucking monster,” someone said behind him, seething. Throm knew some sort of magic was at work here – how else could these men so easily accept that a orc had a man’s name? – but he didn’t doubt that these people would think him monstrous at the best of times. He twisted at the torso and turned, and brought his blade up, and when the armored figure went down with a broken neck the orc felt no remorse. He kicked the corpse aside roaring.

But his voice was cut short by a sudden crack, and he flinched and turned. Everyone did. One of the robed skraelings had a small tool raised at the rapidly ascending lift-cart, and was firing some sort of projectiles into the air ineffectively.

“Stop them!” one of the guards shouted. “Throw down your weapons!”

Almost half of the soldiers peeled away from Throm and Jehan, and instead charged the other mysterious pair, weapons raised. The orc was not, of course, forgotten, but he appreciated the breathing room. Another armor-clad runt tried to stick a spear in his gut, but Throm buried his blade in the man’s side, right under the arm, and left it there. With his shield hand he grabbed the soon-to-be corpse, and with the newly freed hand he retrieved his primed crossbow from its place on his back. He rested the stock on the soldier’s shoulder, took aim, and then let a bolt fly at the once-robed pair.

With all luck, it would hit the one in the back and go right through to the other. Throm bared his teeth in an approximation of a smile, imagining the ragged skraelings pig-stuck together.

It felt good to kill again, and he planned to binge.

[Glories of Myrmidion]

The names ‘Sei Orlouge’ and ‘Max Dirks’ meant little to Jehan. Heroes and villains of the south had little bearing on the lands of the far north whence he hailed. But the two names alone held sufficient power to persuade the guards that he and Throm were their enemies… and judging by the hatred in their eyes, quite powerful enemies at that.

Strangling a curse as the tide of bronze armour and scarlet cloaks swamped them, he quickly found himself fully occupied with the deadly dance of spear and shield. Throm ploughed into their ranks with reckless abandon, glorying in the bloodshed, and Jehan let the brutal storm of death and destruction take the lead. The knight recognised the outburst of suppressed repression in every bloody swing of Throm’s axe, and once again shuddered internally at the fine line he walked in calling the greenskin his companion. An acquaintance with common goals, certainly; a brother-in-arms, even, for they had earned each other’s respect against the most terrible of foes. But only an orc – or the most heartless and bloodthirsty of men – could revel in senseless slaughter in quite the manner Throm did.

Yet in this stand they were allies, brothers in arms once more. And not even Throm would have showed the base cunning that ‘Sei Orlouge’ had displayed in setting the guards upon them. The knightly code by which Jehan lived actually found it easier to accept the orc’s response to the situation, the relished challenge involved in cutting their way free. Which was why he watched the orc’s back, keeping the circle of guards at bay with great sweeps of his longsword, and more than once burying its hilt in the side of heads that strayed too close.

Somewhere in the swirling melee he lost his shield, torn from his grasp and buried amidst the broken and bloodied heaps left in Throm’s wake. He would have a few fresh bruises to wake up to the next morning as well, but his armour had done its job. As the pressure finally eased he gripped his bloodied sword in both hands, breathing fiercely into the blood-perfumed sanctuary, and spared a glance at the two robed figures who had set off the firebomb in a powderkeg.

Throm’s crossbow hummed. Jehan sensed the orc’s intent, the cunning beneath the bloodlust that picked out the pair of targets for destruction. To his surprise, he found himself sharing the sensation. He had no idea who they were, or why they had sought to create such a confrontation, but their purpose was obviously not benign and peaceful. Justice beckoned, and the chance to expedite his mission by presenting those who disrupted the peace before the Council.

Trepidation gave way to anticipation, the cold fear he had felt when looking upon the smaller figure for the first time mutating into something hot and pure.

“For Olbina!” he bellowed, longsword sweeping high in challenge as he started forward. Behind him, Thorm roared a matching warcry. Together knight and orc, chivalry and savagery, charged forth once more into the fray.

[Silence Sei]

Sei could hear the loud metal-on metal contact. It took every shred of the Mystic’s will in order to keep from turning around and helping the people he had just endangered. Dirks sensed this lack of commitment in his friend, and quickly gave the magician’s shoulder a quick squeeze to jar him back to the situation. The mute’s eyes narrowed as the two approached their goal, only briefly looking back to see how their tournament opponents were faring against their impromptu enemies.

Sei grabbed Dirks by the jumpsuit, throwing the gunslinger onto the ground. He stepped forward as the crossbow bolt flew straight for his person, the projectile stopping just an inch before making contact with the hero’s body. An echo of shattering glass rang throughout the open and smoggy skies, perhaps even louder than the booming alarm. All around Sei’s being, fragments of shattered crystal began to peel off from the air around him, until his entire body seemed to be coated in this glass-like armor.

He smiled as he felt the sturdy hand of Max Dirks grab at his shoulder once more, the glass armor now enveloping his partner’s form as well. The glass blasted outwards from the duo, a crystalline display of power. He could feel Dirks nails as they dug deeper into his skin, causing the mute to squirm a bit in order to readjust himself. He could hear the people below calling for his friend’s head, for the roads to run red with the blood of Max Dirks.

At this point, he could hardly blame them.

He reached into his pocket, withdrawing a simple folding fan, the trim of the weapon laced with white feather. He unfolded the item, placing it over his face as he gave his opponents a smug look. It was as if he were daring the orc and his knightly friend to follow. That is, if they could.

Two large butterfly wings, orange with speckles of blue and black, sprouted from beneath the orange haired man’s back, his compatriot finally grabbing onto the Mystic with his free hand. Sei bent down, and sprung up into the air, straight towards the cloud of smog that seemed to be created by the industrialization of Lornius. A blessing that Max Dirks had bestowed upon the now ungrateful people. Sei could relate; even in his beloved Corone, the once revered hero was now despised by a small group of radicals due to his extreme takeover of the country.

He could feel the smog across his skin, heating up his body and filling his lungs with pollution. Once the Mystic was sure that the two of them were out of sight from the crowd below, he paused, his wings flapping and pushing more and more smoke away from their persons. “Now Dirks. You will tell me whats going on, not a detail left out, or I swear to the Thaynes I will drop you here and now.”

It was the play Sei had been hoping for since he began to sense something off about his friend. Now, all of the cards were in the hands of the youngest Orlouge.

[Max Dirks]

Sorry for the delay guys. I was in NYC for the weekend! I'll be able to post at least one, probably twice a day to finish this one up before Friday.

Dirks twitched when Sei made his threat. If you drop me so help me god I’ll rip out your butterfly wings midflight and land on your broken corpse. The Mystic must have been reading Dirks’ mind, because just as the criminal finished his thought, Sei shuttered and the two lost some altitude.

Eventually Sei leveled off and the two ascended in silence for a moment. Once the sting of Sei’s threat wore off, a hundred different excuses flashed through Dirks’ mind. He eventually settled on one. “Sei…” he whispered, unsure if Sei would hear him through the passing wind. “Seven years ago, you lost control of your doppleganger while fighting me. When I saved your daughter from your own magic spawn, you swore to me a life debt. A debt that I intend to call in today…” Sei lurched, and Dirks knew he could hear him.

“When I first arrived in Althanas, I stole an anti-magic amulet from the Radasanth Royal Museum and used it to kill the demi-god Irisathena in the bazaar. For years that amulet protected me from magic and allowed me to usurp control of this pitiful continent…until I lost it during the coup.”

Dirks looked down before he continued, watching the guards below turn into smaller dots. He wanted to lie, but the truth kept pouring out. “The amulet holds a deadly secret. It operates on the souls of the mages it absorbs. I killed countless mages to strengthen it…some you knew well. But even now it is not powerful enough to break the magical barrier surrounding Starlynn.”

Sei closed his eyes, hiding tears. He already knew what Dirks was going to say. “In order to save Starlynn I need the stone to absorb the most powerful soul on Althanas---yours. And if you won’t offer it to me freely, I will take it...”

[Tusk]

“What the hell is going on here!?”

The metal clad fighters surrounding Throm suddenly stepped away and stood at attention in a series of automatic, disciplined motions. The orc was impressed, but noted that their eyes remained locked on him. If he resumed his attack, he had no doubt the chaos would resume as if it had gone without interruption. Throm was all too ready to do exactly that when he felt Jehan’s gauntlet fall upon his shoulder, and while he did not sheath his bloodied blade, nor did he stick it in the nearest skraeling. Instead he turned to glance at a bellowing human, newly entering the scene, and Throm had to admit he was an impressive sight. His helmet was tasseled and his shield decorated lavishly, and his scabbard was gilded. If there were ever a leader of modern men, here it was.

“Peace!” Jehan said in return, and when nobody tried to kill him for a few seconds he again declared himself, name, title, and his purpose on that gods-forsaken island.

“None of that explains the bloodbath I see before me,” the captain bellowed, hand on the hilt of his sword.

“We merely defended ourselves, sir,” Jehan said. “There has been a great misunderstanding here, compounded upon by magic.”

“Magic?”

Jehan pointed up.

“I pray the name Max Dirks means more to you than it does to me,” Jehan said. “I believe, sir, that we have a common enemy.”

Behind his barbute the captain’s jaw went slack and his cheeks paled. His eyes searched, momentarily blind to the world, and then they turned to the nearest soldier. “Is this true?” he said, suddenly quiet.

“It would appear so, sir,” the soldier replied.

“Signal the elevator,” the captain said, and his voice was hardly a whisper echoing metallically within his helm. “Get us up there, now.”

“Let us help,” the knight said.

Throm’s gaze snapped to his companion. “It’s the least we can do,” Jehan told him.

“Max Dirks owes this country a debt of blood and suffering he could never repay given a thousand lifetimes,” the captain said, venomously quiet. “This is our fight.”

Throm grunted, wiping the edges of his blade off on the leg of his trousers. “No arguing that,” the orc said, “but it looks like your Dirks just dragged us into it. Those two just shrugged off swords and quarrels and then flew away, Skraeling. You’ll need every blade you can get.”

The captain looked between the two strange foreigners, and then he glanced upward. “Very well, then,” he said. “I shan’t turn away two strong bodies ready to die for my country. Just know that this man will mean your deaths.”

[Glories of Myrmidion]

Coiled steel hawsers thicker than a man’s torso snapped taut in the wind, groaning in low-pitched agony as they bore the weight of the fully loaded shuttle. The gilded interior of the vehicle matched the scarlet and bronze of their armour: rich and ostentatious, but utterly impractical. More than a few of the embarked soldiers swallowed in suppressed anxiety as the floor beneath their feet swayed and yawed like some seasick sailor. The captain at the far end of the car caught Jehan’s critical eyes and gave just the faintest hint of a helpless shrug, a man caught between his job – which he did reasonably competently, judging by the drill of his men – and the whimsical vagaries of the bureaucracy over his head.

Allowing just a hint of sympathy to touch his sea-green gaze, Jehan turned back towards the window he shared with Throm. The slums slipped slowly away beneath them, until the corrugated roofs were no more than specks amidst the shadowy mud. Through gaps in the jagged peaks ringing the southern horizon, his eagle-like gaze caught a distant glimpse of Lyridia’s marble domes and the glittering blue of the sea beyond. Slowly he traced the path they had trod together through beach and canyon, forest and vale; then his eyes snapped back to the faint trace of ocean and the waves that somehow connected them still to their distant homelands.

“It’s been quite a journey, hasn’t it,” the knight muttered, more to himself than to anybody else. Catching Throm’s raised eyebrow as the orc looked up from re-arming his crossbow, he amended, “I never thought I’d see you snap out of your bloodlust so easily.”

The orc snorted harshly. “If those clunkers fought harder, maybe I wouldn’t have. I’d rather know why that tasselhead there doesn’t want us spit on those spears of his. Never known a skraeling to forget so easily that I’ve drunk of their blood.”

Jehan’s gauntleted hands tightened on the pommel of his longsword, mind lost in memory. Springtime in the tundra just east of Turicum and the Five Dukedoms, a chance meeting between a band of knights and an orcish warparty. A clash of culture, an angry confrontation, violence only averted by the appearance of an even more fearsome foe. A makeshift alliance, sealed in blood spilt together against a common enemy; a terrible struggle against the deadliest of abominations, in which Jehan had exacted vengeant justice and Throm had nearly drowned in savage retribution.

“It’s a human thing,” he said at last. “Sometimes we can be willing to put aside the past in a common cause. Especially if said cause is enough to let us overcome our inbred prejudice.”

Like trusting a greenskin, he didn’t have to add. Throm’s glinting yellow eyes caught him for a moment, tasting the unsaid words in the breadth of his bristly beard. Then the orc grunted again, slamming a fresh quarrel into place and checking that his weapon was properly primed.

“In which case seeking out the strongest of opponents and defeating them in battle is an orc thing,” he growled, tusks hanging heavy with fervour. He turned to eye the speck in the overcast grey sky, flitting in and out of the low-hanging smog. Too far away for even a speculative shot, but not far enough that the sight of the inhumanly shimmering wings didn’t fill him with dread… and an adrenaline rush of eagerness to get closer.

Funnily enough, Jehan found himself sharing in that eagerness. He wanted to tear away with his bare hands those wings that had allowed them to escape justice for their callous actions, wanted to pierce with a single thrust of his blade those shards of crystalline armour that protected them, wanted to bat aside with an armoured fist the firestones spat by whatever exotic hand cannon they wielded. He wondered just how much of his thoughts were his own, and just how much had been influenced by Throm.

Even more surprisingly, perhaps, he found that he didn’t mind very much either way.

All things said, after all, he’s not too bad for an orc.

The shuttle shuddered violently once more, caught in the fitful throes of the growing storm. One or two of the Lornian soldiers cast superstitious glares in the direction of the emissaries, no doubt placing the blame for their troubles on the most convenient of scapegoats. But Jehan’s armoured form crouched steady and still, honed and focused, and not even the looming spectre of the Floating City’s embrace distracted him from their prey.