Round 1 Group 8

[Ciato Orlouge]

Ciato's body pulsed from all the exercise. While his companion was a bit more tactful in his approach, the alabaster bastard adopted a more brutal way to dispatch his enemies. Vincent's uniform seemed a little more clean than his paler ally, who was covered from the neck down in the red crimson of his trance induced enemies. The grey stone of his blade matched its master's makeshift visceral camouflage.

The red moon above did nothing to curb the bloodlust of the Mystic. The moment anything that looked remotely unfriendly came within arms reach, the middle Orlouge title would quench his weapon's thirst with further gore. The orc was easily holding her own against their foes and would even occasionally use one of the bodies as a club against the others. It would have made the ivory killer laugh were he not so busy with his own enemies.

"For every one that falls, there are four more to replace it," Ciato spoke as he looked down towards his breast pocket, "there is only one way we're going to get out of this alive."

His voice brought about the heads of Erirag, Vincent, and the small chick that resided by his chest. "What's that?" the younger man asked.

"I have an idea..." the azure eyes of the alabaster bastard settled on his prize from Lornius' tournament.

[Lloyd]

“Father,” The Sinister Surgeon said allowed as he reached the cloth doors of Ciato’s tent. Hector, Lloyd’s faithful corpse, stood at the ready behind him. Their relationship was symbiotic in nature in that his dolls feed off his emotions. They were all unique for the trade of necromancy, as was the style he fashioned them. With each and every stich he infused his own being and soul with their very make up. In essence they are literal extensions of himself, each and every one like a second pair of eyes, ears, and arms.

Gingerly the young Orlouge lifted the cotton vial of his father’s entry way. Lightly he stuck his head within to take a quick look within. He could see nothing, only of the faint outlines of his make shift abode. “Are you in here Father?” He said softly as he took his first step inside the tent. The crimson mist permeated the wall of his tent and fogged the grounded within as well. The only light within was the strange moon shining in through the thin fabric above. Hector stood with twin katana unsheathed at the entrance. In the distance the Lloyd could hear a faint noise, like the sounds of chaos ringing.

With great caution the son of a killer approached his father’s bed side. With this poor light he could not tell weather his father was in bed or not, he was know to be a quiet sleeper. Ever so lightly Lloyd reached for the wool blanket. He took a deep breath and with great anticipation ripped it off the makeshift bed.

“What?!” he gasped as nothing but a mound of pillows lay in his bed. His father had gone out it appeared. “Now where did you run off to papa?” He said frustratingly as he threw the sheet across the tent. The sounds of struggle started to grow all around the boy. Threw his thrall’s eyes he saw slow lurching movement. Through the layer of fog the men who had succumb to sleep were starting to stir. Lloyd quickly made for Hector and stood at his side. The men of the camp started to make to their feet.

“Hello there,” He called to a man whom had stood up and turned to face him. The man stared at him with lifeless eyes, like those of his own Hector. “Ooooohhhh, ho ho… I see what you are. I do, “ Hector spun his blade before firing out at the shambling man like a well made bolt. His left handed katana slashed at the man chest, slicing the through his clothes and skin, showering Lloyd in a rain of blood. Again and again he slashed at the man until he lay once again on the ground. Though he was down others were slowly grouping around them. Lloyd reached over his shoulder gripping the mid section of his shovel.

“You go right and I go left!” he said with a grin before drawing his heavy shovel-spear and dashed left at the other shambling men. He spun his weapon above his head before smashing it over one’s head. Hector with both katana lurched out putting down the others around them.

[Erirag the Poet]

Bunnying approved

“Parmab losogug tok Erirag strohto dautasuk. Floug gakh udhrim, losugug mabas ajog.”

Her song was lifted from her lips as she rampaged, a green beast fighting under a greener sky, all before the blood red forest. She felt alive, brawling and breaking. It was a long shot from the work she’d been doing in Corone raising barns and shoving carts up rusting mine tracks. Her heart fluttered, elated, until a voice dripping with derision and effort called out behind her, “Will someone shut that thing up?” Her orange eyes flickered to the side, though she saw nothing but the servants of Podё around her.

She whirled on her heel then, taking the fight back around. Somehow she’d managed to bring the thralls to the edge of the Red Forest, Lindequalmё itself. After a moment when the tide of her enemies had abated for a moment, she saw the silver bastard some ways away. His chin was thrown back, sneering down his nose as he continued to talk, and reap. Blood sprayed around him as his blade worked, and now he was talking about some famous musician that Erirag had once seen in Radasanth. “Of course the beast wouldn’t know a thing about Hendelminn!” he crowed. She didn’t quite grasp how most of what he said was insulting, but she was no fool. She could tell by the tone he was mocking her, dragging her character through the mud by the heel of his boot.

A noble was worse than an elf, she thought miserably to herself. All her fun had been sucked away and she wanted so badly to kill the mystic. She warred within herself. Erirag wasn’t a woman accustomed to staying her hand in times of anger, but they had a common enemy. Even better, it was an enemy that seemed to have no end! If she kept him alive, more of these puppet men would fall. She had almost resolved herself to push past the bile rising in her throat and her aching shoulders and return to the fight with renewed vigor when she caught it.

“Undur kurv,” Ciato Orlouge said. It gave Erirag pause, to hear the man she hated most use her mother tongue. The poetess paused just long enough to be taken down to the ground by the wave of attackers that violently undulated, crashing against her shocked, frozen form. Her breath was knocked out of her and her ears rang, but still she heard him talking, claiming he was disgusted with himself for even daring to stoop to use such an ugly language. Suddenly, there it was - a line in the sand that she had drawn when she decided not to face him in the tent. The funny thing about sand was that both water and wind could disturb it, and lines drawn there weren’t meant to last.

She rose, thralls falling from her shoulders and back as she sprang to her feet. Her face was flushed, a purple wash spreading from her ears to her trembling tusks. A bestial growl burst from between her lips, spittle following as her hands reached out. In one hand she grasped the skull of an elf bewitched and flung him to the side. In the other, she grabbed the supple, spriggy trunk of a sapling that had yet to be trampled, though crimson needles littered the ground around it where branches had been stripped bare by the fight. She could feel and hear the ground giving as she ripped it from its bed, roots raw and glistening in the moonlight. Rushing forward, she brandished it like a javelin and vaulted. When her feet hit the ground she used the momentum to burst forward. The sharp upper branches of the sapling splintered as they torrented through Ciato Orlouge’s chest. With a grunt she swung her makeshift weapon upwards and lifted his body, his smile still frozen on his face, up to the heavens. Time seemed to stand still for the barest of a moment before the bloodied tip of the young tree was brought back down to the ground, twisting and bending as it did. Erirag was sure she heard the mystic’s neck crack and give, proof of her murder.

[Cards of Fate]

The orc had said nothing about the plan, but had instead continued to barrel off in a random direction after she had caught her breath. “It was a terrible plan anyways!” Vincent muttered to no-one in particular. The pale man and the scholar took off after the poet as they began their fight anew, barreling in one direction blindly smashing into anything and everything they saw.

“The plan was solid up until you expected a mutt to strategize.” Ciato chided over his shoulder. The two of them methodically cleared out the thralls left behind by the orc as she continued her bloody march, once again having each member take a side and cut down anyone they saw. “You fight well.” Ciato grunted as Vincent sliced down five thralls in a fluid string of slices.

“You too!” Vincent shouted back panting heavily. “You’re fighting almost seems like a ballroom dance” the scholar continued. “Like you’re dancing to Hendelminn’s Fantasia in B Sharp!” The alabaster bastard stopped mid-stride to stare at the scholar.

“How did you know that was my favorite song?” he asked bewildered.

“I fucking love the Coronian Symphony’s rendition of it, I could recognize the beat pattern in your swings!” Vincent said gushing like a teenage girl. “I can’t believe I was right!” The scholar dodged a thralls swipe and cleft it’s head from it’s shoulders as blood gushed upwards in a fountain of crimson.

“Hendelminn is a genius” Ciato responded as he thrust his blade through another thrall before pirouetting and slicing three down in onc strike. “I love his bassoon solo in the third act, it’s spine shivering!” the fanatic cooed delighted at the chance to talk music. “My name is Ciato Orlouge, yours?”

“Orlouge?” Vincent asked curiously. “Do you know Emma Orlouge?” he continued as he bashed a thrall with his shield before plunging his sword into it’s body.

“She’s my neice…” Ciato replied scowling. “Not too fond of my family…” he broke from his elegant dance to hack a thrall to pieces.

“My bad, didn’t know!” Vincent said wincing. “My name is Vincent Cain!” he exclaimed grinning. “Seriously though, sorry about dragging up family issues, my family is pretty crazy too…” he chuckled for a moment. “My brother Tobias threw me off a fucking roof…”


“At least you know about Hendelminn! Of course this beast wouldn’t know anything of Hendelminn!” it was at this point the mystic went on to talk about how much he hated the orc, taunting both her and the language spoke. That’s when the orc snapped and made him a human kebab with a young tree. The scholar could only gape as he watched his newly acquired, now deceased friend sail through the air.

“Oi I fucking liked him!” The scholar paused for a moment before adding “No homo though.” it struck Vincent that the orc would probably not even understand the phrase ‘no homo’ or his words for that matter. It was a simply a force of habit All that mattered was that she had just brutally murdered Ciato, and if he wasn’t careful he was likely to be next. The orc shot him a dirty look and grunted something before a very loud cracking caught their attention. The two turned in horror to see what should have been a very dead man
pull himself off the natural pike the orc had fashioned for him. His body convulsed as he tore the pine lance from his corpse and let out a gurgling roar.

“Oh fuck.” Vincent muttered

[Ciato Orlouge]

His intestines dangled over the trunk of the sapling as he peeled himself off. The camp echoed with a slurping sound as the Mystic stood with a giant hole in his chest. Those of their right mind stood in awe as the alabaster baster's neck hung downwards as if he were asleep. A low, guttoral growl escaped from the pale warrior as he slung his blade around with no reservation.

Several of the trance induced soldiers approached him only to find their heads completely removed from their bodies. The chick in the Mystic's breast pocket slipped outwards again, now covered in the azure lifeblood of its master, and gave a solemn chirp. His stone sword swayed back and forth as though it were an extension of his own limp arms. The orc and human had little time to react as the zombified warriors tried to close in on them.

The 'dead' Ciato advanced towards his party members while slowly mowing down anyone that came across his path towards the group. Every step he took caused his body to lunge forward as though he absolutely had to attain his goal. Vincent began to walk towards the man he just recently bonded with, a hand extended to check on the ivory skinned swordsman. Before the hierophant could react, the Mystic lunged forward and opened his mouth.

His teeth clamped down on the ear of his former comrade, the squishy blood a fine wine to go with his entree of flesh. He could hear the glorious scream of his ally as Asterodeia skewered the man through his chest. He growled, vincent's ear still in between his teeth, ans he started to shift towards Erirag. The boys body fell to the ground and into a pool of crimson as he reached up towards the red moon above....

~~~~

Ciato's eyes shot open and his body lifted up from his cot. His forehead dripped with sweat as he looked around as if to see the threat that once was all around around him now gone. Was it all a dream? The Mystic wondered as he stood up from his bed and left his tent, the bright light of the sun nearly blinding the alabaster bastard. What the hell...

The camp was still alive with jubilation, most of the soldiers full of cheers and jeers towards each other as they armed themselves ready for their adventure. It seemed as though Ciato was the only one who seemed effected by the nightmarish landscape he had just suffered.

"Did you hear about Cain?" he overheard a soldier ask, "I heard the guy has been sleeping since early last night, and nobodycan wake him."

This caused the Mystic to turn towards the source of the rumor. "Did you say Cain? As in, Vincent Cain?"

The soldier, clad in a helmet that hid his features, nodded, "Yeah, he's asleep over in his tent over there and sleeping like a baby under a rock"

As the warrior pointed towards the singular white tent that housed his 'friend',Ciato took off. If Cain suffered through the same dream as the Mystic, then perhaps it fell upon Ciato to wake him from the nightmare.

[Lloyd]

Lloyd and Hector worked in perfect synchronization as they fought off the growing horde of soldiers. The mystic had complete control over his puppet; Hector’s every muscle reacting as if they were directly connected to the young mystic. If took intense focus for Lloyd to fight this way but the payoff was wonderful.

“Four, five and six!” The Sinister Surgeon cried out counting the number of soldier he had personally taken out. A simple smash over the head with his heavy shovel seemed to be working fine to put them back down. Lloyd raised his weapon over his head, spinning it then swiping the spear end down and impaling a soldier as he lurched forward. His weapon pierced through the foes chest with ease, pinning the shambling corpse to the ground. Its body acting like it still wanted to shuffle and claw at the Mystic though it was pinned in place.

The Surgeon’s puppet continued to slice up the horde at was starting to grow larger with every minute. Hector was quick, Lloyd found himself a seasoned fighter whose body was already well tuned to combat. Nimbly dodging each soldiers attack the, zombie swordsman raised up his blades and cross slashed at the masses. The situation was grave to say the least.

Though they held themselves quite well, Lloyd was constantly calculating as they fought. Not only was he versed in the dark arts, he was also a masterful tactician. He had to be to control two bodies at once.More! he thought to himself as though his puppets eyes he saw body after body stand and join the crowd around them. He ripped his spear up and out of the chest of the soldier and retreated back to back with Hector.

“Umm… Father if you around now would be a good time to show up!” He yelled out loud so it would echo throughout the encampment. Hector let out a deep growl as he eyes watched the shambling army creeping in all around them. He heard no response to his call, nothing other than the sounds of the horde around them. Their odds were not good, there were easily forty men surrounding them now. Lloyd and Hector spun around back to back, both sets of eyes scanning for an opportunity. He was looking for anything that could help them.

There! the mystic internally exclaimed as he saw a break in the enemies’ line. There was no communication between the two at all yet both bolted for the break in their defense. Both Lloyd and Hector both yelled as the mystic and the zombie swordsman broke free of the horde and continued down the crimson covered path. I can’t be the only one not affected by this. Where is everyone? Where is Ciato? He thought as he and his zombie made for safety.

[Erirag the Poet]

Erirag’s initial elation had quickly turned to horror when she watched Ciato remove himself from the sapling. Dark liquid spilled from him, splattering onto the earth that had been upturned by dozens of feet stamping and pushing. His blood sounded like a rainstorm, heavier than she remembered it being in the sand. Still, he worked the way he had in the arena and her nightmares afterward. She stuck around long enough to see Vincent fall, and then the orc turned and ran.

She crashed through underbrush, kicking and shoving at bodies in her way as she fled from the thing that was Ciato Orlouge. The whips of grass and thin saplings stung her legs and cut her feet. The orcish word for run was rend and somewhere in her bardish mind she thought it was funny that running was rending the flesh from her legs. Maybe it was on purpose, but probably not. Either way she tripped on vines and fronds and her escape ended, but not far enough from where it had begun. She wasn’t made for sprinting, and her lungs burned as she ripped herself to her feet. She was in a deeper part of the forest now, and the sun had been blotted out by the foliage above.

”Erirag…”

She whirled around, spinning as she scanned the darkness with wide, terrified eyes. The red fog was thicker here than she’d seen elsewhere, though somehow it was as colorless as a deep midnight pool. Her stomach threatened to spill the mead and meat she’d eaten that day, her abdomen cramping sharply. Something was coming towards her from the camp, something that had no care of disguising its movements. Twigs were snapping, brush rustling, and a deep sound that wasn’t breathing but was definitely alive began to emerge. She heard it only every few seconds, in the silence between the thunderous pounding of her beating heart. She felt truly scared, an emotion foreign and shameful. Erirag had no need of pride here in the thicket of Lindequalmё.

”Erirag…”

She heard the voice again and jerked to the left, staring as she saw a ghostly face peer at her from the darkness between the trees. An elven face watched her, bright blue eyes dancing under a pale brow. The woman vanished, as if she’d merely been a reflection on the crimson mist. Motion caught Erirag’s attention and she turned back to where she’d heard the predator stalk her in the night. Setting her jaw defiantly, she lifted her chin and peered past the tips of her tusks as the creature in Ciato’s body was birthed into the clearing. Rivulets of sapphire gore still dripped onto the grass.

“It… unfortunate.” She said, using the common tongue, struggling to find the words that so poetically bloomed in orcish. A grim grin was the best she could do to hide her clammy skin and trembling fists. “Stars and Zahuv line up above and watch us, but no one know that you die here. Maybe I am in need of singing this song.”

[Cards of Fate]

It took the mystic about an hour of intense questioning and wandering to find the scholar tent, all the while being made aware of the predicament. It appeared that the night before a crimson fog had rolled into the forest and cursed anyone who had already been sleeping to remain trapped in their slumber. Several druids had caught wind of the plot and dispelled it quickly, but about a quarter of the reclamation forces had fallen unfortunate victim to this affliction.

However people were starting to drop like flies over time, something about their slumber had started to kill them and it was starting to become a race against the clock to save as many people as possible. The mystic was starting to question how he had broken free of the spell, perhaps he had simply delved deeper into the illusion but that seemed to be far from possible.

The Alabaster Bastard found the Hierophant in a massive war tent in the center of the sprawling camp. Something about his organization had warranted his status as pseudo nobility, and thus he was the main concern for the bardic council. Two guards stood solemnly at the entrance and went to cross their spears barring the mystic’s entry, he caught them and tossed the two men aside easily as he threw the tent flaps open bathing the gloomy chamber inside with pure sunlight.

Two bard’s broke from their song to turn to the intruder scowls on their faces. “This man is a valuable asset to our cause and we’re working to wake him from the curse, please do not inter…”

They were cut off by the sleeping scholar jerking awake with a loud retch as he rolled over and bile gushed from his pale lips. One of the bards grabbed a bucket and caught most of the mess while the scholar retched. “Steel your stomach and calm your menstrual cycle Vincent.” Ciato chided pushing the unoccupied bard out of the way. After his stomach was empty the youth managed to pull himself into a sitting position, panting for air as he scowled a bit.

“You Mike Tysoned me Ciato.” he grumbled rubbing his temples. His head was throbbing from what he imagined to be a hangover and any aftereffects of the dream he had just had.

“Pardon? I did what?” the mystic replied incredulously as he sat down on a stool that one of the bards had just been perched.

“You bit my ear off.” The scholar explained. “It’s...a long story. Perhaps I’ll go into greater detail later.” he paused for a moment. “I guess dying in the dream wakes you up?”

“Most likely, dying to a thrall seems to kill you though…” Ciato responded frowning a bit. “My corpse bit your ear off? How...barbaric.” the bastard muttered. “Anyways I must find that beast while she's still asleep.” The pale man rose to his feet. “Perhaps if we meet again it could be over some Hendelminn?” The scholar nodded.

“I guess I'll ride out some of the nausea then head into the forest and find the source of the fog..." the scholar muttered.

[Ciato Orlouge]

The Mystic made his way through the camp with a new fervor. One of the two people he could tolerate was now safe, and the second would either take care of himself or die in the process. Ciato's faith in his progeny far outweighed his concern for the thrall maker. He had unfinished business with Erirag, and he needed to make sure that she would never forget the name of Ciato Orlouge.

After some deep questioning, the alabaster bastard found the green skinned beast's tent, and before he could even enter, was greeted by the sounds of deep snores. The breaths of Erirag were more akin to a revved up chainsaw than it was to a sleeping habit. The Mystic walked slowly over to her, his blade drawn slowly as he placed the tip upon the exposed thigh of his nemesis. The leg dangled off of the side of the orc's bed as Ciato pushed Asterodeia deep into the poet's flesh.

Dark red liquid streamed down her leg as Ciato slowly carved the letters to his name once again into Erirag. Her snores indicated deep sleep still even as Ciato finished, each of the cut letters deep enough that the scars would remain even with healing. The beast would forever know that she was a piece of property to the Mystic, that she was no more than a cattle who merely needed to be branded. She was nothing.

To punctuate his point, the ivory slayer leaned in and pressed his lips deep upon Erirags, his wet lips spread onto her dry mouth. As he withdrew from the gesture, he smiled and gave a small whisper. "You must kill yourself to live," he uttered as he began to leave the tent. If the orc died, she was never worth the time of Ciato Orlouge to begin with. If she lived, however, she would find herself marked much like she was during the LCC.; a declaration of spite, a declaration of spite.

"I hate to....cut into your time," Ciato wiped his lips with fingers and smiled, "but my children and I have a witch to slay. Farewell, Erirag. I hope the next time we meet, you will know not only your place, but the name Ciato Orlouge."

[Lloyd]

The shrilling sound of metal hitting metal echoed in the young mystic’s eardrums. Hector ripped his blade from a man’s shoulder and followed swiftly after his master as he traversed the body ridden isles of the tent city. It seemed like Lloyd had made enough distance himself and the large horde of reanimated soldiers. He slowed his pace, preferring to stick to the shadows and not drawing too much unwanted attention to himself. Hector stood resolute behind Lloyd as he crept looking for his lost father. He had no doubt in his mind that his father hadn’t succumb to this simple black magic curse.

The Sinister Surgeon and his puppet had been searching every nook and cranny of the encampment for the better of an hour. Finding only more reanimated men and empty beds. There were no signs of ‘life’ other than Lloyd himself. Why had he not been affected by the mist? Was it because he was a mystic? Or maybe because he practiced the dark art of reanimation which this curse was similar to?

“Where are you damn it!?” Lloyd coughed out as he and Hector strolled out into the main road that divided the tent city down the middle. Low moans roared all around them as through the thin walls of fabric. The young mystic held his shovel firmly by his side, ready to use it at any moment. All was starting to seem lost. “I’m getting really annoyed with you father. I’m leaving now.” He said biting the tips of his forked tongue. “Don’t even try to follow me. I don’t want to hear it.” Talking to himself helped ease his nerves.

What would you do if you were here? Lloyd caught himself thinking. What would his father do? He hated being shown up when wreaking havoc. Kill em’ all! Then go on and kill that bloody witch. A sinister smile ripening on his face. He was completely content doing as his father would, as any of his litter would be. But how could he set himself apart from his siblings.

Up farther on the road began a series of oil lanterns that mapped out the main road. That’s it! Lloyd broke out in a cold sweat as he hurried to the first of the lanterns. Yeah this could work. I’ll just burn the place to the ground! That will one up Amy and her stuck up face. Lloyd hated that his father favored his sister over him. He knew that if he could just show her up a few more times then finally he would take his rightful place as number one.

With a mighty swing of his shovel, Lloyd knocked the oil lantern off its hook and onto the fabric tent next to it. The oil ignited the top of the tent like a bonfire and quickly the rest the entire hut was ablaze. The fire spread quickly across the dry tent city. So quickly that a wall of flame began to grow behind Lloyd and Hector. The young mystic hastily began down the length of the road, knocking off each lantern as he went. The flames ravaged everything, nothing was safe from its blaze.

“Piss!” Lloyd cried out, noticing that the flames had crossed over the road both ahead of him, he was surrounded. With loud crackling the flames reached out catching Lloyd’s sleeve on fire. The pain was unbearable as it began to melt his flesh. The fire quickly started to spread up his arm catching his entire person ablaze. Lloyd knelt down in agony as his cloths fused to his body through glorious fire. He let out loud screams of pain as he slowly charred within his own bright idea. In the end his own jealousy was his undoing.

In a jolt of energy Lloyd flew awake and out of his sleeping roll. Gathering himself on the ground he looked frantically around. He saw the sun glaring into his tent through a hole in the stitching. There were no signs of any of the red mist anymore and the sky was its natural color. Had this been a dream? Did he just have another nightmare? It didn’t matter, nothing mattered. Only fulfilling his father’s wishes mattered to the young mystic.

He was only a tool.