An Unpleasant Awakening

[Storm Veritas]

(Closed to Logan)

Morning was never pleasant after an evening that was worth its while. It appeared that a spider had crept in his ear overnight and was now squeezing his brain. Unfamiliar images ushered in as his vision greeted him with a kaleidoscopic feel to it; images twisting slightly. His mouth tasted even more foul, like a rabid skunk had hidden in there and died. A tingling buzzed its way to him from his left shoulder, hinting that he had slept on it the night before. Turning to his side, the sun shone in with warm orange rays, lighting up evidence that in fact she had slept on it the night before.

Of course you did, Storm. Of course you did, you stupid asshole.

The woman who had joined him the night before could possibly have been pretty in the right light. Decidedly, the morning sun was not that light. Her pale skin was mottled with pink spots upon her doughy cheeks, and scarlet-orange hair shot out in a random splay from behind her head. She slept silently, with a small, pleasant nose and almost white, nearly straight teeth peeked out from behind her thin lips. She was certainly larger than the wiry wizard, who gently slid his doorknob-dead arm out from underneath her. It was a slow, clumsy effort, but she appeared to have enjoyed as much brandy as Storm, since she barely stirred.

That’s the best I’m doing right now? Not exactly a conquest for the books. Blech.

Slowly rolling off the smelly, uncomfortable bed, Storm Veritas nimbly stood and instantly felt a searing bolt of pain race down his spine. His back was twisted, contorted, and cramped; a fitting cherry atop his agony sundae that made this entire experience feel more complete. His shirt was half buttoned still, while his pants were splashed on the floor without any deft or care; he pulled them up and unceremoniously wiggled into his shoes. A fingertip comb pulled back his graying hair; he dared not peek at the mirror which would be a cold splash of water.

“Good morning” he whispered, a perfunctory offer to see if the breasted beast was close to awake. Convinced she was not, Storm stepped to the door. He was in dire need of a piss, a shower, and a toothbrush, but those things would have to wait.

For now, he had to slip out of this dragon’s lair, and rejoin the denizens of Radasanth. This was once his home, and represented what Storm estimated would be the best chance to recover his… abilities. An embarrassing admission, but they seem to have eroded and dulled as sand castles built too close to the shore.

“Good morning” the gap-toothed fool at the door greeted him as he stepped out. A fat little smiling idiot stood to meet him; the old fellow had clearly slept in the hallway. “Seems to have enjoyed yer time with Mee-lissa, I see!” His whisper was grotesque, but he seemed awfully cheery for this obnoxious hour.
“Of course, since you paid me for an hour las’ night, ye only still owe me for four… Two-hunned coins and ye’ can be on yer way, my friend.”

Oh shit.

The little elements of memory were started to piece back together in the scrambled jigsaw of Storm’s mind. That loathesome lady with the fat face and fiery hair had in fact been a professional, but had worked him up to such a lather in the bar the night before that he had thrown caution to the winds. This gruesome little sixty-something man had to be her protector – a pimp, as it were.

Not shocking that Storm had made such a mistake; it would be neither his first nor last rodeo with a whore. Far more surprising, he felt, was that this little old codger expected to yield such a high price. Clearly, rumors of the demise of Storm Veritas had been greatly exaggerated.

[Logan]

Down the stairs and across the main hall of the inn rested none other than Logan McCloud. That particular inn fell under the coffers and protection of the Tarot Hierarchy, even if it wasn't widely known among locals. The psion would pay a visit every now and then in an effort to ease the concerns of the innkeeper and his brother, the codgy old prostitution ring leader.

Rumors spread before Tarot's involvement of run-ins with quite a nefarious sort who always seemed heart set upon causing as much trouble for the management as humanly, or inhumanly, possible. So when Storm strode in and began to drink away whatever he tried so desperately to drink away, the psion was made immediately aware. The purpose had little to do with Storm's intentions, whether good or bad. Moreover, Storm was an unknown quantity, having been out of the public spotlight for a significant chunk of time, and while management might have their concerns, Logan had curiosities.

"Jameson is down the hall with him right now. He took to Ms. Betty last night, and apparently then some," piped up the pimp's brother.

The pit of Logan's stomach rose until it nearly forced itself out upon the bar, but he managed to keep his composure, if only just. Had he not skipped the morning meal, the aromas of which still permeated the wooden structure, it very well may have become its own unpleasantness. He swallowed hard, an attempt to purge the acidic taste from his mouth, and then spoke, "And you're certain it is him?"

The pudgy middle-aged man nodded, "So much as we can tell anyways. Definitely lost a step or two."

A step or two for someone like Storm was the equivalent of a lifetime for anyone else. They had only met once, and Logan only vaguely remembered fleeting details. Some sort of combat, a tournament perhaps, was about the extent the psion's memory would allow before things got far too fuzzy to recall. The psion popped his neck and cracked his knuckles as he leaned back against the bar, eyes fixed on the hallway ready for the man to appear. Questions needed to be asked.

[Storm Veritas]

It should all have happened so quickly. Storm gently pressed his hand against the man’s chest, laying it on him with a delicate care, leaning forward to whisper in the little fool’s ear. A quick burst from this range would easily be enough to stop the man’s heart, and there was no need for the powerful wizard to leave a scar, let alone make a scene.

“I don’t think that’s a reasonable price, my friend…”

With that, a quick stretch of his fingers should have sent a few rapid tendrils of electricity through Jameson, putting the mindless dolt out of his misery. When nothing happened, the little man looked over at Storm with a bewildered gaze.

“Hah, ye’ think you can change my mind on the price with your pretty voice? Like you have ‘The Force’ from those old Star-Stories me’ mere used to go on about?”

Jameson’s belly jiggled violently at this, laughing under his breath so wildly that Veritas would swear he could hear the arterial fat bouncing about. It was wildly disappointing that his magic had failed, however Storm had cut his teeth on men that would make this buffoon look like little more than a kitten.

Pulling back from the little fellow, standing tall, Storm’s warm gaze fell icy. His eyes seem to fade from blue to gray as his hand rifled into his pocket, procuring a length of wire-string that he wound around his fingers.

“You’re right, of course…” he began in a quiet tone, pushing the length of fine wire between his two front teeth as he began. “But you can’t fault a guy for trying, right?” He continued flossing teeth in front of the bewildered little pimp.

Nervous would be a grand improvement from the state the pudgy fellow found himself in. He had no idea what had come over the John he needed to collect from; moving so quickly to floss his teeth was an absurd, inexplicable move. (Not that there couldn’t be a fine reason to floss, given the poor hygiene of the snoring redhead in the room behind them.) Jameson would take no chances, and pulled from his belt a long knife. He attempted to keep his terror hidden, but wasn’t very successful as he stammered.

“No, of c’.. course not. And mayhap… well, mayhap we meet in the middle? I’m a reasonable man, you seem reasonable... Let’s not do anything stupid, right?

“One hunned’ coins, we split the difference, and go our ways, izzat fair?” Jameson’s wide-eyed whisper was telling.

With a continued lack of concern, Storm gazed down at the blade that his new adversary had produced. Longer than his forearm, it looked heavy, and the fat little fool carried it far too distant from his body. He would loop with it, and move slowly. His range would be short and sweeping.

Stupid has already arrived and asked me for more money for that ginger wildebeest behind us…

In a blur, Storm attacked, spreading his hands slightly as he spun to his right, pivoting around the man’s left shoulder and spreading the wire. It caught cleanly across the fat waddle of the little attacker’s throat as a knife flailed harmlessly through the air. Finishing his pirouette, Storm found himself directly behind the man, squatting and pressing his back to the back of Jameson. He then rapidly pulled his hands down before his chest, stretching the wire tight and cutting straight through the first half inch of fatty flesh.

As he stood and lifted the hangman from the ground, he looked back to the right hand of little Jameson. Sure enough, he dropped the knife to the stone floor, abandoning it to try to grab at the wire across his windpipe. Storm prevented the announcing clang with a foot, absorbing a glancing scratch of the blade to redirect it, sending the hilt softly to the stony floor.

“Easy, little man. It’s already over. This will be quick.” Storm wished he wasn’t lying.

The sounds of a strangling man are generally terrible, but with such a fine garrote the man was rendered completely silent. So compressed was his esophagus that even the gurgling, gasping attempts for air never surfaced. His eyes bulged, his skin turned purple, and he twisted about like a fish on the dock, hopelessly campaigning for a mercy that would never come. Unaware of his assassin’s name, his feet still six inches off the floor, poor Jameson went limp with his eyes staring helplessly north from the back of Storm’s shoulder. It was over.

Propping the dead little pimp against the bedroom door, Storm noticed that his victim had begun to evacuate his bladder. Good he thought, reasoning the odor would keep the rare traveler from inspecting him, should someone stroll by. It wouldn’t take long to notice his terrible discoloration, the tell-tale red stripe across his throat, or eventually the unmistakable aroma of death. Time was fleeting.

Move.

His eyes darted about towards the tavern area, where some drunkards still lingered. The door wasn’t far, and beyond that a chance at escape. Without a word, Storm pulled taut his clothes, donned a feigned look of drunken embarrassment, and strode towards the exit on a mission.

[Logan]

Were the man in the room at the end of the hall really Storm Veritas quiet would be his disguise, and the stillness of the hallway left Logan mildly unsettled. He tapped his foot on the floor and drummed his fingers on the bar. Raymond, the prostitution peddler's brother, took note.

"Logan, what's got you worried there," the pudgy man said with a nod toward the psion, "Jamey can handle himself well enough."

Logan slammed his fist on the wooden counter, "Perhaps, Ray, you're unaware of how dangerous our little friend can be."

The pudgy man shrugged, and then slowly began wiping down the bar with an old, dirty washrag by his side.

"I stand by my brother. Jamey's got a trick or two up his sleeves. Ain't never steered ol' Ray wrong."

The only sounds from the room down the hall were soft snores and a subtle, tiny creak in the wooden floor. Logan shook his head.

"Silence is his arsenal, Ray, and it is much, much too quiet in there for my liking."

Raymond stopped wiping the bar, and cupped his fingers around his ear.

"I ain't heard a damn thing, boy. You're worked up over nothing I tell ya."

The combined delicate aromas of urination and something far more vile permeated from the bedroom. Logan took a step toward the hallway, and his hands nestled around the hilts of his swords. Something was off about the situation, and the psion was not one to ignore such intuitions.

[Storm Veritas]

Are you shitting me?

Storm made it exactly three steps down the hallway when he spotted none other than Logan McCloud move through the doorway. He was unmistakable; the size of a building with his shiny white hair and more blades than the house kitchen, there were none like him since Letho had gone missing. Even at 100 or so feet, he was way too close.

Can’t turn and run. Think. Move.

The tall murderer knew that if he pivoted and ran, he’d have half the Radasanthian guard after him within his tenth stride. He also would have to presume that Logan wouldn’t recognize him, since time and age had done a fine job of disguising him. He didn’t need to get away permanently, but had to get out now.

“Get up! Get up, you drunk shit, or I swear I’ll leave you here to die.” Storm scolded the corpse in a tone that was condescending and probably not loud enough to be heard by Logan. After all, it had to look natural. How long should he wait for the dead man to respond?

One. Two. Three. Good enough.

Shaking his head in disgust, Storm re-opened the bedroom door as the corpse fell backwards. He supposed, or hoped, that Jameson’s body could resemble a drunk. Squatting to a double underhook, Veritas lifted the man and began dragging his piss-soaked carcass back into the bedroom. There was a window in here, and hopefully the ginger whale he had bedded was a historically deep sleeper.

“Eh, you!? I thought’d you’d skipped the bill, big feller! Come back her to Day-say!”

“Daisy” (which now sounded somewhat familiar) had a voice that cut through him like a knife, or at least he thought it did before she saw who he was dragging in through the doorway.

”Shhh!” Storm began futilely, hoping the site of the dead little pimp might render her stunned with shock. Of course, the aging adventurer wasn’t so lucky. She screamed a blood-curdling screech, reminding him that he should have smothered her with a pillow before leaving the room.

Down the hall, he heard the already-close footsteps turn from a slow, rhythmic tap into something far more urgent. Logan was coming.

(OOC: Bunnying here approved as needed)

[Logan]

The only real problem with Storm's plan was Jameson, who went to the room to get the assassin to pay up for his extracurricular activities with the prostitute. The psion watched the body fall from the open doorway, and immediately knew something was amiss. He turned to Raymond and shook his head.

"Logan, I'm telling you mate, ain't nothing to --," but the psion grabbed his face and turned it toward Jameson's lifeless body being moved back into the room.

Without another word, Raymond pulled his trusty enchanted crossbow from beneath the counter. Justicia as he called her was good for one thing, penetrating through the thick wooden walls of the inn. The pudgy man lifted the crossbow and pressed the trigger, but before he could release the bolt Logan clenched his fist and the bolt misfired.

"What in Thayne's creation are you thinking, Ray? You know full well if the legends of the assassin are even remotely true then you won't land a single bolt within ten feet of him. Especially since you can't see him through the walls. Besides, you'll alert him we know something is amiss. You're better closing off his other exit, and leaving me and him to have that little chat I spoke about earlier."

The reluctant bartender lowered his crossbow, and followed immediately with slamming his fist on the bar. He shook his hand a couple of times, and then squeezed his eyes shut with a grimace. He inhaled sharply and then exhaled slowly before he hurriedly exited through the front door of the inn. A few moments later, Ray had Justicia trained on the only exit available to the assassin which didn't involve running into the psion.

Logan approached the door, shut quietly only moments before, and knocked.

"Ms. Daisy, deary, are you alright? I thought I heard something."

The psion took a deep breath to calm any lingering nerves, only for his stomach to convulse at the thick aroma of the urine. It took quite a lot for Logan not to vomit then, but he managed to hold back, if only just.

[Storm Veritas]

Once the door closed behind him, he could move quickly and desperately. He would have to, as his evening companion ensured. With a pivot which was surprisingly powerful for a man of his weight, Storm pulled the dead little bundle of goo across the doorway. He wouldn’t STOP an intruder from coming through, but buy a few free seconds.

The whore’s eyes were squinted, forearms up before her head like a punch-drunk boxer. She was a combination of scared and horrified, her pasty white flesh mottled with a blend of sunlight streaking in thin squares from the window and the red blotches of alcohol abuse.

Nope, you’re going to need to shut your fat trap right f*cking now.

The brandy slowed his motion, but not nearly enough to give her a chance. Storm drove to his right and took one stride before bounding to the bed, landing on top of her nude, pallid frame with the grace of a housecat. Without a word he lifted her by her wrists, spinning behind her and pulling her from the bed. One hand took her mouth as the second lifted her at the waist, and he lifted her so as to both land quietly.

“Shut the f*ck up, and shut the f*ck up now, you hear?” his normally smooth voice was whisper quiet but deathly serious. His left hand dashed across her throat, pulling a blade she had never seen before taut against her esophagus.

“Answer the man. This isn’t a test for me, my dear, but for you. Get him to leave, and you get to live.” Again, his lie seemed convincing, and the pudgy prostitute nodded knowingly.

Slowly, the tall wizard lowered his hand from her mouth, holding his own breath to await her response. His second hand remained poised upon the dagger, which generated just enough pressure to her throat to serve as an effective reminder.

“Leave me alone!” She yelled, a feigned annoyance that seemed surprisingly authentic. “We’re a little busy, you old pervert, come by at lunch time for your turn!”

Nice job, sweetie. Acting like that and I can imagine how you roped me in last night. Wish I could let you go.

Of course, he couldn’t let her go; as soon as the doorknob began to turn her fate was sealed. He owed her the small kindness of a quick, clean death. Cupping her mouth again, he flipped his wrist, pressing the dagger down behind her collarbone. She screamed into his hand, a terrible muffled thing, as he pushed the blade rapidly into her chest. The length of the knife ensured it would reach her heart, and he felt her body go limp as shock took her. A quick twist severed arteries around the heart, and he laid her down to die in peace. He pressed the pillow under her chin, stifling blood from pouring out.

“I’m sorry.” A whisper, it was actual honesty, if far too late.

Without another word, Storm made for the window, and quickly exited unaware of the trap waiting outside.

[Logan]

The psion twisted the knob, and smirked. At least it wasn't locked. He leaned in to push the door open slightly, but instead found resistance from the other side. His brow furrowed, and he muttered an incoherent curse under his breath. Nothing was ever as easy it should be on Althanas.

He pushed again, this time with more force and the door budged a bit offering a slight view into the room. Storm was nearly to the window, and Logan had to act fast. Fists clenched and eyes closed as he took a deep breath, struggling momentarily to block out the putrid stench of urine and the unmistakable aroma of recent death. His focus shown in his features. The air a few feet out from the psion thinned as added oxygen flooded his system. His heart rate sped up, his lungs expanding exponentially. His eyes opened and he fixated on the wooden obstacle before him.

One, two, three..., the psion began counting silently as he prepped his body for the increased violence moments away. As he reached ten, his calves flexed, his fists released, and every fiber of his being twitched in unison. Oak and pine cracked in sync with the additional force, the door violently ripped from its hinges. The slab of wood fell forward, covering the suddenly prone corpse of Jameson, though Logan still didn't know that.

The psion yelled out after Storm who was already through the window, "What are you running from, Storm? I'm not the one hunting you."

Just then a bolt whistled through the opening and set itself firmly into the wall a few inches from Logan's face. His brow furrowed again as he grit his teeth. There wasn't time to worry about Daisy, he'd leave that up to Raymond or someone else. He was on a mission, even if Storm wasn't going to let it be an easy one.

[Storm Veritas]

Traveling about the realm of Althanas brings experiences that will never fail to stun you. He’d seen swordsmen, sharpshooters, shapeshifters, werewolves, and other combination of man-monsters. Even with these exhaustive experiences of the preposterous, Logan’s entrance still shook him. Storm was out the window, laughing in spite of himself as he heard something (perhaps an arrow) sail past his head from the other direction.

What am I running from? Let’s just say that ripping a door – and its goddamned frame – from the wall itself doesn’t generally precede a few beers and a laugh. This fish isn't staying in the f*cking barrel!

Luckily for the mage, the tavern-inn was a single-story building. He landed with the grace of a wounded baby giraffe, crashing hard through a half-rotten, indiscriminately wet crate of something gross, perhaps once fruit based. Worse than the pain in his shoulder and side, even worse than the smells about him, was the light.

Holy shit! Am I dying? Is this the end?

The street he had landed it felt to him like a cobblestoned hallway of pure white light. The slender lightning-manipulator didn’t bother to look back, but scanned around the outside for his offender. Raymond, as Storm would later learn, stood with his mouth slightly agape, pulling at the bolt release slide on his crossbow. Sweat collected on his fleshy forehead as the balding bowman tried to reload. He looked pale and cast in the gleaming light, but Storm sharpened his furious gaze and marched directly at him.

“Oye, m’friend! I thought you were someone else! I'm so sorry...” His pleas for mercy fell on deaf ears. Out of some instinct, some form of habit, Veritas straightened himself for just a moment, pressing his palm out toward the noise to rocket a blast of white-hot electric death. He waited for the sizzle-snap sound that didn’t arrive.

“C... can I help you?”

Nothing, again. Sonofabitch. Well, you fat drunken shit, more than one way to handle this.

There was noise behind him; the big bastard that tore the doorframe away was coming. Storm didn't have time for niceties, so he simply drove his dagger hilt-deep into the wide, round belly of the bowman. The would-be assassin's eyes grew wide, the mouth fell open, and warm blood ran over Storm's hand, further staining his french cuffs. Grabbing the crossbow, he booted down the wounded man and rocked his body forward into a sprint, keeping to the shoulder of the street for a few feet before darting down the first alley he found. He began in a saluting dash, shielding his eyes in a deep squint as he adjusted to the bright sunshine. There was a scrambling behind him now, one he dared not slow to look back upon.

The alley would announce itself to be a dead end, but not before he traveled down some 100 feet and found himself irrevocably pinned.

Well, shit.

[Logan]

The psion took a deep breath to calm his nerves which usually wasn't an issue, however in that room it was quite possibly the stupidest mistake he could have made. The assorted bouquet of fresh death, urine and recent sex flooded his nostrils, and forced his stomach to convulse violently. The taste of stomach acid flooded his mouth, and his hand shot up to cover it as he stumbled out of the room knocking over the end table in the process.

Once out in the hallway, he fell back against the wall and labored for a deep breath. The room's disgusting aromas faded enough, and the involuntary urge to vomit dissipated. Logan lifted his sleeve to his mouth and coughed a couple of times before wiping away a few stray bits of saliva. The features of his face shifted, his lips pursed, his brow furrowed, and his fists clenched. He had allowed Storm to slip from his grasp, but he would not allow him to escape without a chance to explain why he pursued the mage extraordinaire. He bolted around to the back of the inn.

If Logan thought the aromas of the room before were overwhelming, he only needed a tiny whiff of the alleyway for a reminder of just how wrong he was. His stomach convulsed, and he could not prevent the ensuing vomit. The acidic, metallic mixture forced itself from his mouth, leaving lingering tastes of something he ate hours before and something he couldn't quite place, much to his chagrin. He wiped away the last bits of his stomach convulsions as his eyes locked onto Storm and Raymond in a struggle, though scarcely able to be called such.

Storm easily dispatched of the innkeeper, but before the psion could even move the mage took off down an adjacent alleyway. Logan regained his composure, his brow furrowed, his lips pursed and his fists clenched in agitation. The chase would end soon, one way or the other. He ran after the assassin one final time, turning the corner as the large wall a hundred feet or so away came well into view.

The psion approached, cautiously, his hands sliding over the hilts of his swords. It was his natural reaction when face-to-face with someone who could easily end his life, and yet it felt very, very wrong. At the back of his mind Vincent's words echoed, "you catch more flies with honey."

Logan had scoffed at such silly lip service, but suddenly the sentiment made a lot more sense. Until then the veteran pursued the assassin as a predator pursuing his prey, and the prey responded much as he would expect, in self-defense. Could all of the death and destruction have been prevented if the psion had just waited to speak to Storm once he emerged from the room? There was only one chance to find out. The psion unsheathed his swords and tossed them onto the street, and the clang of metal on stone echoed down the dusty alleyway.

"Storm, enough of this charade. Let's talk."