The Fall of Sir Edwin Francis

[Storm Veritas]

While dozens of concerned reporters swarmed on the dying Edwin Francis like ants on an abandoned crumb, Storm scrambled to find an egress from his disastrous situation. He found himself in a long, suspended catwalk above the main floor, a small hoard of guards and hardscrabble men following him with loud calls amidst the chaos. The long, polished sand colored marble ahead of him was pristine and unblemished, a sharp contrast from the limitless entropy he left in his wake.

“Up there, the red tie! Grab him!” The chorus of calls from behind the white noise generally paraphrased to some similar appropriation. The sun shone in at a low angle through the tall, broad windows that marked the eastern side of the hallway, dust particles dancing gently and indifferent to the petty humans that trifled beneath them.

How much longer can I wait!?

Tobias Stalt held a very high reputation in Radasanth, perhaps one of the few whose name raised as many eyebrows as Storm’s did. In spite of this, the desperate electromancer knew his time was fleeting; waiting for the dapper gentleman would be his undoing if he continued to push his chips behind the wager of divine intervention.

Screw it. Time for my own f*cking divinity.

With a wave of his hand, Storm tore the iron railing from its cemented wrest, a tremendous effort that drained the blood from his face. The screeching, creaking scream of the twisted metal joined with the railing creating a fine blockade behind the wizard and before the oncoming flood of humanity. Furious, a symphony of pitiful clangs and swears sounded his way as his pursuers were stopped at the wall of freshly turned iron atop the catwalk. Behind Storm, a single wall of office doors remained conspicuously closed, no doubt pencil pushers locking their work-homes from the inside.

Gotta move, gotta move. Shit, gotta move.

To his right, the catwalk ran another hundred feet before another set of heavy marble stairs spilled down to the same chaotic floor, where men sprinted awkwardly in their expensive suits to get at him. Echoing his earlier move, the powerful mage pulled the iron footings clear of their small cement foundations, blocking off now both paths to attack him.

A single crossbow bolt missed him, an armed guard firing the small lead bolt at him from the floor below. He didn’t even see the dart, just heard the whistle-thwack of the projectile striking the wall above and behind him. Instinctively, he jumped back and squatted, hiding himself from the archer’s angle of attack. Another wave of swears and curses roared his way as he looked to his right at the new wave of pinned pursuers.

Reaching behind him, Storm found his hand on the doorknob to one of the three accessible offices. The door handle resisted him, but very little effort was needed for him to use his abilities to unlock the metal tumblers. A simple turn, and…

(THUMP)

The door was blocked from the inside, where the hinges for the door sat cleverly hidden. He was completely trapped, and noticed archers moving for the stairs.

They get up here, and you’re screwed. Fish in a f*cking barrel.

From his perch, hidden from the view of the outraged people below, the sun shined down in a compassionate yellow glow upon the great evil man. The window panes were fairly thin, and certainly metal, hanging some twenty feet in front of him.

Shit. That’s it, then. Only live once.

[Storm Veritas]

When a man lives long enough upon Althanas, he can find courage an easy thing to fake. A tall enough glass of whiskey, or the business end of a flintlock pistol were more than enough to spur even the most cowardly of men to action. Storm Veritas epitomized this phony bravery on many occasions, and for a brief moment most likely appeared quite fearless to the oncoming hoard of people to both his right and left. Not fooled in the charade was the heart, beating out of his chest with a deafening toomtoomtoomtoom rattle that made it hard to draw a breath.

Clowns to the left of me… jokers to the right… here I am…

…totally, irrefutable f*cked.

The wizard squatted, breathing deeply as his legs trembled beneath him. The window opposite him was tall, with panels of glass some four feet tall, bound by relatively thin metal glazings. Pulling the railings had done a number on him. From here, he was too fatigued to simply pull the casings, allowing the glass to fall free and clear. With sweat running over his brow and filling his lips with a taste of salt, the quick math of a relatively bright man was simple enough.

Three steps, pump, blast, and pray like a son of a bitch. Goddamnit Tobias.

The cavalry wasn’t coming, so the element of surprise was the last bastion for the electromancer. He strode quickly across the catwalk, reaching a bound and leaping with anger headlong at the window. Airborne, he heard a raucous call below him, archers raising their crossbows at a most unexpected target. His electromagnetic focus found purchase on the cross point of four window panes his shoulder seemed destined to crush, and was able to dislodge the set point as he soared, the glass creaking and metal yielding. Sadly, the glass only broke away in a small fragment, leaving large, heavy panels of unfriendly silica suspended in his wake.

You. Whore.

The collision of man and glass and metal was as graceful as a newborn giraffe, the bending of flesh and manufactured materials being ushered to the people with a crack, crash, and shriek of splintering glass. The mage had hit the glass high and hard, leading with a shoulder that bounced and contorted, his back and hip following through the shrapnel. Fragmented, long thin blades of window hung behind the crash, their tips coated crimson as a warning for other damned fools stupid enough to attempt such an absurd stunt. Behind the falling body, a sparkling rain of scarlet tipped shards landed harmlessly about the foyer and window with a soft twinkling sound.

Now outside the building, Storm experienced six new shades of hell. He landed in shrubbery, a mild mercy of thorn and thin branch that cushioned his fall at the expense of innumerable scratches about his forearm, face, hand and wrist. His body had been torn wide from right shoulder to hip, long thin streaks like daggers dragged the length of a man’s arm. His clothing stuck to his back in an unmistakable wetness; his body was pumping blood wildly and he was most certainly on the clock.

Get away, get shelter, get stitched. Don’t stop. You stop, you die.

A wild fear held his heart compressed within a tightened chest. The pain that injuries wrought upon his body was nothing aside from the self-suffocation of panic that clutched his torso within an invisible vice. The luxury of self loathing, rest, and forethought were no longer available; he knew that his bombastic exit from the municipal building would gain the attention of anyone within a quarter mile.

The sun blasted his face like a spotlight, the clock in his head ticking. He had to clear himself of the grounds, and the city, in spite of his wounds. Worse, he had to do it right now.

[Storm Veritas]

The bush was harsh and unforgiving, but the oncoming rush of horrified Radasanthians would be far worse. Storm had to scramble, seek safety, anonymity, and to be healed. First, there would be one minor hold, one cessation of escape in the name of justice. His hand grabbed at his throat, clutching and tugging with the urgency of a choking man.

Seriously, F*CK this tie…

The red tie had brought him nothing but bad luck, and in spite of his injuries and urgency, Storm Veritas brought the terrible rose colored necktie to hell. Grasping both ends of the long, silken scarve, the blue etchings made for the perfect resistor. A small electrical pulse the length of the tie was slowed by the blue ink, which glowed orange briefly before bursting into flame. The whole ordeal took seconds, but the small pillar of grey smoke that burst from the little pile gave him a rush that was nearly orgasmic. The faint odor of smoke reminded him of his easy morning, and brought a craving to resume his position behind a good pipe.

Seconds wasted. Get your ass in gear.

Snaking low through tall bushes which obscured his view from the edges of the tall, gothic building, there was near pandemonium erupting from every orifice of the mighty government edifice. They were looking, and sprinting towards where he had landed, no doubt soon to trace the toppled grasses and droplets of blood that would lead to him. He didn’t pause to hop a hip-high, ebony painted iron wrought railing and onto the main, cobblestoned street. His back screamed in agony, a long crimson slash dancing down and across his back. Improvisation was a strength.

People looked on in horror, the aristocratic and debonair adventurer looking as though he hopped out of the very gates of hell. Across the street, a tailor’s shop was open, its heavy door propped open with a long-loosed cobblestone. Without hesitation, the wizard strode through the door, grabbed a white dress shirt and handy grey overcoat, and flipped five gold crowns to a bewildered shopkeep.

“Sir, those are over fifty…”

“Rental; one hour. Shut your f*cking mouth and take it.” The razor thin eyes of the wounded Storm Veritas shot a white hot glare at the tailor, and he didn’t slow as he exited the back door. Bright sunshine found his face immediately, as behind him he heard the maddened rush of loud and angry men that had entered the tailor’s shop. Running now, he gripped the shirt and coat in his fist, dashing between buildings at a full head of steam. Small alleys and alcoves were insufficient cover; his escape was as inconspicuous as a fireworks display. Something about a sweat-soaked, profusely bleeding Adonis caught the attention of these three-toothed townies on a warm, pedestrian morning.

The further he moved, the more he bled. He was gaining distance, but losing consciousness. The blood fell slowly from his face as he felt the wet stain of blood drop down across the top of his dress pants.

Stay up, keep moving. Build distance, hang tight. Hang tight.

The sun was beating on him as he moved with a delirious blend of pain and haze, until an oasis appeared amidst a small alleyway. A sewer cap was upturned, beckoning him.

Thank the Gods.

[Storm Veritas]

He moved ahead as quickly as possible, the raucous screams and yells from behind him blended into a singular wave of white noise. The assassin’s body ached, his blood and sweat blending into a thin, dirty slime that covered him as he plunged down into the depths beneath.

Splash!

It was dark down here, a long and broken tube extending through the black before him, broken in fifty-yard intervals by sprays of sunshine that popped down from the street above as the sun rose high. With a hand before him glowing lightly, the wizard could move much more quickly than his pursuers. After making his first turn (a hard left under what he believed must have been the first tavern), he heard the crash of soldiers and constables crashing into the sewers behind him. It was only after moving for some thirty seconds that the gravity of the stench overpowered him.

Why couldn’t I be one of the specials that could just teleport, or fly? This place is BULLSHIT.

The ankle-deep sewage was most likely largely relatively clean; Storm hoped against hope he was running through runoff from kitchen drains and rainwater overflow. This ignorance was all he could stomach, and his ignorance of plumbing wrenched the singular, sinking suspicion that he was running through human waste. At the least, amidst a few dozen rats that had smartly fled from the steadily jogging magician, the ripe odor was dilute. As the sludge splashed up upon his ankles and knees, a sinister smile crept across his face.

If you’re wasting energy worrying about getting a little shit on your pants, that certainly beats the shit you almost filled them with. We’re out of the fire, baby.

Men continued to descend as he worked his way axially away from the site of his transgressions. They were searching for needles in a haystack, picking random sewercaps to dive down in hopes the scoundrel would happen to be moving past at that particular moment. It was a fool’s errand, and they were desperate. As statistics dictate, they were also unsuccessful.

He wouldn’t be caught again, but he had been identified from his abilities. Radasanth would not be safe for him for some time, but other ne’er-do-wells would come by and steal the headlines, freeing him from scrutiny. For today, he’d have to skip town, launder funds into his own pockets, and regroup. His head scrambled a bit; he could live in the forest for some time, and show up in town a month from now with a thick beard and wolfskin clothing. He could also hide out in the stables, catch the morning post, and evade arrest for long enough to pick up a few hundred extra crowns. The latter option seemed entertaining; it would afford him a chance to cash in more quickly, and would afford him the chance to steal a bottle of whiskey and have himself a night.

Naturally, that night would make for a different adventure.

[Rayleigh]

Thread: The Fall of Sir Edwin Francis
Participants: Storm Veritas & Tobias Stalt
Type: Workshop

Storm Veritas receives 2200 EXP and 150 GP.
Tobias Stalt receives 660 EXP and 50 GP.

[Rayleigh]

All rewards have been added. Congratulations on your level up, Storm!