(12) Broken Effigies v (13) Kitty Pimps

[Ashiakin]

Round One starts at 12:00 AM EST on Sunday, April 30th and will last two weeks. Good luck!

[Wrath]

((Fortunately, and unfortunately, both Wrath and the following Sloth are being manipulated by the same author. Therefore bunnying between the two is permissable.))

They had only known each other for a few short days and already the consequences were falling on them like a suicide from a cliff.

“Why did you bring him here?” it hissed behind its face in a voice both coarse and high, “it“ because it simply could not be referred to as “he“ or “she“.

Its eyes probed Venn meticulously and missing not a thing. His eyes are glued to the dusty white marble around his feet. With no hole to fall into, the young man, barely eighteen, settles for thumbing around foolishly through his pockets. The faint, and nonetheless abrasive, smell of ink and the underside of things invades his deep, quiet breaths.

After a while of picking at his physical flaws, mostly he was skinny and far too pale, it sighed in utter disdain and turned its attention to Wrath, standing idly and silently, on the far side of the room. “He is weak… merely a boy and you say he has no formal training? What could he possibly have to offer?”

“I…” Wrath attempted to interject.

“You might as well have killed him. There is a price to be paid for what you are about to do. There is always a price. And you will not be the only one who has to suffer the consequences… ”

Again, Wrath tried to interrupt, but her soft and gentle voice had been simply overwhelmed by the harsh criticisms. They did not trouble her, she had been conditioned to endure such remarks without ever losing her composure. She learned to drown herself in apathy and in thought. The talent came in handy much too often.

Wave after wave, the insults came like a flood. Then, they reached a topic that Wrath decided she would not tolerate.

“This could only end in tragedy as it did seven...” and before another word was spoken, Wrath unleashed her sword from its sheath and was upon it. It moved like a patch of night, elusive and intangible, within the vacant parlor in its clothes as black as the dark places of nightmares. But the room was small, and Wrath's sword is quick and precise.

With its back to the wall, she plunged her blade deep into the stone, a hair width’s away from its neck. It cringed, having nearly lost its life, or, it shivered with the pulse-pounding glee of nearly losing its life. It’s not easy to decipher the expressions of a face hiding behind a face.

“You’d do well to remember with who you‘re speaking to,” Wrath said gravely, one slight away from drawing blood.

At this, Envy cackled loudly with the sword at its neck, for that’s what it was called when it was not called “it”. Envy laughed so hard from behind its porcelain mask, tarnished by age and wear, that Venn thought it might choke. When it finished, and after a brief pause in which they exchanged glares, it spoke with an almost forced austerity.

“M‘lady Wrath, do forgive me. It‘s been too long since we last met. I wasn‘t sure if you were the same person underneath.”

There was a long silence between the three of them. Wrath released her grip of the hilt and let her arms fall listlessly at her sides.

“Have it your way,” Envy spat maliciously, the sword still gleaming at its throat. “Enjoy the little tramp, but do not forget where your loyalties lie. And should you find him incapable,” it drew itself close, “I will kill him myself.”

Suddenly, Wrath found herself staring at a blank wall, alone with Venn in the dry and dreary parlor. “Are you sure this is what you want?” she asked no one in particular.

“No,” Venn replied, watching her from behind. “But I’ve nothing else.” And he stood there, dreamlike, as she basked in opaline splendor seeping through the window. Her hay-gold hair flickered in constant motion as if moving along a distant tide, and she was beautiful.

Wrath lowered her head then, neither satisfied nor dissatisfied with his answer. She held tightly in one hand the talisman around her neck: the crest of the Mother, the Maiden and the Crone. And she said a silent prayer to all three goddesses and to another, which she had done so without realizing. A goddess who’s temples were erected, long before the age of man, for other gods and goddesses to worship and, of which, were the last to crumble when the last of them had forsaken Althanas to reside in the heavens.

Wrath had prayed for peace of mind.

She did not know that Venn had fallen violently in love with her, when he gazed at her, then, in silver resplendence, or perhaps before, when they had met for the first time in the deserted outskirts of a fallen city. But whenever it had happened, it was unquestionably true that he was deeply in love.

And that was to be the cause of much misery in the times to come. Much misery, and heartbreak, and of a long journey.

[Sloth]

It began with the loss of innocence.

The two had been traveling for months to distant lands across the seas so that Sloth, as Venn was now called, could do some growing up. In those days, learning to fight and learning to kill was just another part of growing older. So it was that they practiced on thieves and brigands and sometimes with each other as they went about their way, but never did they kill anyone. At least, not at this time.

Now, there are certain places where one could fight and kill without having to suffer a sore conscience. One such stage, Lornius and the Lornius Corporate Challenge, pitted teams of two in mortal combat where all contestants walked out without so much as a scratch except, perhaps, a wounded pride, for anything was possible then and death was as much a plaything as the elements or a child’s doll. And without needing to worry about death, well, one didn’t need to worry about much else.

It seemed the perfect opportunity: Sloth and Wrath were a pair, though not in an intimate manner mind you, and there was enough experience to gain to last a lifetime. Lornius gathered warriors of high caliber and standing and each and every one had something to teach. Surely even someone as young and inexperienced as Sloth would emerge from the tournament a great and deadly warrior. And that's what they set out to do, for they did not have time for over two decade's worth of training as Wrath has had.

The stage coach rattled endlessly and the beating of hooves roared like an endless maelstrom. A pale yellow sun slithered through tall leafless trees. Sloth gazed into the crimson ceiling, tired of the noise, and the motion, and the light which flowed in through one of the windows like a steady stream of migraine. He thought he might pick up the small tan leather-bound book he bought at the last relay station but then he remembered that it was about elves and dragons and it was more about glamour and flare than anything real.

“We’re still hours from the next stop,” Wrath said, painfully aware of his disquiet. “Go back to sleep.” Sloth thought about it for a moment, then he got lost somewhere in the world of red above him and when he came to he decided that he was, indeed, a bit sleepy. He sat up and shifted groggily to Wrath’s side of the coach, nearly bumping his head as they rolled over what felt like a carcass in the road.

Wrath had been sitting off to one side of the bench, leaning on the padded wall of the carriage with her forever legs crossed comfortably. She was not as surprised this time when he stretched his body across the seat and rested his head cozily in her lap; an innocent gesture, or so he told himself. Sloth had strange habits, which most people outgrew as a child or a young teen if they were feeling rebellious. He slept in the nude, ate from dishes that didn’t belong to him, and rested his head in her lap. At first, it startled her, his silly ways. But she soon grew accustomed to them much like one would grow accustomed to their new spouse. Although, she still felt nervous about him sleeping in nothing but his skin. It just wasn't civil.

Wrath had brushed through all the knots on his head before speaking again.

“What name should we sign in under?” she asked softly. “I haven’t thought of one.” Of course, she was referring to their team name which was to be listed in the rankings. They were only half a day away from the city. Sloth would stay up to think for some time, as he always did when he actually made an attempt at dozing off, so she wasn't much bothering him.

She peered down into his sea green eyes and combed his mud brown hair with one hand meditatively and with her other she regulated his heartbeat, thumping softly beneath his midnight sweater. His face, as white as a dead thing‘s, expressed an intense fatigue or a deep sorrow or, perhaps, beneath a layer of guile, a passionate thought.

Sloth closed his eyes and said nothing for a while, thinking about the wolf or large bird lying on the barren path a ways back all bloodied, trampled, and forgotten.

“It would be a pity if we were to enter without a name,” Wrath pressed.

Finally, Sloth responded in a yawn, “The Laughing Effigies.”

“That’s a peculiar one. Why that name?”

There was another pause.

“It was the name of a traveling music troupe that I listened to once, years ago, before the war. Someone on the piano and a girl with a fantastic voice, hauntingly beautiful. I can‘t remember what she looked like, but she was young.”

“Well, that won’t do.”

“Why not?”

“ Because it is their name and theirs alone. Anything else would be a lie.”

“We could do that.”

“Do what?”

“Lie.”

“Are you sure you want to go through with this?”

“I think it sounds just fine.”

“I'm sorry, I meant the tournament. Are you sure you want to go through with it? It will be dangerous, among other things.”

“I’m not afraid to die.”

Wrath smiled awkwardly then, like she had listened in on a bad joke. She felt Sloth’s breath grow deeper and his pulse slower. She observed him pensively as he slept, the way an artist would look at the sky or the ocean.

The remainder of the journey was carried on in silence, save for the rolling thunder of hooves and a whispered prayer.

((You two can shape the arena or what have you. I've written far too much for one night))

[Bohemia]

((Any references to either teammate in the other's posts has been approved. Bunnying as well.))

Muffled huffs and puffs grunted past Jon's pursed lips as he sat up into the air, the pipe that he'd hooked his knees around creaking and groaning with each of his strained movements. Clutched tightly to his chest was a twenty pound weight, and the yellow spring sun stared down at the sparse grass lot where all of his equipment had been set up. Balance beams set five feet off the ground, flanked by wooden blocks mounted on steel apparatuses, two towers of concrete blocks, with a steel pipe set in the top "story" (Of which Jon was currently using), weight sets, and a number of other machines of wood and steel not easily identified on sight.

"Ya remember wha' ya di' tha firs' tiome ya came inta my pub?" The weight crashed to the ground, causing small, minute cracks in the fragile shale, and the boy sat up one last time, wrapped his hands around the pipe, and slowly eased his feet down to the ground. "Sure, it was about two years, four months ago. I couldn't hold my liquor, couldn't walk straight sober anyways. I think I...what? Cussed profusely at a soldier?"

"Colonel," Horace corrected, tossing the boy a towel. He'd been at it since the crack of dawn, and over the past four months of his painfully rigorous training, was certainly ready to fight in the Lornius. Toned muscles stood on his arms, legs, abdomen and chest where they'd not been before, and his steps were much more careful, and graceful. "Yeah," Jon reminisced grinniong as he wiped the towel across his face. "The guy broke my nose, my wrist, dislocated both of my knee caps and would have cut off an arm if you hadn't managed to pull him away." The boy's face was aglow, as though remembering some fond memory, like his first birthday or first kiss. "Aye, I seen a lo' a men changed in Althanas, bu' I never thought ye'd be able to musser the spiri' ta do it."

Those words, coming from Horace's strong, stubborn jaw was something that struck the usually obnoxiously loud Jon quiet. Shuffling up to the bathroom upstairs of the pub, that proud light in the old man's eyes lighting a fire in his spirit, he stopped at the mirror and glanced inside.

There he was, or at least, who he had been, smirking cockily back from a world he wasn't even aware existed. The "reflection" didn't move as he reached up to touch the twin scars at his left eye. That naive kid of two years lost, who'd swung his staff like one would swing a thick oak club, who bumbled through every danger caused by his own bad luck by some unfounded form of uncanny good luck. As he struggled to remember exactly how much he'd been drinking over the past week, solely for nervousness, that lost boy gave him a beaming grin, planted his finger against the glass, and spoke five important words.

'Don't fuck it up, King.'

When he blinked, all that looked back at him were a pair of wide, dark rimmed eyes. There he stood, towel around his shoulder, staring back wildly at himself. His hands scrabbled against the mirror, pulled it away from the hinges on the wall, and was greeted by a set of shelves populated by orange plastic bottles and crumpled tin tubes. With a bewildered sigh, he shut the medicine cabinet and sat down on the floor, trying to figure out if he felt releived or terrified of that hallucination.
_____

Lornius was swarming with the common hustle and bustle of the civilian tournament crowd, the common rabble colored green and tan that always faded into the back of the scenery. Every year was the same as the Corporate Championship was announced; the streets would come alive with a sea of people of every shape and size and color and gender and persuasion, but it was this day that the seas parted.

That one day out of the year that the babbling and cacophonic waves spread wide, for the stars come from their self made thrones, bearing their arms.

Two such stars (though how bright they shined, especially the male, was an entirely different story), ambled down the crowded streets of Lornius, but eyes were turned towards the main streets, where those that the staff weilding boy referred to as "complete and utter douchebags" were arriving. Jon King walked with a strange stilted gait, his staff slung haphazardly over his shoulder, and at his side was fiery beauty with sticky fingers, known only as Abbie. The two of them certainly didn't strike the heart as the powerful, menacing team like Strength and Honor, or even the Sons of Terrinore. Still, they did manage to draw some stares.

"Fuckin' A, this year, it's our's Abbie. Fame, fortune, all the shit that goes with it!" The pooka only giggled at him as he kept his eyes straight ahead, that half cocked smile of his never faltering. Lazily, he spun his heavy staff, the Punishment, in long, loping circles, not even noticing the destruction he left behind; people's feet tripping over the ends of the weapon, knocking concession stand foods out of hands or onto shirts, even jarring loose a wedge of wood that held a small hot dog cart fast. "Heh, these pussies have no chance," he muttered, not even wincing at the resounding crash as the cart rolled down the hill and quickly careened out of control, colliding messily with a horse drawn carriage.

"Lornius ain't seen nothing the likes of us!"
_____

"Mister King?" The voice broke harshly on the dashing rocks of puberty, from the plump lips of an overweight delivery boy bearing the uniform of a shop in the Bazaar whose name he'd forgotten by now. "Ain't none like him, two tons of fun," Jon replied as he and Abbie stepped into the locker room of one of the numerous arenas set in Lornius. The chubby boy held out a form for him to sign, and Jon did so with gusto, flipping him a copper peice as tip. "Go spend that on exercise equipment, lunchbox."

"Dick..." The insult was lost on Jon's ears as he lunged at the cardboard package the delivery boy had left behind. When the tape proved to be too much of a match for him, the boy produced a Peacekeeper and cut it open in one jagged, erratic slash, thrust his hands inside, and drew out -- something yellow and feathered. The look of joy on his face instantly vanished as beneath the top he found a helmet underneath, vaguely shaped like a chicken's head. Inside of it, Jon found a card, and ripping the envelope to shreds in a panic, yanked it out quickly.

Good Luck in the LCC, The CockFighters! ~_^

"Motherfucker."

[Abbie]

Over the last few months, Abbie had grown to enjoy Jon’s company. His brash humor and unintelligible but foul language were a never ending source of amusement. Though she had initially been nervous about a tournament like this, his promises of fame and fortune ran through her like wine, causing her will to bend to his own. The idea that she could be adored by so many for winning was enough to drive her to insanity. Well, enough to agree, anyway. His good humor was simply a bonus, since he seemed to tolerate her prankish behavior with ease. Thankfully, he rarely asked for more than yes's and no's, negating potential strife.

So they trained together, working on a few combative moves until they became used to one another’s rhythms and styles. With the pooka’s natural grace, it was a quick study. She did not reveal her alternate nature to him, however, since she might or might not wish to use it during the fights to come, and his knowledge would be an invitation to use it. After all, the last time she had revealed herself in a crowd, she had nearly died, though the humans seemed only vaguely interested at all. She had felt so… Shaking her head, she dissolved the thought, as it displeased her. I need to stay focused. This is it, Abbie, you’re going to be a star!

Choosing the arena had been difficult, but a necessary evil indeed. Thankfully, they had home team advantage because of it. After a bit of thought and analysis of their abilities, Abbie suggested a local gymnasium. It was large enough for a full battle, the floor fully padded for less impact from her leaps and twists, and best of all, did not have an audience area. Without thinking about it too hard, the pooka acknowledged that this would be best, both for the team and for herself. Thankfully, Jon was amenable to the idea, and agreed to set it up there. Nobody seemed to mind, in fact, despite the very real likelihood that the building could be destroyed, along with all of the practice equipment inside. Before the date of the tournament, Abbie visited alone, and specifically requested that the gymnastics equipment, such as bars, springboards, and what have you, be left out for her. The management agreed with little more than a smile and a nod, pleasing the cat burglar greatly.

As the team costumes were delivered, she nearly squealed with delight. Jon had told her so much about them, and she couldn’t wait to try them on! She remembered the day they had come up with the name for the team and smiled a bit. After training for hours, they had ventured into town to shop and relax. Seeing a brass cat on display in a window, Abbie had become entranced and stared for some time. Jon took her love for cats and added his own twist, dubbing them forever the Kitty Pimps. Chuckling to herself, she returned to the present just in time to see yellow feathers being lifted from the box.

Jon lifted the costume, disgust, anger and confusion written plainly on his face. The expletives that left his mouth were only vaguely understandable, but got the job done. “What, you don't want to go in as chickens?” she joked lamely. Disappointed, she thought to chase the boy down, but he was long gone by now, and Jon hadn’t won any friends with him either. Frowning thoughtfully, she worried her lower lip with her teeth in an unconscious gesture that had brought many men to their knees.

Behind some lockers a few rows down, the voices of a couple rose to nearly yelling. Curious, Abbie made her way over to them, unaware that Jon was following, his own curiosity peaked, feathery monstrosities in hand. As they neared the sound, the voices became clearer, and the words “You are NOT making me wear THIS!” echoed soundly against the lockers. Turning the corner, the pooka immediately realized the dilemma as the irate blonde woman stood facing her tall male partner, a tiny red top in her hands with the words “Kitty Pimps” emblazoned on the front.

From behind her, Jon’s voice was clear. “I think I have something of yours.” Holding up the feathery concoctions, he half grinned in his silly way at the pair. The woman looked at the Kitty Pimps, a bit surprised, before glancing at the outfits. Understanding dawned on her instantly, her dark eyes brightening, and she sighed with relief. Tossing the too-small top back into the box, she irritably snatched Jon’s jacket from her partner’s hands and handed them to Abbie. Silently, she took the chicken costumes and nodded curtly, her worthless attempt at a thank you.

Feeling suddenly unwanted, Abbie turned on her heels and walked away, though she could hear Jon cursing at them for being ungrateful. Smiling at his predictability, she rounded the corner to where their lockers were and waited. Placing the box and leather jacket on a nearby bench, she leaned back against the lockers, the cool metal chilling her skin. “That was just… trippy,” she said to her partner as he came around the corner. Giggling, she bent over and lifted her shirt out of the box, turning it over in her hands as though it were precious gold, her features a mask of joy and awe. Jon forgotten for the moment, her excitement overwhelmed her sensibilities.

Setting her shirt down gingerly on the bench, Abbie tugged at her green sleeveless top, lifting it over her head to expose her bare torso. Before her partner could react or speak, she leaned over, picked up the team t-shirt, and pulled it down over her head, the fabric quickly concealing her breasts. The red garment fit her curves snugly, the cotton accentuating them to the point of madness. Opening a locker door, she located a mirror inside and tried to get a look at herself. Annoyingly enough, the surface was marred and dirty, and she could not make out enough of her reflection to decide if she liked it. Turning innocently to a gape-mouthed Jon, she smiled cutely. “What do you think?”

[Wrath]

The morning they had arrived at the city to register they found themselves congested in a place brimming with life and people and anticipation. The marketplace, above all, was thriving and pulsing like young larvae. There were merchants from Corone, peddlers from Alerar, and vendors from the far off Fallien. They nailed slabs of gingerbread and exotic pelts to the bare boards of their stalls with great iron nails. If they did not nail them, they said, the thieves and the forest folk would take them and run away, chewing on the stolen gingerbread, flailing about them the pelts.

Wrath and Sloth were careful not to let themselves be consumed by the crowd and the chaos, traveling by foot because it would be foolish and exasperating work to try and ride a horse through these streets. Although a pair of knights, clad in silver armor, were adamant to try. They screamed and hollered vulgarities at anyone that would cross their path and would hit them with the butt end of their lances.

“Hey Rick! I‘ve got them!” a clumsy looking lad cried out across the sea of people, dashing past the knights and their horses.

“Watch it, infidel!” one of the knights boasted, his horse reigning.

“We’re lucky we made it in time!” he continued. “I doubt there are any left!”

Registration for the tournament would come after finding a place to stay for the night. Most of the city’s more decent abodes had been booked weeks before, in light of the competition, by warriors and spectators alike. Wrath had found them an old dilapidated house on the outskirts of the city, after much traveling and questioning, where thieves and brigands and the unclean lived. In that house there lived a women who was neither young or old and who agreed to share her home with them for a reasonable price. The woman sold herbs and remedies to women who found themselves in unfortunate situations. It was whispered that unwary travelers who stopped in that house for the night were often never seen again. Be that as it may, Wrath had little choice but to take her up on the offer.

That night, the moon was dark and the wind howled through the rotting eaves.

“He’s asleep,” Wrath told the woman who was neither young or old and who was very beautiful, but whom Wrath suspected was not alive and that it was a frozen beauty. “If he wakes, tell him that I’ve gone to enter our names in the tournament and then pour him a glass of warm tea,” she continued.

“I will do as you ask,” the woman replied. Wrath turned to leave but as she left, the woman couldn’t help but to say in an almost threatening sort of manner, “He is handsome and plenty young, and he is sure to have wondrous dreams. There are many who would consider him to be a fine catch. You are lucky to have him.”

“You would give me your word that you'll not let harm to come upon him,” Wrath said at the doorway. She knew that her kind, whatever her kind was, were bound to their word, although she did not know how she knew.

The woman who was neither young or old sucked the air in through her teeth, and held it in, and then, after too long a time, she exhaled. And she said, “You have my word, but know that there is a price.”

“Of course,” Wrath said, leaving the dilapidated house and the woman who was not alive.

There is always a price.

The pubs and taverns of the city were still very much alive. Men and women and creatures of all sorts danced and drank in spirit of the festival and the coming battles. They talked and they laughed over stories and tall tales, and at one time, when the excitment was at its peak, they were willing to discuss anything.

It wasn’t too difficult to find him. He was a local hero and well-known around this half of the city. Women adored him and other boys emulated him. He had charisma and a soft heart. It was the night before the battles would begin and he would have himself some fun with friends, strangers and women. He was young, and he was foolish.

“You’re Rick?” Wrath asked the young lad as he headed home for the night. He was drunk, alone, and unarmed.

“I am,” he burped and he fumbled a glance at Wrath. “I’m sorry miss, I think I’m just going to go home for the night. Big day tomorrow, you know. I’m going to win the Lornius Cooperation Challenge, you know.”

“I’m afraid not,” she said.

“Eh?” the lad stammered. “Why not? I’ve got what it takes. Just look at these." He started to flex his arms in a moment of pride. "You‘ll see.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Just who the hell are you lady?” Rick was furious as most men would be in those days if they had been told off by someone of the opposite gender.

“I am Wrath,” she said. “I’m sorry, but you have something that I need.”

When she finally returned in the small hours, she held in one hand a certificate of approval for the Lornius Corporation Challenge and in the other she carried a small satchel, bound in twine, and dripping a dark red ooze. She handed the woman the satchel which felt heavy with two sets of what felt like entrails and the woman grinned, satisfied.

Wrath returned to her room to find Sloth sound asleep, naked, and she thanked the fourth goddess for their fortune, for it was ill-gained. She wept silently into the night, shivering, and eventually she forced herself into sleep. Tomorrow was going to be a big day.

[Sloth]

“I’ll have a glass of red wine,” said the nameless beauty to the faceless bartender.

“And you?” she turned to and asked the young man sitting next to her. They seemed to know each other. “What’ll you have?”

He had wanted some local ale, having never tried it before, but the stool he had been sitting on slipped from beneath him. He fell onto the floor and then into the earth. The woman smiled down upon him with eyes of dark velvet from high upon her lofty perch. He looks up at her and doesn’t say a thing. They’re not that close.

The wind howled him out of slumber and he’s wide awake in the late hours of the night. Sloth stares blankly at the low ceiling wondering if he can hold it in until morning. Then his mind wanders and he begins to think about Envy and its mask.

His lower muscles tighten.

Fuck.

He gets up out of bed, penis exposed, and jumps into a pair of rain cloud gray trousers. Sluggishly, he makes his way out back. Had he been alone in the house he would have gone bare all, but their were women in the house and he knew better. Steam rose from his piss as he relieved himself beside the outhouse. He had a hard time believing the nightsoil collectors would come. The outhouse was as rundown and forgotten as the home itself, as if it hadn’t been touched in decades. He didn’t even bother to check inside for a clean can.

When he finished, he thought he had heard the mew of a cat coming from the house. Cold lightning runs down his spine as he swings his gaze to the back door. The woman who is neither young or old stood at the doorway. She was not naked, but her robe was open, exposing her white breasts, her nipples black and hard like lumps of charcoal. There in the light of the moon, Sloth could swear that he had known something familiar about her face.

“My, my,” she said. “Doesn’t anyone sleep these days?”

Sloth found it oddly displeasing that she did not seem to care that her bosom had been revealed. It was not ladylike.

“Would you care for some tea?” she grinned like she knew of all his secrets. “I’ve just made some.”

Embarrassed that he had been nearly caught with his pants down and for catching a glimpse at her open robe, Sloth could only give her an uncouth look as a response. He follows her into the parlor.

“You’re lady warned me that you would wake late at night,” she poured him something opaque and green into a finely crafted porcelain teacup, out of place in its surroundings. They sat at the table. A single candle lit the room and shadows and figures danced across their bare chests and the bare walls.

Utterly uncomfortable with the situation, Sloth quietly sips at the drink which left a funny sensation on his tongue. He thought there might be mint or eucalyptus leaves in it.

“She is running errands,” she glanced at Sloth as she poured the malachite liquid into her own cup. He was surprised, though he hid it well. He had trouble imagining her out at night. She always insisted on finding a place to rest before dusk and sleeping before nightfall. Wrath always kept her room locked, so there was no way to know for sure if she had done this before.

“I’ve sent her out to fetch some ingredients for a love potion,” the woman continued. “That‘s all women ever ask for. Would you care for a bottle? I’m sure I could spare one.”

“No, thanks,” he replied.

“Love and revenge, and that’s what it’s all about,” she chuckled. “Of course,” her smile grew wider then and Sloth thought he could see pointed teeth, but it must have been a trick of the light. “I have other potions. Ones that would grant you the power to turn men into beasts and beasts into men. Elixirs that would shape the world as you see fit. And still more that would grant you dominion over that-which-is-not-real and can never be.”

“I don’t mean to sound rude,” Sloth interrupted, and it was very rare that he would do so and even rarer for him to say something like what came next. “But I doubt that these concoctions of yours do little more than give you the runs.”

“Oh, they work,” the woman cackled. “You’re tired boy. Get some rest.”

It was true that Sloth had suddenly become overwhelmingly tired for he just realized that it was she that he had known in his dream. It was strange, but she seemed less substantial in the waking world as if she were more real and alive in dreams.

When he woke, he thought he had heard the paws of a feline trip-trapping at the foot of his bed. He had dreamed, but already the memory of it was gone and blank. He wondered if he could hold his piss until morning. It didn’t feel like he had to go all that bad. So, after a bit of tossing and turning, he fell back asleep.

[Bohemia]

There was a brief moment when the boy recalled almost every terrible thing that had happened to him since stepping away from that pond in Concordia. He remembered being chased down and viciously mauled by a pack of wolves, and then a week later, being knocked around by a towering man made from stone. The following week he'd spent in a hospital bed, swathed in bloodied bandages, broken legs slung up, eyes stinging from the big blue bruises over them, and the brilliant achromatic light spilling in from his wide open windows.

His memory went ahead six months later, when he'd been pushed into a pit of snakes by a couple of goblins he'd been fiighting. Their venom sacs had been removed, but the serpents had been so furious that they'd bit him anyways. Shivering, eyes locked on two spots, he also remembered that he still had the nightmares. He half wondered if Abbie had heard him screaming 'Cobras!' in his sleep from her sperate room.

Ahead, one year.

Here, he found himself swaddled in bandages again, though these ones were much cleaner than before. He remembered the name of this place well; St. Aramais' Hospice. Nuns had foound him half dead by the side of the road, legs and arms and ribs all broken up, bruised and battered and bloody everywhere.
It hadn't simply been because he'd dueled a number of highwaymen for the safety of a virgin maiden, either. Tired and pissed off, the boy had wandered iunto the wilderness to find a cave to sleep in. He stumbled across one wityh a hulking brown mass in it, and to his mind came the famous words of his great, great, great grand uncle, Josiah Gosnell. 'Ya never know if it's dead or not unless you poke it wiith something sharp!' It unfortunately, hadn't occured to him that those were also his great, great, great gand uncle's last words as well.

Mauled by bears.

Mauled by wolves.

Mauled by snakes.

Brutally beaten by goblins.

Brutally beaten by thugs.

Brutally beaten by women.

Every single incident, small or disastrious, came to him as he stared at Abbie's breasts, a crooked grin on his face, and he nodded slowly. Every single fucking beating, bite, cut, slash, gouge, stab, burn, shot, electrocution, authoritative bodily probing, back alley hobo fight, immobolized stay at the hospital, and near death experience was completely worth it. The pooka turned to him with her shirt on, and her mouth moved, but she might as well have been whispering during the full tilt of a Norwegian opera. Jonathon King could only hear the joyous blasts of the angel's trumpets, and God herself patting him on the shoulder and saying 'Congratulations, my son, you've found the greatest treasures I have ever made,' as she gave him a knowing smile and a hearty pat on the shoulder. "Tits," he mumbled through his frozen grin, breaking the two minute silence as Abbie stared at him quizzically.

"What?"

Jon blinked, and glanced around slowly, grin fading from his face. Cussing a bit, he realized her shirt was back on and her pants weren't off, and he shook his head forcefully, trying to pull himself out of the halcyon haze he'd fallen into. "How does it look?"

"Take off your jacket and pants, stay a while," Jon replied, his eyes taking on that dreamy glaze again.

"JON!" The shoe to his crotch handed him a ticket back to reality, and he rode that train back to the dreary world that he lived and constantly got injured in, a cold slithering ache waiting for him at the stop, holding up a sign with his name on it. He shook it's hand and it slipped down his throat to sit in his stomach and testicles, where it would settle itself down in a cozy home. "It looks fantastic," he squeaked, slumping down onto the bench and doubling over. "Aren't you going to get dressed?"

"I think I might just stay in here, maybe lay down, puke a little bit while I wait for my balls to drop," he mumbled miserably, and offered no aid when she pulled off his shirt and struggled to dress him in their team uniform. After a few long, excruciating moments, he sat up, and began to numbly pat at his pants, pulling out a pair of plain looking knives, after some time. "Here....can't exactly...fight with....hands. You can have these boobs. I mean knives. God damn you, Freud," he gasped out, then collapsed against the bench, shutting his eyes tight and sealing his lips against the wave of nausea that threatened to sweep up and out of his throat, greater than any wave any surfer had rode in Maui.

The cement of the locker room was cold and gray, but so was the rest of the world. It felt as though he were laying on a slab of ice, and that loathsome pain in the down under wasn't feeling any better at all. His arms were wedged between his thighs, and he half feared he was going to wear his teeth down to tiny white nubs with how much he was gritting them. That anxiety came from the sudden silence in his partner. Such a thing, he'd grown to fear since he'd began training with her. This wasn't the first time she'd given him a low blow, though it was perhaps the first time it had been unintentional. But the quiet meant that she'd gotten curious about something, and he was about to get hurt again.

The scream that burst from his lips when she poked him was unbefitting of any man, and his eyelids peeled back...to look at something entirely, sttartlingly, and terrifyingly different. "Holy shit!" He fell from the bench that had become his sad little bed and scrambled frantically to his feet, dashing towards the other end of the locker room. His cause for concern was a five foot and three inch redheaded and black furred feline monstrosity dressed in Abbie's clothes. For a moment, as he pressed himself as far into the corner of the lockers as he could, gray leather jacket creaking a bit, he couldn't summon up the words. Then, that natural talent came. "Great fucking flaming balls of horseshit, where in the great god damned nightmarish halls of Hell did you come from?!"

The creature touched a hand to it's lips and giggled, and his fear began to erode. For as much as he heard it, he could recognize the laugh in a rabbling crowd. His arm whipped out, index finger pointing, eyes still wide like a frightened rabbit. "How the...how in the hell did you do that?"

"A lady always keeps her best secrets," she answered in a sing song tone, and he winced, half expecting that. "Fine, fine, what're we here to do?" He gave her that half cocked grin as he picked up the heavy dehlar staff from the floor, next to his shirt and sweatshirt. "Kick some ass!" She crowed happily.

Usually, he'd have gone parading out into the great wide unknown and tripped right over his own damned feet, but for the moment, he exercised an unprecedented level of caution. "You ever hear of these guys before?" The furred humanoid shook her head, her fiery locks bobbing along with the movement. Kicking the bench over to the lockers, Jon jumped up onto it and peered through the window. "It's some kid and a woman. I think I'll call her Tits. The kid's got a really fucking stupid goatee and he sort of looks like that jackass from those movies with the gay undertones with midgets and elves if he had a kid with that jackass on that channel I hated that was payed for being legally and mentally retarded. I'll call him Orlando Margera."

He glanced over his shoulder, mouth agape a few inches, eyes unfocused. The expression could have incited a ruling of mental illness, if an official had been present. "Hey!" A grin shattered that idiot appearance as he suddenly brightened, jumping down and shoving his hands down her pockets. "Didn't you have tail razors or something like that?" He asked, patting her buttocks, then digging into the side pockets of her coat. "Where you'd put 'em, eh? Those ought to be handy..."

[Abbie]

"Tail blades? I don't know what you're talking about. All I have are these soup-can openers." With that, the pooka walked over to her locker and produced a bundle swaddled in burlap. "I wear them all the time, though. Very shiny." Holding the brown cloth up so Jon could see, she beamed at him expectantly, her sea green eyes shining in the lights. "Go ahead! Take a peak, see what you think!"

Jon lifted an eyebrow, but said nothing as he walked over. Standing in front of her, he peeled back the material, revealing the iron blades. The surface wasn't quite as shiny as Abbie seemed to think, though it did glint dully. Smirking at her, he motioned for her to turn around, his eyes wandering over her at leisure as he lifted the two sharp attachments out of her hands. Though they were five inches across, the weight was fairly low, probably due to how thin they were. Taking the wrappings from her, he placed them on the bench nearby.

Once the cat-girl had turned away, she lifted her midnight black tail toward Jon, drawing his attention downward. Smiling a bit, she tilted her head over her right shoulder so she could see. Having never worn the blades, the excitement of using them in combat was heady, and she had to force herself not to bounce up and down or swish her tail. Instead, she waited as Jon kneeled and opened the clasp of the largest one that would go further up toward the middle of the appendage.

Cool metal touched her silken fur, at first pleasant, but quickly becoming unpleasant. With a hiss, a few strands began to singe, shriveling as though on fire. Beneath that, the flesh became raw and blisters formed, the red mounds bursting as quickly as they came. With a loud yowl, Abbie leapt away from Jon, scratching at the walls in a futile attempt to climb them, though she made it an impressive distance up before crashing back down.

Curling up on the floor in an upright fetal position, the wounded thief cradled her tail in her hands, sniffling as she stared at the now missing fur and broken, red skin. Lifting her chin, she stared at Jon with tears welling up in her eyes. "I didn't know that would happen... It hurts!" Trembling a little from the shock, she carefully ran her clawed fingers over the area, not touching the blistered area so much as remembering how it once looked. Sadness overwhelmed her at the thought that it may not grow back. Damned heritage...

"Holy...holy shit!" Jon ran his fingers up through his black hair, leaving it sticking up at haphazard, half cocked angles. He wanted to just blurt out the fact that aside from that bear exploding on a transformer near his house, that was one of the coolest things he'd ever seen. "Haha...m-mayybe we sh-should get these upgraded at the bazaar, Tits and Margera can wait a little longer." Without much thought, he set the blades back on top of the burlap they had been wrapped in, the metal making a dull clink.

Abbie looked from her singed tail to Jon and back, mulling over the idea. Finally, she stood, using the wall behind her to push herself up. With an uplifted eyebrow, she waved her ‘paw’ at her partner, inviting him to turn away. Though he was really interested in seeing how she changed, he gave her grudging respect and did as she wished. Moments later, the human-seeming Abbie walked over to him, her normal fingers brushing his forearm. “All set, let’s go.” She did not mention the pain on her left ass cheek, though she limped a little as she moved toward the door.

[Bohemia]

When she came to him again, back in her normal human form, Jon's hair was still sticking out in several crazed angles, stroking his chin silently. He was deep in thought, something rare, though far from the task at hand. To be honest, the fact that they were set to battle Broken Effigies had wholly slipped his mind. The image of Abbie's chest was fresh in his mind, and he'd be damned if he wasn't going to see it again. The pooka grabbed at his arm, but no matter how hard she tugged, it didn't seem to pull him out of his reverie.

"Eureka!" Abbie let out a tiny eep and jumped backward as he whipped around, grinning widely, jabbing a finger towards her. His gleeful triumph quickly became replaced by one of panic and distress. "Oh shit! Abbie, there's ghosts in our clothes! Hurry and take them off!" His own shirt and jacket went flying off carelessly to either side of the room, and with one smooth motion, his belt unbuckled, and his pants dropped around his ankles.

Abbie stood before him, face twisted cutely in an expression of puzzlement, still fully dressed. "Piss," he muttered, bending over to pull his pants back up, mind milling fervently for a plan B. "Eh, what were we doing?"

"These stupid things," she pouted, holding up the tail razors, the miserable iron things sitting in the burlap she'd brought them in. "Why didn't you think to put them on ahead of time?" he asked, scowling a bit as he grabbed the measly weapons from her grasp, picking one up with his own hands. He waited for his own skin to blister up at the touch of the cool black iron, but when nothing happened, he cussed, dropping it and crumpling the burlap around them.

Back out onto the crowded and cluttered streets of Lornius they went, Jon's stride fast and impatient, one arm trailing behind, the hand clutching Abbie's tightly, his tall frame bumping and knocking into the common rabble like they were just stones in the path of a stubborn river. He only got into these moods at rare times of the year, which was rather unfortunate for him. Bothered, unapproachable, and down right miserable too be around, the boy often exercised more caution than ever, and seemed to lose that juvenile idiocy. But as soon as one would think he'd taken a turn for what could possibly be the better, out from his mouth came one of those long, unnecessary cusses, and all went back to their business again.

Considering this year's participants, a veritable legion of merchants had descended upon Lornius just as the spectators had, hussying up their wares for the warriors of the tournament. Jon slapped down the little burlap package on the folding counter of one such merchant's travelling shop and forge, jabbing a finger straight down into it. "Common tail razors from an anthro. They're in iron, make 'em steel, eh?" The merchant was a tall, stocky man with broad shoulders and a thick, barrel like torso, scars pocking his face amongst a thick black beard. He gave the boy a confused blink, but quickly set into motion at the yellow flash of gold that revealed a green monster under all that char that smeared his skin and clothes.

"Oooh! That's a pretty jewel!" The pooka's face almost glowed as she leant over to look at an emerald set in a shining steel dagger, drawing the merchant's eyes to her fabulous cleavage as he returned, trying to bumble out the price. "Free, eh?" Jon's hands were much faster than this bearded buffoon, and he snatched Abbie's new razors right out of his thick meaty palm, his mocking laughter ringing loudly. "Haul ass, sugartits!" The delinquent duo plowed through the crowd as the flustered merchant found his voice again.

"Stop! Thief! And a whore!"