Vandal Valiance (solo)

[Mathias]

Mathias turned the knob and slowly opened the door. He cautiously stepped inside, looking around. As the elvish lass brought down her two fists, fingers meshed together in a weak attempt to sap him, his arms shot out and he caught her at the wrists. She struggled, trying to get away from him by thrashing wildly. He wrapped his arms around her in a bearhug and picked up her light frame, sitting her on the bed. As he let go, she immediately recoiled in on herself and began to sob silently, looking at the floor.

"Hey. Shhh...sh-sh-sh. Look at me... hey. Look. Look at me," he said, trying to calm her down with a tranquil, neutral tone. "Hey. I'm not going to hurt you. Hey. Shhh... Do you speak common?" His voice was as soothing as he could make it, and he wondered if it were any bit like his intention. He put a hand on her wrist, gently, and she tried to move away, but he leaned forward, placing it on her shoulder. After a minute, her crying began to die out, and he kneeled down to look her in the eyes. "Do you... speak... Tradespeak?" he asked her, making childish gestures, like flapping his hand as if it were a mouth, speaking.

"Y-yes... I... can..." she choked out, between gasping breaths.

"Good... that's good... Look. Hey... look at me... ssh.. Don't be afraid. We're not... those men. We're not that kind of people. We're good. We don't want to hurt you. My name is Mathias... what's yours?" he said, talking slowly and clearly, trying to articulate his words without accent. He regretted it, because he felt as though he were treating her as if she were mentally deficient. A thought struck him, and he wondered if Elves were even capable of retardation...

Eventually, she calmed down to a point that she could function and have a conversation with Mathias. She told him that her name was Limali, and he asked her to tell him how she'd gotten here, and why the slavers had taken her. After collecting her thoughts for a moment, as well as gathering the strength to speak, she began to relate her tale, "The past... few months, I'm going to have to guess... I've been floating around. Captured from my home, on the Raiearan coast, they took me to Antioch. I don't know why, but only some of the slaves had been dropped off there. We were then shipped over to Corone, but we only stayed for several days. Since then, we came to Scara Brae."

Mathias comforted her as she broke into tears every once in a while, soothing her until she could speak again. After she trudged through her story, she began to tell him how she'd first been unloaded in a cove, marched through a cave until they reached a large area, with many men in black cloaks, and many slaves being shut into boxes. She was stuffed into the chest, and from there, carried into a basement where she was let out every few hours, to eat and stretch. That evening, she'd been crammed back into the trunk and then taken off to the warehouse, where she'd been rescued.

The vandal listened intently to everything she said, trying to pick up clues as to the whereabouts of the slavers. But, before he could even try to scan the map inside his head, Limali had a few questions of her own. "So who... are you people, exactly? The army or, something such?"

He shook his head. He grinned at her assumption, but quickly wiped it off his face and tried to remain as sober as possible as he told her. "We're... known as the Scara Scourge. We're a group of thieves and assassins and arsonists. We're ruffians, basically. But wait, wait," he said, cutting off and trying to get her to calm down as she pulled herself further back on the bed, bringing her knees up to her chest and hugging herself in a tight ball. "We're not... bad. We have a bit of a code," he tried to explain. "There are unforgiveable crimes that people commit. Slavery, rape, wanton and meaningless murder... that stuff isn't what we're about. We have pickpockets who steal fat purses from people in the bazaar, but we don't put honest men into poverty. We don't go out and kill because we think it's fun... And we're sort of abolitionists, as you can see... That kind of crime is just evil."

He reached out his hand, once more, to comfort her, but she recoiled and shivered as she began to cry more. He shook his head, frowning. The door began to open, and Matches popped her head in, looking at Math. "Chapter's calling a meeting," she said.

~

"It looks like Fingers is a snitch," he said. His voice was angry - the kind of pissed-off that he'd been when Mathias was bugging him back in the Zirnden's locker room. "Turns out, he's been bought out by the Syndicate. He thinks that he's on the 'winning side,' so he tried to get away and get some buddies to ambush us while we were combing the warehouse. We were there early, it seems. Their client hadn't shown up - I can only assume Fingers had them warned, and that was what caused those reinforcements."

Matches and Vandal cursed at the same time, affirming that they'd suspected him for a while. Cleric began to sniffle, trying to stifle her tears. Toadie slammed his fist on the bar, gritting his teeth angrily. Knuckles simply sat there, calm and stoic. His expression, however, had all the traces of giref and sorrow. He mumbled, in his brutish, dumb voice, "I never... ever would've thunk it..."

"But fuck him, okay? Seriously, fuck all of them. We're on the warpath now, guys," Chapter said, gesturing wildly as his speech gained momentum. "Our group, as well as Cell's outfit, are heading to a meeting of the powers, tomorrow. We'll be discussing an alliance, and a plan, to get the Blackhoods out. Everybody agrees we need to stop fighting amongst ourselves, because this shit is bad for business. I can guarantee you that even Don Banton will say that. Hell, even the Bartholo Gang is willing to put everything aside and cooperate. This is big. Really, really big. You all need to get some rest. We've had a tough night, and the next few are only going to get worse. Oh - Knuckles and Vandal. We're allowed to bring two bodyguards, and I've chosen you."

Mathias felt a bit of pride swell up in him. This was serious - Chapter was trusting him enough to allow him to partake in a meeting of the most powerful and influential crime groups in Scara Brae. This was unprecedented - in fact, he couldn't recall anything that anyone had ever told him that spoke of a time, so dire, that this sort of conference had to be called.

Math had been right all along. This was going to be pretty heavy.

[Mathias]

The Underworld of Scara Brae was an impressive thing to behold. You had criminals of all kinds, organized in all sorts of ways, and all of them couldn't get along, except for now. Everybody was rooted in the old ways; turf wars, protection, alcohol, exotic goods rackets, political machines, mischief makers, thief guilds, and everything in between. Gangs, crews, families, businesses, syndicates, and all kinds of formal collections, and all of them had a stake in the criminal heart of the pearl of the ocean. The little island held so many distinct faces of crime that it, at an ignorant glance, it was hard to tell anymore who was in control.

"The Scara Scourge has been weakening. Forgive me if I seem blunt or rude, but it's been extremely transparent. You've all been doing very nice with your recent campaigns, however. I must applaud you on that," said Don Banton. He was grizzled and gray, an elderly man with bad posture. His hair was lightening, although it was still a slick, fading black. He had a raspy voice, low and quiet. Everyone strained to hear him; he did not strain to speak up. Even if someone at the gathering didn't like him, they respected him. The Banton family was one of the eldest of all the criminal families, and they'd had a long hand in the history of Scara Brae's underground ongoings. His father had even helped create the Scourge, themselves. It was a tale that was often spoke of whenever the two found common interests and their goals coinciding ; it allowed for them to bridge the gap that had grown between them over the years.

He was flanked by two men in black suits. They had short swords at their hips, although they weren't tense in any sort of way. Surprisingly, no hostilities had erupted yet. It was even more surprising, considering the company gathered at the table.

At one cardinal point of the round table was Chapter, seated between his two standing bodyguards, Vandal and Knuckles. To his right was Elric Kintzing and his two little brothers, Raldi and Vriti. They were part of a rough-and-tumble family known as the Kintzing Boys. To Chapter's left was their sister outfit, a man who was known as Cell, and his two companions, Cloak and Dagger. They were also members of the Scourge.

To the right of Elric was the Bartholo Gang's representatives, Granite, Murder, and Killer. They shot a glare at Mathias every once in a while, although they were being extraordinarily tolerant of his presence. Between Cell and Granite was the Don, and all five of these emissaries made up the convention that was being held. It was possibly the first time in all of remembered criminal history that such a meeting had been called. Five of the most powerful and active groups on the isle of Scara Brae had met in order to discuss the state of affairs and the growing influence, strength, and threat of the Blackhood Syndicate. All of them agreed on one thing; these newcomers weren't doing things by "the Old Way," and they were all...

"Bad for business," said Don Banton. Math grinned slightly, remembering Chapter's assumption from yesterday. Immediately, however, he reprimanded himself and fixed his expression back to a passive, blank visage. He could not afford to draw attention in any form and interrupt the meeting. There was so much etiquette among thieves, and in such a delicate situation, he had to abide by every single unwritten law that he did or didn't know.

"Alright, then. We are all agreed," Chapter said, taking charge as the Don reclined in his chair and became silent. "The Blackhood Syndicate, despite all their connections, all of their resources, and all of their tenacity - are unhealthy for the market as it exists in Scara Brae. They are the biggest threat that any of us have ever encountered - more so than eachother. We are kittens compared to them, and that is truly saying something. The Queen, the Knights, and the Watch will not sit idly by. As a matter of fact, I'm surprised that they haven't begun a campaign already, although I suspect it is because the Syndicate has yet to come to the forefront.

"It's been passed down to me by friends of the Scourge that there is a Syndicate ship docking tonight at the harbor. It will be transporting a caché of muskets, possibly a dozen or more of their agents, and I suspect a load of slaves. It'll be an extreme blow to them if we can free those captives, pick off some of their numbers, and steal their weapons. This is our chance to strike back. It will be the first step in a long battle for the Underworld that has been ours for generations, and should remain that way for many more. We'll all rendezvous at ten on the clock this evening at the Don's warehouse near the waterfront. It's there we'll plan our assault. This meeting is adjourned, gentleman. And may the Sway guide you all."

~

Angel Street was as quiet as ever. The only sounds were that of three men walking its length towards the cul-de-sac that it ended in, as well as the faint background noise of the rest of the city, droning in endless, but ignoreable waves.

They ascended up the porch of a small shanty, the first of them opening its door and taking only two steps inside. A sudden howl of rage pierced the relative stillness of the neighborhood, and the two companions jumped in fright.

Mathias surveyed the scene - there'd been a massive struggle. Furniture was tipped and torn. Plates were shattered, and everything was smashed up. Things that should've been there... things that belonged to the crew... were missing. A knot tied itself tightly inside of the vandal's stomach. "That rodent motherfucker! Look at this note. Look at this fucking note!" Chapter screamed, thrusting a piece of parchment into Math's face.

We've got your three little lovely honies and the kid. We'll be waiting.

"We'll be waiting? What the fuck does that mean?" Mathias blurted out in frustration. Fingers... double gods damn him. Not only did he betray the Scourge, but he sold out his own crew!

"It means that we are going to be kicking some serious ass tonight," Knuckles said. Mathias almost jumped out of his skin as he turned to stare at the behemoth that he'd rarely ever heard speak. All he could do was nod solemnly. Nothing more needed to be said.

[Mathias]

Everyone was nervous. On nails. On edge. Sitting on a cliff and waiting to tumble the fuck over.

Mathias had told Chapter, after they'd scoured their hideout for whatever was left, about Fingers' meeting with the Bartholo Gang. In response, Knuckles and him had orders not to trust their rivals - to keep close watch on them during the raid.

All the main players had put their soldiers to the front. Everyone except the Don had assembled. Nobody begrudged him however - he'd sent six men in his place, and everyone knew that Mister Banton was a businessman, not a fighter. Elric Kintzing and his family were sitting, huddling next to eachother on a large, flat crate. He'd brought all six of his brothers. The Bartholos sat across from them. Granite had brought his two comrades, as well as another man that Math had never seen before. He was a tall drink of mutt, his skin a very ethnically neutral color. He was outfitted in a chainmail vest and had a nasty looking hammer at his side.

Cell had brought Cloak and Dagger, as well as Tinker and Splode. Chapter had left to do his recon work, so they were only represented by Vandal and Knuckles. Mathias felt sort of bad for his superior, who despite all his passion, had lost most of his outfit and was facing the loss of his life and style.

His hand drifted to the hilt of the sheathed katana at his side. Chapter had bequeathed it, telling him, "I won't be needing this tonight. And after that, hopefully never again." He couldn't help but wonder what that meant; Was... he planning to die, in some sort of martyr-like fashion? What would that accomplish? Math couldn't figure it out - it ran through his head, over and over again, until it pounded against the low walls of his sanity. He felt his fortitude start to diminish and a huge, gaping pit form in the depths of his stomach. It was a nervousness of an extreme magnitude that he'd never felt before - not once, ever before in his entire life.

A horn blew loudly from outside, immediately spurring everyone into action. That was the call for them to mobilize. They all started running and made their way out the back door, cautiously moving between the tall walls of the warehouses. They emerged onto the waterfront and clambered down the boardwalk, breaking into a charge towards the target ship's boarding plank. The two guards that were sitting on crates made a feeble attempt to gather their weapons, but were cut short by two of the Don's black-suited men slicing through their torsos. The party ascended the wood, their footsteps echoing into the waking night.

Shouts came from aboard the vessel and men sprang forth, unsheathing their weapons and readying their stances. Math looked to his left, over the shoulders of Granite, who was next to him. He saw Chapter, perched like a bird of prey, on the top of the bridge's edge, waiting to strike at someone coming from out the cabin door. The warriors in front of the vandal fanned out and engaged several Blackhoods. He pushed through them, singling out one at the boat's edge. A woman's scream turned his attention away for a split second as his target turned around to spot him, charging.

Cleric?! he almost shouted. He looked to his right - there she was, pointing at him. Her mouth formed a shape and a sound came out. It was a word... it sounded something like, "Stop!"

The planeswalker blinked, stopping. He realized his folly and turned his attention back to his enemy - Fingers. "Vandal, no!" the rodent-like thief said, splaying out his hands in a halting gesture. Math hesitated for a moment as he raised his sword. What the fuck are they doing here? he wondered.

Fingers' eyes went wide, and he screamed, "LOOK OUT!" as he pointed wildly over Math's shoulder. As he turned around, the pommel of a sword caught him across the temple, and he fell to the floor. As his vision dimmed, he saw people fall to the ground in a similar fashion, except with blood pooling from wounds. His eyes began to close, and the last thought that was registered into the vast space of his mind was simply, I think we're losing...

[Mathias]

he'll do fine...

What happened? Fingers... Cleric was there. She tried to stop me? Fingers tried to save me? Why is everything black?

he's a fine specimen. don't you agree, Needles?

They were waiting for us. Weren't they?

it's not so often we see such an odd piece of the Tap...

This place... why can't I move?

Why can't I see? What... what can I do?

Open my eyes. Can't keep them closed...

Open them.

Blink.

Mathias opened his eyes and the world slowly came into a hazy focus. The mists of unconsciousness started to dissipate from his collective thoughts and he started to feel blood flow through him, warming the far extremes of his body. Life returned to him and the dim fog lifted. He had no time to survey the scene, however, as a figure sprouted up into his vision, only an inch from his face.

Instantly, it faded from view. The figure wasn't standing that close... or was he? No... he'd been standing several feet away from him this entire time. His features... the vandal could've swore that he'd seen them. Now, however, they were cloaked by an impenetrable shadow. His face was hidden beneath the darkness of the black hood that he donned. His physique, as well, was shrouded by a draping, bulky black robe with silver trim along the sleeves, as well as an intricate silver lace pattern working across the chest and down to his feet.

Beside him was a sickly little creature with raw, red flesh and muscle covering its grotesque body. It was bald, hunched over, and constantly clacked its fingers together. Its fingers... they were like syringes. Or large sewing needles. Its eyes were large, each one taking up almost a sixth of its head. They were dotted by big black pupils, and it had no nose... its smile was twisted and showed rotten, black teeth. And yet... Mathias could not help but be more afraid of the mage than the thing, despite the fact that it was an atrocious affront to the sanctity of life.

What did I see? he thought. A... skull... rotten flesh, hanging off the cheeks and the scalp. Dried, matted hair sticking in small strands and clumps... I saw... death...

I saw Death.

The cowled monstrosity cackled - a dry, raspy, choking laugh that riddled a shiver down the spine of Math's soul. "I am beyond Death, child. I am beyond Life, for that matter. Thus to say, I dread you are terribly innacurate in your assumptions..."

His voice was like needles, sticking themselves into the planeswalker's heart. "You fear me," observed the man.... if you could consider him one. Mathias, however, was a little unsure. "Why do you... fear me?" he questioned. He moved a bit closer... the dim light of the cold, gray stone chamber did nothing to illuminate the grim visage within the hood - much to Math's relief. That mask of magic could stay forever, and the vandal would be twice the happier for it. A bony, almost skeletal hand reached out from the robes. Vericose veins bulged through the deathly pale skin, stretched so tight over bone and sinew.

"Do you even know what you are?" he asked Mathias. "You have no idea of the potential you have... you don't even realize what you are! Haha! Imagine that... you are everything I'd ever hoped and dreamed of being... of wielding... and yet, here you are...

Utterly... blissfully ignorant."

Math cringed, wishing he could squirm away. The chains that held him clamped a bit tighter around his wrists, causing him to wince in pain. They were no ordinary bindings... this was no ordinary prison... and this, above all things, was certainly no ordinary man.

"Correct," he said, reading the boy's thoughts. "Funny, isn't it? An extraordinary creature... yet, up to this moment, you've lived an ordinary life. Absolutely plain. A street urchin? A thief? How romantic. I'm sure it would make for a great fairy tale, someday. Some sort of nonsense about the good that can exist in chaos and rebellion and that sort of thing. But, I fear you won't be enjoying that particular existence anymore.

"You are mine, now... Yes, Mathias Planeswalker... Mathias Vinkuzri, as you may have been known at one time or another. Vandal... Scrapper. Whatever other aliases you have taken, or may end up taking in the future. You are indeed... entirely... mine."

The figure smiled, although the youth could not see it. But somehow... he could feel it, and he knew that it was a horrifying sight to lay eyes on. It almost made him weep.

[Mathias]

How it worked, Mathias couldn't fathom. Whatever grotesque and macabre experiments that the Master, as he'd come to know the dark wizard as, had performed upon this creature were beyond the planeswalker's imagination. And that, in and of itself, is saying something, for Math had a near-limitless scope of a mindscape. This thing... "Needles," as it was called... it had the horrifying quality of having needles for fingers. Cleric had always complained, saying she'd wish she had a sewing machine. She'd explained them as automated, and that the Alerian elves had invented them. Many of the tailors that worked for the nobility in Scara Brae had been bestowed with such imported machines, and Cleric had always fancied them. She'd often bring it up whenever she was repairing a tatter in someone's clothing.

Math's thoughts kept going back to her, trying to take his mind away from the pain as Needles moved his sadistic hands across the boy's body, puncturing nad pricking and poking tiny little dots throughout his chest, his arms, and his legs. He was held in place by chains linked to two steel poles on either side of him. He was in the position for a crucifiction, his arms spread out like some morbid messiah. The poles began to turn, the circular plate that they were attached to spinning, slowly, with the grinding mesh of machines and gears echoing through the chamber.

Needles cackled in delight and began to move to Math's ribs and sides, and then, as he turned in a full arc, the creature began to "sew," across his back. The rogue heard a wall slide upwards, and the airy footsteps of his enslaver fall upon the stones. The secret door closed behind his Master, and the sorcerer called out in his dry voice to his servant, "Stop, Needles. That is enough for now."

Immediately, the twisted hobbit retracted itself and moved to the side. The platform turned around, once more, so Mathias was facing his Master. The cowled figure took a step towards the planeswalker and looked him over, from toe to head. He tilted his own head down as much as he could, to survey the damage that Needles had done.

Blue droplets had started to well up in the small pores that had been punctured into him. "What... the fuck is that?!" he screamed.

The wizard laughed, shaking his head. "You don't know anything, do you? You don't even realize."

"Tell me, child... have you ever heard of the Eternal Tap? Of course you haven't. You are an ignoramus. You barely even know what to call your power. You barely even know how to touch it. You barely even know how to command it. So of course you don't know what the Tap is. But that must change...

"The Tap... you might call it a tapestry. It was the weave, through which magic was spun. Althanas... this world was surrounded by this perfect, intricately woven mat of arcane energy. To touch one piece was to touch it all. But then, the ignorance, arrogance, and interference of the Forgotten Ones... and the stupidity of the Elves... broke it. Shattered it. The Tap was ruined, splintered into tiny shards. Now, some mages are able to tap Pyromancy. Others, still, Aquamancy. Necromancy. Some can use it to power golems, others use it to heal the wounded. Fertilize a desert. Cause islands to fly. But none of them... NONE of them realize the potential that you possess...

"Do you wish to know what you are, Mathias?"

The boy shook his head. He tried to spit, but the sorcerer raised up a skeletal hand, and the wad of it was forced back down his throat. He began to choke and felt an invisible force press upon his adam's apple.

"Planeswalking. That's what you call it. But that is not what it is... yes, you cross into other parts of the myriad web of existence. However, you are not doing it because you 'will,' yourself to. You do it because you simply can. You are not accessing the Tap, Mathias. You ARE the Tap. You are a perfect manifestation, in bodily form, of the raw energies of magic. You do not speak the language, for you are the language. When you cross into the Anti-Firmament, you are doing so because you are the link between the two realms.

"You are a shard... a thread of the Tap... a drop of the lifeblood that empowers our universe. And yet... you never even realized it, did you? You never once stop to think... 'Why can I do these sorts of things?' Did it never matter? Did you never even try to test your potential? No... you were too busy playing the role of a noble streethood, romanticizing young women and painting graffiti upon walls that will not stand for more than a hundred years. You were fighting wars over streets that will be paved over by the next civilization that comes along...

"You were too busy being insignificant."

Mathias thrashed against his bindings, trying to fight through the collapse of his lungs and the lack of air that slowly cut off his thinking. He felt like he'd explode, but every thought that passed through his burning mind was "fuckyou,i'llkillyou,fuckyou,i'llkillyou, fuck YOU!"

"Was there something you wanted to say to me?" he asked the vandal. He cackled hysterically, putting a long, withered finger to the boy's chin, lifting his gaze upwards into his own. Piercing red eyes glowed beneath the thick shadows of the hood, and bored into his skull. He could feel himself being probed and prodded, naked before the magics that held him in place, nude before the man who'd enslaved and experimented on him, and bare in front of the world that ceased to exist.

His consciousness drifted away into the black comfort of oblivion, and the last thought he remembered thinking was how much he missed Cleric...

[Mathias]

Everything exists, or it doesn't exist.

That's easy enough to understand, right?

But, what happens when something borders on the edge, between being real, and unreal. Being tangible, or simply being an abstract wisp of wandering will. That is a question unanswerable by the imperfections of language. What if you were to contain the essence of existence itself - the turmoil, the stability, the pain, the joys, the complexity, the simplicity - all of it, within a single body?

The construct itself doesn't matter, merely the personification. It could be a bee. A tree. Or a boy.

A funny thought, I'd always had. What if there was a particular God, whom in some sort of self-imposed exile, came to the physical world as a mortal. What if he had forgotten who he was and instead, became an atheist?

To be something, yet not even understand it. You... in all the glory that you are, are completely ignorant. You don't know that, by simply wishing it, you can alter the truth of reality. You can subject the whole world, the entire multiverse, to your whim, by simply wanting to. And if you get bored, you can simply change it back.

Everything may be as you want it to be; you just have to want it to be.

~

Mathias was running.

The Master had him planeswalk, taking the dark wizard with him. But he'd made a break for it, and now... now he was running through an endless field of white and blue and red. A chromatic spray of mist burst at the side of his face, although he paid it no mind - this vivid plane wasn't as dangerous as its chaotic form seemed.

What was truly dangerous... was the sorcerer trailing him... He'd be extremely angry that his experiment had escaped...

He felt the bracers upon his wrist - shackles the Master had placed upon him - bind tight. He felt his blood thin in his hands. A magical tug pulled at him, possibly a sort of leash that had been woven into the bracers themselves. He tried to escape it, tried to fight it. He started to Walk, lifting his consciousness upwards. His body began to tingle, and the familiar rush of ascension washed over him, like he was suddenly heaved up into the air with no resistance.

A new plane greeted him, although it was dark... it was colorless. Beyond black. But it was not empty.

A sword gleamed at his feet, and he bent over to pick it up. How convenient... he mused to himself.

"Well, no shit it's convenient. I mean, you left me here, for how long? It's been atleast a year since I've seen you, you jerk."

Who the hell said that? It was... in Math's mind. He looked down at the ornate, golden hilt of the blade. In the center of the crossguard was a large, perfectly sphere emerald. A misty face appeared in it, obviously angry.

"Honestly, I was beginning to think you forgot about me."

Lysander.

"By the Sway, I remember you, now!"

When Mathias had arrived in Larapool and met Joshua, the elder man had studied and subsequently awoke the enchantments within his blade. The enchantment, however, was merely a dormant personality hidden within the sword itself. A personality that called itself Lysander.

...And oh, dear gods, Joshua.

Joshua Fencer, the Trade Prince of Larapool... and Antioch. That blasted wasteland, riddled with villages and outposts, plagued by undeath. The necromancer... the lich, Morian. The one who'd attempted to control the gods that had been sealed away within a great scar along the earth. The sibling gods. It all started coming back to him.

They'd been friends. Lovers, too. Joshua had been a mentor and companion to the boy, who'd wounded up there with no recollection of who he'd been beforehand. He'd given him a life.

Why'd I leave?

Why did I forget?

"You don't remember?" asked Morian, cackling insidiously as he stepped through a dark, twisting portal that had opened behind Mathias.

"The Blackhood Syndicate. Double damnit, I fucking remember all of it, now!"

~

The Blackhood Syndicate - a devious group of slavers, pirates, and murderers. Criminals of the lowest form. Scum, of the most bottom tier. They'd been operating since the Prince of Heretics' reign over Larapool... that bastard so-called king, who'd enslaved the Merfolk and destroyed all trade relations that the nation had worked up over the past several decades.

There had always been rumors, floating around that they'd fallen in league with the lich, Morian Fleshbane.

People had started disappearing in the middle of the night. Some said that they'd faced off their cousins or old acquaintances on the battlefield... except they had since become a part of the Undead.

It was a recruitment campaign, heralding the growing ambitions of the necromancer. Then, a few months after he'd been in Antioch, Mathias was caught up in the war as it escalated and became a full-scale conflict. Morian attacked Larapool one night, and Math had fought against him. He'd squared off with the wizard, one on one. He'd attempted to use the element of surprise by dropping on him from out of another plane, but the wizard had somehow anticipated this...

They fought, but it was over so quickly. Mathias didn't stand a single chance. He'd attempted to retreat into another plane, but as he did so, Morian launched a spell at him. It struck, but some of it dissolved against the barriers between realms as the planeswalker had crossed them. The impact, however, threw Mathias across the planes, and so far off course. He had started to lose consciousness, and the last thing he had remembered before blacking out... was an ocean, rushing up to greet him as he fell out of the sky and into the blue abyss.

[Mathias]

When Mathias had come to, he'd found himself in the Hospital of Scara Brae. After they'd gotten him on his feet, he'd realized that he could remember nothing other than his name, and he had no way to pay the bill that had been amounted to him. He'd tried to be a street musician, but when some hooligans had tried to take his violin and money from him, he'd realized that it would be much easier to beat the tar out of people.

Finally, he wound up in the Zirnden and started a short career as a cage fighter. When he was found by Chapter, he was taken in and became part of the Scara Scourge...

And now, now he was here, alone, without any friends and staring face to face with an enemy he'd long since forgotten about. "So you've... been using the Blackhood Syndicate to feed your army... make money on the ones that won't help... and find specimens like me?" Mathias asked. It was rhetorical; he expected no real answer - atleast... not any that he didn't already know himself. His hands started to quake with anger, and he gripped Lysander so tight that his knuckles turned white.

"Hey. You uh. You want to do something, or are you just going to stand there and look pretty?" the blade asked him. Before the boy could even respond, the iron bracers on his wrists started to pull together and let out a loud CLANK! as they magnetized towards one another. Mathias dropped the sword and it slowly faded from existence. He felt it, however, nearby still. It was in a pocket plane, close to this one. He remembered that, as well...

The blade was an extension of himself... a part of him that he'd always had. He just had forgotten it was there. But now, he was hyper-aware, of not only himself, but of all the things that he could affect, if only he could break free of the Master's will. That, however, would not come to pass. "The magic within those shackles will pull you back to me if you ever try to escape. You are mine, Mathias. Now, and forever. And you are going to lead me to discoveries that I never thought possible. Beyond any mortal's imagination... you are going to lead to progress."

A shudder rippled down the boy's spine, and he felt himself being pulled through the planes, until he and Morian were back within the dark catacombs beneath Scara Brae.

~

"The mortal body and soul are amazingly intricate subjects. They can be explained simply, but the details within them are so impossibly complex that one may never know every single answer to every single mystery. But I have found something that has piqued my interest quite a bit: The adaptive capacity that all mortals have. You can be put under an immense amount of pressure, and yet, you still have a natural, uncanny ability to react and succeed. I, therefore, believe that complacency is stagnation. Rest causes the deterioration of progress. Therefore, the mortal being must be placed in constant danger, under complete and utter duress, and be the subject of continuous torture and pain."

The Master explained this to Mathias as the planeswalker hung once more between the two pillars of the experiment chamber.

"Now, combat, I've found, is an interesting solution to many aspects of our dilemma. Above all things, people cherish life. And yet, they have the undeniable ability to take someone else's away. Hasn't that ever bothered you? Or atleast, fascinated you? What possesses you people to do this to eachother? Haha! It's such an ironic little pickle, don't you agree?"

A raspy chuckle emitted from the depths of the black cowl, and the wizard shook his head. "I've met a particularly disgusting creature who holds some form of authority in the aristocracy of this pathetic little isle. And he's asked the Syndicate for a bit of help on some matters of much importance. Now, you should be paying attention, because this part concerns you.

"You're going to be taken to this... Vernanon... and you're going to do exactly what he says, and you're going to like it. You are going to kill... take lives... destroy futures... all for his foolish, near-sighted ambitions. And you will love it. You're going to revel in the bloodshed, and you're going to want more... and I'm going to give you more. And the more you slay, the less humane you will become... and you will become entirely apathetic to whatever hyprocitical sanctity you place upon the mantle of life. You are going to be groomed to be a warrior... because then, I'll be able to truly push your limits... and then we will see just how much potential you really have."

During his speech, the Master had moved to a table and taken up a syringe. As he concluded his lecture, he placed it against Math's bicep and plunged it in, injecting him with some foul-looking greenish black liquid. In moments, he felt his consciousness begin to weaken and his perception started to dim. He closed his eyes, and an unwelcome sleep overtook him.

[Mathias]

Elvaline was a quaint, peaceful, beautiful town. It was the central hub of activity in the Eauruta Barony and boasted a population of roughly five thousand. It was only a small portion of the isle's populace, but it was a rather large chunk, considering the hamlets and villages that were spread across the land and away from the central city of Scara Brae. Elvaline was located on the western front of the barony's borders and had roads paved between it and several of the other major villages in the area.

It was bustling with activity and the people were a pious group. The Ethereal Sway had made a rather large impact there, although it was heavily bastardized from its journey across the seas from its origin in Salvar. The church had combined with the local worship of the thayne, V'dralla, and she had been integrated into the Sway as a mother of angels and a matron of justice and civility.

A large cathedral had since been constructed, and outside of it, was a large statue of Lieratas Eauruta, the founder of the city and the first of its Barons. He had once served as a general under the reign of King Ferora, who only lasted for a decade until he was assassinated by agents of foreign lands. This was generations ago, but the influence of the Eauruta family had never once waned, and they were still steadfast servants at the sides of the Throne. They never coveted it, nor did they ever disparage it, serving faithfully and without question.

This had led to prosperity being bestowed upon the village, and it soon grew into its own miniature imitation of Scara Brae, although it was nowhere near a correlating size.

Mathias looked out of the window of the tower. He'd arrived in the barony only yesterday, and it had already felt like an eternity had passed since then. He'd been marched, immediately, to this place, and his arms were bound by the magic of the bracers. He could not hope to run, nor planeswalk. He'd sat idle for hours, watching people go about their business. He dozed off every once in a while, waking at a sudden sound that may have occured. He'd groggily wipe at his face with his forearm, trying to clear away the hazy sands of his stinted perception, and thought about his life, up to that point. Then, he thought about his life that may be after that point.

So... Mathias Vinkuzri. That's who I am. Why did I forget this stuff? More importantly... how did I lock all these memories away? This fucking sucks. I'll be damned if I live the rest of my life as a slave... as an experiment.

Up until then, his identity really never mattered much to him. He'd been accepting things as they came, letting them come and go with no other thought than mere acknowledgement. But now that he'd started to learn about who he really was... he couldn't help but be hungry for more. He had to escape... had to be free... and he had to learn everything he could, and above all... he had to understand.

Footsteps aroused him from his self-pitying stupor. A man in fine black clothing with golden buttons down the vest, and a golden chain hanging from his waist, ascended up the spiral stairs of the tower. Vernanon Merix - a count who owned a small portion of land within the barony, and therefore, had a modest weight that he could throw around in terms of authority and infleunce. Mathias saw him now for the first time - he had slicked back brown hair and a large, break-like nose. His eyes were large, like very deep, dark ambers. A thick brown moustache covered his upper lip, and he stood with a posture that made his chest stickout, making him look like a strutting cock.

Inwardly, the vandal grinned. I bet he's more like a pretensious cock, really.

The noble looked him over with obvious contempt and disdain. A sneer curled upon his thin lips and he said, with disgust dripping off his nasally voice, "So you're the pet of that old, decrepit bastard? You look like a runt... and he expects you to work for me? Ha. Just what does he want you to do? Bark at them to death?"

Well. I'd like to say I'm a pretty judge of character, Math wanted to say aloud. He kept his mouth shut and merely stared at the man's feet, avoiding eye contact or any sign of defiance.

"Well... I suppose we'll have to see how good you are with a sword... Let's hope that you're not as useless as you look."

The man turned on his heels sharply and began to descend the stairs once more. When he reached the bottom, the echoes stopped for a moment, and were soon overtaken by the sound of clanking chainmail, marching up the stairway.

[Mathias]

"Aren't you going to give me a fucking sword?" Mathias shouted. He rolled to the side as the hulking mass of meat brought its huge maul thundering down, striking the ground with a loud smash. An imprint was left, several inches deep, in the dirt floor of the arena. This guy was huge - he was probably a half-giant. He stood atleast two feet over Math and weighed about three times as much. He was a walking mangle of muscle with two big white dots for eyes.

The vandal shuddered to think of any courtesans that might be given to this particular gladiator.

"Don't insult my intelligence. Morian's already told me about your little tricks. I know you can call a blade to you, if you need it," Vernanon said. He stood on a balcony that overlooked the arena, which was basically a dirt pit with high wooden walls raised. It was located in the depths of a large and several-floored cellar. Dried, crusted blood was spattered across the walls and the ground, and Mathias could've swore he saw fossils... no. Bone fragments... strewn about the place.

He let out a grunt of frustration as he focused on his planesmagic. He had to remember just how to recall Lysander from a pocketplane. It was basically the same principle as Walking itself, except concentrating on an object, rather than himself.

The hulking brute discarded his maul, having deemed that after several failed attempts at sledgehammering Mathias into the ground, that it was too slow. He lumbered forward, trying to pick the planeswalker up in his massive arms. He bent forward to scoop him up, ready to give a crushing bear hug and break the puny youth's spine, when he saw metal catch light glint across his eye. He felt something sharp prick into him and bury itself in his left pectoral. Looking down, he saw a small blade biting into his chest. It took a moment before he realized that it was hurting...

And that only made him angry.

Mathias felt two large hands close around most of his abdomen and thrust him into the air as he tried to push Lysander deeper into his adversary's chest, hoping to find his heart... or whatever organ that would be close enough to it. He held fast in keeping his grip on his trusted sword, as it spoke to him, musing on the situation.

I must say, good chap, you look like you're in quite a predicament. Good thing you called me when you did.

"Now's not the time, Lyse," he replied aloud.

Oh, I think it's always the time. After all, I'm that witty voice in your head that keeps you going right?

"You're such a dick," he said, before he was cut off suddenly by an immense pressure on his ribs. The beastly man started to crush his torso with his bare fists, applying an enormous strain to the boy's comparably flimsy bones. Pain exploded through his body and he attempted to raise his sword, moving his arms above his head, despite the stunning agony that gripped him. He brought his blade down, wildly hacking at his opponent's chest.

A cry escaped the youth's lips as he was tossed by the increasingly frustrated mammoth of a man. His back hit the ground and, whatever precious little air that had been left in him was suddenly pushed out in a violent gust of an exhale.

He scrambled, crawling across the floor, wobbling as he did so. He scurried to where Lysander lay, only a few yards away. His hand reached around the golden hilt and the familiar groove of the metal slipped into his palm, comfortably. Then, a large, meaty hand closed around his ankle. He looked back and aimed a kick, right at the enemy's face. A loud "oof," drowned out the crack of his nose breaking, and the hand suddenly loosened.

Getting to his feet, Math raised his blade above the brute, his eyes flickering with intense ferocity. His body ached, his mind ached, and his soul ached more than both of them. How he'd love nothing more than to dish out just a little bit more pain - give back what he'd been receiving this whole time.

Are you okay, old sport? You're scaring me a bit, Math, Lysander whispered in a frightened tone into his thoughts. It didn't quite penetrate, however, and the planeswalker prepared himself for the killing blow.

"Enough," Vernanon shouted. Immediately, the boy snapped out of his haze and looked up with absolute contempt at the noble. "That is quite fine. I don't need my best gladiator dead because a child lost his temper."

Wait. If you're a child- Lysander started to say, but he didn't get the chance to finish. Mathias pushed him away, sending him back into a pocket plane with a single, focused thought. He didn't want to listen to anymore of his friend's witty insights and cynicisms.

[Mathias]

Ferrian Zalinhar did not believe in ghosts. He believed in spectres and wraiths - he knew those existed. Souls that were caught by magic and brought back to the physical world to attack the living. But ghosts were for children. It was foolish to believe that the undead would waste time by simply haunting someone.

And yet, a cold chill had settled over the Eauruta Manor, as he walked along the walls with large canvas paintings hanging from them, depicting battles between dragons and serpents and gorgons, as well as valiant knights and portraits of the long line of Barons in the Eauruta family line. The pale moon illuminated one of the stained glass windows that he passed by, the odd pictures in them being brightened for a mere moment - enough to catch his eye. However, the exact image he'd seen was unable to be caught once more - the proper angle and glint was gone. A shiver went down his spine as he heard the boards of the old house creaking. He hated these nights - especially lately.

Dark things are coming... Aeric had told him. They say nobody has heard word from Antioch in months. Not to mention the troubles in Salvar and Raiaera? Corone? Civil war is erupting everywhere, the Forgotten Ones are on the move... and now, those sorts of problems are about to arrive on our doorstep.

The criminal underworld was also heating up. Some were saying the old crime families, the Scara Scourge, and some of the streethoods had put aside some differences to fight some of the newer foreign syndicates that had been encroaching on their shores. Scara Brae was a hotzone now, and it was only a matter of time before it seeped into the countryside.

Someone said they saw ghosts in the sewers. Or... undead of some kind. It's getting pretty serious, Ferrian. I'm not sure if the baronies will be able to handle this if it comes to us. And the Church has been closed and silent for how many weeks now? Three?

It was fall; approaching winter, which was coming very, very soon. Ferrian knew it was going to be a long one - cold and stormy...

He'd told the Baron not to worry. His Watch was keeping guard, and he'd increase security. If the Church was retracting its influence on Scara Brae to deal with the heat in Salvar, it wouldn't matter; it had already been waning in the past few years. He regretted admitting that truth; Deep down, he was a pious man, and knew that Aeric was, too, as had been their fathers and their fathers before them. But it was a day and age were delusion could not complete religion anymore.

He'd heard about so many strange things, lately... he'd seen some of them. Dogs that, by all means, should be dead. Their ribs hanging out of skinned, flayed patches of red, bloody flesh. Mangy and mangled and mottled. He'd seen a corpse eviscerated in such a way that made him physically ill. It had been the first time he'd thrown up at the sight of a dead body in over twenty years...

So of course, he was thinking about ghosts, lately. After all, it was part of the talk, and it was past midnight in an old, silent mansion. What else was there to think about?

A thud interrupted that thought, drawing his attention away from the nonsense. He heard the ringing of steel and groans of pain. He started a jaunt, his leather boots padding against the cyper floor as he went the length of the hallway and then turned, heading towards a closed door that was the epicenter of the commotion.

As he entered, he saw the guard's lounge as it should be, calm and quiet and cozy and warm. However, there was one terrible thing wrong with it; two guards lay on top of eachother, their blood mingling and pooling together on the shag carpeting in front of the fire place. A young man in a white jacket stood over them, deathly pale and with eyes of glittering sapphire. He was soaked in blood, tilting his head back as he let out a sigh. His gaze drifted lazily towards Ferrian, and then he disappeared.

The noble roared a thunderous battlecry, unsheathing his blade as he charged forward to slash at where the boy had been. Looking around for a single moment, he collapsed to his knees and began to check his comrades to see if any signs of life were left in them.

As anger overtook him, his fists began to shake. However... they were stopped in a single instant as he heard an icy cool voice whisper behind him. "I'm sorry," it said, and before the Duke could react, a blade sliced through him and emerged out from under his chin.

Blood welled up in his throat and he tried to cough, wincing. Tears formed in his eyes and his vocal chords let out a last, gurgling, gasping rattle, and he collapsed on the floor. His blood would soon join his friends' and, so too, would his soul.