MQ: Blood Red Blossoms

[Slayer of the Rot]

Disaster hung in brutal finality over Raiaera, but amidst the crowd of panicked travelers and citizens, there was one calm face. It had a look of tranquility upon it; somehow unaffected by the dread that encroached on the horizon. The placid man stood as others rushed by, hurried to find a way to escape the doomed nation, but he only stood, hands lying calmly in his pockets.

"They never panicked this much for me," he said with a hint of amusement, lifting a hand to his face to slowly stroke his chin. The thumb settled on the base of a long, pale scar cutting his face on his left cheek, running over his eye and through the brow. It was bisected by another scar that ran across his left ear, over his nose, and stopped suddenly beneath his right eye. The smell of unsettled dust from beyond the city stirred in his nose as crisp autumn wind ruffled his short cut auburn hair. In Raiaera, this man was known as Gaius, but in other places, he was known as Dan Lagh'ratham. That is, if anything could be said to be known about the warrior with hair the color of fall leaves aside from his name, and the unsettling way the tree branches seemed to bow in his majesty as he passed. People would either become too comfortable around him, claiming he smelled like the homes they'd played in as children, or become deeply unsettled with his presence, claiming to smell the stifling scent of a dirt grave.

"I can remember a time coming to Raiaera that the elves here were haughty and settled firmly and confidently in their ways. Arrogant, even. Technology malfunctioned on this soil with a rich magical heritage. And they sat in a cradle of power and tradition with Istien University. This only goes to show one the power that he possesses. Look at them now. Like rats from a sinking ship...." The man known as Gaius sighed and moved forward, pressing through the terrified crowd, cutting through them like a well honed blade, budging not even a centimeter as they pushed violently and desperately against him to get to what might be safety. His eyes became hooded, lucid as he walked, as though disconnecting from reality...
_____
The sensation of touch had been lost.

No, it was more than that. His surroundings were a kingdom of nothing. Though it was black, the substance that threaded this world's reality could not be called shadow; a shadow was the product of an absent of light, and not even a pin point of it could not be seen. when he moved, it felt like nothing; no effort, no feeling of a bunching of muscle to lift his hand up and pull it before his face, as though his movements were the wishes of another.

Death.

No, but it was something like it. A realm near its flow. As a warrior, he had experienced his own share of deaths in his life, and while this was the same, it was ultimately different. A thread remained, holding him aloft, afloat in this world of questions with no answers.

Dream.

The answer came to it, and with it, as though summoned by his will to defy the natural laws of the realm he found himself existing in, something in his close proximity stirred, shifted, moved, and breathed. It huffed, then sighed, as though in effort, and then laid a long, spindly fingered hand on his chest, above his heart. Looking down upon it, he could see infection growing in him, spreading its long black chords like black veins under and through his skin.

'I wish to...possess you. I can feel it in you...a heart stained with hate, and it is strong...'

The little black chords shuddered, pulled back, and halted their quest as a fire burned them.

'My body and soul have been used in the past. I have my own agenda....I will be a pawn to none.' The chords began to seek against, burrowing deeper into his heart.

'Pawn? You misunderstand. There could never be a pawn as powerful as you. I wish to possess you to make you a god among these ants...they are weak, and do not deserve your strength. I will give her back to you, and open new gates of power to you.'

The chords bound his heart, mummified it, and took it. In dream, he gave a muffled groan, and turned his face away. 'For her...I want proof of the reality of the devil to who I am selling my flesh to. Prove yourself to me.' The thin fingered black hand rose from his chest, away from the coal colored wound it had made, the skin cracked and blistered around it. From his heart, the hand pulled a pulsing, green stone spear, and folded it in its talons.

'So be it...'
_____
The leathers he had garbed himself in creaked quietly as he finally stopped, finding himself standing upon the grounds of the very university he had scoffed moments before. The students milled about, some seized in evident paranoia, others trying their best to hide it, trying to keep their faces calm and composed for the sake of their friends. But the man known as Dan could smell it in the sweat that glistened and beaded upon their foreheads and necks. He could smell it on every person rushing past, and even in the land itself.

The imminent death of the grand nation Raiaera.

Folding his arms over his chest, his jacket pulling tight against his shoulder blades, Dan slowly wandered into the clusterings of the students. Just by drawing up his Saraelian spear when he'd woken from the dream told him who he served now, if he was going to find his daughter again. But the problem was his uncertainty. By joining him, he would finally have Meredith back, and soon, the power to protect her from any harm that the world would seek to visit upon her. But it also meant hundreds...thousands of deaths. His eyes moved across the faces, either in sickly silence or frantic chatter. He saw them...

And didn't care.

'What do you want me to do, though?' Dan' face hardened in frustration, and when he felt a tap on his shoulder, it took nearly all of his titanic strength to stay his hand from crushing the one that had interrupted his thoughts. When he turned, he found himself looking down upon a girl of extraordinary beauty with black hair and blue eyes, a longsword at her side. His flint gray eyes turned towards the sword briefly, started to pull away, and then lingered for another moment before looking at her.

"Warrior, come with me. Your strength and steel are needed to protect the innocent." She spoke quietly, gently, though with a quality of command in it few possessed, especially women. The words were spoken with incredible confidence, as though she was sure that such a noble looking man would come to their aid. For some strange reason, he was reminded of Claire; but when he blinked, he decided that her beauty which transcended her seemingly human appearance had played hob on his nerves and opened an old wound. Dan was silent for a few moments, turning his face to the sky. Black clouds of ominous intent were gathering above, making the grim day seem that much more hopeless. Past the great, readying army of Zem'Xund, he could smell the scent of this great nation; fruit blossoms born on a brisk wind, entwined with the fresh, clean, and cool smell of this morning's mist that had hung so peacefully, oblivious of the coming disaster.

"No."

For a moment, she lingered, disappointment in her face, but she didn't seem to be one to let one surly, scarred warrior ruin her day, and moved on. He watched her move on, as a few others moved through the crowd, walking closer and closer to her; others she had chosen.

"Oh, I didn't think you'd be turning her down. Don't you know her?" Dan glanced down to his left where small, hunched student stood; a young girl with dark brown hair and light, oval rimmed glasses, a number of books and scrolls clutched tightly to her chest. He shook his head.

"Ah. She's known famously for two facts. Along with a team dubbed Wicked Things, she, with the help of others, finally rid Eluriand and the entire continent of the undead scourge. Additionally, she is the daughter of the great hero, Devon dan Sabriel."

'Sabriel?' The man's eyebrows arched. 'I've heard that name before. In stories. It belongs to the Starslayer, the great hero from the war before. The one that vanquished Xem'Zund and Lord Aesphestos. I think I've found my purpose...' The student shrank at the dark smile that had spread across the warrior's lips. Above the University, the sky seemed to darken.

"I apologize for my brashness," Dan said when he had caught up to Skie again in the crowd, giving her a pleasant smile. "I'm afraid my temper is running a little rampant lately...I just lost my daughter. But I will help you as much as I can. You can call me...Kross."

[Godhand]

Godhand was nervous. No, that wasn't quite correct.

Godhand was as twitchy as a child who'd gotten into the sugar.

Giacomazzi had sent him on an errand so trivial and just generally obnoxious that he was sure he'd offended the old man in some way to have incurred what was surely punishment. A pittance in payoff money to some thug over in Sandville, he couldn't be bothered to remember the name, for burying some lowlife nothing up in the desert and not telling anybody. This poor bastard had done God-knows-what, God-knows-when to make Giacomazzi angry and apparently now it was time this other fellow got his just rewards.

It was fringe work and everybody knew it. Godhand was so used to ultra-dangerous suicide missions that this sort of work, what most mercenaries referred to as 'paid vacation', put him on edge. The skewed rationale behind this was one that could only come from a mobster that'd been on the job way too long. "If he wants me dead," the gunman reasoned, "he wouldn't make it something obvious like ordering me into a dangerous assignment. No; more likely he'd send me on something easy to throw me off and then ambush me with every Goddamn paid gun in his arsenal."

That sort of thinking was both foolish and disturbed and Godhand knew it. He trusted the don with his life, more than you should ever trust a mafioso but it was something the elderly mob boss had earned. He was the closest thing to a father the swordsman had ever had. But those instincts...When you've been in the business too long, you're on twenty four hours a day.

The most innocent thing like somebody blowing their nose on an embroidered handkerchief, or some ditch-digger that just got paid being a bit too generous with the rounds is enough to put you on edge. You start looking around for the one guy who hasn't talked to anyone that night or hasn't ordered anything; somebody a little cleaner or better dressed or with a better haircut than the rest of the patrons and that's it. You're ready and this guy's got no chance against you. You're the best this business has ever seen. You're invincible.

The sad part is that as you're looking at this guy and measuring him up, prepared for anything the real killer is right next to you. He's been watching you all night and now he's ready, and he's invincible and more importantly than anything is that he's got the drop on you. And the moment you feel that cold barrel against your ribs and turn around, well...By that time it's over. It's over.

So you sit back, light a cigarette and hope for the best. You expect the expected. If somebody wants you dead bad enough, then you're done and there's no use worrying about it. But you do.

You do.

Godhand sat in a bar and lamented his current state of affairs. The simple job had turned out to be anything but. The guy who'd buried the stiff? Dead. The guys who killed him? Dead. The person who had ordered the hit? Dead. And the real kicker was that this had all happened a good seven years ago. There had to be some sort of iron curtain around Sandville for Giacomazzi not to know about all that. Or else he did know. But Godhand refused to travel down that train of thought again; it led nowhere. No, it was more likely that those events and those people had been so unimportant that the whole thing had just never managed to make it's way up the grapevine.

The worst part of all of this was that as he'd made his way back from that hellhole of a frontier town, he'd ended up getting caught in Raiaera. The whole area was quarantined; it was simultaneously under marshall law and damn near a warzone. The further you went from the Bladesingers headquarters the worse it got. Apparently some man, or monster according to the propaganda, had risen from his grave and summoned an army of underlings to finish a job he'd started what seemed like five years ago. The fact that the same person could attack the same city and the same race in the exact same way he'd done not too long ago without them being prepared for it would have been laughable if he'd just been a couple of regions away. Now it was just irritating.

The bar had been closed when he'd got there. With the army of undead only a couple of days of marching away and a whole gang of looters inside the city walls, the owner had taken what he could carry and left. He surmised that the only reason the place hadn't been sacked yet was that it was close enough to the war effort's HQ that the thieves thought it too hot to bother with. Godhand, however, wasn't a thief. Or at least not an ordinary one. He'd had no problem kicking down the braced wooden door to get at the sweet liquor inside. The whole thing was slightly cliche and deeply pathetic in a situation like this, but the alternative was braving the crowds and finding out who was in charge of the half-assed defense and that sort of thing was completely unacceptable to a person who got upset when someone stepped on his shoe and bumped into his shoulder at the same time.

Godhand heard screaming in the distance. Some uppity subnormal who thought the chaos gave him a license to do anything he wanted had started a fire not too far, and now the closest thing Raiaera had to a police force was rushing over to beat his friends and him into submission and more than likely beyond. The fire never figured into the equation. Just an excuse to take out their frustrations on someone who deserved it. It'd burn itself out on the cobblestone long before they were done beating the kids.

Suddenly an officer that wanted in on the action rushed past the battered bar door, doing a double take as he ran by. He then screeched to a halt and scrambled into the bar in a manner Godhand thought was not quite befitting an officer. He looked at what was left of the door and looked around for some sort of implement; whatever he'd used to bust it down. He then shook his head and reasoned it didn't matter. The mobster could already see the gears turning in the officer's head.

"You! Did you do this!?"

Godhand took a sip of his single-malt liquor and responded.

"No, it was like this when I got here."

"You can't fool me! I passed this place not five minutes ago; you broke down the door. Come with me. If you can use a sledgehammer to bust down a braced door, you can use it to bust down a zombie. And you'll be paying back the city of Raiaera for her liquor, as well."

The mercenary suppressed a smile. He couldn't believe it. He'd gotten trapped in a mess of a city because the elves didn't have the sense not to make the same mistake twice, and now he owed something to it? He chuckled and topped off his drink.

"Fuck off, kid."

"I'll have you know I'm sixty four! And like I said," the elf walked forward with great pride, as if age was some sort of accomplishment, and yanked at Godhand's arm with all his strength. It wasn't much, but since he'd been playing it loose he was unprepared and spilled his drink. "You're coming with me, human."

That was the straw that broke the camel's back. Godhand grit his teeth, dropped his glass and seized the man by the throat. Easily lifting him off the ground with a gloved hand, the officer kicked his feet like a trout on a hook. The mercenary placed another hand on his stomach and lifted him over his head, walking over to the large window designed to let the light in. He uttered his next words with the same mocking tone the officer had used earlier.

"Like I said," He reared back and placed a foot behind him to steady himself. "FUCK OFF!"

He hurled the officer through the window. It shattered as cinematically as Godhand had hoped. He hadn't even used close to his full strength; just enough to send the man flying through the window and roll across the street. He looked at the mercenary, ominous as he was framed by broken glass, and scrambled unto his feet. Running over to the Bladesingers HQ, Godhand chuckled at the battlecry of "I'll be back!".

[Skie and Avery]

She had them, the clumsy other-thing, the girl separated from her friend, and now, he was before her. As Kross came, his voice changed to cordial, Skie lifted a delicate brow ever upward. It had been a quick change of heart, and she was a woman who knew that those sort of changes, were rarely quick. There was an agenda behind his actions, but as she looked at Kahlina, balancing precariously on her feline feet, and Lillian, who seemed so frightened and confused, she knew she needed strength.

"Okay, Kross," she said, the name feeling strangely heavy on her tongue. "Follow me. We depart this city soon." She continued to move, touching here, there, her voice and look drawing students to them. When she came upon Terrian, she bowed to the elf. She'd seen him in classes, knew of his pride, determination. He seemed to be a good person from what she'd seen, and now that she was near him, she hooked an arm around his shoulder and pulled him close enough to whisper in his ear.

"Come with me, please. I have weak ones that need protection, and a man I do not trust among us." She leaned back, imploring him for his help. "Come with me, please? I need your help."

The crowds were upon them then, moving and panicking. It was like they were trout in the waters, and before Skie could hear the elf Farsight's answer, she and the others were pulled along. She glanced back once, sure she saw him among the students who were following her, and then cleaved forward. The area cleared considerably as she began to draw near to the place where she'd promised to meet Griffin again. Shouts were up ahead, the sound of steel being pulled from sheaths. As she drew closer, she held out her arms so that the students wouldn't walk past here. Ahead, she saw a scene that filled her with a cold fury.

Men surrounded a warrior, a warrior she and her mother had both known. Godhand Striker wasn't doing anything really threatening - yet. He was standing there, a bottle clutched in one hand, his eyes scanning down the opposite side of the street from where she stood now, at one officer, who looked like he'd been cut by a million little knives. The glittering glass that was strewn over the roadway was one indication of what might have happened. With a sigh, Skie began to push her way to the old acquaintance, but was stopped short by the flat side of a blade thrust in her way. Her eyes met a haughty elf's, and she sneered at the same time he did.

"Stand aside," she said coldly as he muttered, "Stand back." For a moment she simply glared, and then began to push through as she asked aloud, "What is this man's crime?" The officer who'd stopped her, however, wasn't so easily thrown aside. Violently, he grabbed Skie's shoulder, and bodily shoved her away, though it could later be reasoned that it had been perhaps his most grievous mistake.

She hissed as she fell back, into Kahlina, her clutching hands trying desperately to reach a steel dagger strapped to her boot in anger.

[RumpleGrumblePuss]

Minutes later it dawned on me that I followed the twin sister of the husband of one of my character’s, Skie. I almost called out to her, needing to talk to a person I felt I knew, but I held back. She would never know of me, I was now just as much of a character as she was. I studied the back of her body, the shimmering black hair, the smooth tanned skin, and wondered at her wingless state. I knew that even with illusion the wing should still be there yet people crowded behind and around Skie.

The wing is gone, then that means… I cut off that thought, remembering the discussions I had had with Manda over Chinese food. To be wingless was to be outcast and to be stripped of everything that made you Moontae. I wondered if the Kiss had been performed. I kept those questions and thoughts to myself. To ask would be rude and possibility would turn out very badly.

I kept a wary eye on my surroundings, frequently glancing at the other students Skie had gathered. I found it funny that we followed her almost in a flight pattern. Ahead, I watched the guards square off and surround another man. A brow rose as I stopped close enough to hear Skie snarl at the guard to get out of her way. My hands slowly slid back to the whips I carried now. Shifting my weight to one foot I released on of the whips from it’s hold and let the loose end slide noiselessly down my leg to rest on the ground beside me.

I cursed under my breath as Skie was pushed, landing heavily against me. I grabbed one shoulder to steady her on her feet.

“Easy there killer. There are more than enough of us to make this fun. Later, I want to have a little chat with you, Skiel, daughter of the Moontae.” Let the fun begin. I thought with a happily malicious grin, displaying the snake-like fangs that I had just recently learned to move at will. I flicked the end of my whip, wrapping it around the ankle of the elf that had shoved Skie. Just when he looked down at the tight grip on his ankle I yanked as hard as I could, toppling the pompous elf.

“Stupid assholes, the dead are attacking and you want to pick on people?” I muttered just loud enough for anyone near me to hear.

[Godhand]

True to his word, the officer had returned with as many guards as his father’s rank managed to put under him. Even so, it was amateur hour and you could tell. Every Goddamn one of them was a kid, maybe a vet or two thrown in for good measure but all in all it was a half-assed unit run by a half-assed officer getting ready to fight a half-assed war. The fact that this sort of operation was the best the Raiaeran government could do didn't bode well for the city or anybody in it. And for better or worse, Godhand was in it.

The mercenary ambled out of the bar with a bottle in his hand, feeling pretty good about himself and the situation. Maybe it was the whiskey or the fact that he'd been hired as a drill sergeant by one or two regimes to train their new recruits, but Godhand felt something strangely familiar and comforting about the situation. The old street dog surrounded by young groomed pups.

The first thing the swordsman liked to do in this set-up was to find the 'leader' of the kids. Not in rank or social standing; that sort of thing didn't matter on the front lines. It was the most cocksure and brave among them: the kind that stood up to bullies for his friends. The one that was good at sports and had the prettiest girlfriend or the most style. There were a couple of good ways to find that kid: stance, build and even good posture was enough to tell you wether a person would rather fight than back down. But the most important thing, the key, was his expression. While everyone else is serious and tense, he will be smiling. He will be loose and cool and ready to go fifteen rounds with anybody you can name. He will be at the front of the mob rather than the back and for all his posturing he'll be as scared to die as the rest of them.

Now that you've got their role-model, what the rest of the recruits aspire to be, in your sights the next step is to break him down in front of all his friends. You need to fight and you need to win, and it can't be close. It must be an utter victory. And once you've proven to your students that the one they believed to know everything in fact knows nothing, then they will listen to you. Now this sort of thing can be a little tedious when the soldiers already know you're ultimately on their side, given that nobody will want to fight you unless you push them. But in a hostile situation it couldn't be easier; he will come to you.

"Leave this to me, Sindael."

Sure enough, from the front of the guards came a young man who looked like he'd never lost a fight in his life. Godhand was sure that the whole concept of 'losing' was ludicrous to him; that all it took to win a fight was simply more will than the opponent. Most of the time that was true, but there are some bridges will alone can't gap and one of those is experience.

The kid didn't even draw his sword; he flexed a bit and smiled at the mercenary and that was it. Godhand smiled back before walking over to the windowsill. He brushed off some of the broken glass with his gloved hand and placed the bottle on it. He walked back over to the soldier but just as the leader was about to strike, Godhand paused and walked back over to the window. The entire mob jeered; they thought he was giving up. But instead he picked up the bottle, which he had originally placed precariously close to the edge, and adjusted it so it was more center. He didn't want it to spill.

The crowd went silent at this, maybe a little nervous. The mercenary had a bit of cool that none of them, except maybe the vets, could understand. They just smiled; they knew what was coming. Truth was they probably hadn't even wanted to come in the first place, but they ultimately had to answer to their nepotist commanding officer and were forced. Now they got to see the little bastard strung up and they couldn't wait.

Suddenly their unofficial leader dashed forth, yelling at the top of his lungs. the kid was all fury and noise, ready to take out Godhand and put his foot on his chest. The 'hero' wound up a right but before he could even react, the gunman got him in the face with a flat palm strike. His head recoiled like it was hit by a shotgun but much to Godhand's surprise, he merely retreated a few steps instead of passing out. It was pretty impressive, even if he was currently cupping one hell of a bloody nose. But his hands dropped and he sucked it in, swallowing the blood and assuming a fighting stance once again. He was definitely a hard boy and Godhand conceded that if he'd just had a couple more years experience, he might be able to take the mercenary.

As it was now though, he'd lost and didn't even know it. He ran forth again and resumed the attack but instead of fighting back, Godhand just dodged. Bobbing under hooks and weaving between straights he seemed untouchable, and it was starting to get to the kid. Not only that, but his friends were starting to look unsure too. Good. The mercenary decided it was time to end the lesson and dodged a haymaker before responding with a quick jab to the stomach. He didn't put much behind it but even ten percent of his power was way too much for a rookie to take. He let out a guttural moan and crumpled to the ground, much to the shock of his allies.

With this, Godhand felt comfortable dropping his fists. He turned around and prepared to talk to the crowd, smiling jovially and holding out his arms as if he'd just seen an old friend. His expression darkened when he noticed a grinning guard and a toppled girl that seemed familiar, but he smiled once again when he noticed the whip silently coiling around his ankle.

"Gentlemen, I recommend you cease and desist. You're all brave and eager to defend your honor; I can respect that. But the fact is you can't beat me, and even if you do you'll still be too battered to be of any use to your country. So you have two options: You can either let an old man drink in peace, or you can-"

There was suddenly a gasp, and Godhand turned around. He couldn't believe it; the K.O. Kid was back on his feet. He was shaky and looked like a strong wind might push him over, but he had his hands up and was ready to fight. The mercenary silently admitted that there were worse men to entrust Raiaera's future to. If he'd been half as good as this recruit was when he was his age, maybe he wouldn't have ended up where he had. Nevertheless, he had to make a point and that meant the kid needed to go down. Godhand walked forward briskly and the kid threw a broad right at him, but he was nearly done and they both knew what was coming. The mercenary brushed aside the right and responded with a brisk knee to the stomach, which made the recruit lurch forward with his hands on the impacted area. He probably would have hit the ground and gone down for good, but Godhand needed to end this with an exclamation point. He caught the kid in a headlock as he was falling and began to clench his arm. Just when he was seeing spotty, the gunman released the headlock and lifted the soldier into the air from a slouching position. He ended up sitting on Godhand's shoulders. Right when he was about to pass out the swordsman, careful that he wasn't facing any broken glass, delivered a powerbomb.

The kid hit the ground and this time it was over for good. That last attack had really upset his buddies; none of them had ever seen anything quite like it and didn't know how to react. The truth was that the move was more flash than substance; he'd live to fight another day. Godhand knelt down and placed a hand on the unconscious soldier's chest before whispering to him.

"You're good, kid. Damn good. You'll make general someday. Rest now."

The only one who wasn't worried about their hero was the officer; he took Godhand's last words as an opportunity.

"He's gonna kill Gaein! Take him out, now!"

After that little display, the recruits were as suggestible as any commanding officer could hope for. They rushed forward, brandishing their swords and trying to cut Godhand down. The mercenary had his murasame and his guns, but he didn't feel the need to use either. As green and scared as they were, the boys swung hard and wide and were more likely to slay each other than the gunman. He reacted hard and fast; every time one of them swiped at him he grabbed their sword arm, twisted their wrist and landed a punch to the face. One was all it took for each, and they were all too inexperienced and scared to learn from the other's mistake.

Swipe, pop. Swipe, pop. Swipe, pop.

He mixed it up once in a while with a high kick to the chin or a forearm blow to the throat, but for the most part he didn't need to. They were all finished within forty five seconds, which was really nothing to gloat about on Godhand's part thanks to the fact they were all new to the game. He didn't hit any of them with any anger; they were just doing their job. But when he was done with them, he turned to face the officer from earlier and he felt the need to teach him a different lesson altogether.

He walked forward calmly. 'Sindael' was shaking in his boots; nothing his daddy ever taught him was gonna get him out of this one. This was one of those rare occasions where Godhand would have even refused a pay-off. The world would ultimately be a better place for what the mercenary would do to him. He commanded two more body guards to attack; Godhand punched out the first one and suplexed the second unto the growing pile of bodies behind him. Finally, when there was no more space between them his arm lashed out and grabbed him by the throat, lifting. Just like before he kicked his feet, but this time Godhand didn't raise him by the belly. Just throat, and the kid was trying to straddle his arm to keep from asphyxiating. Godhand walked back to the windowsill, officer dangling all the while, until he found the spot where most of the broken glass was. He slowly placed Sindael back on his feet and just as a look of relief passed over his features, he lifted him again suddenly and chokeslammed him unto the concrete. That was that; his eyes were milky white. He'd be lucky if he was awake for the end of the war. Not murder, but close.

Godhand picked up the bottle from the sill and took another drink before spitting it out violently. He looked inside the bottle and noticed that some tiny pieces of glass that had been dangling on top of the window had fallen into the whiskey. He cursed under his breath, paused to think about it, then shrugged before resorting to drinking it by sips.

[Farsight]

Weak ones to be protected, students to be ushered out, it all seemed a bother. What’s more, it seemed that the moon elf’s strengths, albeit still budding, were being underestimated. He was a student, as were all the others in the group, but one that was hardly without his own prowess in battle. The darkness that threatened to consume the world of the high elves was looming, and he was being asked to do little more than prance around with his gaudy brethren and escape. What was to become of the beloved Eluriand? What would become of the schools, the foundation of the very nation? If the hallowed halls of magic fell, would the reverence that the other nations held yet be instilled?

The questions flooded the mind of Farsight, undoubtedly touching everyone in their own way.

But, where his request to battle alongside the great men and women of Raiaera had been previously denied, there was a new request. It was not as grand. It held none of the dramatic flair the young elf held dear, but it was no less important. If the world of Althanas had deemed the nation unfit to survive, than it would be on the hands and hearts of all the students to take the pieces of the High Elven world and somehow place them back together. Escorting students to safety would force him to watch the world fall from a distance. He would see the pieces of the elaborate puzzle known as life crumble under the hand of the defiled, but he would also understand how they would need to be put back together.

He nodded. Silently he obeyed, yet his heart compelled him to follow a path not yet set. The woman, Skie, was the leader of the small group and her commands were taken to heart. Without protest he followed her in the sea of panic and growing dread. His face was still. His eyes were bright. But what set him apart from the crowd of fear was the streak of determination and the knowing need to do something better, something more.

Instead of fleeing, finding their way back to the confines of the houses of magic, the small group of people was pushed towards a riot. It was, to the moon elf, saddening to see the state of affairs dissolve so rapidly that normally artistic and graceful elves had taken to looting and rioting. High elves were not perfect, he tried to remind himself as he followed, but to take advantage of the situation for their betterment was hard to accept.

It was far more clear to him when he, like the others including Skie, came to the point of conflict. It was not a high elf that bothered the denizens of Eluriand, but a drunken human. Strewn across the ground before him and the rest was a shattered window and a battered elven warrior. Terrian would have been the first to take up the banner of honor for the man, the first to jump into the fight and show the cocksure human what problems he had started, but he would not sink so low. Instead he stood near the front of the growing crowd, watching and waiting.

The man seemed rash, distant, taken by the bitter tinge of alcohol and an animalistic rage. In the ensuing fight he seemed far more interested in the safety of his bottle of liquor than the enraged elven people. The elves that had fallen around him were battered, bloody, and held onto their threads of life by mere will alone. If it had been under any other situations that the fight had taken place, he would have been easily brought low by a bladesinger patrol. But, as unfortunate as it was, there were few present with the strength of a bladesinger, and fewer yet willing to do what should have been done.

“Skie,” Farsight muttered in a pristine, fluent elven as he slid through the crowd towards her. She was recovering from the initial shove, taking her feet again. He never let his crystal blue eyes shift from the man, knowing danger shrouded him like the cloak of disease shrouded the forgotten. “This human is troublesome. If he is interested only in the release of his strong drink, we should let him be. A powerful ally he could become, yet his mind obviously lies elsewhere. Please, there are defenseless students awaiting your lead… a school full of those that will one day have to recover these streets from the undead, as they did in the past. Do not let this man take away from the strength of the future simply because he is headstrong and the others concern themselves with the futility of defending their honor before the security of the very city.”

[Ataraxis]

Student or teacher, selfless benefactor or involved in an organ trafficking business: none of that was an issue anymore. Everyone had something on their mind, be it a last-minute spot on the frontlines or the fastest ticket out of a paradise turned hellhole. Indeed, their motives were many and varied, but the glue that lumped them all together was a dire lack of direction and a desperate need for answers. It was then that they felt a rasping touch on their shoulders and turned to her, whoever she was. She had come with empty pockets but hands full of hope, and that was as close as any of them would get to a break, with the way things were unravelling now. It didn’t matter who or what she was: even without a carrot to dangle as incentive, she had the charisma to lead them all by the nose.

That was how her initially spotty following had evolved into a single file of haphazard fruits, some riper than others but all picked fresh from the restless crowds. They were like toddlers in a line, holding onto a fickle leash and following a stranger through muck and mire at the dodgy promise of a treat. ‘Toddlers baring snake fangs, sporting jaunty top hats and armed beyond the teeth, granted.’ Compared to those, the rest of the row seemed all the more innocuous, but Lillian still saw herself as the only duckling on the tail of mother hen.

The girl recognized Terrian by the trademark white of his hat, while she knew Kahlina from the strange mixture of feline and ophidian in her looks. Even without her peculiar memory, she would have remembered those two; both stood out in the ancient hallways of Istien like coal on snow. She, sadly, didn’t; as pale and white as she was, Lillian blended right in. ‘Too much, even. That’s why they, along with pretty much every other student here, probably don’t know me.’

As entertaining as they were, her thoughts were cut short by the ruckus of a breaking scuffle. Armed guards jumped like fleas under the mechanical punches of a man she could only describe as intimidating. His hair was cropped short and shone with a hawkish silver, but that wise color was offset by the disturbing blood drops that glistened in his eyes. And gods be damned, he was simply massive. Perhaps not as much as the face-scarred man who had joined in the procession, this Kross person, but there was a notable difference between an idle titan and one who was wiping the streets with bodies and taking names.

Without a word, Lillian broke from the line and sidled past its helm, between the blue-eyed stranger that had led her here and the rakish Terrian. Bodies were strewn about the colossus in a circle, all brought down with such ease and perfection that it bordered on monotonous. She fell on her knees and inspected them in a hurry, prodding their stomachs and chests with pressuring fingers; most were only writhing, afflicted by no shattered bones or ruptured organs.

One body, however, had broken the geometrical formation, an elf that seemed handsome even with a broken nose and a blood-smeared face. She knew him. On her occasional strolls into the city, she would sometimes see him, upholding his duties with a smile that mended hearts. Now, here he was, obviously unconscious, with a few fractures and an icky sack of something that was swelling above his liver. While pressing both hands on his wounds, she let her eyes wander farther up to the beastly man. He hadn’t noticed her, more concerned by the shards in his bottle than the daggers in his back.

It made her seethe. Nothing more than a bully on the school grounds, she thought, flaunting his strength and making others eat dirt to stave off his lone child’s boredom. Even better, he had chosen the worst possible moment to flex his muscles and strut his brawny stuff. She didn’t know why, but every inch closer to him had constricted her chest, as if a whiff of the air he breathed was enough to rile up her repressed emotions, anger being the first of them. The girl had begun in a low-breath mutter, but her voice was quick to switch from murmur to holler. “Eluriand is on its last leg, and you’re making a scene! Couldn’t you have been a merry drunkard? Ambling down the streets and yelling out ‘I love you’ would at least raise morale!”

What demon had possessed her? Her heart was having an epileptic fit, torn by fury, embarrassment and something else entirely. Her thoughts were a jumble and the sounds that came from outside were a garbled mess of white noise. Was it fear? No. Though she did choose an awful time to speak out her mind, he didn’t frighten her, or at least not in the way that the fickle Kross had struck her. They both gave her chills, but in very different ways: his was the smell of coffins and graveyards, while the other’s was surprisingly bittersweet, like a whiff of the alcohol that seemed so dear to him. Between a gravedigger and a drunken bully, she’d pick the latter any time, though apparently that hadn’t stopped her from telling him off.

‘What is this, then?’ she asked herself worriedly before she felt the guard stir. With a weak smile, she removed her hands, a thin black haze suffusing into the air as it trailed after her palms. The red flow of his nose was stemmed, and the ridge seemed a bit less crooked now. No difference could be seen anywhere else, but she knew she had also stalked his internal bleeding. There were only a few hairline fractures left, but they too were beginning to heal. Whispering into his ear, she told him he would be fine. He groaned, and then fell into a dreamless sleep.

Lillian wobbled to a stand and, with a defiance she never knew was in her, walked up to the heavyset transgressor, feeling her knees weaken with every step. Glass cracked beneath her soles, and within moments she was kneeling before the fallen officer, whose head was limp in a thin puddle of blood, soaking the dark concrete and translucent shards. Looking up again, she saw the giant tower over her small frame, felt the air thicken around them both. There was devilry at work, here, a smell about him that drove her mad. “The city needs everyone’s help, but the way he is right now, he won’t wake up until it’s far too late. That’s why I’m going to help this man, whether you like it or not.” Her mouth had stopped reeling right then, but her mind had followed the impetus. ‘I don’t care what you do to me.’

But she did, far more than she ever thought she would.

[Slayer of the Rot]

Kross's ever calm and collected face stared at the back of the girl's neck as she moved swiftly through the crowd, slipping between tourist, soldier, citizen, and student with a grace the saraelian wasn't sure he could even begin to sum up. In his thirty some years in life, he had dealt with many a devious and shady character, and was forced to learn tones of voice and body language or risk going out on a mark to end up bloody with broken legs in a locked building roaring with flames. Close speculation of the girl, Skie, told him she was wary of him, which was fine. Distance would be kept in that case, meaning he would have to talk less, think more, and reveal as little of his person as possible. The sound of shattering glass drew his attention before he could mull over the situation anymore, and the crowds suddenly surged towards him, past him, trying to push him out of the way to get a good look at the commotion. The elves prided themselves on superiority over other races, but when it came down to it, they showed a sick fascination with scenes of violence. Kross turned, and pushed easily through the clots of people, moving towards the fringe of the crowd, towards the irritating cacophony of steel, hissing as though drawn, and the thumping of fists on flesh.

Godhand Striker.

Kross's composed face briefly lost it's calm veneer and twisted into a mixture of ire and apprehension. Though formed some years ago, the memories of the superhuman mercenary were fresh, summoned up unwillfully and swiftly. Smells of vodka and stale popcorn and the sweat stained canvas of a ring. Two attractive young redheaded woman...though the one on the left was bloodied, torn in two, missing patches from badly decayed flesh.

The saraelian grunted, and tapped at his temple, squeezing his eyes shut. Opening painful wounds would make him careless, but the sharp crack of a whip pulled him back to the problem at hand much easier than he would have managed of his own accord. One of the students that had stood out amongst the group Skie had chosen for help, baring thin, snake like fangs, stood over a toppled Tel Aglarim soldier, the whip still in her hand. Another of the students, a small, dreadfully plain looking thing, was shouting loudly at Godhand. Kross's face had returned to it's calm, passive state, but his troubles remained. He could almost feel the tempers mounting for an explosive show.

"Stop," he said plainly and coolly to Kahlina, wrapping a hand gently around the handle of the whip, just above her hand. "Our purpose is to leave Raiaera safely. If we embarass and humiliate the guard, surely we will make ourselves a target for their ire." The saraelian had bent to talk to the woman eye to eye, and now straightened, glancing out towards the obstinate, silver eyed mercenary and the little fury filled student her outburst almost cute, had it been in another time, and in a better atmosphere...

A dry smell rose suddenly in the air, almost seeming to be tinged with the scent of eastern spices, and the dust that had lined the streets and lazily puffed at the stomp of panicked feet earlier in the day began began to rise to waist level. Clad in gunmetal blue delyn armor, the broad shouldered, frowning form of Kross pushed gently through the border of the crowd, his greaves clanking upon the stones of the street. He stopped behind the student, her face flush with her fury...as well as something else. Closer to Godhand, the saraelian's senses prickled with interest at a change in the atmosphere. Though his eyes certainly could not observe it, his nose did, though he felt nothing at the smell. The same could not be said for the girl before him, though.

"Calm down, young one. I realize that you are upset over this man's actions, but the sooner you heal that elf you feel so strongly about, the sooner he can get back to war, no?" His tone was pleasant, but no warmth lined his expressions as he spoke. The fog of dust retreated away from the aftermath, twisting through the legs of the gathered and gawking onlookers like ethereal snakes, vanishing down alleyways, and drains. Stepping closer to Godhand, Kross glanced at the bottle of whiskey the mercenary held, and then looked into the broken window, lifting his hand to it. Inside of the bar, a like bottle rattled and clattered gently against it's neighbors, and then shot across the room, and outside, into the saraelian's hand. He then held it out to Godhand.

"Here. There's glass shards in that bottle, I can sense it. Have a clean drink, on me."

((From here on in I will start calling Dan, Kross, as it will be his alias and identity during the length of the FQ. For those who know Dan previously - there's a lot of people in the quest, and I barely glanced through - he's changed his face, added new scars, so wyou wouldn't recognize him.))

[Skie and Avery]

It was how these things happened, really. A small drama attracted more, always more. The avalanche started and she was the last person that could get it stopped. Kahlina stepped up to help her, Terrian advising her, Lillian angry, Kross moving forward to be another voice in her ear. And through it all, all these leaders that were striving to forge forward, Skie couldn't take it. Were this handful of children to step and face Xem'Zund now, they would all topple over and be cast aside like loose leaves before the hurricane.

She sighed, having found her feet once again and walked forward, with a grim set to her mouth. She moved towards Godhand, glaring at Kross as she passed him. Her words, though her eyes were dead set on Godhand Striker, were pointed towards Lillian and the elf.

"We're wasting time and energy by setting ourselves against someone who could be a great help." She knew of Godhand's strength, it was impossible to have trained in Radasanth and not have heard the stories. While she'd enlisted Terrian to help keep her and the others safe - though the question of Kahlina really needing it was debatable - but Kross was huge. He reminded her of someone she'd only seen once or twice, a memory of laughter in the Silver Pub. He looked nothing like the bouncer for the bar, but his strength echoed that of the human man she remembered seeing. It was a thought that scared her, because anyone that her aunt respected was worth the fear.

"Terrian.. I know this man personally, though perhaps not as intimately as my mother did." She smiled, the look wry as her eyes followed the new wrinkles of Godhand's face - most of them seeming as if they'd been set in place there by unstoppable scowling. She could not bring herself to say what she felt - that perhaps his brash stubborn refusal to be cowed would end up saving them all. Instead, she smiled back at the moon elf, and touched Godhand gently on the shoulder.

"The security of the city is something we are no longer concerning ourselves with. Eluriand will fall, and nothing we do here today will stop that. We have other duties. We have to get the hell out of here, and I've a way." She started walking then, passing by Lillian, pausing only to let her fingertips brush the top of the girl's head gently, and then she was down the boulevards. When she stood again before the Turlin school, Griffin came from the shadows.

He wore his armor now, of the same blue metals that bound her neck and wrists, though it had none of the same glow as her delicate shackles. From beneath his helm, engraved with the face of a demon, he regarded her with bright green eyes. Every time their gazes locked, Skie was reminded so much of her mother and brother, and the betrayal upon her family that she had been forced into. Her mouth set in a thin line, and she vowed, staring at him, that her acts here would make up for those tainted moments.

"Have you done what I asked?" he asked softly. She looked over her shoulder, seeing glimpses of a long tail, dark hair, white, and a larger body. They were hidden from her quick look by crowds and shadows and the early morning mist that didn't want to go away, but she was sure they had followed. She nodded, but for a split second, as she could feel the pulse of Griffin's magic, too strange to be deflected by Raiaera's defenses, whipped out. She could feel herself connected to others, to the few leaders she'd managed to pull to her, to the snivelling simple students who gathered with them. And then, she felt something like a hook driving itself into the soles of her feet, and the world went into a burst of every color imaginable.

When the pain subsided, and she could finally open her eyes, they widened with horror. The chaotic street scene that had been strewn out before her was gone, replaced now with empty alleys and still-smoldering buildings. Gone were the guards, and the streets were strewn with bodies. She could hear the low moans of a couple of people, still alive, still suffering, but they were so very few. She stood in the middle of a broken city, the broken gates down the long lane that stretched before her. Instead of fields and farms stretched out towards the horizon beyond, as she'd seen in Eluriand, there was only tall trees, stretched ever upwards, crowned in hues of ruby and blood.

Griffin had teleported them to Carnelost.

[RumpleGrumblePuss]

Some people are just to stupid to stay down. I had to fight back a small smirk when the man put the elf down a second time. One guy against several, now that’s just wrong. I watched the regulating small skirmish and wondered why I bothered to topple one of the elves. It was more than obvious that the man could have probably taken on twice the number with little problem. Through the taking of sides by the others in the group and the waste of precious time, I wondered just what had led a race of people that as a whole were seen as a gentle race to break down and target intervals when everything they knew was at stake. For a moment I couldn’t help but wonder if Lólindir would have taken a side, and which one.

The light touch of a hand grabbing the handle of my whip and the order accompanying it drew me out of the silent musings. I lifted on clawed finger in warning as the man passed by. That’s the guy that for all intents and purposes told Skie to ‘go to hell’ when she asked him to join us. No one changes an opinion that fast, unless they want something and think they can get it easily. I resolved to keep an eye on the man called Kross.

Recoiling my whip, I held it in hand rather than put it away. I had lost my friend, been recruited into this mismatched group and was more than a little worried about my survival in the coming days, but I was not dumb enough to think myself safe. Glancing at the others and the downed guards I as no other option than to follow Skie, at least she seemed to have a solid idea of what she was doing and where she was going. For all of the talk I had heard today, while hers was nearly non existent it spoke louder than those that shouted.

The now familiar sensation of magic slithered through me, this touch though seemed different and off kilter some how. It left me feeling as if the core of my being had been touched and tainted in some unknown way. I gritted my teeth and hated it.

The disorientation lasted several moments, I found myself gritting my teeth against a combination of pain and vertigo. Crouching to regain my balance I looked around. For a long moment I simply soaked in the sight of the ravaged town. The smells assaulted my nose, smoke, torn earth, blood; I could feel my nostrils flare to take in the scent even thought I didn’t really want to smell the scent of death. I took a step towards the nearest voice I could hear crying out in pain and hopelessness. I looked down at the body of a man for a moment before I nudged him with a foot, rolling him over to see his face.

For a long moment I stared at the milky eyes of the dead before my gaze slowly moved down to the ragged wound in his chest. I shook my head and looked away glancing at the seemingly bloodstained forest that loomed close by. Despite the cries of the wounded the silence was a little unnerving. I picked up no bird song or movement of animals or rustling of the accursed plants that killed. Just the ever present murmuring of the wind.

“We should burn everybody so that they can’t be taken for Xem’zund’s army. We also need to consider the fact of killing those too wounded to waste time healing.”

With a quiet sigh I unclasped my coat and wrapped it around my waist, wrapping and anchoring my tail. I chose the nearest structure that was decently intact and began dragging the man’s body towards it.