MQ: Arms of Gold

[Godhand]

Godhand was looking good out there. He was a young man; hard man. He wasn't pretty and he couldn't dance but out here he was still the former number one contender for the light heavyweight championship of the world. It was twenty years ago and he was back in the streets, the vicious son of a whore with a right hook like you'd never seen. The people milled about cautiously, and right then he nearly smiled. It was a rough spot; guys going down all over. That and the clack clack clack of the Gatling gun. But for right now he was on top.

Still, the whole fight had reached a standstill. At least around him, anyway. They weren't sure how to handle the mercenary. A long range attack made the most sense but with James having taken care of the archers that was out of the question. They'd tried getting him with spears but Godhand had dodged the tip and pulled the lancers into striking range. Nobody wanted to go toe-to-toe with him but they knew that their only chance was attrition. He was tough but there was only one of him and about a thousand of them. Something had to give and God was on their side, right? Right?

Someone shouted charge and they were back on the offensive. The circle shrunk back to it's original size and then Godhand was knocking back swords from all sides. It was a good thing he'd put some steel bracers on before the battle to shield his forearms because already his sleeves had been slashed to Hell. Not only that but between all of their attacks they had already worn deep grooves in them even though they hadn't been used for more than fifteen minutes. There were truly no limits to what you could achieve when you had an endless supply of expendable troops.

It was finally too much for Godhand and he crouched and shielded his body with both arms as at least a dozen blades crashed down on him. Almost immediately a swarm of churchies climbed on the backs of his assailants and dove on top of him. More and more ran up the sides of their comrades until finally the mercenary was buried beneath a veritable Goddamn mountain of the Sway monkeys. He could feel them breathing hotly in his ears, sweating all over him even as more joined the fray.

Godhand's knees shook as he slowly began to rise and as if on cue his enemies began to press down in an attempt to crush him. He thought about the way honey bees protected their hive from an Asian giant hornet. The hornet was several times their size and weight and could sting as many times as it wanted; individual bees were as nothing to it. So to protect themselves when a scout arrived at their hive dozens or even hundreds of bees swarmed it so that it was buried beneath them. Once it was immobilized they furiously vibrated their muscles to raise the temperature of the mass of bees to just over a hundred and ten degrees, about five degrees more than the hornet could take. It ended up being smothered and suffered heat death. Sure, a few of the bees died because of the heat too but the hive itself remained safe. The swordsman couldn't help but draw a comparison to that situation and this one. What a horrible way to go.

"ENOUGH!"

Godhand tensed his muscles before unleashing all his strength in a startling burst of sheer power. He extended himself to his full height and threw his arms to the side; all those on top of him were flung away as if by some invisible force. Some of the men that had climbed they highest broke their necks in the fall and the others were too stunned to continue fighting. The mercenary took quick breaths and rested his hands on his knees, trying to keep upright.

"Is that the best you got!? I'm the Goddamn-"

As soon as he turned around to address his opponents he was savagely speared by one of the Church's leaders.

[Djakara]

Djakara kept pushing his driver on, despite the dwarf’s worries about how close to the peasants they were getting. It didn’t bother the Freiherr much. He knew that no peasants would reach him before they were mowed down by the gun. He kept firing, cranking and reloading with a machine like efficiency, and the action itself was intoxicating to the point where he believed he could do no wrong. Now that his driver was insisting that they hesitate, and Djakara didn’t want to hear it.

“Are you a real man?” Djakara asked coldly, his eyes fixated on the mass of peasants he was gunning down.

“Ye shud know not to insult the ‘onner of a dwarf like dat, lad,” the dwarf replied, clearly upset by the question, but unwilling to do anything beyond that given the situation. “Norm’lly, ye’d have one in the kisser, jus’ fer thinkin’ that…”

Djakara paid little attention to the threat. “Move forward then,” was all he said.

The dwarf, noticeably irritated, flicked the reigns of the horse. “As you say Freiherr,” the driver replied.

The modified wagon surged forward, mowing down peasants left and right as others even dived out of the way of the weapon. Djakara now turned his attention away from the peasants nearby, there was far too much of a cluster of soldiers and peasants for his gun to be all that effective. Instead, he wanted to target the church archers, the one group of soldiers that both Jame and Godhand had left ignored. Already, Djakara could envision the benefits of attacking them.

“Hold steady now!” Djakara said.

The dwarf looked up at the young Freiherr as if he had never heard something so preposterous before. The battle was taking place all around them. Leon Adalbert was taking on one of the church’s best soldiers, a knight clad in prevalida armor, while Godhand was in the middle of a fight with a man of equal strength. The moment they stopped, it meant the battle would catch up to them. Or even worse, the horses could be killed and the entire gun rendered useless.

“Do it, Gilead!” Djakara shouted through gritted teeth. A thin buzz of electricity began to hum around his ears as he stared angrily at the dwarf.

The dwarf cringed, and Djakara, watching another volley of arrows fly up into the air and rain down around him, decided that he was going to take matters into his own hands. Now it was an issue of survival. He might have been able to mow down the peasants without letting them get close, but a stray arrow could hit him. He wanted to stop the motion of the wagon so that he could take aim properly, and Gilead wasn’t letting him.

Seconds later, the wagon stopped. Djakara smiled, Gilead had listened to him. Carefully, the Freiherr locked the archers in his sights, and after only a single reload, he had mowed all but a lucky few down. He smirked arrogantly. “How about that, Gilead? You doubted me, but the archers are dead!”

There was no response from the dwarf. “Damnit Gilead!” Djakara insisted, kicking the dwarf’s shoulder lightly. “Be a man and admit I was right.”

The dwarf collapsed to the ground. There was an arrow lodged in his throat.

[Godhand]

Godhand felt the air rush out of his lungs as he was tackled by Vidash, the general's shoulder getting driven into his stomach. It was rare someone was capable of rocking the mercenary like that but in these turbulent times filled with both miracles and catastrophes it seemed anything was possible. Even as he lay on the ground, too shell-shocked to move, he wondered how he hadn't heard of the man. Godhand kept his cards close to the vest so you couldn't find him unless you were looking, but out here in a warzone someone with his power and no compulsion to keep it under wraps should have already become famous. Maybe he had killed anybody who saw him in action and that's why word hadn't gotten around yet but it was still suspicious. Can't go around popping everyone who sees you fight; it was impossible in a war. So how?

The mercenary didn't have too much time to wonder though. Before he could even get his bearings Vidash had already grabbed a fistful of Godhand's hair and was starting to pull him up. The swordsman was still dizzy but once his opponent had gotten him to his feet he grunted and cracked a good one across the churchie's ribs. The man screamed and retreated, clutching at his chest. Apparently he wasn't used to someone hitting back that hard. Godhand couldn't blame him; if he hadn't spent most of his life boxing with some of the toughest guys in Corone the impact of that spear would have got him down for good.

Now was no time to rest on his laurels, though. If Vidash recuperated there was no telling what he was capable of doing, so the swordsman pressed his advantage. He lurched forward and grabbed the Sway monkey's head to keep it steady, then unleashed a savage right hand into his face. The man recoiled and Godhand did it once more, but he was too slow on the last one. Vidash smacked away his arm before landing a big right of his own on Godhand. It went back and forth like that, each one trying to knock the other out. None of the soldiers, neither the Church's nor the State's, dared approach as the entire battlefield shook after each one landed a hit. This was out of their hands and they knew it. They didn't fight each other, however. They were too entranced by the scene before them. It wasn't often a person got to see two titans try to batter each other to death, after all.

What they didn't know is that their power came from very different places. Godhand had earned his strength through blood and pain and hard work. He'd taken beatings from some of the meanest men skid row had to offer and had almost died more than a few times in his life. Vidash on the other hand had led a safe life in the monastery. He'd trained with wooden swords and prayed to his Goddess everyday for thirty five years. His strength had been given to him, not earned. And in some way this battle represented a sort of eternal struggle. Dog versus tiger. Man versus God. Each one of their blows was an argument for each side.

Suddenly Vidash put a hand on either side of Godhand's face before driving his head into the mercenary's. Blood began to flow down the swordsman's face and he grabbed his head and turned away, dizzy once again. The church's champion took the opportunity to drive a fist into the back of his head, sending Godhand to his knees. The man snarled and grabbed the mercenary's forearm, dragging him over to an abandoned wagon that had apparently spent many a winter slumbering outside the church. So invested did the soldiers become in the fight that they actually started cheering for one side or the other. The churchies began to chant Vidash's name as he threw the mercenary unto the wagon and grabbed both his ankles, isolating them by dragging them through the railing standard in every wagon. He then turned to the wall Godhand had broken down and picked out a large cinderblock. He easily picked it up and walked back to the swordsman, lifting the quarter-ton brick above his head. He smirked at Godhand before shattering it on his leg, dislocating his knee and probably fracturing his bones. The mercenary roared in agony.

The crowd went wild.

[Call me J]

Captain Flynn and Jame stared out over the battle below, watching uneasily as Djakara’s driver was slain and Leon and Godhand were occupied with some of the church’s best fighters. The entire situation had now been torn asunder, and while it looked like the soldiers had a slight advantage, both Captain Flynna and Jame could tell that it wasn’t an advantage that would hold. The soldier’s discipline and rhythm would need to recover from the sudden shock of the convoy, but mad peasants were too absorbed with their obsession over a god that didn’t exist.

“Go out and bolster the left side,” Captain Flynn said. “That’ll give our guys the chance to recover.They need the help.”

Jame nodded. He didn’t exactly see what the veteran soldier saw, but he knew that he was better off trusting the expertise. The only time the half dragon had been in charge of soldiers, it hadn’t ended well. He was about to begin his transformation back into a dragon to obey Captain Flynn before they were interrupted by a strange voice.

“We’ve been waiting for you Jame,” a voice declared. It was an elderly voice, but still laden with a surprising amount of temerity given the likely age of the speaker and the situation under which it was uttered. Jame was just confused. The voice didn’t resemble any of the dwarves from the convoy, and it was certainly not Godhand, Leon or Djakara. The half dragon could see all of them fighting below.

A small man dressed in a white robe appeared. He seemed to carry himself with an unbecoming serenity. His hands were wrinkled, with prominent veins visible as the man rubbed his hand over his closely trimmed bearded cheek. With red eyes, he stared at Jame, almost as if Captain Flynn didn’t even exist. Jame reached for his sword, but decided against it at the last moment. “I should have roasted you earlier,” the half dragon said.

The white robed man let out a small, heartless laugh. “But then again, it was my friends that brought you to Salvar…” he said.

The two eyes met. Jame licked his lips in anticipation of a fight now. He didn’t care why he was brought to Salvar at this point, or what this man had wanted. He just wanted a fight. Thoughts of Maia trapped in Eluriand, unable to save herself because of he had been teleported into Salvar were now in the forefront of his mind. With his sword drawn, Jame looked at his white haired foe, ready to do battle.

“You shouldn’t have said that,” Jame said, before lunging forwards with an attack.

Bursts of electricity shot out from the white haired man’s eyes, sending Jame careening against one of the side walls. A vase heretofore undamaged by the battle was rattled off its pedestal and crashed down to the floor. Captain Flynn began to load his flintlock rifle, but seconds later, another series of lightning bolts shot his way, sending him flying down from the building. Jame couldn’t see where or how he landed, but doubted, all things considered, that he might have been able to survive. It would have been almost miraculous.

“Now that’s settled, let’s get down to business,” the white haired man continued. “Don’t get up, I could shock you much harder than I did. The little blessings you got earlier, they don’t count for that much anymore, do they?”

Jame shuddered. He wondered how much this man knew. He now could see the sharp incisors on the robed man, a definite sign that he was dealing with a minion of the Patriarch. The half dragon tried not to show it. He knew the only security he had from the almost invisible siring demon was his anonymity to him. Now, he feared that was in jeopardy. Too frightened and stunned to say anything, he wondered if his entire effort to kill the other minions without being seen had gone in vain.

“I represent an organization interested in you,” he said. “One of our operatives noticed the gifts you’d received from Aglarlin, and we wanted you. Any son of a Kaosi who makes a name for himself in Aglarlin means something, especially when they’ll pin the hopes of Maia Kristel’s letter on your shoulders…”

The mention of the letter reignited Jame’s anger. He got up, and as the second blast of lightning came, he blocked this one with the blade of his sword. The delhar blade, resistant to magic, dissipated the shock. As Jame grew closer, he took a swing, sure that whatever this man had to say, he didn’t want to hear it. Now, weapons be damned, he wanted to get back to Maia and save her.

Jame’s blow was dodged handily, but before he could ready another one, he heard the sound of a grunt. He looked towards the window, and he saw a hand grabbing desperately on to a shard of broken glass still stuck in the window frame. “Flynn!” Jame realized.

“Go get your friend,” the white haired man replied. “But remember this, my people want you, and you’ll want to take our offer.”

Jame highly doubted that, but he didn’t say anything, as he pulled Captain Sean Flynn back up to safety. The veteran soldier, now without his rifle, looked on at the white robed man in scorn. “A Magistrate should know better than to tempt an ally of Salvar’s crown…” the veteran soldier declared. “Mikhail Lehn, your days are numbered now. You’ve chosen the wrong side this time.”

“You have no idea what side I’m on,” the Magistrate replied, cackling loudly. He eyed Jame as if they shared a private joke between them. With his eyes turned to the half dragon, Mikhail spoke again. “Though of course, you could join…”

[Leon Adalbert]

As the Salvaran troops gathered around him, Leon forced his way through the rioting theists, twisting and stabbing when a farm implement came too close or a bumpkin took a swing at him. The swashbuckling merchant was almost to his opponent, who seemed to be taking a keen interest in this dirty blond challenger, now mere yards away.

"Stand aside or get a nasty shock, you filthy dirt eaters!" he shouted, as he pointed Lily straight at the officer's plated chest. The trigger was pulled, and a bolt of lightning slammed into the warrior's armor, and he was forced to stagger back a few steps from the force. Snap! Snapsnap! The binding straps on his prevalida shell broke, the protective plating falling to the ground around him, leaving him with only his woolen clothes, a pair of greaves, and his gauntlets to shield him from attack.

Electricity arced across the man's body, leaping, too, to the idiots who had remained near their dear captain. Loyalty or bad hearing, one or the other killed them, and it didn't much matter which. Leon's only concern at that moment was the dark haired man with a sword as big as he was.

"You're lucky, heathen," he grunted, the muscles in his face twitching involuntarily from both pain and the electric charge. "You'll be killed by none other than John Kreskin, chosen acolyte of the Sway." He raised his buster sword -- more a club than a sword -- and readied for a great horizontal swing. "Yield, and your death will be easy. Who knows, the Sway may even take note of your obedience and grant you clemency in the afterlife."

Leon sneered, lunging in with his rapier, which was easily sidestepped in his haste. Unexpected, however, was the slap across Kreskin's face by one Lily, the pistol connecting soundly with the brute's cheek. "Not a chance, churchie," he jeered, egging on the ape.

[Djakara]

Seconds later, the horses buckled, and the peasants, as if smelling blood in the water, began to swarm around Djakara. Immediately, the young Freiherr called upon his electric abilities, coating his entire body in a screen of electricity. He unsheathed his spearscythe, but didn’t expect it to be any good. If he got involved in melee combat, Djakara knew he was good as dead. There were too many crazed peasants charging at the gun station, desperately seizing at the advantage of Gilead’s death. They had seen too many of their comrades felled by the weapon. The state soldiers rushed to help Djakara, but the Freieherr’s position left him particularly vulnerable.

Now, Djakara was going to have to act quickly. The gun was going to be destroyed, no matter what he did. At this point, he knew that he just needed to find a way to fade back into one of the other caravans, where he’d be protected by the members of his convoy and the advanced weaponry that they had there. Instead of fighting everyone then, he was going to have to be strategic. Djakara resolved to use his electricity to forge a way through, one that would let him get closer to the soldiers that had, for whatever reason, given up on fighting. Though the Freiherr couldn’t explain why they had, he knew that would be safety, especially compared to the got crazed crazies that swarmed around him now like the undead.

A chunk of ice seemingly flying out of nowhere nearly hit Djakara’s head. It landed in the stationary gun instead, wedging itself in between the machinery, rendering it useless for the time being. The entire wagon began to shake, though the young Freiherr was fortunate enough to leap off before it capsized. He shot electricity in every direction as he landed, shocking peasants and soldiers around him alike. With his screen of electricity still buzzing around him, Djakrara began running, watching as people darted out of the way so as not to be shocked.

“That gun there was worth at least 5000 pieces of gold in profit,” Djakara realized. “It was a house in Istraloth in and of itself.” He made it to the soldiers standing around. Fortunately, the Salvarians were standing to one side, and the church people to the other. It was a bit unsettling how they had managed to organize themselves so peacefully when they were tearing each other to pieces just minutes away.

However, once Djakara saw the spectacle, he could understand why. It was a fight of champions. Godhand, against a man who might have even been stronger. The rarity of a single man such as Godhand was strange enough, the idea that two of them might meet each other in a battle was a duel for the ages. It was the kind of thing that could make all else stop, just so that the people could watch could appreciate their part in history.

Naturally, Djakara wanted to get involved, especially as Godhand’s leg was getting crushed. He hesitated, knowing the way everything else he had done had turned. Now that he had managed to get out of danger and was surrounded by his temporary allies in the Salvarian state, he realized Gilead’s death was his fault. More to the point, the loss of profit was his fault. He supposed he would have preferred to have the dwarf alive, but the loss of the weapon that would have been his equalizer and his source of his wealth stung harder.

Later, he’d have to accept the costs of his actions, but now, even with everything stood still, he was just going to watch. He didn’t dare to do anything else, given the way that everything else around him turned to shit. In the mess of carnage, he could barely find any of the wagons still intact, save for Mariah and Leaves, careening out of control.

[Godhand]

Godhand's world was pain. You don't really know what's important in life until a deranged church zealot breaks a concrete block on your leg. What is important in life is not letting a deranged church zealot break a block of concrete on your leg. The mercenary clutched his knee in agony while Vidash simply beamed at him. As far as he was concerned this was a triumph. The titan turned to the crowd and held out his arms to get their attention. He paused for a moment, savoring the look of child-like admiration from the peasants and the distraught horror of Salvar's soldiers. They knew that if he was capable of defeating Godhand then there was no way any of them could beat him. He began to address the crowd.

"My children, do you see!?" They cheered, "Do you see the fate that befalls all those who fight against the will of the heavens!? And you, sinners, you are next! Or do you repent!?"

He pointed and the entire line of soldiers tensed. After that display they feared that even an exclamation on his part was capable of destroying them. Some of them even reconsidered their side in the battle. Surely, they had just witnessed a miracle? The intervention of the Goddess? Even the hardiest soldier was shaken. Finally, the first few of them dropped their swords and fell to their knees in prayer. The peasants welcomed these men with open arms, claiming that the Goddess accepted all.

But Godhand still heard. And he could still be moved to violence. With a pained grunt he rolled off the wagon and fell to the snow, finally getting to his feet after much effort. And even though he favored his left leg, he could still move. The peasants jumped back and shouted warnings to their champion when they noticed the mercenary approaching him, but he was too entranced with their adoration. The swordsman finally made his presence known with a roar and Vidash turned in surprise and horror only to receive a vicious clothesline for his trouble.

The soldiers cheered as Godhand went down along with his quarry. He got up to one knee and pulled up Vidash's head by his hair, landing a string of vicious right hands to the man's previously unmarred face. The blows rained down and the mercenary grit his teeth as the churchie's blood spilled unto the snow while some even splattered on his own face. All through it he never let up until his fist was slick with the man's blood and Vidash's face was a broken mess. His previously sharp nose was shattered and he had cuts above both eyes; even some bruises were starting to leak blood out after being grazed by his knuckles. Every breath Godhand took burned his lungs but he knew he couldn't stop. He got back to his feet and dragged the man over to the wagon before throwing him on.

He looked to the wall next to the wagon and tried to jump on top, but before he even got off the ground there was a flair of pain from his knee. Godhand grit his teeth and instead grabbed two cobblestones and began to pull himself up the palisade to the cheers of the soldiers and the horror of the church-goers. Some even approached the wagon and tried to urge Vidash to get back up, but even they were still afraid to get too close. The mercenary finally reached the top of the fortification and turned to look at the acolyte. As soon as the Sway monkeys noticed his gaze they retreated. Godhand looked around the battlefield, drawing in one last frozen Salvar breath and shutting his eyes. He then jumped forward, sailing through the air towards the wagon. The soldiers and peasants alike exploded in bewilderment, unsure wether to scream or cheer. As he approached Vidash with increasing velocity, the mercenary turned in the air before finally hitting a Swanton Bomb on their champion.

The wagon imploded with the impact and no one could see through the debris the swordsman had kicked up. When the dust finally cleared the one standing was Godhand. Blood masking his face, he turned to look at Vidash. All that was left was a corpse that wasn't even recognizable. The ribcage had been shattered and after the number he had done on his face even his own mother wouldn't be able to say who it was. His legs threatened to give out but he turned to the people, soldiers and peasants alike, and for a moment did nothing. His chest rose and fell with heavy breaths and the whole battlefield seemed quiet. Finally he pumped his arms in the air, looked up and a stream of blood-red fire volcanoed out of his mouth. There was nothing magical about it; after such an exhausting his fight his hyper-powered muscles had increased his body heat to an extraordinary level and as a natural physical reaction the mercenary had stabilized his core temperature by unleashing all the excess heat from his mouth. The churchies took it quite differently, however.

"HE'S THE DEVIL!"

The mess of them erupted in horrified screaming and almost mass hysteria. That entire section of the peasant force retreated. Godhand looked at the remaining Salvar soldiers, each breath burning more than the last. With no energy left he fell to one knee. They gasped in unison almost comically and the bravest of them rushed forward to help him up. Blood flowed freely from the cut on his forehead as he was carried to safety, one arm upon either conscript to help him keep steady. The soldiers cheered with wild abandon; they would have chanted his name if they had only known it.

[Crimson Rose]

Snow was falling thick in the young thief's eyes as she readjusted her shotgun, she could see many battles going on. The man called Godhand had apparently managed to take down another man, though this time it appeared that the silver haired titan had trouble with his opponent. As she watched him being carried off by some of the Salvarian soldiers, she shuddered. Pain was evident in the man's rigid body posture as he was carried over the snowy hill.

Furthermore, quite near her she could see the dark haired Djarkara being overrun by a mass of peasants. As he tried to fend them off, she saw that the Gatling gun that had been picking off the peasants like flies, was destroyed. Wondering just who did it, Mari strained her red hued orbs to see a large chunk of ice stunk next to the crank that allowed the large gun to fire.

Shivering a bit, Mariah couldn't help but feel fear dancing gently in her heart. She sensed that something was wrong, that some bigger power was controlling the raggedly clothed peasants. As her eyes drifted to the church, she wondered just who was inside it. Turning to Leaves she said loudly "To the church."

Leaves brown eyes were wide as he said "You have a plan lassy?"

Mariah nodded mutely as she kept her eyes on the church.

"Fine then." Leaves then turned to coax the horses to move, but his eyes froze when he saw a group of twenty peasants standing in front of their path. Groaning the little dwarf shouted "Out of the way you blimey pests!"

One of the peasants gave the dwarf a toothy grin, in his hands he held a clear glass battle, that was filled with a murky liquid. A young boy next to him was putting a dirty white cloth inside the bottle, and a third one was scraping a match against a piece of wood, the match was then placed underneath the rag which lit quickly. The one that was holding the bottle then gave the small dwarf a toothless grin and mimed tossing it. The other one then laughed a short, dry laugh and grabbed the bottle from his companion and quickly threw the molotov cocktail at the wagon's tarp.

A scream left Mariah's lips as the cloth caught fire quickly, rolling out of the way as a bit of flaming material fell near her, she screamed as the wood jarred her stomach wound. She whimpered, but clenched her teeth, as she used her instincts to get out of the wagon.

Rolling quickly into the ice cold snow, Mariah cried again as her wound was aggravated. Closing her eyes as sharp spirals of pain danced across her body. With dread she looked down at where her wound had been cauterized, luckily their was no crimson flecks spurring from the white bandages. Relief filled her heart as she looked to see if Leaves had made it out of the wagon.

Unfornately for the dwarf, his thick leg had been caught in his horse's reigns after the peasant had thrown the cocktail at his wagon. Struggling to untie himself, he soon found that the burning wagon was surrounded by the very peasants who had ignited it. Baring his teeth down at them he yelled "Ugh you blimey louts!" he understood their low down tactics, but he knew that if he didn't do anything, that the entire caravan might not make it out of here. Without any regrets he yanked his horses to their sides, the whole wagon then tipped, igniting the nearby peasants bodies with flames. As the flames begin to reach his small frame, his last thoughts were At least I did my job....

Mariah screamed again, despite her pain, she wanted to help the dwarf. In all her life she had never seen death, she had always helped anyone in pain. But, here and now in this cacophony of death and sorrow, she could do nothing, all she could do is survive. Gritting her teeth, the thief rose shakily to her feet. With her steps unsteady, she begin to limp her way towards the church. It seemed her only place of safety in this chaotic battle zone. As she neared it she thought hopefully Maybe I can hide here, wait it out until everything is over. the cold metal of the shotgun was still pressed in her hands, wincing as she shakily kept a hold on it she finished her thoughts [/I] Or I could help out, help to end it and make sure no body else dies....[/I]

[Call me J]

Jame knew the sides of the conflict far too well. Down on the ground, he could hear the faintest of chants, picking up in strength, a cheer of victory for one of the sides. He didn’t know what it was for, and at the moment, he was too numb and confused to care. One of the wagons, the weapons for Raiaera, Jame’s chance at redemption, was all up in flames right at the foot of the church. Captain Sean Flynn of the Salvarian army had been rendered all but helpless. He was still speaking bravely, but between the Magistrate’s lightning and the blood he’d lost just surviving, there was only so much more that the old veteran could do.

The last bits of his martial energies flickered over the veteran soldier’s face before he turned so pale he had no choice but to collapse. Captain Flynn was alive, and cagey enough to tie his own tourniquet and bandage to wrap his severed palm, though a piece of glass had also jutted itself into his side.

Now, Jame was alone. His strength was waning. He didn’t know how long it would be before the entire blessing of Aglarlin faded away from his body. As Jame stared into the eyes of the Magistrate, he could tell that the false holy man knew the same thing. Jame readied his claymore, unsure of what good it would do against the Magistrate’s electric eyes, but it was the only thing he could think of.

“Join me…” the Magistrate began. “You don’t know anything about this civil war, how many strings are being manipulated… you, the Aglarlin headmistress, your friend Maia, you think you’re all a part of something, that even if you’re just the smallest cog in it, you’re still part of a machine that means something… that you’re a part of history…”

Jame could only wonder what Flynn was thinking, but that wasn’t what motivated him. He had been angry before, he had even been desperate, but never before had they combined together with the sudden rush of meanness within the half dragon that he was feeling right then. It had started when he had hit Mariah, it had felt so wrong, but it had felt so good too. It was as if chains that he never knew had existed had suddenly been released.

Now, he wanted to release a bit more. Without bothering with a reply, Jame let his sword to the talking. He made a bold swipe forwards ducked underneath by the Magistrate. The old man was remarkably spry, and Jame could just barely pirhoutte around and block another oncoming attack of electricity, by the time the Magistrate had launched his counter. Jame didn’t smile or pat himself on the back for his quickness, though he might have at other times. Instead he moved forwards, the lightning still dancing off his blade as he took a swing for the Magistrate’s head. The magistrate ducked.

Jame smirked. “I was hoping you’d do that,” he said coldly as he unleashed a harsh kick straight at the Magistrate’s face, catching the older man right below the nostrils. As the Magistrate staggered back, Jame moved forwards, his last shred of caution holding him back from trying to shove the Magistrate out of the window with a running tackle.

Instead, Jame charged forwards with his sword, ready to parry another lightning strike, only to find himself practically lifted off his feat as the Magistrate ducked underneath a blow and attempted to pin him down against the ground. Jame fell, dropping the claymore as he found himself mere inches away from the jagged glass edge at the bottom of the window. The Magistrate was on top of him, and the supposed holy man’s eyes were glowing as his sharp incisors looked desperate to bite into something. Jame, acting now on instincts alone, didn’t look to Captain Flynn, hoping that the veteran soldier might be able to summon a last bit of aid for him. He grabbed the Magistrate by the throat, and with a surprising bit of strength he hadn’t realized he had inside him, threw the magistrate from his position out of the window.

Wide eyed, Jame only realized the magnitude of his strength when he saw Mikhail Lehn’s broken body lying on top of the burning embers of what used to be a wagon. He blinked once, and then a second time as he looked out over the expanse of severed sinew and sweat. The eyes of the peasant church goers showed him everything he needed to know.

They were at the end of the battle.

[Leon Adalbert]

Leon's audacity hadn't gone unpunished. The gorilla of a man named Kreskin grabbed the young man who dared strike that handsome face of his, chain shirt rattling in his meaty grip. He tossed the pistoleer to the ground, before making a downward slice at him with a huge sword encased in ice. The lithe swordsman rolled quickly to avoid the club of a blade, the frozen sheath shattering on the snowy ground, sending chunks of ice in every direction.

A sliver of it cut Leon's cheek, marring his own handsome visage. A cheek for a cheek, he thought, feeling Lady Karma's chill touch as a bit of blood seeped from the small wound. But where in the King's name did that ice come from? "Sway monkeys and their magic," he spat, pulling himself to a stand. Kreskin was still pulling his sword from its overheavy landing while Leon spun in for another thrust at his exposed chest.

Ksh-Clang!

Steel bounced off of frozen prevalida as the churchie brought his gloved hand in to guard. Leon twisted a little more, following the rebound of his blade to push it into another stab at his foe's flank, the blade biting shallowly into flesh. It would have gone deeper, had he struck on the first attempt. The merchant took the small victory, however, as profits would add up just as much as debts. His only hope was that the balance would be greater than zero at final audit.

Kreskin finally jerked the weapon free, and Leon danced away. He stowed his pistol in an inner pocket of his longcoat as he retreated. Heavy blade came in on a level swing, and he tucked and rolled, grabbing the dirk he had tucked in his boot with his free hand. As he came out of the tumble, his left hand flew out at his opponent, now open from his attempted assault, and a length of steel sheathed itself in the brutish acolyte's right breast, pushing Kreskin's shoulder back an inch or two from the force. He had no choice then but to obey pain's commands and release the bulky blade, letting it slam against the ground.

"You'd do better with your fucking fists anyway, ape," Leon chided, a grin splitting his lips as he launched himself forward, rapier leading with the force of his entire body. The blade sank much deeper this time, going into Kreskin's gut, and out the other side an inch and a half. Leon pushed himself up to the behemoth's face, wrenching at his sword in the process. His nose nearly against the brute's, he told him, "Remember that in your next life, fucker."

He grabbed both blades, twisting them as he freed them, kicking the acolyte to the ground to bleed out, his faith lying in the snow around him.