Serenti Invitational Finals: Amen Vs Relt Peltfelter Vs Christina Bredith

[Amen]

In Marcus’ estimation, mages were full of shit and after a point a man should come to expect it. So when he came across a statue in the center of a hallway expressing abject horror, he was confused for a moment, and then vaguely concerned, and then after a bit of thought just plain mad.

It didn’t make sense to put a statue in the middle of a hallway, which itself was constructed of a stone unlike any other and full of an eerie blue fog. The severe angles and stark shadows served to unnerve, and one could not conceive of a being that would call this place home – and that was the point. Marcus decided that this was the work of some juvenile and self-satisfied hedge-wizard out giggling from a cozy 'lair' somewhere toward the center of the maze.

So nevermind the exquisite detail or the painfully accurate representation of terror and fear, the templar slipped past and moved on no more cautious than he’d been before the statue’s discovery. As if on cue, he happened upon another statue, and then another, each more chilling than the last. Marcus inwardly scoffed.

If there was a monster in his closet he was going straight for it biting and clawing.

There were two more ahead now, caught in the midst of a scene wherein one had a hand laid comfortingly upon the shoulder of another, and then the comforter moved. That, Marcus had to admit, was a little creepy. Still, he was on the fearlessly callous road now, and so-help-him he was going to stick to it until the bitter end.

It was a fine thing too, because the moving body turned out to be a short, slim, wiry girl of young but indeterminate age wearing the most ridiculous outfit heretofore imaginable. A normal pair of human eyes might not have been able to make out much more beyond that in the sparse light of the dungeon-maze, but with the twin sparks residing in his Marcus could make out the warm tones of her skin and the dark of her hair – Fallien, maybe, or an exotic expatriate out of Tular or Istraloth.

And then she spoke and utterly destroyed any notion of race or point of origin or mental state, drew a weapon of some sort, and slipped out of her sandals – which were broken, lacking anything to secure the ends to her heels. She hopped up on the actual-statue, and Marcus cocked his head to one side. He was fairly certain she’d just insulted him, but it was hard to say: her words only barely formed a coherent thought and he couldn’t say what ‘pneumonia’ was.

At this point, he could not have hated Emien Harthworth more. The last time he accepted a job from the viceroy, he’d been asked to fight a slight, attractive, and publically well-loved young woman in front of a crowd of staunchly loyal and painfully simple Radasanth commoners – and then Emien told him to win without hurting her. Apparently dissatisfied with that original level of outrageousness, now Harthworth tasked him with murdering a small girl who was also clearly mentally ill.

The imp spoke again, reminding Marcus that she existed and formed some level of threat while brandishing her strangely shaped stick. He considered walking away – he knew he ought to just walk away – but he’d been given a job. Kill anything you see. That was it. And isn’t this what I wanted? he thought. The man with the money says kill that, and you do it. That’s what it is to be a mercenary. Doesn’t matter if it’s man, woman, child. Doesn’t matter if it’s crazy.

You kill it.

He let his axe drop from his shoulder, and caught the haft closer to the blade with his off-hand. And then in one smooth motion, he lifted it high and lunged forward, and then he brought the blade down toward the crazy girl’s head.

In the end, he decided, he would be doing her a favor.

Girl was nuts.