An Eve's Gradual Decline

[A Passenger]

Sunlight blazed through the foliage of Corone's central forest, an indomitable force for even the most abundant of tiny obstacles that loomed overhead. Surrounded by acres of reaching, sheltering arbor and a myriad of flora and fauna, two figured braved the humid air; one seemingly out of desperation, the other out of necessity.

Casey Coulton could scarcely make out the figure so far ahead of him, what with his aging eyes and the forest's natural structures, but he knew well the image of the man without getting close. The swaying of the man's black robes and the crimson-hot shock of hair atop his head seemed to mock the pursuer with every step. He was patient, though. He needed to be. Casey's deep, green eyes burrowed into the back of the man who fled him, his image like a mirage in the haze of heat.

It had been more than twenty years since the creature, Ridley, had murdered the Coulton family and fled the small village where they'd made their home. Every footstep in his wake was marked with the blood of Casey's Father and sisters, the scent so strong that the last surviving Coulton could do naught but dedicate his life to the pursuit.

There had been close calls. Moments where Casey was near enough that he could have reached out and clutched the man; a time when Casey and Ridley were separated by iron prison bars and the stalker bore a deep hole into his counterpart's muddy eyes; a sunset when Casey, perched on a hill, chanced a single shot from Garland that tore through Ridley's robes, an inch too wide.

Now he watched, squinting, as the woods became sparse and turned gold as the sun began its daily descent and the robed criminal strode briskly through the front gates of Radasanth. Casey picked up his pace so as not to lose the target in the early evening crowd - a smattering of lords, ladies and urchin with their own places to go and people to see, cooling themselves with birdfeather fans and dressed smartly.

Casey could nearly taste blood as he watched the robed murderer ascend a pair of steps onto the porch of a taven, and it gave him the energy to push himself into a measured trot. His boots pounded the dirt-stained stairs and he pushed through the saloon doors, registering quickly the image emblazoned on the establishment's sign: a flagon of foaming ale, its brim crested by a setting sun.

Now Casey registered noise for the first time in days. It would have been impossible not to be struck by the amount of activity in the parlor - drunken revelry and tall tales spouted loud and proud, with musical accompaniment provided by a suited old salt by a piano and the occasional female screech from somewhere in the back.

His eyes ransacked the room and his heart raced, for he'd seen with his own eyes the approach of the robed man. A sudden chill ran up and down the stalker's spine, for it had been months since he'd been so close. The tavern's dim candlelight did little to aid him, and Casey found that he could not determine the location of his quarry. A swivel and a slide brought him to the bartender's counter where he carefully slid Garland's bulk, carefully tucked away in a sheath of black silk, below eye level so as not to attract attention.

"S'cuse me," he croaked, and the depth of his own voice settled Casey's nerves.

[Idieth]

In Radasanth there is a clothier's and among that clothier's display there was a two-layered, puffed, frilly, silk hand-kerchief dyed a rich red and embroidered with gold thread in intricate arabesques around the highly stylized image of a phoenix volant. It was a hand-kerchief that looks undeserving of such crude things as bogies and preferred instead a delicate daub of tears from the eye of a deeply moved lady of refinement. It's caught many an admiring eye during its tenure in the display cabinet and, unfortunately, has most recently caught the eye of a certain determined, mildly kleptomaniacal fairy. Idièth was simultaneously overjoyed and frustrated by the discovery that she made. Overjoyed, because this was clearly the blanket meant for her to snuggle into; it meant that she didn't have to find a hearth to sneak onto every night. Frustrated, because that hankie was in the sort of fancy, overgrown, glass display cabinet that she simply wasn't strong enough to lift the lid off.

A bit later, she also became very angry because, as she pressed herself against the glass to ogle what should rightfully be hers, some rude boy decided to pick her up with his dirt-caked fingers and ran back to show the interesting bird to his mother. The daft, myopic bint congratulated him and went right on back to gossiping with three other similarly daft, myopic mothers, leaving Idièth to be petted, poked, stroked, and prodded by Dirty Fingers and his friend, Runny Nose, for the next hour or so. She managed to get free of the cloth sack that they put her in when they ran off for lunch, found and put her skirt back on, and flew away to find a birdbath.

Idièth was chased out of the birdbath with many violent boxing of wings from several pigeons, but at least she was already done washing up. Shivering in the cooling air of dusk, she went into the nearest open door to find a fire to dry out in front of. Fortunately, it was a general rule that taverns always had a nice, lively fire going and she settled in to take a nap; the fruitless struggling and yelling for an hour had worn her out.

When a soaking wet, one-foot-one-inch-tall, four-winged girl zips unannounced through the door and lays down to take a nap in front of the fireplace and therefore slightly obstruct the way to the kettles, it draws stares. Perhaps that is why fewer eyes than customary turned towards Casey and his friend when they entered serially.

[Connor Lacuna]

Fortunately, tiny girls with four wings weren't the kind of thing to interest Connor, who first noticed her in a mostly-sober struggle through the tavern's minefield of chairs and people. Last time he was in this position, he ended up buying the place a few new tables. He made it back to the bar this time, however, and ordered himself another glass of scotch. Connor adjusted the remaining axe on his belt. He had two, but he'd lost one a while ago and never replaced it. His shirt fit just barely tighter than he wanted, and it had been bugging him all day. He drank his scotch and tapped on the bar, which was barely anything more than a few planks of wood nailed haphazardly together. The whole place had a decadent aroma of piss and bad beer.


Connor wondered where his family was. They could very well be in the same house he grew up in. Moving around wasn't something that his parents really saw the point in doing, after all. That was one of the reasons he decided to become the exact opposite of what he was raised to be-- He couldn't stand being stationary. Mostly, it was that and the fact that his parents would destroy every chance he had of getting women. He finished his scotch, and ordered another.


The man next to him at the bar looked like hell. He was covered in dust, and wore a hat that must not have been washed in an age. On the other side sat a boisterous, drunken mercenary-type who dressed himself in heavy armor despite being nowhere near a fight. He talked like the kind of person who fancied himself the king of fighting. Connor drank his third scotch. The other guy drank white wine. He yelled out some over-dramatic story about his great goddam adventures and moved his hands like he was swatting at flies or something.


"By then, they'd filled the WHOLE house with their untrained amateurs. I could have defeated all of them with one hand, even." He pointed one thumb at Connor. "It was like going up against this guy with the axe--"


Connor stood over the man and cracked his knuckles. The guy had hit the floor like a sandbag, and everyone took a step back. Another guy stood up.


"You're gonna pay for that," he said, and swung at Connor.

[Hysteria]

Bar fights...

Talen sniffed the air indigently as some guy with an axe in his belt responded to the childish antics of another. The youth had been in this situation before, but this time he was somewhat more interested by the fairy that had entered the bar moments before the kerfuffle. The youth was somewhat of an oddity himself. His normal body was composed of manipulable energy, from which he could draw upon his abilities.

Normally he looked like an average thirteen year old boy, but he had taken on the guise of his alter ego while freelancing for some spare cash. The boy had altered his appearance, and now seemed to be a young man, at least what could be seen behind the trappings of mystery he had surrounded himself with. He wore a light green shirt with one sleeve that hung down past his left hand, and the other not even going past his right shoulder. The boy sported a hood, and what little could be seen of his face was covered by a white Akashima mask.

Talen idly played with the half empty cup in front of him as he watched the bar fight escalate. How he had managed to drink half his cup with a mask on was just another of the youth's mysteries, albeit a smaller one. He had spent most of the afternoon sitting in the tavern, waiting for something. The bar fight started to escalate, as they often do and his prey appeared. A group entered the tavern, turning the already packed environment into a true throng. There were three men, two orcs and an ogre. Talen's eyes remained fixated on the large beast. The group had been holding some of the local businesses up for protection money, and Talen, or rather his alter-ego had been hired to 'dispose' of them by the competition.

Shouts of anger and excitement filled the air as half drunk men started to belt anyone remotely near to them. The group of six that the youth was after eagerly joined in, although few went near the imposing ogre. Talen's focus was broken as one such man rushed towards him. He flicked the remains of his drink into the man's face before a drunken punch could be thrown. In the brief pause the youth reached up and grabbed his shirt and slammed him down hard onto the table with a sickening crunch. The drunk slumped to the floor and the youth stood up. Behind his mask the youth's face was alight with excitement.

[A Passenger]

Casey's brow glistened with evening sweat - he wiped it, replacing the shining moisture with a black line of dirt.

His call had caught the bartender's attention despite the tavern's many smothering noises, and he approached. He was a tall man of perhaps fifty, with the grizzled beard and calm eyes of an arena champion, though one who had long ago traded his glistening armor and notched axe for a dirty apron and a more peaceful life, though barely so.

"What can I get you?" said he, in a breath both commanding and hinting of local ale.

"Jus' an answer," replied the stalker quickly. Simultaneously he slid a golden coin across the counter. "Man in a robe, evenin' gown-like, with hair 'kin to yer drapes. Firey lookin'. Ya seen where he gone?"

The bartender had but a moment to ponder the question and seemed on the brink of answering, his eyes darting to his own left toward the back of the bar, but the beginning of the night's events were just beginning to unfurl. Casey heard a dull thud from behind him, a familiar sound from similar nights. It was, as he'd have called it, the bell tollin'.

"HEY!" the bartender cried, and he was gone in an instant along with Casey's best lead.

He watched the man go, thought better of taking the necessary instant to snatch his gold coin back, and spun quickly with the intent of heading toward the back of the bar. He realized, with a start, that circumstance or fate had chosen this moment of all to sabotage him.

He tried once more to scan the devolving crowd for that shock of red hair, but a tug upon Garland's silken sheath drew his attention elsewhere.

Casey's response was instinctive and lightning-quick; a man of his age had no business being so fast. His hand reached out and snatched a flagon from the bar and he swung it in the direction he supposed he needed to, and it hit home. Hard. A shallow, frail creature of a man fell like a brick to a puddle on the floor, blood and ale alike running down his face. The flagon had been full to the brim, and its weight might have killed him.

Casey didn't want to stay long enough to find out.

[Idieth]

Ruined, as usual. There was a disturbing tendency for one of Idièth's bad days to go in no direction but down. It never quite hit bottom, either, because it brings pickaxes, shovels, and an entire clan of singing dwarves with it. The world conspired for a one-eyed gent, who was trying to introduce his fist into the square-set jaw of his neighbor, to instead accept the wordly gift of a wooden dish of peanuts with his peanuts. One toppling later, he failed to crush the fairy trying to sleep. He did, however, knock over the iron spit upon which a suckling pig was roasting.

An oppressive feeling of iron descended on Idièth just ahead of a mass of half-cooked pork and dripping fat. Instantly, she snapped the rest of the way awake, elbowed the warm stone blow her, and was two feet away before her wings sorted themselves out into their usual buzzing blur. The suckling pig crashed into the fire with a ringing clattering of rods.

The fairy was still only three inches above the floor. She banked and got out from underneath a descending, mud-caked boot and started to make for safer havens. A tucked-under displacement roll to the right avoided a descending cloud of peanuts, though a fleck of red skin still smacked her in the arm. At thirty feet per second relative, that stings!

Her wings closed as she grazed through the chicane of an airborne stool, reopening at the same time as the dull thud of wood against backside. She pitched up, twisted her left wings, and pirouetted neatly around two colliding bellies and the resulting spray of sweat drops. She came up to chin level, dipped a bit, and the thick splash of ale-scented spit forcefully ejected by foreign knuckles. She rose to head level and slammed to a stop just long enough for a mug to sail overhead. That was her downfall.

A second mug, its former contents flying alongside it, neatly scooped the hovering Idièth. It richocheted off of someone's shoulder and made its spinning, wobbling way through the air towards Casey's chest.

[Connor Lacuna]

The man that took a swing at Connor must have been twice as drunk as him, so he was easy enough to take care of. After that, things got complicated quick. Five guys and an ogre walked through the door, looking like trouble, and Connor tried to keep an eye on them as he dodged blows and threw fists. Connor dodged a flying stool and punched a smaller guy so hard in the face, he ended up over the bar and out cold. The bar's patrons were by now all either fighting or trying to stay out of the fight, but it seemed that there were quite a few more of the former crowd today. Connor hit something that was probably a person, and was shoved into a post by an orc. He grabbed the orc by the head and shoved him towards the bar, and the orc got back up and swung at him. Connor got hit in the face, and his head slammed back against the post. He ducked the orc's next hit, and heard a scream as his fist rammed into the pillar behind Connor's back. Connor shoved the orc back and smashed his head against the bar top. The orc's five friends didn't seem too happy about that, though, and pulled weapons. Connor grabbed his axe.

[Hysteria]

Talen paused and caught a wobbly punch with his forearm. With a slight grunt he pushed away the attack and followed through with crack to the man's temple. The bar fly stumbled backwards and Talen moved forwards and kicked him hard in the stomach.

The youth had more pressing matters to attend to and jumped up onto one of the tables and ran through cups and plates towards his prey. The roar of battle around him set as a nice backdrop to the thundering in his head. The assassin leapt again into the air, coming down near one of the orcs he so dearly wanted to liberate from life. The youth lashed out cracking it in the face with a strong blow. Following through Talen lifted up his left hand, revealing the barrel of his pistol from within the folds of the long sleeve. A blast of shadow energy left the gun and collided with the orcs face in a spray of blood.

It was nearly instantaneous the reaction of the patrons near the youth. Most backed away, as did all but one of the members of the gang. The large ogre picked up a chair, and the person on it and flung both at the youth effortlessly. Talen attempted to dive to the side, but was caught mid-air and he, the chair and the unwitting human projectile soared backwards and across the room. With a mind shaking crunch the youth bounced off a table and into two men, his fellow mid-air collision partner fared less well and slammed into the side of the table with a sickening crunch.

Talen rolled off the two men and slipped under one of the tables. His hasty attack had left him dazed, and it would take a few second before he could continue. The timing of the attack weighed on his mind, the longer he drew out the fight the more chance they would leave, and with them closer to the exit than he, it was not going to be easy to stop them should they choose. A roar of anger and several people hastily making a retreat showed that, at least for now, the ogre had not intention of leaving before it found him.

[Idieth]

The troubling thing about heading towards Casey was that, barring divine intervention, he was no longer there by the time one gets to him, no matter how fast the mug was actually moving. So Idièth, the mug, almost a full pint of dark ale, and three peanuts sailed through where he used to be and headed for the floor. The fairy was still quite shocked that her dress had just barely dried out in front of the fire before getting soaked again in residual ale. She didn't even like ale.

The troubling thing about heading towards the floor after one's narrowly escaped collision with a person is that destiny contrived to put people in the way regardless. A weasel-faced man, recoiling from a very well-executed stool to the head, slid a little ways across the floor and came to a stop staring up at the ceiling. Enough of his neurons abandoned the general strike over working conditions to register that the ceiling suddenly looked awfully like a mug full of small girl. There was a dull thud-gwononononong and those neurons went crawling back to the union boss.

Idièth crawled damply out of the slowly rolling mug and got about halfway out before a boot the size of her stamped down next to her, crushing two of three peanuts and splashing muddy ale everywhere. She sputtered and tried her absolute best to figure out where she was, how she got there, what she was doing, and how she was doing it.

On the floor in the middle of a bar brawl.

Because someone hit her with a mug.

Trying to get off of the floor and onto the crossbeams on the ceiling, where it's safe.

Because she needed some good luck to get through the writhing mass of arms and legs and body and biscuits.

By the time that Idièth worked this part out, the mug had gotten kicked out from behind her and there was really no time to figure out whom she disliked the most. So she just pointed at the very nearest foot and hit it with the best that she could do. If there was some sort of visual simile for luck, Connor's luck would be the plain-looking, comfortable town house suddenly being demolished to make way for an artillery firing range. It's a wonder that his axe head didn't just fall off when he grabbed the thing.

Encouraged by this latest act supernatural larceny, Idièth took to the air, squeezed between three men wrestling for control of half a ham (presumably as a weapon), and rose towards the rafters. Nothing came her way.