NWO Vs. Imperial: Group Two

[Christoph]

((Tera has rights to first post until 36 hours goes by. At that point, a member of NWO may post first if they wish. Also, in the title box for each post, I'd like it if all participants identified which faction they are fighting for (NWO or Imperial) to help prevent confusion. Good luck to all participants, and have fun!

For anyone who doesn't know what group they are in: refer here. (http://www.althanas.com/world/showpost.php?p=107317&postcount=6)))

[Tera]

The Call of the Wolves

Hate.

Hate had been all that made her icy blood feel as if it was alive and warm again. Tera had but only taken command of Imperial when it became clear that it wasn't going to be all fun and games. The desk in her office held a deep dent in the fine Liviol around a broken letter opener driven deep like a coffin nail.

A coffin nail that had sealed the fate of the New World Order. If the madmen truly wished to threaten the lives of her people then they would surely suffer the vengeance of the Imperial mother. That she was sure of. Even if they lost this little battle, until total superiority was recognized by Imperial's enemies, she would not let a group of drunks and vagrants win any war.

With a single order, sent out across the whole of the Dirk's Estate by way of magic, she made the first official announcement as Imperial mother.

“Do not falter my children, for a dark moment is upon us. A group calling itself the New World Order has taken up arms against us. Let it be known that this act of aggression will not be tolerated, we will fight, and we will win. Let us bring hell to these insolent fools!”

Her silver orbs burned as if they were ingots within Satan's forge as she began preparations.


The Eve of Battle


Sunset had fallen only moments ago and finally the lethargic haze of day lifted from her undead body. Winter had already retreated to a distance along with all the other none combatants of the Dirk's Estate as ordered. With the help of the Abron monks, here would be only a small handful of their forces remaining to pose a threat to her group. There began to blow a soft evening breeze, rippling the short grass and trees around the square quarter mile of lawn and flowers.

She could have forced the war by meeting her enemy before they arrived, but even her great warriors would have been exhausted when the battle began. Here, on this stretch of groomed land they were comfortable, they were rested, and above all, they would fight harder for something that is theirs. Tera's two most trusted guards were on the line with her and she knew that they would hold the line till their very soul was torn to the winds of time.

The last rays of light sparkled like candles on the two large ponds that were before her as she watched the silhouettes of her enemies melt into the night. The lanterns around the lawn glowed softly as she waited for the crickets to begin chirping.

That was the first sign that this was war, that blood would be shed and she would feed upon such carnage. Nay any creature stirred or called. The predator in her blood stirred though,wanting to just let them come, wanting to tear and rend limb from limb. Yet as the last wisps of smoke from the teleportation spell began to clear she stepped forward, her long white robe flowing behind her.

Six steps on the gravel path as she entered the light of the walkway lanterns.

Tera took a deep breath as she watched the warriors that stood against her.

“I am the Imperial Mother, Tera. I give you this chance to surrender and withdraw from this conflict. However, if you truly wish to continue,” with a single motion, the vampress pulled the robe from her, allowing the growing starlight to glimmer of her black leather clad body, “then prepare to stand and deliver!”

The fires of hell burned inside her veins as she waited for their decision. Though somewhere deep inside she was curious. War was new to her, let alone the rumor of another vampire having joined this war on the opposing side. Still, she had a hint of worry inside, for her fae, Lasair, was also on the battle field, leading the group that had been routed to the citadel.

[Lexxum_Vordic]

Once I returned from my military stint into Valinatal's ranks; my life fell into a simple pattern. I awoke everyday; and began to train our troops in the art of tactical warfare. It was nothing new to me. My people were bred for warfare and siege fighting; living out in the bosoms of Suravani. The desert world of dunes known as Fallien.

As I trained; I began to grow much stronger. Tap Reaver felt much easier in my hands; more like an extended part of me. I took to training the soldiers of Imperials following a naturally instinctive pulse from the soldier within me. First and foremost; I was a warrior in arms. Trained by the fires of war and with the desire for conflict, my saurian form grew in potential. Thanks to my experiences in Valinatal; I lived the life of a soldier and experienced combat in a way that my brothers back home could never experience. I found myself one day writing a parcel to my siblings. This was on the eve of the war between NWO and Imperials. The NWO had challenged our power group and we were now preparing for the battle at hand.

Writing the letter to my family back home; I scribbled with the feather pen.

It was an attempt to get all of my weary thoughts out on the document.

My room was a larger room due to my size. The ceiling was built very high overhead and lurked in one of the lower floors of the Dirks' Estate. It was the only modesty that I asked for. A room with a higher ceiling. I picked up a decent collection of books during my travels to Valinatal. The Elves in Raiaera were an interesting culture that obtained an ancient history. I gathered what I could of their books including a few magical tomes. Some of these I would be using later on in my educative studies.

I had a book case that was positioned on one side of the room. My bed was positioned in the middle of the room and made to resemble Fallien basic design and quality. That was the only thing I asked for from home. A bed made in the traditional Fallien design. I had some Corone maps hanging on the wall and other pieces of artwork that captured my fancy. I found myself becoming a collector of interesting cultural relics. Prizes and trophies that I would take back home with me on the day that I returned home.

A single window lacked curtains. A large liviol desk was also built in the traditional style of Fallien. I was working on a chair that was my own chair; afforded to me by the Imperials. They were modest lifestyle additions but at the very least I had a roof over my head and a place to call home. Home. It was this basic idea that I would soon be defending. It was an idea worth defending after all. I labored over a letter I was writing to my fellows back home in Fallien. I had a messenger waiting for me outside that I'd called for a short while earlier. The room was lit with glow balls. Orbs of light that offered me decent illumination and I could control with the right words of power.


To the heads of Clan Vordic,

My fellows. In my time I've spend outside of the dune sea; I've gathered a great deal of stories to tell during our Eventide ceremonies. I've also gathered many a trophy to share with the warriors of our younger Saurian ranks. I know that our people are generally xenophobic and don't like contact with the outside world, but I have learned a great deal traveling with the sapiens. I've grown considerably stronger and fought against the Necromancer known as Xem'Zund in Valinatal. A country within Raiaera, the land of the Elves. I expect that this letter will find everyone in good spirits. I believe that I have conquered quite a lot of personal demons and have grown since my battle with that bastard arta I told you about. Anyway, I hope that this parcel finds you all in good spirits and that you are fearing well. I must prepare for another war. Joy of joys. It is like one constant battle after another and these sapiens are keeping me quite busy.

Love always,
Lexxum Vordic of Clan Vordic.



I placed the seal of the Imperials' head of security and sealed the parcel shut with the crimson wax. I pressed down tightly and held the parcel in my hand before going outside. A well dressed young messenger was waiting for me outside of the room as I'd completed the deed. She was a Coronian girl with blond hair and brown eyes. She had a fair skin tone to her flesh. Her figure was still settling in but she had a well formed bosom. I stared down at her person due to my height.

"I want this taken to Radasanth and delivered to Fallien. Can you do that for me young one?"

"Aye Sir Vordic. I shall do as you command." She bowed her head, a slight blush developing underneath her eyes. I smiled at this as I handed the parcel to her. Along with some gold for her trouble. "Take that and by yourself a pretty dress." She smiled from ear to ear and kissed me on the cheek with a pert kiss. Afterwards, she ran off with a skip in her step. My parcel in her hands. When the task was done; I went back to my constant training to be certain that I was prepared for the war at hand.

*****************

After receiving Tera's orders; I gathered my equipment. I was prepared for a long siege. The grass crunched underneath my feet as I walked across the lawn of the Dirks' Estate. I had my weapon at the ready. Walking forward; I took my position where Tera stood and I prepared myself to be her right hand man. I'd taken such leadership positions in the past before and I was prepared to deal with the situation at hand. Fighting against Xem'Zund's forces made me stronger than I ever thought possible.

Stars twinkled brilliantly overhead as the various constellations did eternal battle with one another. I looked up and saw the North Star shining brilliantly against the backdrop of space infinite. This was a single moment in history like my moment in Valinatal. I'd risen to face an overwhelming challenge and came out a much more powerful saurian because of it. I was looking at this challenge the same way. We faced overwhelming odds with this so-called faction calling itself the New World Order. Our intelligence network gathered significant amount of information about them already and I did some spying on the streets on my own.

I was able to learn quite a bit. We were up against some truly fearsome adversary that took on the form of a group of drunks and vagrants. These were the most dangerous of dogs. I turned to look at Tera as I arrived, munching on a ration of meat. I swallowed chunks of the spicy beef casually as I looked upon her beautiful form. The Imperial Mother. My leader. My sworn oath to protect. I finished my quick meal and took a sip from a goblet that I had in my hand. It contained fresh cool water; I never drank ale since the strong liquor impaired judgment. Only fools drank that stuff anyway.

Saurians were a proud lot that took warfare extremely seriously. In my short history as a warrior on Althanas; I've seen much conflict. I was already battle hardened. Once I finished drinking my clear water to quench my thirst, I tossed the rest of the contents of the goblets to the grass. In one smooth movement; I replaced the goblet in my personal traveling packs and prepared to meet with our foe. But before then; I addressed the Imperial Mother.

"My lady. My sword is at your command." All I could do was wait for the enemy to arrive. No sound greeted my ears except a sigh in the wind that sounded like a thousand crying ghosts. I listened to the wind for any signs of the enemy.

[Rayse Valentino]

It hadn't been long since Rayse received the letter in Ettermire about Teric Bloodrose' decision. In short, The Company had been hired to assist a new organization in the... assault... of another one. It was a very ambiguous job, but it seemed enough reason for Teric and the slew of mercenaries working under The Company's banner. Teric did not seek approval from Rayse; merely to inform him of the job and invite him to it. He had apparently met with Jame who visited The Company's temporary office in Radasanth and arranged this deal. In fact, aside from some very large investments as a result of the job, the entire treasury of this group 'Imperial' was being offered to them. It seems that quite a few people believed in The Company's ability to deliver, and for this main reason Rayse had attended this escapade. After all, he couldn't avoid a good throw down. Even the elf he met in Ettermire- Findelfin- came to help. It must be his way of thanking Rayse for what he did in The Library of Ettermire. He didn't bring his bag with him, but he had half a dozen of his 'mini-spices' with him, only one of which tar-based for emergencies.

So why did Rayse feel so uneasy? It was the job itself. It reeked of a gang war, which was a common occurrence in Knife's Edge. Gang wars usually ended up with half the people involved severely injured or dead, and this kind of fight had gang war written all over it. After all, what were a dozen or so tough guys doing walking right up to the organization they're attacking? There were no tactics, no strategic goals, nothing. It's like their only intent was beating someone's face in. There was also the possibility that they were walking into a trap and were about to explode in some horrible way. However, the first rule of being a mercenary is taking the job, no matter how stupid it is. Mercenaries are there to do jobs no one else wants to do, and this was no exception. Only an idiot would take this job, eh? Well, I guess that makes me an idiot. Plus, he couldn't let old man Teric have all the fun. There were also a large list of 'infamous' people attending. This may be Rayse's only chance to compile a profile on them. One person interested him in particular: Ashiakin. Not only was the guy immensely familiar, but Rayse had one of those feelings of foreboding about him. He may have seen him before, but he doesn't remember where. If he got the chance, he was going to confront that guy.

The manor's lawn was a pretty scenic place at nighttime. With all the lanterns along the path, the estate had every sense of the richness associated with owning large property. It was also a massive lawn, and the lanterns' light didn't show any end to the property. The attack force was split into two: The first group would start the fight, and included some of the more heavy hitters of the group (Rayse opted out of this one for obvious reasons), and the second group was the 'ambush' group, which would come in later, envelop the enemy, and take them apart. It was a horribly simplistic plan, but it was better than everyone getting caught in some sort of trap. His group walked on the gravel pathway toward the manor. It was far too quiet for what should've been a the sound of bunch of idiots punching each other in the face. It seems he was right: This was a trap. The others were just as alarmed by the fact the other group was missing, but it seemed unlikely that they had been dealt with before Rayse's group got there. It was something else... Intervention? Before anyone could make any assessments, a group of people could barely be seen standing in front of the manor. The voice of what Rayse assumed to be their leader rang out loud and clear... Stand and deliver? Is she serious? Rayse almost laughed at the absurdity of what was said. I suppose it's a formality. Doesn't make it sound any less stupid, however. All Rayse knew was that this person just kidnapped Teric Bloodrose, and that was no good. No good for her, that is.

"I think I speak for all of us when I say..." Rayse said, reaching into his pocket with his right hand and snapping his fingers with his left to produce a small flame on his left thumb. "Go fuck yourself, sweetheart."

With that, Rayse lit the whiskey-based mini-molotov and threw it towards Tera.

[Twisted Infinitum]

((Imperial))

A short creature had wobbled into the garden behind Tera, making little impact on the exchange of words. This creature, after all, exhibited both the gait and the threat level of an infant, all wrapped in a pitch black embroidered cloak like a newborn of the more posh, slightly gothic neighborhoods. The eye was creepy, though, that single bulbous orange orb that shone in the left side of the cowled face. It was aimed at the approaching humanoids, though whether a lantern of an eye could see them any better than a human's in the dark was still a mystery.

This is going to be so much fun, Edgar! squealed his master in a high-pitched keen that visited this plane of existence at only one point, the inside of his unfortunate little head. Maybe not as good as the Thayne squabble, cause you don't have an army. And it's definitely not going to be as fun as Gisela, cause you don't have your army of bunnies! The godling's giggles, ringing like a church bell in an earthquake, made Edgar jerk his cloaked head about. The grinding of gears was clearly audible from within the neck.

"Bunnies," the puppet echoed, unenthusiastically and in a tone like cart wheels over gravel.

That mean man just swore! gasped the internal voice. Edgar knew the tone. It was often followed with an order to poke someone with something. So, he made the leap of intuition and stepped forward unbidden. His left sleeve rose to Tera's shoulder as he passed, and the gummy, almost transparent hand latched onto her shoulder. The goal had been to push her out of the way. But, Edgar's left arm wasn't very strong, so all he accomplished was a firm pat that might even seem reassuring.

One step past her, he let his left arm go limp as his right sleeve crept toward a hidden pocket. That was when the burning speck of a projectile registered in his vision, and he reacted without so much as a blink. The lack of eyelids prevented that. His master, caring mother that she was, was the one to suggest, in a high wail, a suitable course of action.

Cartwheel! Like the gypsies!

Edgar sucked at cartwheels, and it showed immediately as he bounded awkwardly in front of Tera. His right arm swept up despite the hand trapped in a pocket, causing the cloak to stretch into a taught net. Something hit the net, something that burned and hissed but didn't break, and it was promptly forgotten as he approached the part he always failed at. The landing.

Though, by the grace of Fate herself, it wasn't as disasterous as the last time he tried. It was just one quick whack of his head upon the ground, breaking the night with a sound both squishy and solid, before he flopped like a dead slug into the path-side pond. Droplets flew like gemstones in the faint light, and among them puffed the steam of what could easily have become a raging cloak fire.

Was that a fire explodey thing? asked the voice from on high. Edgar's only answer was a quivering of his submerged eye that hauntingly lit the pond floor like ancient ruins. That seems familiar...

A moment later, Edgar stood in the shallow water with an oddly buoyant bounce. And, like the good little gypsy he was for these few seconds, he plucked a lovely yellow flower from the bank. His head cranked back, and the flower was raised in a hand that glistened of wet wood in the moonlight. Then, he shoved the flower into his shadowed face like a sword swallower. One grating creak of gears later, the stem reappeared in a completely headless state. The missing part followed, petals and all, in a breathy spray of floral confetti on the cusp of the rattled shout, "Taadaa!"

I remember who that is!

The puppet echoed his master's next words with the same strained showmanship of the 'taadaa'. "Trent Loryn Jr."

How did Edgar know? Oh, there was so much more information he had access to, for his master was the dream demon Onyx Calico. She had seen the sleeping minds of these attackers, some of them, and only the interesting parts. But, she still knew more than the best spy did about them, including their preference of underwear, and she would use that information if she had to.

[Izvilvin]

In the forest surrounding Dirks manor, a silent figure moved with the grace of a deer and the silence of a snake. An enchanted blade on each hip and a strap of daggers and sai on his calf, Izvilvin the drow warrior skulked about in anticipation.

It had been a long time since he had taken mercenary work, not since before Step took him on as a member of their assassination branch. There was a certain liberation in acting as a freelance fighter, a certain anonymity that had the drow feeling freedom for the first time in years. Tonight he wore a mask, a black felt which covered all but his eyes, yet allowed him complete breathing ability through the fabric. His hair was pulled back and tucked into a makeshift hood, tightly wound up so that no matter how heated the battle got, his disguise would remain secure.

Five hundred gold pieces to defend this manor from the approaching group, who Izvilvin watched from the utter limits of his incredible vision – he would allow them to pass and for the fight to begin, then he would come into the fray seemingly from nowhere, hopefully dispatching a few unsuspecting fighters before he was focused upon. Depending on the situation then, he would either stay at the flank or flee to join his current allies.

Comfortable that nobody without his kind of vision could detect him, Izvilvin inched forward, staying close to flora that was large enough to hide him. His eyes shined with anticipation, perfectly locked on the approaching group. Though the monks of the Citadel had volunteered their services (for whatever reason), the drow had no desire to die, and had no issue with killing someone outside of the designated protection zone. War was not a game to the warrior, who had spent a century fighting nature for his life.

Pausing at a low branch that he peered out from under, he promised himself to earn the pay that was coming his way. That refreshing freedom was made only sweeter by the subtle sound of platinum coins in his pocket.

[Hashi]

Hashi couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d forgotten something. Rolling over on her stomach, she squinted at the clock with her right eye. Her sensitive left was boycotting vision and remained stubbornly shut, refusing to open even in the gloom of the bedroom. She stared blankly at the glowing red numbers. The time didn’t mean anything to her. Neither did the date. So why couldn’t she shake the feeling she was supposed to be somewhere? She buried her face back in the nest of pillows she kept on her bed. Only they weren’t here pillows. And they weren’t on her bed. She didn’t have a digital clock in her room. She preferred the old fashion ticking kind these days. She must’ve gone home with someone. She just couldn’t quite remember who. Not that it mattered. If she’d gotten fucked up enough to stay all night, there was no telling where she’d been.

So where was it she was supposed to be?

She opened her eyes to study the date on the fancy clock. If it was Thursday in Blackfield, that would make it what day in Althanas? She muttered under her breath and tapped her fingertips against the pad of her thumb as she did the mental calculation. Then sat straight up swearing as she finally remembered.

“Ah, shit. Fuck. Fuckity fuck. God damn I can’t believe I forgot!” The djinn smacked her palm against her forehead at her own stupidity. “I promised Godhand I’d show up for his stabby-people-then-go-get-drunk thing.”

She and Godhand Striker had a history. Not exactly the one the djinn might have liked but the two had remained on friendly terms after her summon had ended. When he’d offered her a chance to get into a big fight with a lot of people he didn’t like, then go get drunk together and celebrate afterwards, well. It had sounded like fun. Now she was gonna miss the damned party.

All but falling out of the bed, she began to scramble around for her socks and shoes and bra and other missing bits of necessary clothing. It was then that she realized what she was wearing wasn’t hers. The baby-doll tee was a size too small and stretched noticeably across her chest, stopping well above her bellybutton and showing off the bottom half of her phoenix tattoo quite nicely. The pants were only about a half size too small, clinging tightly to the curve of her thighs. They did technically fit, but it was the kind of fit that would make people remark that it looked like she’d been ‘poured into those pants’. Though to be honest, Hashi wasn’t exactly sure how she had gotten into the boot cut, rock washed blue, frayed at the knees Wranglers.

She glanced around the empty bedroom of what seemed to be a fairly well-to-do apartment. She didn’t see her own clothes anywhere. And she couldn’t remember how the fuck she’d ended up in a strange apartment wearing someone else’s jeans. But it didn’t matter. Akai Hashi was running late for a war and there were more pressing concerns than who’s clothes she was wearing.

She pulled off her shirt and began searching around for a bra, hers or otherwise, just something to keep certain assets secure during the fighting. After digging around the empty apartment for almost fifteen minutes she finally found one, not hers, lodged on top of the refrigerator in the kitchen. Not really phased by this odd location she slipped it on and replaced the shirt. Managing to locate two mismatched socks in equally odd positions and slide her feet into a pair of old worn cowboy boots that had been abandoned just inside the doorway. They had conformed to the same of someone with a smaller foot but it was better than stomping around barefoot. Though the slight heel did throw her for a loop at first, she adjusted to it after a few steps. She managed to find a hair brush and attacked her tangled mane of blue hair but in the end gave up and just pulled it back into a tight braid to keep it out of her face during the fighting.

It wasn’t until she made a quick stop by the bathroom that she remembered how she’d ended up there. A slow grin spread across her features at the sight of a beaten brown leather cowboy hate suspended from the shower head. She couldn’t suppress a quiet chuckle as she reached up to pull it free and place it on her head. It was all that hat’s fault. Hashi has been out prowling, as she was most nights when not summoned away from Little Hell, and had ended up in some hideously fake country-western dive. The kind that usually served as a tourist trap, only Blackfield never had any tourists. So it had turned into a kind of through-the-rabbit-hole kind of affair. A place you went to go through the looking glass and chase the dragon.

The blonde cowgirl – if Hashi had bothered asking the woman’s name, she surely didn’t remember it – had been one of the few clear-eyed patrons of the bar. She’d had a cocky, devil-may-care grin that rivaled the djinn’s own. And she’d had the coolest fucking hat Hashi had ever seen. So, the djinn had walked up and asked if she could wear it. After three shots of something the barkeeper had called ‘Rattl’r Venom’, Hashi had found herself straddling the blonde’s lap wearing that very hat. And the night had only improved from there. Though she still couldn’t remember how she’d ended up in the woman’s pants. The djinn gave a wolfish grin at that thought. She knew how she ended up in her pants, just not her jeans.

The djinn, who only managed to avoid a hang over by virtue of the fact that she was still somewhat drunk, chuckled to herself at her own wit as she left the stranger’s apartment. Though, not through the door. She’d finally managed to gain some measure of control over her miniscule djinn powers and was able to travel to Althanas, though the trip did take it out of her. She didn’t do it very often.

She found herself in the little hiding spot she’d claimed as her cross over point. Stashed away in a chest was the armor she’d bought for the fight and her two swords. It took her several tries to finally fit the leather armor over the too-tight shirt. Her fingers weren’t working too well and the straps seemed extra complicated in the quickly fading light. Once it was finally cinched tight she managed to clumsily fasten on the left arm pauldron. Next came the long leather gauntlet that reached to her elbow and the reinforced bracer tightened down over it. As for her right arm, she pulled out the archer’s glove. It was short, barely covering her wrist and rising up over the back of her hand, stopping at the first knuckle on her index and smallest finger, covering the middle two fully. It was tricky sliding the thin glove over her hand, since it was already covered by the delicate silver bracelet and accompanying silver chains that rose up to link at the ring on her middle finger. But she’d bought that glove specifically to protect the item of jewelry.

The struggle to gear up finally complete, the djinn fastened her sword belt around her waist and checked to make sure her weapons were secure before heading out overland to catch up with the war party.

“Shit, shit-shit. Godhand’s gonna be so pissed if I miss the damned war.”

[Melancor]

The night in which our enemies would shed tears of blood and sorrow, while we relished in the fields of glory was quick to descend upon the valley. The starts shivered dim in the black veil like drowning eyes in the eve of sleep. The moon, however, stood great, ever more bright than Melancor had ever seen before.

The feeling of adrenaline rolled down his skin, a touch of silk in a night of gore. As an abhorred dark face the manor erected behind him, neither doors, nor windows, or gates remained open, closed in fleeing response to the strange figures emerging from the shadows.

An inputted silence, the quiver of water , the strange face, a face he had never before seen, but who’s gaze would face the earth, static, if a fierce battle where to erupt, not stopped by the utter of a warming from the Imperial mother.

The dim and warm light of the lanterns battled the relentless, cold, breeze. The shadow of the stranger cast upon the road with the silver light of Suravani.

They say blood calls, in the Aegean family the only summon was that of antagonism, rivalry, and hate. He was one of the Aegean, those merged in an eternal war, always with the same outcome. The wars of the holy, where the stallions of waves would clash upon a body with the crush of breaths and the purge of life. Where the salt in the dark gray water would seep into the skin like the vile of poison, where the status of beasts is the only means for gods to battle. When storms are summoned upon to war, and the monstrous waves to quarell. It was no longer a careless situation, mortal wars where far less complex, but pushed him always closer to deadly situations. It had sprung up fast and steady catalyzing into something he could not now simply squash. Pinned with iron into the wood remained the letter, among the golden dust and the grim furniture of his room, which forshadowed the future of Imperial and war.

Melancor stood well behind the Imperial Mother, serving as an escorting façade. His arms disappeared under his heavy cloak. Two supports held his torso, covered tight under jet-black garments. A sight of gray escaped the cover of the cloth, his hair pulled back into a half-tail. Only white shimmers escaped his persona, as his chest held his usual plate, and his back bared the black quiver and the fine bow. His eyes orchestrated the moon as they pierced unyielding through the shadow of his hood.

Tera’s request was soon to be denied, and in response a petulant voice and the trashing sound of a flare, that then burned bright and soared along the shiny and small object that glistened under Suravani’s eye. More by trusting of her security than by indifference, Melancor held ground as a ,small, yet fast figure emerged from the dark wall and crept up to intercept the flaring missile, and was drowned it into the water. This man has some guts he thought.

A slight snort escaped Melancor’s mouth. “Petty human toys.” And the water of the rushing fountains flinched.

[Dissinger]

It took awhile for the ghoul to figure out what had happened. One moment he was watching Dan, Godhand, and Jame rush forward, ever eager to start the carnage early. He held back only to make sure any threats that could have popped up were dealt with in a timely manner. Sure he had wanted to be in the thick of things, but the fact that the other group had disappeared, was rather eerie. As he growled lowly he moved forward, joining the growing group of mercenaries. Had any member of NWO made it to the estate?

His eyes scanned the growing numbers, and he saw only one man, against a multitude of defenders. As much as he hated the thought of stepping out early, someone had to, especially from NWO if he was to make an impact. Moving out of the streets, he reached the edge, to stand beside Rayse, a name he only remembered from a brief introduction. Already he had begun the fight, and for that Seth was willing to stand beside him. Still, there was more to be done here, more havoc to cause. Seth let a smile cross his features as he looked at the growing numbers.

He turned to Rayse before he said, "Glad to see our money didn't go to waste..." his features then turned to the growing crowd as he shouted out, "Is this all you got? A bunch of mewling brats, fattening themselves on Dirk's estate? Perhaps you should think twice about saving that piece of shit's house. Get out of my way, now." It wasn't an offer, it wasn't a chance for them to stand down, it was an order, his voice booming as he cracked his knuckles idly.

His trench coat brushed along the grass as he took deliberate steps forward. His pace was steady, more of a stroll than a walk or run, but he moved with purpose. He didn't even bother drawing the twin steel daggers on his hips; he didn't need them, not for these throwbacks. As his eyes scanned the perimeter he sighed before shook his head. No one here was worth killing. As he continued he kept his focus on the estate ahead of him, ignoring the massing crowd. Any who thought to stop him would suffer, that was the way it would go.

As he moved the coat billowed, giving people a glance at the dead body of Seth Dahlios, the prominent hole in his chest where Kycoo had viciously tore his heart out and tossed it on his cooling corpse. On the blood that occasionally seeped out of the wound. He could have cared less about any blood loss; he was here on a mission, to trash that damn estate, then to hunt down the stragglers. His hat kept his face hidden from casual view, and it would probably stay that way, until one of the roaches decided to attack.

He might have entertained himself with the battle, but he wasn't that hungry...

[Ashiakin]

One of the few rules of Malice, the now-defunct group of international kingpins that Max Dirks had formed, was that you never stole from another member. Ashiakin had fought alongside the group for years. Now he was a member of a war party striking through the woods to kill the defenders of the Dirks Estate and raid its treasury. It was true, Malice no longer existed and it was Max’s exit from the group that had precipitated its glacial collapse, but Ashiakin was still having mixed feelings about all of this.

A few weeks ago he had made a substantial investment in an upstart organization known as The Company, seeing a bright future in its line of business. Shortly thereafter he had received a letter from Teric Bloodrose, one of The Company’s leader, informing him as a stockholder that The Company had been hired by the New World Order—a loosely affiliated group with a celebrity that reminded him of Malice—to lead an assault on the Dirks Estate. If successful, the treasury would go to The Company. Ashiakin stood to make an impressive amount of money if the attack was successful.

The thing was, no one had asked him to come. He was here of his own initiative. And that’s what’s so fucking troubling, he thought.

As he moved through the woods outside the Dirks Estate, he could already see the dull glow of the gas lamps that dotted the front lawn. He was armed simply, having eschewed his bow for what he understood was likely to be a gang brawl: he wore his mythril sword and two long daggers on his belt, but appeared otherwise to carry nothing. As ever, he was dressed in regal finery, garments of flowing blue silks over a fine white shirt. His pale hair and skin were a rich, milky color, like the surface of the moon.

Something was wrong. He was supposed to be part of a relief force, a second-wave cavalry charge that would sweep the field, but there was no battle ahead. All he could glimpse was two of his allies against a host of foes. Shit, he thought. There’s not enough of them up there for me to hang back and take some shots from a distance.

He recognized the two men on his side—one was Rayse Valentino, a leader of The Company that he knew little about but felt confident of. Seth Dahlios he recognized well, having been defeated by him in a tournament some time ago. Although he trusted the two men’s abilities, he did not want to risk his investment by waiting around in the trees while one of The Company’s leaders got slaughtered by a numerically superior host.

Ashiakin emerged from the forest around three robed, lightly armed men who were milling about a loaded wagon. They were talking quietly amongst themselves about the raid. Monks of Ai'Brone. Ashiakin rolled his eyes. Imperial won’t even let us have a real fight.

“Good luck,” said one of the monks as Ashiakin passed.

“May Ai’Brone watch over you,” said another.

“I’m going to gut every one of you fuckers when I’m done with Imperial,” he said, not stopping or turning back. “Priests aren’t supposed to pick sides.”

Ashiakin arrived at the congregation of foes just as Melancor deflected Rayse’s Molotov cocktail to a fountain, a hiss crackling in the air. When he was about ten feet away, still advancing, he drew his blade. It was a mythril longsword, a simple but elegant weapon, its edge catching the rippling light reflected from the fountain. It had no name.

He scanned the line of Imperial fighters before him, loosely gripping his sword. “We’ve been traveling for a while and we’re a little short on cash,” he said, the strange dialect of his voice light and poetic. “Think any of you could help us out?”

But all the while he was thinking: Sorry about this, Dirks.

[Witchblade]

It was all supposed to go down differently than this. They were supposed to sneak up to the manor, split into two different groups and then overwhelm them with their numbers and their sheer strength and skill. They could have done it so easily with the numbers they had, but things had not gone down they way they were supposed to. As they had approached the mansion with tension high and hearts beatings and pumping adrenaline quickly through multiple veins, the unthinkable happened. A green light appeared from seemingly nowhere and transported half of the NWO’s forces along with their allies The Company, to a place she was not able to follow. Whether or not they were even still alive was an entertaining thought. She personally didn’t care. Of the members of NWO that she had met, only one had struck some kind of interest within her mind, the famous Seth Dahlios. The man was a mere shadow of what he had been before, especially considering he was dead. Dan Lagh’ratham she already knew and had met before, heck she was currently carrying his most famous weapon and the others didn’t even bother mentioning to her.

Moving through the open gates of the manor, the Halfling took in her surroundings as quickly as her eyes could. She noted the well manicured lawn, cut and trimmed and made to look perfect the way nature never intended for it too. Nature made order from what seemed like chaos to the mind’s of humans, the way they tended their beautiful and perfectly designed gardens was just proof of this. Off in the distance she could see the rising hulk of the Dirks manor, the large stone walls littered with its many windows staring out like sightless, blackened eyes and silent witnesses to the events that were about to unfold on this day. It appeared that the fight would not be taking place within the manor itself, contrary to what the NWO had wished to do, for members of Imperial were already outside the precious and safe walls of the manor and waiting for them. This battle would be fought out in the open.

Perfect.

There would be nowhere for them to hide this way. Sure, they could run back to the house if they wanted to, but whether or not they’d make it would be another story altogether. As the Halfling stepped into the light cast by too many lamps, she caught scent of something all too familiar, something that made her hands clench into tight fists and cause her nails to dig into the flesh of her palm.

Izvilvin. Why are you here?

He was not a member of the NWO, or The Company and nor was he hired help like her. No, he was here for Imperial, for the dogs she was hired to put down any way she thought fitting. But why? This put the battle on a different level to her. She would not be able to fight the man with a clear head, nor would she be able to kill him. If he attacked her, if he had it within himself to do such a thing, she didn’t know what her reaction would be. On top of that, idly standing by and watching another member of NWO rip him to pieces only brought a sick rising of bile into the back of the throat. She stamped it down though. Now was not a time to get sentimental.

The second thing she noticed was the scent of a vampire. It was strong and permeated the area of the estate as if whoever it belonged to had been here for a long time. Perhaps a member of this little group. And then her eyes fell upon one of the people standing outside, a woman. She was dressed completely in black leather, her silver eyes were glancing around at those who had gathered to destroy all that was around her and instinctively she knew it was coming from her.

Mine.

Smirking, Witch began walking closer to the woman, she steps slow but deliberate as her black cloak shifted around her body and allowed the briefest glimpses at what lay underneath it.

[Ataraxis]

I am a lonely duckling in a pride of lions.

No matter how hard she tried to outrun it, the thought followed her like a plague. This brigade of theirs was as spontaneous as a banding of street-picked vagrants, with no goal greater than to blindly whack, slug and bring down the crackdown. Only, these vagrants just happened to be the chief names and faces on the world’s daily headlines and criminal mug shots. Rayse Valentino, the man spearheading this secondary assault, was a notorious businessman, hailing from the same snow-cursed country as the illustrious diplomat Ashiakin Azzarak. Then there was the mage, Seth Dahlios, and a mass murder of a woman she only knew as Witchblade. An ambush of tigers, a pack of wolves… and what am I?

This raised a question. How did a child like her stray so far from mother goose? To these people, she was nothing but a girl of sixteen, a frail discrepancy among their punitive force. She’d fallen behind early in the first true march of the New World Order, her powerless legs dragging her down like chained boulders while the others made easy headway through dense woodlands, effortlessly vaulting over the roots and underbrush that snared her ankles at every step and turn. They were already dots when the hem of her dress snagged itself into a patch of thorns. When she freed herself, they were already gone. Lonely, lonely duckling.

She shook herself back into composure. Lillian wouldn’t cry for something like this. Not anymore; she’d been through far, far too much for that. After dawdling only a few seconds to catch her breath, she straightened up, scanning the surroundings, her eerie blue eyes flickering like an owl’s under feeble moonlight. In the thick of night, she could see as clearly as she heard the chorus of cicadas from the treetops. It wasn’t long before she found a new path to follow, one that forked away from that of the ambush to circle the estate. Unclasping the glass dirk that hung on her rope-belt, she brought her fingers to its glossy pommel, causing a dark shimmer upon contact. She pulled her index away to form a length of black string, and lightly tapped the cracked bark of an evergreen with its tip. Satisfied, she continued her way deeper into the benighted woods, rasping a finger against another tree every once in a while.

The girl had never shared a single word with a member of group save for Rayse, and even then that conversation was on the short side, borderline curt. Fearing that they would quickly fall without a semblance of a strategy, she had addressed him on the outskirts of the forest, near the grey fields that spanned the countryside; he’d done a good job at ignoring her until she rubbed his ego and buttered him up with a slew of compliments. In the end, the man had agreed to her suggestion, almost as an afterthought, before turning his back to her and dashing away to the group’s helm. Perhaps that was the most convenient turn of events… after all, they still don’t know what you can do, Lily. In fact, they still don’t know who you are.

When she thought that no one was within earshot, Lillian produced a small little claxon from her pocket. She honked it once and from its horn blasted a screen of thick smoke that, as it diffused, revealed a pair of wheels and an old, steel frame. Wasting no time, the girl hopped onto the bicycle, tightly screwing the claxon onto the handlebar, and pedaled away, maneuvering around the clusters of tree as easily as a breath of wind. The teenager smiled at the apparent success of her invention – she’d created a fine piece of enchanted technology. Now, all that was left for her to do was bring success to this operation. After all, she’d planned this attack with Godhand and Jame; there was nothing strange about the founders of the New World Order to have their group’s best interest at heart.

“I am a spider in the fold,” she sang in whispers, mischief smiling upon her face as the wheels rolled on, as the black spool unraveled from her hands. Little by little, under the forest’s emerald canopy, Lillian weaved her deadly web.

[Ranger]

Ranger shifted comfortably, he was in his element. The night winds were a mere breeze, dancing across the ever green grass. Cool and serene the darkness offered the combatants assembled a prime arena to do their battle upon. He was, however, uninterested in joining into the combat yet. His silver eyes closed, his arms outstretched, letting the winds twist and writhe around his body. It calmed him, focused him, let his mind rest easy.

Before him the assembled forces of the clan known as the Imperial and their allies were facing those that had come to take from them what was not theirs. As a member of the Gol’Bron, allies of the Imperial, the prophet had come to do as was bidden. To make war, defend the manor of the ‘criminal’ Max Dirks… that was what was called for, and what the drow would do. His mind was not focused though, scattered on thoughts of the repercussions of the ludicrous war on the already weakened forces of the Red Hand.

Sorahn was somewhere on the field of battle, somewhere standing at his side. The prophet thanked the Thaynes for that small blessing. It would be easier for him to determine who to fight and who not to with another to help figure out the different sides. Also, with him standing next to him, he would have all rights and assistance he would need to bring down the usurper to the Red Hand. Her name was Witchblade, and she had done the deed that the talking otter Broglaw had done in the past.

“Turncoat,” he muttered under his breath, opening his eyes. His hair drifted before his angular face, floating chaotically around his long sharp ears. She would come, he knew she would, but other faces came to his vision sooner. His skin tingled, bumps rising along his arms and back as he looked through the darkness at an old opponent. “Seth Dahlios…”

The boy and the prophet had had their arguments over time, from their mutual alliance to the Black Hand, to the first round battle in the Lornius Corporate Challenge. Ranger had never backed down, no matter what cruel and macabre spells the boy had commanded. That night would be little different. He knew the ire of the child’s immaturity would lead the two to combat soon enough, but till then the drow’s focus would be on the traitor to the clan he helped lead.

Time passed slowly, the opponents drifting forward one at a time. They picked and chose who they would fight, but the prophet knew the initial ‘match ups’ would be frivolous at best. When the combat chose to escalate it was up to each individual to watch their own flanks. When the heat of battle engulfed them each in turn, it would be up to fate to decide what attack struck, what attack was made, and where it came from.

“Witchblade,” he muttered to the cold, bitter wind. The woman had made her appearance, less dramatic than the human that had thrown the flaming bottle. Her sewn mouth was as like her face, stoic and silent. He knew her powers though, did not fear them but worried nonetheless. She was his shame, but not his battle. If Sorahn took it upon himself to attack the woman, he would undoubtedly assist, but till that point he would have nothing to do with a fellow member of the Red Hand, be they good standing or not. His platinum eyes danced between the assassin and former clan mate and the leader of the Imperial, hoping that the vampire could hold her own.

He held back, looking towards the outskirts and again at his former adversary. The battle would be renewed, and whether it be the last encounter between the prophet and the hex magi or not he would put everything he had into destroying the boy. Ranger let his thin fingers wrap around the hilts of his twin blades, slipping the ancient weapons from their sheaths. His attention was absorbed by Seth, his mind circulating possible outcomes… none of which seemed in his favor.

Seth Dahlios could not wait.

[Rayse Valentino]

Things didn't exactly pan out like Rayse expected. While he had made his way to this place with Seth, Witchblade, and Ashiakin in the rear, he knew that his group was larger than this. They were all supposed to converge here, but some were missing. At first, he wondered that it may be related to the disappearance of all the others, but then he remembered his plan with the one known as Lillian Sesthal. When Rayse first met her, he tried to ignore the girl. He thought that one of the members of NWO brought someone's daughter with them. Yet, she had a tongue that belied her appearance, a tongue of someone older than Rayse and words that flowed the right way. He thought he could believe her plan, and whether or not she could read his mind or not, she told him everything he wanted to hear. Once their plan would be put into action, this nonsense would be over with, and Rayse can start to figure out what happened to everyone else.

Either way, his attack was predictably deflected and tossed into a nearby fountain pool. He may be able to still use it later, but not now. His intent was, at least, for the explosion to provide some visibility in the nearby area for any hidden opponents, but that was not to be. In fact, just the ones he could see already outnumbered their little group. He could see that obnoxious vampress, a gigantic lizard-man, a little imp-like thing attached to said vampress, the one who knocked away his molotov, and another. Not to mention whatever host of ambushers lurked in the flora. He wondered why hostilities hadn't broken out in earnest, and knew that the longer they waited the worse off they were. In this pitch black...

That's right, the darkness. He needed to get rid of that, if only for a moment. He couldn't exactly let on what he was capable of just yet, so he decided to use the same trick but with a different twist. Even though Ashiakin was technically the rear guard, Rayse couldn't possibly keep up with some of these people. He was great, sure, but not that great. To his unarmored self with simple knives and daggers, they had all manner of advanced weaponry and armor. Fighting from a distance favored him, even though he was a close-range specialist. Plus, he had to do this before Witchblade stepped into the area of effect.

Pulling out two more whiskey-based molotovs out of his pockets, he held one in each hand, snapping both his fingers to light them simultaneously. If this won't get them going, nothing will. This time, he waited a couple seconds, and then threw both of his spices at the same time, crossing his forearms at the end of the toss to give them a spin. Even if they knocked it away, it would still veer off toward an unknown direction rather than a predictable one. That was the trick, however, for them to attempt to deflect them. Since he waited, there would be no such opportunity.

Both of the molotovs burst in mid-air, illuminating nearly a hundred feet around them all and sending hundreds of burning glass shards forward in a forty-five degree angle in front of Rayse. If Witchblade was any further forward, she would've been a target of that. Using the temporary light to look around, Rayse pulled out a couple of his throwing knives from his pocket and threw them toward what he considered to be the most opportune hiding places. Unless any of them had some sort of magical super-vision, he didn't expect the ambushers (if any) to be too far off, so he threw one knife toward the nearest, largest patch of flora and the other toward what appeared to be a hedge not too far away. He figured the fountain was tame, because it would be silly to deflect an explosive into it. He was already starting to run out of weapons, but his intent here wasn't to fight with swords and shields. It's to make them wish they hadn't come out here tonight.

[Hashi]

Hashi knew she’d found the war when things started blowing up. She stopped in her headlong run, breathing hard as she brought up an arm to cover her eyes. Her left closed tightly almost of its own will; the magic-enhanced orb aching from the unexpected flash of light. When the pulsing after image finally faded, she lowered her arm to look around in the fading glow of the explosions. It was then that it occurred to her that she wasn’t completely sure who were the good guys and who the bad guys were. From what she’d been told there was supposed to be a lot more people there. The plan had been to jump on anyone trying to take down Godhand. Only, the man was no where to be seen. And she hadn’t a clue who the hell these people where. Mostly it just seemed to be a lot of creepy, well armed people posturing.

“Damn, why couldn’t this be shirts and skins? Make my life easier…” The Djinn whispered under her breath and she pulled the gladius from the sheath on her left hip and kept it ready in case someone leapt out of the shadows at her. Holding up her right hand, she concentrated on her palm. It began to tingle, than warm. Pulling power from the magic tattoo on her right upper arm, she called fire into existence in her hand. She was starting to get the hang of calling on that power and she was able to suspend it over her skin to keep from setting her glove on fire as she held up her hand, looking around the darkness in the light provided by the flame. Not a seasoned battle field warrior, she didn’t realize what a promising target she was painting herself in the darkness to any marksman skulking about.

Hashi wasn’t used to fighting in open melee. She wasn’t a soldier or a warrior. In fact the only fighting she’d ever done had been prearranged one on one pit fighting. She was starting to realize that she might have been in over her head. It was one thing to hang out with a real warrior and smack at anyone who got too close. It was totally different to straggle up to a war in progress and try to do something productive on her own. Oh well, in her favor, at least any wounds she got here wouldn’t be permanent. But that was no reason to just throw her life away. She had promised to do her best for Godhand’s little, what was it? Something really stupid sounding. Oh right, ‘power group’. It sounded like some kind of second grader gang. Though he got bonuses for the name New World Order. The djinn sometimes watched wrestling when she didn’t have anything better to do. Even if it was just male soap operas.

Oh, well. Nothing to be done standing around the back and waiting to get shot at by whatever was hiding out in the darkness. So she marched up to the only person who seemed to be doing anything, a guy in jeans who was throwing the Molotovs. In Althanas. If she hadn’t already known just how fucking weird this planet was she might have wondered if she was still back in that cowgirl’s bedroom dreaming all this. But hey. She had a granddaughter who was half tiger. So what was wrong with a guy in sharp shoes throwing Molotov cocktails at a lizard man? It was all good in this crazy ass world.

The fireball was already becoming uncomfortably hot in her hand after only a few seconds so she threw it at the ground between the two forces, where it hit the gravel path and sent the small stones spraying a measly few feet in either direction before sputtering out. Drawing her scimitar in her right hand she stepped up behind the man who was now busy throwing knives at the bushes. Careful to stay back and hopefully out of his line of fire, she shouted at the cluster of people facing away from the building. That made them the bad guys, she hoped.

“So I promised to show up and fight some fuckers. Here I am. Let’s get this show on the road. Who wants to fight?”

[Tera]

A reply was sent by way of fire. She had been ready when the soft hand of a rather odd fellow caught her attention. Edgar was what she had considered to be the oddball of the group, however in a mere few moments, the entirety of her thoughts of him changed. A person she hadn't even met formally had stepped up and for lack of better word, and protected her.

It was with that that she paused to ensure he was at least alright, but only for the moment it took to watch him step from the water.

That bestial rage of her heart spoke now, echoing off the great walls of the manor.

“You heard their answer Imperials! Kill em all!” and with a grim smile of pure sadistic joy the vampire motioned her warriors forward. Her eyes flashed in the night as her hunger ached deep inside. The sounds of the hearts around her echoed in her ears like a stampede.

There was only a moment of hesitation as the sky was lit afire for a few moments, her senses having been waiting for her true opponent. No one else on the enemy side was worthy of death by her hands, only the assassin heard of on the whispers of many a dark table in nearly any bar.

Witchblade

“But the vampire is mine.” her words were just loud enough for her people, and probably the senses of her vampiric dance partner.


Her eyes locked with the crimson orbs of more than she was expecting. Never in her wildest dreams would Tera have suspected such a difference from any vampire she had ever met. Her mind raced through those undead she had met, none of them prepared her for such uniqueness as this.

Her boots crunched in the gravel as she began her march forward, her unblinking eyes watching the chosen opponent as fire rained around them like the apocalypse had arrived.

“Witchblade...” Tera cooed softly “ such a curious name..”

as the gap closed she began to circle like any predator facing prey head on. Tera's eyes narrowed as she smiled softly.

“If you don't mind dear, before we dance....” her voice called softly on the breeze “why did you come?”

[Izvilvin]

The more Izvilvin observed the NWO's group of warriors, the less comfortable he became with the situation. He was closer now, but still far out of the typical human's visual range.

Witchblade, a woman with whom he'd had a pleasant encounter years ago, was someone he had no desire to fight. Not out of fear for his safety, for the drow had long ago shed any doubt in his own ability, but because they'd parted on good terms. He would never consider her a friend, but knew all too well that he couldn't force himself to harm her. It was similar to the situation with Rheawien in The Cell, an experience that quite literally tore through Izvilvin's heart. Coincidentally, his friendship with Witchblade was what caused that trouble to begin with.

Lillian was the second person he knew. She'd been alongside Izvilvin and the half-elf Anenfel when Scara Brae was raided by spider-riding goblins. Lillian was the one to orchestrate the drowning of the Spider God, a creature so menacing it would have destroyed the entire city. She was a warrior the drow had a friendship with.

The third and final opponent Izvilvin knew was Seth Dahlios. The two had met randomly in the Citadel, in an arena of stone and moss, the broken remains of a coliseum that broke beneath their feet and in response to their thunderous strikes. Seth was fierce, possessing abilities that rivaled Izvilvin's incredible skill - and with manipulative magic as well. Knowing he might be one of the few who could stand toe-to-toe with the Hex Mage, the drow resigned himself to the likelihood of their duel.

All three would easily see through his disguise.

Half of the six were not people Izvilvin wanted to challenge, at least not immediately. Moving closer and finding silent footing in the moist soil, he approached the edge of the forest just behind the approaching NWO. He stood just behind one of the bright lanterns, below a shrubbery which hid him well.

Then, spilling into the clearing like liquid, Izvilvin drew a diamond dagger and let fly, the projectile flying for the upper back of an overdressed figure who stood next to Dahlios. Before it even reached its destination, the drow had Icicle and Mjolnir in his hands, slapping them together as an open challenge to any who would duel him. Mjolnir's white-hot blade crackled with dull anticipation, a contrast to Icicle's wafting blue mist.

If he could draw one into the forest and isolate him, Izvilvin knew he could be a valuable asset to Imperial. Five hundred gold would provide the group with his absolute best.

[Twisted Infinitum]

Edgar staggered out of the pond dripping and twitching, not from injury, though. That's just how an Edgar moves. It did look a bit more fitting, however, with the bottle in his gummy and nearly transparent left hand. His master had told him to reclaim the 'throwy explodey thing', which didn't look all too explodey anymore. Calico seemed too distracted to care, though.

Is that... the Ice Wraith boss?! she screamed, causing Edgar to snap his head about so sharply that, just from the silhouette, it looked like it might roll off his shoulders and fall the pitiful four and a half feet to the ground. He certainly remembered the Ice Wraiths, and their cold stomping feet. Their boss, however, might as well have been any old popsicle pulled from a vendor's cart.

Take five, sweety, the godling insisted. Edgar prepared to do just that as he felt her presence draw closer to Althanas and her thoughts stirred more of his memories. He remembered their journey to the place with lots and lots of snow, he remembered the frantic chase to reclaim something from the Ice Wraiths, and he remembered the little girl who hadn't been afraid to hug him. Edgar left himself, then. His head kicked back under an otherworldly force, and his eye blazed to red moments before the sky did the same.

Calico entered Althanas amid a burst of flaming glass; glass that her borrowed form was suddenly and intimately introduced to. The exposed head of the puppet snapped forward, disturbingly lit and detailed in that moment. The glass shards that had struck the left side of the head were absorbed and extinguished in the taught, human-shaped mass off gelatin and colored cranial innards. The right side, a blank-faced dissection of a wooden mannequin, grudgingly took light.

A high-pitched scream filled the garden, lapsing between a mother's anguished cries and the petulant wail of a child. The sound came from the red eyed puppet's mouth as a gummy and a wooden hand clutched at the pitted face. "You meanie!" Calico hissed, glaring between fingers and past the neck of the bottle. Her burning eye was locked on Ashiakin, for he certainly had been the one responsible for the blast. It was so him, given what she imagined of him.

Ever since that encounter in Salvar, she had been looking for his dreams, yet he had eluded her. Either he didn't sleep, or he slept very sneakily. All she had to go on was what Chromanon, her darling kendergoyle, had told her about her encounter with him in the frozen camp. This man would have done something horrible to the girl, she just knew it, all while Edgar had valiantly fought off the kicks of Ice Wraiths right outside Ashiakin's tent. The camp had exploded then, and they had escaped, leaving her with nothing but a glimpse of the frigid demon.

The pent-up vendetta and the burning pain made a fluid, bubbling soup of anger well from the holes in her gummy side, though that might have actually been cooking Hanchulan goo. High on whatever it was, Calico rushed forward on shaky legs. The bottle was held high in her left hand, ready to start a bar fight over Ashiakin's head, and it left a little trail of steam from the wet fuse that had been re-lit on her smoldering face.

Summary:
Calico is attempting to attack Ashiakin, point blank, with a lit molotov cocktail that will explode if it breaks open.

[Dissinger]

An explosion ripped through the air in front of him as Rayse unleashed his precious tricks upon the doddering imperials. He snorted as he heard their supposed leader order death, as if it were merely a matter of her wishes. She was arrogant, certainly she would have made a good leader if only for the faux confidence that she exuded. The only problem with her plan was that she had underestimated just how strong the survivors of her parlor trick were. Seth could have snapped her in two, and beaten the rest of his opponents into a bloody pulp with her carcass.

If she was undead, then he might have started feasting on her, and let her feel her victim's pains...

...if she was lucky. However, his focus was on the manor before him, even as the light of the fire illuminated a few people, one of which was a man he'd have rather never seen again. As he eyed the white haired elf he felt a stirring of guilt in the place his heart should have been. It had been torn out long ago, or perhaps not that long. It was probably somewhere in Reven, preserved for posterity, or eaten as a delicacy. The morbid thought of his caused a chuckle to escape his lips as he continued forward, undaunted. Still the elf was a problem, even as the name rolled off his tongue, "Ranger Nailo."

The man was a priest, something that was meant to defy the undead of Reven. Not that any clerical orders cared about his homeland, no. They only cared about their flock, and saw Reven as a place of chaos and anarchy, something that brought up the bile from the back of his throat. Still he moved forward a baleful glare given to the priest as he eyes him, who was walking towards the ghoul with a mission in his eyes and destruction in his heart. How unfortunate the cleric would pick a fight with the Hex Magi. Still, he stopped as he looked at the elf before he shrugged his shoulders, the coat dropping from his shoulders to reveal the dirty shirt he had always worn.

The coat drifted to the ground revealing his body to any who would look upon the grisly sight. He still kept his eyes balefully on the approaching cleric as he reached up and took off the hat, before it too joined the growing pile of leather. He then remained still as he looked at Ranger, waiting for the speech he was sure to come, if only because he had heard it all before. He was evil, he was horrible, and he should repent his ways.

He was through with that shit.

Ranger represented Seth at his lowest, for that was always when he showed up. Seth, desperate for attention had joined the enigmatic Black Hand, only to leave later when he felt his ego wasn't stroked enough. Ranger had been there, and had challenged him when he defiantly held onto his daggers in front of his alleged leader. Later they had crossed blades yet again in the Lornius, when he had been desperately searching for Liliana, his morality tossed out the window as he tried again and again to find her. Both had been pivotal lows in his life, for one led to his rise as a Hex Magi, and the other led to more than a few women added to the rather short list of Seth Dahlios' former lovers.

So, if Ranger only came when he was at an all time low, he was wondering just how low he was. Still he cared not as he glared down the cleric who approached him. Once he was in comfortable speaking range Seth threw out, "Second verse, same as the first?"

[Sorahn]

The moon reflected brightly off of Sorahn’s snow white fur as he walked through the grass towards the battlefield. He’d guessed the battle would start soon, but from the looks of things, he had arrived a little late.

Why am I here?

It was the question that plagued him ever since he had given the order for his clan to help Imperial. He had encountered Dirks in the past, all the way back during the glorious Bazaar War, but the meeting had been far from friendly. He was young and inexperienced then. Enjoying his newfound freedom from his slavery, he decided to join the war as a mercenary for the Red Hand. He was reckless, with very little real combat experience. Dirks, on the other hand, was a seasoned veteran. Their skirmish ended quite badly for Sorahn, and he would never forget suffering the stabbing pain of a bullet in his back while bound tightly to a tree, watching his enemy ride off into the sunset, leaving him for dead.

Yet even after that horrible experience, he held no real malice towards Dirks. The man had bested him in battle, and although he used a weapon which Sorahn thought was cowardly, he was a skilled opponent, and Sorahn was thankful he had allowed him to live.

However, his alliance with Imperial was on a much more practical level. They had decided that it was in both of their best interests to band together, protecting each other from malicious attackers. Now the attack had come, and Sorahn was nothing if not a man of his word. He stood by his decisions, for better or worse; a trait which seemed increasingly difficult to come by.

He stood at the edge of the battlefield, looking across the sea of combatants. His heart sank slightly when he realized that he knew almost none of them. This only further compounded his feelings that this was not his war. But at the same time it was his war. It was everyone’s war, because it was everyone’s duty to stop the impending chaos and doom that called itself the NWO.

His lip curled at the thought of the NWO gaining any kind of power. It was the very kind of maliciousness that his group stood against. He latched on to that thought, letting the anger fuel him. This was his war. These filthy bastards must be stopped in the name of justice.

He scanned the scene once again, unable to determine his side from theirs. Suddenly his sharp eyes caught sight of Ranger, and he felt a wave of relief. At least he had a comrade here to fight along side. He began to make his way toward the drow, when he caught sight of Ranger’s chosen foe. He could feel the tension radiating from both of them, and he guessed that this was a long standing rivalry. He debated whether or not to interrupt, because he knew personally that in such an instance he would much rather handle his enemy himself, regardless of the outcome.

Glancing around one last time, he saw no better alternative. He didn’t want to inadvertently attack a member of his own team. With no other options, he began making his way toward his friend and second-in-command. As he moved, his black spear appeared in his hand in a cloud of darkness. Still he remained ever alert, his senses sharp and tuned, because he knew that even though he didn’t recognize anyone, that didn’t mean someone wouldn’t recognize him.

And a white furry bipedal beast covered in ceremonial tattoos was hard to miss.

[Witchblade]

She didn’t know how the woman knew of her name, but she didn’t care too much either. The whispered words of humans that dared to speak of the things she had done mattered very little to her, they were just scum. Shit that was to be ground down under the sole of her boot until nothing but dust and ash remained and not even the stench of what had once been filled the air. Fucking pathetic sacks of shit. And this vampire before them was no better. Living amongst them like she was some kind of little queen high atop her thrown. The halfling doubted that many even in this little clan of hers knew of her true intentions or her true origins. She probably hid in the cellar somewhere, feasting off the rats and attempting to hide her true nature from those that would look less kindly upon her for being such an animal.

She even had the logic of a human. Always with the why.

Witch could have danced around the answer if she wanted to. She could tell her some ingenious lie about how she actually cared about the New World Order and The Company, but she didn’t. Dan Lagh’ratham was a member of Cipher Nex and he was also a member of the NWO and the goal of Cipher Nex was to instil a trembling and uncontrollable fear in those they fought against without even lifting a finger. This was a good place to start to begin building that reputation. But more than that. More than the politics behind the clans and the wars that she really never gave too many shits about and just fucking enjoyed for the sake of it. She wanted to spill blood because she enjoyed watching it soak into the ground at her feet as the last light of life left the eyes of those before her. If they had any eyes left by the time she was done.

“You waste your time on pleasantries.” The words were conveyed to the woman through her telepathic link. The strings that held her lips shut prevented her from ever talking again normally, not that she really minded. Words were just a place card holder for those who didn’t have the strength to say it through actions.

She began moving towards the woman once more. Her steps were slow and deliberate and were bringing her in a steady circle around her prey. She could sense strength from the vampire, but she did not think it was enough. She could feel pride and confidence rolling off her like the fear and adrenaline that was beginning to permeate this battleground. Witch did not know if she had any strange or magical abilities up her sleeve that she could use against her, nor did she care. It would be more interesting to find out in the heat of the moment.

In the darkness of her cloak, her hands moved along the smooth leather of her pants. They searched from one sheath and one belt to another, trying to decide on which weapon she should fight this woman with. None of them appealed to her. None of them called out for the woman’s blood to soak in. But there was a certain weapon she possessed that was not on her person so much as it was apart of her person.

Her hands clenched and the muscles and tendons within her fingers tightened as she felt her nails grow longer and stronger and leaving the tips of her fingers lined with claws that would rend through skin, muscle and even bone. Allowing a slight pull at the corner of her lips, Witchblade tensed her legs and shifted her feet in the thick grass of the manicured lawn. With that being her only warning, she sprang forth for her vampiric dance partner, but kept her arms hidden within the depths of her cloak until the last moment. Only when she was within striking range did she lash out, quickly and viciously. Her right hand appeared from within and arched towards the woman’s side. At the same time, her left hand shot out and attempted to wrap around her throat in a crushing grip.

[Izvilvin]

((Just to clarify, if Rayse's earlier attack was meant to be toward Iz, I ignored it because Iz was much too far away to be affected at that time.))

As his thrown dagger closed the distance, a minute's worth of thoughts flashed through the experienced warrior's mind. His appearance at the flank of the attacking group had gone unnoticed, and the NWO was focused ahead. Izvilvin felt he should charge and do as much damage as possible before he needed to retreat, but naturally the idea had danger lingering about it.

Just beyond the well-dressed man, a magic-wielding female stepped into the fray behind a man who had been lobbing some strange, flaming devices. If nothing else, her use of magic sparked a dormant anger deep in Izvilvin's heart; her fireball reminded him of the sorcerer Sasarai, who had murdered the drow's closest friends.

It was as much motivation as he needed. Stepping along the gravel walkway that led to the manor, Izvilvin closed the distance between himself and the NWO group, approaching Hashi who was toward the back.

He stopped before finding himself surrounded, swishing Icicle through the air to grab her attention with the glowing blade. If he got it, he'd beckon her toward him with a tilt of the sword, narrowed lavender eyes peering out from the small gap in his mask.

[Ataraxis]

Only the path ahead was clear; the trees, their roots and everything else became a monochrome mayhem that curved at the edges of her vision. It was like looking at the world through a giant drop of water – or speeding headfirst into it with malfunctioning breaks. There was no slowing down, and no amount of frenzied squeezing on the levers would change that gut-wrenching feeling of out-and-out distress. Towers of wood rose before her in a thickening blockade and roots sprang out from the loam to snag at the spinning wheels and spokes like grubby little devil claws that threatened to throw her off tracks, then down the slope of dirt and scattered stones. Lillian was having a bit of situation. Just a tiny, wee smidgeon.

Lillian remembered the string around her dagger, the string that billowed far behind her like a long, black ribbon. Without another thought to spare, she let go of the handlebar and spread out her arms, as if to take flight and soar out of danger’s path. There was a surge of power from her small frame, the same echoing wave that scattered on eldritch currents prior to the casting of a spell. Instead of sprouting wings, however, she’d spun a storm of threads that cut through the night chill and snaked their way around bark and branches. Before the ultimate tug, she slapped her hands under the saddle, willing a last second change to the webs’ formula. Then, narrowing her eyes to frightened slits, she hunched forward and grabbed onto the handlebars like she would her dearest.

The much expected jerk brought unexpected pain. The handlebars nearly carved their way into her chest, whipping against the length of her forearms. She could almost feel the welts burning on her skin like crude etchings, but at least the death vehicle was bogging down to manageable speeds. She had foreseen that the use of rigid threads would have shot her backward like a strung arrow, and as such she’d imbued them with a level of elasticity that had just saved her from total disfiguration and a score of broken bones.

Coughing out the pain from her lungs, she ground her heels into the dirt, pulling the bicycle to a complete stop like the damned thing had done to her frail heart. The girl was quick enough to recover, already giving glances of assessment to her surroundings. Something like glee wriggled its way onto her face when she saw lofty sets of alabastrine walls and vine trellises that climbed up the side of the Dirks’ Estate. “And here’s the flipside to this god-awful jaunt.” Right then, she’d seen the burst of roaring flame amidst flying jags of glass and debris. Trademark Rayse – the signal of the start.

The librarian honked the claxon, stifling the sound as best she could with a hand cupped on its brass horn. Black smoke seeped between her fingers, spreading as it devoured the steel frame and wheels until everything was gone, swallowed in one draft by the mouth of the strange device. She stowed it away into her pocket, the webs that were once tied to the saddle vanishing in dark plumes as well. All she had now was one string that spanned a hundreds of yards from the manor to the forest in a wide arc.

Its fabrication had spent her, but it was needed for the first part of her plan; while the others were busy duking it out like a bunch of rowdy children on a schoolyard, she’d carry it out and deal these people a cold, hard blow. The girl wouldn’t stand for an organization like Imperial; they were allegedly led by men and women who once fought against the corrupt merchant guilds of yore, but they themselves basked in the elitist luxury of what she could only consider a membership-only palace.

And their leader’s a vampire! Need I say anymore? Concurrent to these thoughts, Lillian considered Witchblade’s presence on their side, but dismissed it quickly; the vampiric murderer was only a hired hand with a lot of baggage, which she would hopefully, when all this unpleasant business would come to a close, take with her to whatever bat-infested den she called a home.

Moreover, there was no time for thinking anymore: she had already leapt over low hedges and was hustling toward the fountain, toward the convergence of power to which she was about to add her own little share. SHe hadn't even seen Izvilvin amidst the fray of warriors, hadn't even seen the fire-wielding addition to the NWO's side: all she could see was that Rayse stood only a dozen paces away. She broke her dash and flung the glass dirk his way, watching it carefully as it tumbled and embedded itself at his feet, chunks of earth and gravel spitting from the earthen wound.

There was a somber flicker that trailed from the pommel to the forest, a glow of haste that was mirrored in Lillian’s eyes. The wind was coming from the forest maw, breathing fiercely onto the manor’s walls like a beast before its prey. The conditions were perfect.

“Now!”

[Melancor]

Two glassy orbs where elevated into the sky, flaring again like the one that had been deflected. But these where quick to explode in the night, illuminating the field of battle for at least a swift moment. A rain of flickering shards fell upon the ground, Melancor was far enough to be affected by such unusual attack. Fire is such an ugly thing. The shadows hesitantly returned to their positions, shifting now, after the assault on their presence.

As if pulled by the shadows Melancor retracted into the dark wall after the Imperial mother declared death for the aggressors. It seemed everyone had been quick to pick their playmates. He stood impatient as he observed the battlefield beautifully coming together like the Masterpiece of an artist. Should be paint with blood then?.

Enemies had already began to grow slowly from the single pyromaniac into a mob of usurpers. What to choose from? What to choose? Melancor asked himself as his eyes stared impatiently upon the dark figurines that had made their way through the woods into the Imperial lair. And the woods where betraying him once again, their gray and dusty bodies acting as a possible barricade for potential enemies, as their thick and dull foliage covered any visible shape beyond twenty feet.

I guess I should take the advantage then. Melancor reached for his back as he grasped his bow, and pulled one of the handful of arrows he had brought with him on this occasion. Would he go ahead and try to snipe the attackers? Probably, it was not in his fashion to be so shameless. Well then The bow moved encompassed by his arms, as the point of the arrow shifted targets.

Just as the flora plotted against him, the moon was quick to aid. He saw the border of the sharp wall of shadows, produced by the manor, be disrupted by a slim and small shadow, which stretched to just below his feet. It was not too soon after he heard the sound of shattering glass, and the violent roar of Haskara ran through the tops of shaking traitors.

“Now!” A demanding young voice rose in the tumulting air.

“speaking of shameless”

Melancor finally pulled hard on the cord of his instrument, and aimed for the one who had launched the seemingly pathetic bombs into the air. His grip on the hard wooden rear loosened.

Her roar was too strong.

[Rayse Valentino]

Magic.

It was a subject not familiar to Rayse. Every time he tried to rationalize it, all his arguments fell flat. When some freak came out and took the brunt of his molotov, who was he to make sense of that? And when that same freak charged out at Ashiakin, what else could Rayse do but back up and step into the grass? Getting back on the gravel, he continued backing up until he was farther back than the newcomer Hashi. Where is she?! If this gets any worse, I won't be able to....

CRACK! Chips of the gravel came up from behind him as a dagger was stuck in the ground. Startled, he turned around and knew. He just knew. Her voice rang out from the woods and Rayse immediately held his hand out toward the direction and curled his middle finger inward, placing his thumb on top of it and pulling back. In that tiny space between his finger and thumb, a tiny rumbling light was forming. A red, growing light that signified his ability. His own ability was magic, and he knew that... but that didn't mean he had to understand it. He had been ashamed of his ability, and to a degree he still is. He didn't like magi, a facet he shared with his uncle Teric Bloodrose. To be forced into being a magic user himself was the ultimate hypocrisy for him. Still, it had its uses.

While he aimed, something rushed past him at a very high speed. He couldn't tell what the figure was, or how close it had gotten to him, but it made him lose his concentration, letting go of his fire prematurely. The flame flew toward the woods and fizzed out, missing its target. As Rayse turned around, he found that that it was a drow, who was now engaging Hashi. The drow hadn't gone near him in his pass, but his speed made Rayse edgy. Someone like that could close the distance between them in moments. Fortunately, he already had a different target in mind. Right as Rayse was about to go back to attempt his fire flick again, he saw something flying at him. Shit! He ducked, and the arrow shot just over his head. If that drow hadn't distracted him, his head would've been attached to that damn arrow! This was going from bad to worse. He had to hurry up.

He aimed once more, and let it loose. A small spark flew into the woods at an amazing speed, and Rayse smiled with satisfaction. WOOSH! Flares flew into the sky as the spark advanced along the thread, bursting into flames and igniting everything in its path. It was because his fire was magic that Lillian considered him for this. It was because it was Rayse was inhuman; the product of a man and a fire rune. Well, maybe he was a little too self-conscious about it, but right now wasn't the time for that kind of nonsense. The flares rose high into the sky, once again illuminating the battlefield in a bright light, much brighter than his molotovs. Those vampires better be fucking glad it isn't sunlight. If it was up to him, he would rather not have any vampires in this world, but it wasn't a mercenary's place to harbor prejudice. Maybe he would deal with monsters like Witchblade and Tera after this is all over (not to mention the other unspeakable creatures in this battle). Although, the fact that the two women were now going at it was the best possible scenario, and he wasn't about to disturb that.

He didn't want to waste time watching the fire spread throughout the forest, he needed to make use of his distraction to put into play his own plan. He stepped onto the grass and put his hands on the ground, spaced apart by a couple feet. He bent down and put his feet back like a runner in a race, but he wasn't facing forward; He was facing the side of the mansion. Specifically, one of its ground level windows. Gripping the earth with both hands, he suddenly chopped them upwards and then back down before he lost his balance in that awkward position. From his chops, two long lines of fire formed along the grass all the way up to the window. He had only one shot at this, while the distraction served its purpose.

He broke into a run.

The idea was that as he ran past the flames on the ground, they would rise up and shield his figure from any sort of clear shot. They didn't do this out of his will, it was automatic. His fire naturally reacted strongly to him. To the casual observer, they would see some flames inches above the ground the whole way, but from start to finish a high wave or wall of fire would move swiftly along the fiery path. It was his only chance to avoid being hit by those arrows. Plus, he seemed to somehow run a bit faster when he was running along fire. He ran, leaving the other members of his group to battle by themselves. He wasn't some coward, it was just that his vocabulary for winning included more than just beating people up. Plus, he had an objective to complete.

He was going to get inside that mansion at any cost.

I barely dodged Poseidon's arrow. Ataraxis and Rayse lit up her magic thread, which initially sent several flares up into the sky. The fire advanced along the thread, lighting trees and other greenery on fire at an alarming rate. Forest fire is imminent. Rayse is currently running along a fire path that hides his figure in a wave of flames as he runs toward the left side of the mansion (toward one of the windows specifically), away from the opposition as well as away from his own team.

[Lexxum_Vordic]

((I apologize for the delay folks; I'm still in this))

Every war had its x-factor. Every strife in life had that one annoyance that simply wouldn't go away no matter how hard someone tried to get rid of it. It was almost like having an army of dirty little cockroaches at your feet that kept multiplying no matter how many times you snuffed a few of them out. And that's how we were. The Imperials. A group of unifiers and militants out struggling to make a name for himself. Max Dirks had donated his estate to our group.

That was the history of the power group. Many had come but only a few were defending the precious estate that night. My home. The place away from Fallien that I had come to know as home. I was a defender within the ranks of the Imperials war against the NWO. Forces arrived on either side. Both armies showed their ugly faces like giant serpents rising from the black depths of some ocean.

I was prepared. In one moment I was completely in the place I was most comfortable in. As a trained soldier fighting Xem'Zund's forces in Raiaera; I'd come prepared for this war. I'd fought all types of Arta in the past; armed and otherwise. Some had even gathered on the battlefield before me! I was already on the move when I saw the man called Rayse; I'd heard his name form the tiny gnome-like creature who'd spewed it out into the night, and the explosion was well out of range. Some of the shrapnel from the glass managed to attempt to pierce my thick scales. I caught a few pieces of the shrapnel in my right arm.

Pain stung me like a wasp. I quickly fought the urge to cry out. In a fell moment; I removed the long pieces of shrapnel from my arms and prepared myself for combat. There were targets all over the place. Friendlies were intermixed with hostiles. As a trained soldier and one of the heads of Imperials' security force; I'd seen a compiled list of all of our mercenaries for the war we knew was coming. We just didn't have a time; date, nor a place.

The challenge had come as suddenly as the NWO was now upon us. My eyes recognized those that I knew were allies and I thanked Lord Mitra for his blessings. Fires quickly spread across the lawn in an impromptu inferno. The pyromancer was a serious threat. I turned my attention to Rayse for a long, moment and watched him as he made his mad dash towards the estate. No! He was going after my home just like that Arta warrior seemed to be! The Hex Magi; Seth Dahlios gave off an incredible scent of undeath, as did the the hooded woman that Tera was fighting.

Witchblade.

Nearby to my leaders' person; I'd heard the name spoken. It was an interesting name and one that whispered of authority and power. I kept my attention on Rayse and was instinctively on the move. My powerful saurian legs drew me across the estate grounds swiftly and made my feet pound the earth. I had Tap Reaver in my hands and was preparing myself to strike like a snake out of the grass. I had superior height and weight to the human and would use my muscle with increasing skill against the mortal.

When I was well within attacking range; I quickly attacked Rayse's back. I ignroed all other battles going on. I knew this was an opponent I could take dead on with my current level of skill. Narrowing my eyes I quickly rotated my enchanted weapon and swung it powerfully towards my foe's lower back. It was my intentions to cleave that man cleanly in two pieces...


Summary:

Lexxum is attacking Rayse from behind with his enchanted sword.

[Ashiakin]

As others arrived and the battle broke out, Ashiakin was able to retreat several steps behind the main line without attracting the attention of his enemies. It was where he wanted to be. While he could enter the fray and hold his own if he had to, he knew he was best when he could sneak around the outskirts for some cloak and dagger work. The Dirks Manor dominated the battlefield like an advancing army, a reminder of his betrayal of a man that he had once done much business with. Despite the guilt that he still felt about his involvement, there was a sense of control beginning to creep back into him.

Checking to make sure no one had singled him out, Ashiakin spared a glance behind him toward the monks and the outskirts of the woods. There did not seem to be anyone advancing, friend or foe, but he was left with an uneasy feeling. He stepped forward and immediately felt a sharp pain slice through the top of his shoulder, leaving a wide but shallow cut that caused a thick, blue blood to well up under his white shirt.

He hissed with pain and ducked down, noticing a dark figure stealing forward from the woods toward one of the members of the New World Order. As he moved to attack the man from behind, however, a violent flash of red immediately drew his gaze and he reconsidered. The single red eye that was visible of the wobbly, cloaked figure—one of Imperial’s minions—seemed to be curiously fixated on him. The tame insult that the figure called out in an angry, feminine voice only seemed to confirm this.

“All right, then,” Ashiakin called out, flexing his wounded shoulder and pointing his mythril sword. He did not recognize the figure, cloaked as it was, as one of the adventurers who had cut his plan with Salvar’s ice wraiths short some time ago. All he thought was: What the fuck is this creature? Some sort of golem?

Evidently he would not have to advance on his own. The figure charged forward with one of Rayse’s homemade explosives, retrieved from the fountain, fuse sizzling. Ashiakin flinched at that. He had never been very fond of fire.

It was all he could do to dodge the blow by stepping quickly backward and ducking, returning to a fighting stance with a sword stroke that some would have called gentle. It was intentionally so, though. Ashiakin needed to know what the figure was made of—flesh, wood, iron—because he did not want to swing too hard and break his hand.

All the while, however, one of the monks that Ashiakin had earlier threatened had been meandering closer and closer to the battle under the pretense of inspection. Some moments ago he had hidden himself behind a sculpted hedge about thirty yards away from the battle, leering at the developing fight between Ashiakin and his opponent.

Just as Ashiakin righted himself and counter-attacked, the monk held out one of his hands and concentrated. A small mass of silent, invisible energy struck Ashiakin hard in the head and knocked him off of his feet. To everyone in the battle—except the figure he was fighting, perhaps—it would appear that he had simply been felled by his foe.

“Careful, careful!” the monk shouted to Edgar, rushing forward. “He’s out!”

The monk grabbed Ashiakin’s limp figure by the shoulders—ignorant of his wound—and began to drag him away from the battlefield. Ashiakin seemed to stir, but the blow had evidently been too much for him to be able to fight back just yet. As the monk moved Ashiakin further away from the fight, he knelt down and whispered in his ear, “Sometimes priests do take sides, you arrogant fuck.”

He spit in his face. “And you have no idea who I’m working for.”

Summary:
Ashiakin received a minor wound from Iz’s dagger. He dodged Edgar’s advance and made a mild counter-attack with his sword, only to be removed from combat by a rogue monk. I’m having to do this because I will be without internet for a week-and-a-half. See Deciding Things for details. Sorry about this! I’ll be back.

[Melancor]

Melancor saw as the man dodged his attack with the same perverted eloquence with which he had avoided everything else that had been thrown at him. He saw as the pyromaniac placed his fists upon the ground, and a wall of tall flames emerged, angry, relentlessly reaching out to the skies with their deep-red claws. It was not until a single red orb in the night grew into a roaring fire. It moved fast through the gray woods, just as if a devious demon had possessed the silence and now harnessed the trees, punishing their abhorred selves.

It would be in inconvenience if the slightest parasite of spark came to eat an opening through his cloak.

The shadows where quick to flee, as one side of the battlefield was engulfed in a scarlet inferno. The flames gloated as a parade of coy fiends, who danced in celebration, violently trashing and twisting at the rhythm of the cracking wood. Such a vicious element, one which by itself pulls the soul of objects and depletes into orange slashes, turning the bearer into chapped dark and lifeless rock. That which can scorn anything, if its fury is bright enough. One that even after ravage will sleep under the ashes, breathing heavy sighs like dormant feral beast.

Fire.

From across the enraged beast Melancor could feel the swollen heat radiate into his cheeks, one which could only be championed by Suravani’s desert. Just as the shadows had fled, so did the silver in his eyes, turning into a deep ultramarine more than ever yearning for the refuge of the sea, the cool waters of the ocean. His head shrieked as eyes toiled and squinted responding to the abrasive heat that burned through his skull. He had not mistaken this man, he was a human, but it all was explained when from among the flames kindled a glowing symbol attached to the man’s persona.

Pathetic fire rune. Melancor hypocritically accused as a small drop of salty sweat rand through his face.

Humanity had gone too far. They dare to more prominent than the gods, but this all of them would pay. The day in which his right would be restored, a day in which Istraloth would descend under the seafloor, one in which storms and hurricanes would raid the land, and strip it naked from all life, a day in which he would invade the realm of Haskara to finally cover the brightest of fires in the sky, one in which humanity would be shaken to its core.

It all had to wait for now, now he had to address the aggressive petulance of this feisty pyromancer. He set his view upon the cause of his discomfort once again; he seemed as prepared to intrude the havocking manor. Melancor reached for his back and again grabbed a set of his firm arrows. There was no chance in hell he was going to allow that scorn to do what he wanted.

The man broke into a run.

Simulating his actions Lexxum responded similarly, running after the intruder. As fast as Melancor knew Lexxum was, he had studied his man’s agile movements, he would not be able to bring him to a stop in time. Using the best of his judgment Melancor aimed into the path of the daring man, who had placed the flaring perimeter which now made it almost impossible to allow for a good target. He could see his shadow run through the feasting fiends, and he shot. Once, twice, three times, simultaneously reloading his bow as swiftly as his hands would allow him.

Without any premonition of success or failure, his hands began to water. Plump beads of liquid poured upon his black garments, glistening with the orange, taunting the hissing demon.

[Ranger]

The calculated, cautious steps of the prophet brought him out of the different sides. He was apart from them, barely a friend of the Imperial and hardly an enemy to the New World Order. But it was his part to remain in the balance, level the playing field and make do with what had been handed to him by the Thayne. What they had given him was his most prolific opponent, a man that remained at the tip of his tongue whenever stories of battles were raised. Seth Dahlios had been a kid, had become a menace, and was no less than a monster standing before him.


The man was little more than a naïve human child at heart, a thought that Ranger had all but pushed aside throughout the years. He had met him in the halls of the Black Hand, a fellow member of the warrior group that spawned from the need for protection by the Red Hand. In those days he had been a thief, a small child with the will to steal and a mouth full of harsh words. The end results between the bigotrious outcries of the cleric of Pelor and the hardheaded boy had been ridiculous. It was the beginning of the end for the drow and his involvement with the Black Hand. It had been that time that the two had cause the most physical damage, their hatred and loathing for one another little more than skin deep misunderstandings.

He later fought alongside a truly unique companion, a walking and talking elephant named Chumley with a penchant for the bizarre. The two had drawn Seth and his vampiric companion in the first tournament round of the Lornius Corporate Challenge. It was the hardest and longest battle the prophet had taken place in. His mindset had long since changed between that meeting and the former though. No longer was he a dedicate of the demonic Pelor, he had forsaken his ‘god’ and assumed the fledgling knowledge of the Thayne as what he would live for. It had been that time that he had apologized, and that time that had caused the most emotional damage between the two in any battle. Their hatred had changed to a state of confusion, one side holding a grudge the other holding the thoughts of the lords wills at heart.

This would be little different. What would the battle bring? They had fought for blood, they had fought for revenge, and in either contest a clear victor had immerged. It was between the two that the cold blood had been held, and for past incidents probably long forgotten, their fight had nothing to do with the Imperial. Ranger was a drow, of Aleraran heritage, and elves were hardpressed to forget past wrongs. Seth Dahlios was a human, lost in a cold world of misunderstandings and long forgiven trespasses. Who would remain when the war was all said and done was up to the fate to decide, and the prophet would leave the wills of the Thayne to do as they pleased.

His breath grew ragged as he grew closer, anticipation toying with his often steady state of mind. Long standing rivalries had been nearly forgotten during his pathway to enlightenment. The sight of the unholy mage brought back memories that Ranger had purposely put aside. The prophet had changed and had become something more than the revengeful servant of a false god. Had Seth changed at all?

“Same as the first,” the prophet responded with a nod as he drew his twin blades. The swords were light, sound weapons given to him by the very Thayne he worshiped and devoted himself to. “Though let past grudges and overly emphasized distrust be put aside. We fight not for or against the bigotry I once stood for, that which brought about the first conflict. It has been reconciled with time and I have repented for my ignorance. We fight not for the pure malice once held towards one other as we did in our second meeting. This time, we fight for personal resolve and honor alone, let this be the final meeting between enemies.”

Whether the two would cross blades in the future was for the Thayne to decide. To Ranger enough blood had been spilt between the two already, and he had already given his forgiveness to the lost hex magi. It would be the final conflict meant for blood thirst and hatred, and would be the first step towards the prophet’s new life under the tutelage of the gods above. Overhead an explosion ripped through the air, shards of glass being tossed about towards those that stood with the Imperial. The light caught the back of the drow and the face of his opponent, revealing a physical change at the very least.

[Dissinger]

"Personal Resolve and Honor? Is that what you fight for now a days," Seth replied as he raised an eyebrow. Flames leapt about the trees igniting them in an ever hungry inferno, one that sent shivers down his spine with the very though of them touching him. Cocking his head to the side as he peered into the elf's eyes he then spoke, his voice holding no malice, "Then step aside, I have a woman's honor to avenge, and I won't let you stop me. That manor is burning, so I can get the rat out of his cage, and then I'm going to kill that rat."

He moved to step past the Drow as he stopped a few steps upon seeing more flames. His face barely hid the animalistic fear that was overcoming him with the flames that erupted about the area. He had to endure to reach the house. He saw the grass burning despite the coolness of the night, and lush green color of the grass. There was surely madness to go about here, and he was privy to none of it. He looked upon the cleric as he spoke, "I don't ask for forgiveness, I don't ask for understanding, I ask for you to back down. I suggest you take me up on that offer, because its far more than I would offer any of the other cretins that might step in my path."

He stopped as he saw the cat anthrop nearby eyeing them. A wicked looking spear was held in its paws, and its fur was decorated in colorful designs. He was more than certain it was the furry version of tattoos. He looked like he was watching the fight, but Seth wasn't so sure he'd back off from the ghoul if he stepped away from Ranger. As he looked back at the Elf he spoke once more a bit of frustration building in his voice, "So this is how it’s going be? I either fight you or the cat man? Well looks like my hand is forced."

Seth began cracking his knuckles as he looked across at Ranger.

"If I have to take the two of you out, I'll have to take the two of you out. My vengeance can't wait forever Ranger. I have to catch Dirks while he's still here, and I'm not about to let you stop me. I'd wish you luck, but that’s bad form..." Seth replied. Soon he was speeding to behind Ranger as he drew daggers, the resounding sound of metal upon metal could be heard as he twirled to bring the knife with a devastating stab right for the heart of the Ranger, he wanted to finish him fast and move on. If the Cat anthrop got in his way, he might have to kill him too.

After all, there was nothing personal left in this fight; it was just the end of a long drawn out feud, between two hard headed men.

[Ranger]

Indignant child to the bitter end… Seth’s tone was solemn, lacking the remorse or presence of respect the prophet’s tone had belied. He was a monster in human form, nothing more no matter how much Ranger wished for otherwise. The flickering flames of the forest allowed the platinum eyes of the prophet true introspective sight. Emotionless, murderous intent clung to every fiber of the former thief’s visage, was hanging on the very words he spoke. His eyes were gray and worn, his words paltry at best. He did not ask for forgiveness, yet it had already been granted. He did not ask for understanding, but the Thayne had seen to it that their Voice to Althanas was granted that boon before all else. Through idle threats Ranger was granted a passage into the mind of the formerly hated foe.

What he saw was disconcerting and frightening.

The drow with his drawn blades could have been exasperated with the lack of interest that Seth exhibited towards their feud, but he cast such trivial thoughts aside. This was not a battle to be had between rivals, but one that would take place purely for the satisfaction of the gods. Fate had no hand in their meeting, no hand in the timely arrival of either man to the scene. If the Thayne willed the prophet to see and meet the thief in battle he would be loath to ignore their requests.

Before he could respond the restless positions of both were compromised. Seth darted forward, and the drow made no attempt to remove himself from combat. He was after Max Dirks, a worthy competitor but one that was mysteriously absent. Did the child know that? Was he unaware that the illicit entrepreneur was not on the battle field to protect his own hold? It mattered little, for the daggers of his opponent were put forward with the most fastidious target in mind. To aim for the heart. It showed the drow that his opponent wished for a quick end to the combat, and was willing to compromise his safety to secure the victory.

An amalgamation of light and shadows shimmered into existence before the daggers closed on their target. The light shield was inches thick, but hardly strong enough to reflect the full brunt of the force behind the attack. The daggers plunged into the magic and stuck, allowing Ranger to drift comfortably away from the attack. “Take it as you will, but Dirks is not here. You have come for vengeance against a man who is not present. If that is your only reason to be on this field of battle, let yourself be free of this madness and leave.”

Ranger held his arms up, swords extended. The prismatic shield of light and shadow drifted away as quickly as it had appeared, leaving the vengeful Seth plain in sight. “If you wish to continue this fruitless feud then I will oblige, rather reluctantly. Sorahn,” the prophet called to the leader of the Gol’Bron. His piercing gaze, lowered brows, and stoic face never moved away from his opponents. “This battle is no longer between us alone, as the Hex Magi has so willingly admitted. I am not going to request you stand aside, but be warned… there is nothing to be found between myself and Seth Dahlios besides a stagnant pool of distrust and hatred.”

Ranger lowered his arms and assumed a defensive position. If the magi had come for the head of Dirks and the ‘honor of a woman’ he had come for the wrong reasons. That which stood between him and discovering the knowledge for himself was the prophet’s word and resolve. If his word was distrusted as he knew it would be he would be thrown into combat. If his resolve was broken the vengeance seeking youth would undoubtedly release his anger on anyone else that fought for the criminal or under the banner of the Imperial. The prophet would see to it that he did not make it any further, with or without Sorahn.

[Rayse Valentino]

As Rayse raced across the place, the knots in his thoughts started to rot. Why had Lillian concocted a scheme to set the forest-- and by proxy, the mansion-- on fire? Such a devastating flame would be hard to put out, since Rayse heard stories about how forest fires spread faster than people could outrun them. There was something else at work here. His intuition told him that it had something to do with the intervention that caused the first group to be missing. A fire of that magnitude was required... as deterrent? Whatever the reason was, her explanation was sufficient enough for Rayse. It would bring the battle to a finish as fast as possible with success. The problem with that notion is it didn't take into account what happened to the first group. Put simply, he would be off somewhere else, uninvolved with the current hostilities if this operation had gone as planned. Thus, he had to take mattes into his own hands.

It proved to be much harder than he anticipated. While he ran, he heard a terrible stomping sound like a stampede coming his way. He turned his head only slightly along the fiery path but couldn't make out the figure chasing him through the wall of flames at his side. Regardless, it didn't look like something that would catch up to him. At least, that's what he thought before he screeched to a halt.

FWOOSH! FWOOSH! FWOOSH! The sound of three arrows piercing his adjacent walls right in front of him startled him and his movement was completely stopped. That fucking archer! What's his fucking deal? One more step forward and he would've been in the center of those arrows' trajectories. The stop was deadly, for what he now saw was a giant lizardman had caught up to him. Seeing what could've been the introduction of the two half-Contractors, Rayse jumped to the right as the menacing claymore came down upon his path, dispersing the nearby fires until the only fire left was the one being burned by the grass only an inch or so off the ground.

He rolled on the ground but caught himself, keeping a very low position with his landing. With his hands to the ground, he reached over to his right leg, pulled up his pant leg, and quickly pulled the knife out of its sheath tied to his ankle under his jeans. The first thing Rayse noticed was the big fellow's wounds. He was definitely one of those who felt damage from his molotovs, and that made Rayse smile. He straightened his figure out, but kept his knees bent and his knife out in front. There wasn't really... much profit in this venture. Still, he couldn't start running again with his back unguarded; he had to deal with this nuisance.

"Big mistake, you fucking iguana," Rayse said as he spit at the ground.

Rayse's knife caught fire. His very body almost glowed a fiery red color. A lizardman almost twice his size with a double-edged claymore against him and his knife? If Rayse wasn't a gambling man, he wouldn't take those odds. But he already made a bet, and it was too late to back out now. He pulled out one of his throwing knives with his left hand, willed it to catch on fire, and tossed it at Lexxum's throat, following up by charging at the lizardman himself. Let's see how hard your scales are! While he was intending to get below Lexxum's swing range and do some damage to his legs before retreating into safe distance, he was fully expecting some sort of attack while he was charging. If such an attack occurred, he was going to dodge it and go straight for Lexxum's throat with his knife.

[Lexxum_Vordic]

But I was prepared. I saw the incoming attacks having faced many an arta warrior in Valinatal and then in the Red Forest of Raiaera. Fighting against Xem'Zund's forces; I'd seen all types of Arta warriors and what they were capable of doing on their own, and armed. Rayse wasn't an arta warrior, but he was a warrior nonetheless. Skilled and powerful. I liked my odds against this behemoth. Knowing that Melancor would back me up, I concentrated my battle against the superior opponent. I noticed the way he moved and the way he reacted to my attacks, shit the bastard was fast. A burst of concentrated energy lit his blades on fire.

I noticed that with interest. Seeing the elemental fire, I immediately thought of my clockwork hand. It would come in handy for just such an event. Guarding against the incoming attacks I took a carefully timed swipe at his blades. The ones that were on fire might be a problem, but not against my steel masterwork hand. I could use it as a blunt weapon against that oaf.

"You are the one who made the mistake, sapien! You were born!"

I hissed in return even as I reacted. Timing my movements to his own attacks, I quickly brought up my steel hand to intercept the blades that were heading my way. I shimmied off to the left in order to evade the attack to my throat and felt an impact against my steel hand from the thrown dagger that was aimed at me. It was a close call and I felt a burst of mystical energy explode from the impact, but I was able to keep my body intact. I didn't want to test the sharpness of those daggers. Be they of steel, plynt, or some other material. His level of skill seemed to surpass my own, but I was thankful for my fighting prowess and military training. I had cards I could play if the need came down to it.

With the fires spreading all around the estate's lawn, I frowned at the revelations of the day. The enemy was attempting to burn down my house! I could not allow this! Dirks was nowhere to be found, and neither was Xalstad or Joshua Cronen. Our leadership body, with the exception of the Imperial Mother had all but abandoned us. This weighed heavily on my heart as I worked to defend my post. Having evaded the attacks that came my way, I prepared my sword for another strike. I was determined to bring down this behemoth of a man. Smoke and energy burned off my clockwork hand from where the enchanted dagger struck it. I mo