How did these sorry sons of bitches ever get the drop on us?
After Storm summarily dispatched the first of three cleric-types, he watched as the other two approached as both he and Shinsou waited. The councilors were confident, swaggering, and squared off like a child lining his foot to crush a wounded beetle. The rank, foul stench of burning hair and meat didnít seem to turn their stomachs, and the display of power he just unleashed didnít scare them off as he expected it would.
Shifting his weight to the balls of his feet, he prepared for magic. Beneath his leather gloves sat the scales of Moonwing, a might dragon now reduced to gauntlet form, ready to block some fearsome magic.
It was a magic that didnít arrive immediately. The snarling, thin Brotherhood representative lashed out with claws, his speed impressive Ė for a human.
How do these motherf*ckers NOT know who theyíre dealing with?
Flails of magic swished and hummed through the air as the opponents fists extended in clawlike apparitions. They were akin to black magic rapiers, but seemed to pop and hum with each swing. With each miss, the eyes of the Brotherhood champion grew wider and more desperate, an exasperation and obvious surprise that these blows were not landing. Storm reared to fire a blast of white anger at the jailor when he was finally struck.
The leg sweep caught him; it was clever and creative. Spinning about his right leg, a left foot was fired from the Brotherhood councilor, sending the wizard tumbling backwards, landing with an awful thump against the unforgiving stone. Merciless, the tall opponent leapt at the downed electromancer, a deathblow of black misery ready to strike from a balled right fist.
Oh, f*ck off already.
With speed and venom, the experienced Veritas lashed out with a mighty blast, clapping his wrists together from his back and sending a twisting burst of blue and white firing out brutally. It hit the assailant, sending him screaming across the room in a charred, blackening huff, crashing into the other two duelers.
ďHeadís up Shin!Ē
Vaan Osiris didnít hear him, but soon enough eradicated his own opponent, smashing the skull of the other robed villain into a pasty mess of grey, red, and awful. Several extra strikes followed to the clearly downed carcass, Stormís exasperated companion brutally bludgeoning the dead bag of meat.
Save some of that fury for the others, little fella.
Anger issues unaddressed, the duo marched from their chamber, the low ceilinged would-be prison a simple set of abandoned hallways set at firm right angles. Reaching the center corridor, frequent torchlights clearly illuminated the two main paths. To their right, a large amphitheater was empty; a large table full of empty seats and unfinished food left about five settings. An eerie quiet fell as their footsteps clacked on the stone; only a few fruit flies hovered above a spread of banana and mango perched on the center table.
ďAinít shit down here. Five seats, I think we know of three. Where are the others?Ē
A flash of rage bubbled in his chest, wondering if the assailant who had trapped them accounted for one of the seats. His eyes continued to pop about the room and hallway behind them, which appeared to be completely devoid of any furniture, save the bloody pulp Shinsou had sculpted and the two steaming briquettes Storm had freshly roasted. Further still, a door led to the streetside.
ďI suppose we can head out. Hit the street, and influence some townies to give us a lead on these pricks. This was still too easy; the mercenary who grabbed us sure as shit knew what we were capable of. Obviously, those roasted rubes back in the hallway had no idea, or didnít care enough to bother covering their asses. It doesnít add up.Ē
As they marched back past the hallway where their impromptu prison had been erected, Storm peered in to once more admire his handiwork.
There was nothing. No blood, no smoke, no smell, no bodies.