MQ: When Blood Runs Cold

[Christoph]

Follows The Lords of the Night. (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?t=7155)

The soles of Christopher’s black leather shoes crunched briskly along the frozen gravel road. Dark clouds rolled across the sky like a stampede of demons, driven forward by the icy Salvic winds. Chris knew that a layer of snow would soon blanket the fields of golden grass and pine-covered hills. After that, the blizzards would start to sweet the countryside, burying everything in their path with a vindictive glee. Such was Salvar; such was his home.

And he was home. Finally, after over a year of travel and dangerous and unwanted adventures, the weary chef’s hometown was in sight. Soon, he could just kick back, relax, and just while away his time in the kitchen or with an open book on his lap. Maybe he would work on learning some new, harder spells from his books that he’d hidden in his room. He gazed contentedly over the town from afar. It was all as he’d remembered it: stone houses with shingled roofs and smoking chimneys, a modest marketplace where imported fruits and vegetables were peddled, and, of course, the Golden Grass Inn. He smiled at the sight of it. It was the tavern that he and his mother owned; it was where the chef learned to cook.

Chris thought of his mother, Lara, and wondered if she would even recognize him. She had been the one to send him off in the first place. The Golden Grass Inn was hugely successful, and she’d wanted to open up another in one of the growing frontier settlements. Running two taverns would have required double the amount of supplies and fresh produce and grain was very expensive in Salvar, especially during the winter. For this reason, they came up with a plan to save an admiral amount of money. With two busy Inns to keep stocked, they realized that it would be far more efficient to have larger quantities shipped in from warmer southern regions rather than going to local vendors. Christopher’s job had been to travel to Scara Brae and Corone to meet with various merchants and warehouse owners and use his negotiating skills to work out beneficial contracts to keep the two taverns well stocked.

Unfortunately, a trip that was supposed to be over in three months took far longer than he’d expected. A civil war breaking out in Corone and an unhealthy collection of other problems on that forsaken island kept the poor chef stuck there for months and months past when he was supposed to depart. Even once he finally returned to Salvar, the home stretch of the journey was wracked with trouble. Following suit with the rest of his trip, what seemed like an average ride home with a merchant caravan turned out to be even more trouble.

As it happened, that “merchant” caravan had actually been a small pilgrimage of Ethereal Sway priests and agents operating in disguise. That alone would only have unnerved Chris a little bit. Unfortunately, they happened to come across a town under a dark siege by the vampire lord Kincaid and none other than a legion of zombies. Zombies! Hadn’t he gotten enough of those rotting abominations in Corone? He, his friend Elijah, and a strange Elvin girl with a massive sword got caught up in the small war against the undead hoard and their master. It was a wonder that they made it out alive.

Despite the strangely friendly rapport he’d established with Malachi, the leader of the band, he was very relieved when he parted ways. With Chris and Elijah heading north to the Great Bridge across the Akyar Kakka River, and then east to get to Chris’s hometown, after a fairly comfortable week at the city Lovstek, and Malachi and the caravan going south to Knife’s Edge, the chances of either of them getting into any more trouble dropped considerably. He was especially glad to be away from the Sway agents after some of the rumors that he’d heard – troubling news about the powerful monarchy and the omnipresent church being at war with each other, leaving the rest of Savlar in the middle.

On the other hand, Chris remembered as he retrieved the vanquished Vampire’s sword from it’s hiding place in his bedroll, all that trouble hadn’t left him empty-handed. He gazed affectionately at the elegantly crafted blade, its bluish metal gleaming even in the gloom. He traced his thumb across the intricately engraved runes and glyphs. It was a magnificent weapon. He could feel the power coming from it making his hand tingle and sending a shiver down his spine. If he could unlock the mighty sword’s secrets, there was no telling what he could accomplish. The priests had claimed that the blade was evil, but Chris didn’t buy into it. He felt called to it; he was meant to have it.

And since he wasn’t even able to make it one more week on his way home without running into more trouble, he’d even gotten a chance to test it out. The fact that it was because he got into a duel with a strange woman who’d only been defending herself against a band of crazed killers was something to be ignored. It wasn’t Chris’s fault that she’d been so efficient at defending herself that he’d thought that she was the attacker and rushed to the aid of the wrong side. At least he was able to straighten it out and get her to a shelter to recover without getting eaten by her pet dragon. On that note, who in the hell brings a pet dragon around with them? Fortunately, she would probably be gone by the time he got back to the makeshift camp, if she hadn’t already woken up and taken off. Hopefully she wouldn’t try to eat Elijah when he returned from a neighboring town.

As the weary chef reached the top of the last hill and found himself looking down at the town he was born in and grew up in, a smile came to his face as he forgot all of the hardships from the past year. He wanted to break out in a sprint down the hill, but that sounded far too cliché. Instead, he strode calmly and casually down the hill, wearing a bright smile on his face. It wasn’t until Chris entered the town did he realize that something was wrong. Nobody rushed out to greet him, the usually bustling town square was all but empty, and the Golden Grass was silent and dark.

“What the… where is everyone?”

[Witchblade]

She felt vulnerable. There was a helplessness to her situation that gnawed away at her very mind and soul and prevented her from truly resting, truly sleeping. Yet no matter how much she struggled to free herself from this darkness that encased her, nothing moved. Nothing shifted. It continued to surround her and be the only thing she could focus on, if focusing meant that her consciousness came and went as the seconds passed. Thoughts came and went with nothing tangible for her to truly grab a hold of. Like sand they trickled through her fingers, leaving only a bittersweet trace of what could have been.

Time was lost to her. Days could have been spent within this state and she would be unaware of it. The darkness would come, tempting her with a freedom from this hellish place only to pass again and leave her alone. Always alone. There were no comforting dreams to cling to, not even nightmares for her to run from, just an emptiness and a feeling. That same vulnerable feeling she could do nothing about.

Witchblade was slowly becoming aware. She could feel something uncomfortable digging into her spine, something she couldn’t bother moving to correct, unsure if she even had the strength. There was a chill in the air as it brushed against her face, but not the rest of her body. There was something covering her, keeping her warm and some other thing was repeatedly nudging her hand, something with smooth, almost leathery skin. The moment her mind caught up with her body and pushed away the remaining darkness from within, the halfling snapped her eyes open. She had been unconscious, and unable to defend herself. She had been completely at the mercy of anyone or anything thing. The last time that had happened she had…she had…had what?

The thought dissipated as her eyes met a blinding whiteness that was so intense it pained her and she was forced to squeeze her eyes shut as tight as she could. Little pinpricks of light danced in her vision and a pain within her skull was beginning to blossom. Having the sensitive vision of a vampire was sometimes a burden more than a help and now was one of those times. More than she could count had it quite possibly saved her life though.

For a few moments she continued to lay there with her eyes clenched shut. The pain still burrowing deep into her skull and becoming nothing more than a constant feeling she could forget about. But then she realized that nudging had not ceased, in fact it had grown more frequent as if whatever or whomever it was realized she was conscious. It felt familiar.

Slowly this time she opened her eyes. Just a crack at first, to allow her to grow accustomed to the bright light. Then she completely opened them and stared up at a blurry mess of grey, white and brown. Blinking a few times she finally found the ability to clear it and bring into focus some kind of makeshift shelter above her head that protected her against the gentle fall of snow. It looked like a bunch of branches all meshed together in some way that was supposed to protect against the elements. Rather pathetic looking if someone was to ask her, but no one seemed to be doing that. Then again, there was that nudging on her hand that just didn’t seem to want to quit. The one that kept slipping from her mind. Why was she having such a hard time focusing?

Bracing her arms on the ground, Witch attempted to push herself up only to have her arms sink into something soft and pain to go shooting through a multitude of areas on her body. It was almost enough to send her back down on the ground, but she was a stronger creature than that. Instead she endured it and pushed herself farther up, cursing the weakness within her the entire time that would make her feel such a thing and nearly succumb to it. Once in a sitting position she looked down to see the worried eyes of Daegun staring up at her.

“D-Daegun?”

She forgot to use her telepathy. Something she rarely did and she paid for it as the taste of blood flooded her mouth. The strings that held her lips closed having ripped through her flesh just enough to make her bleed.

Daegun practically purred to see her awake, moving and talking. The little guy rested his front paws on her thigh and gave her a little nudge, his large black eyes no longer looking worried but happy instead. She gave him a small smile in return, running her hand across the top of his white-scaled head and down his back. It was at that point she noticed her leather armguards were not upon her arms and instead there were white bandages stained blue covering her. Looking at her other hand she noticed her upper arm was bandaged as well and the stuff her arms had sunk into was snow.

Snow?

Then it all came rushing back to her. She was in Salvar. She’d come here for, for… she couldn’t remember. But knowing her it could have been something as simple as getting away from Corone. She didn’t think there was anything in Salvar she wanted. Small images from what had occurred within the past day were coming back to her. She’d been attacked by a group of those Cultists’s, the ones she had previously met here in Salvar, the ones who seemed to know something about her past. She had been winning against them until some filthy human had shown up and turned the tables, distracting her and giving them enough time to call upon some kind of magic that had practically incapacitated her. The feeling of it coursing through her veins was sickening and weakening all on it’s own. Though the human had been a nuisance before, he had come around to her side and well, she was still alive wasn’t she? Let’s just say the cultist bastards did not fair so well. But where was that human now?

Glancing around her, all Witch saw was frozen trees, bright white snow and…nothing. Giving the wind a quick sniff, the halfling found his scent but it was faint. He must have left many hours ago and she could not sense his energy nearby. She couldn’t remember all of the fight yet, but she was rather certain the human had changed course to help instead of hinder her. After that he must have tended her wounds. The thought of that made her sick. Thinking that some human piece of trash had been touching her while she’d been unconscious and even then, that she’d needed the help. Pathetic. She was disgusted with herself.

With hands still stained in the blood of others and her own, the halfling began to rip the bandages from her body. She didn’t need them. The majority of the wounds had already healed themselves leaving not even the slightest scar behind. The other, more severe wounds would probably follow in the next half a day. As she tore away the ones from her right hand, she noticed some strange mark on the back of her hand. It looked like some kind of rune to her and was actually quite small, but she had no idea how she’d gotten.

Glancing around the snow covered ground, Witch noticed a small pile of sticks and a blackened area the human must have used as a fire pit.

“Daegun, make a fire please…”

She knew she wasn’t up to travelling yet. As stubborn as she was, that would be the worst thing for her wounds.

[Elijah_Morendale]

Lately, it seems that Lady Trouble has this knack of trying to get in my pants. Everywhere I go, it seems that there's always some sort of horrible situation that I somehow get tangled up in. The elven girl who tried to kill me and the drug run back in Scara Brae, my dealings with that jackass loan shark and the Citadel battle he threw me into in Radasanth, the vampire hunt that I was nominated against my will to join just weeks ago, and the various barfights that Nadia started that were scattered in between.

And now, as the cherry that was stepped on, picked up off the ground, dusted off, and placed onto my proverbial sundae, I can't find my hometown. So basically, I've been wandering aimlessly around the vast, lonely, barren countryside of Salvar for a couple weeks, freezing my ass off. I've seen a handful of villages, none of them mine. I could tell this because they had names--a quality that my own hometown lacked. Each time I'd stop, I'd ask a few questions, get a few weird looks, and be on my dejected way. Apparently, "excuse me, has this town been named recently?" doesn't go over with the natives all that well.

The journey had been made worse by the fact that Nadia doesn't quite know how to keep her damn trap shut. Normally she would nag me about having another one of her "training sessions" despite the fact that it wasn't Thursday night, but other times she would say something completely unintelligent to the point where I caught myself swinging a few fists at her translucent form in order to get her to shut up. It really sucks when one half of your brain is cheerfully trying to destroy the other.

Currently, she was dancing around me, playing air guitar and screeching out the melodies. "Come on, chief! Sing along with me!"

I buried my hands in my coat pockets and hung my head. "I don't think so. You're just squealing various sequences of vocal frequencies that hardly falls under the definition of a melody."

I must've used some pretty big words, because Nadia stopped and began to slouch over. "You're no fun, you know that? No wonder you can't seem to keep a girl for more than two weeks."

"Since when did my love life have anything to do with your inability to sing?"

"It doesn't. But you still can't find a decent girl."

I threw my hands up in the air. "That's because every time I start to like one, you go ape shit and try and kill her! That has a way of scaring off most normal people!"

Nadia grinned. "Let's just say that I have high standards for us. Lest we forget, you aren't the only one who gets action. Remember Alicia back in Corone? Now that was one fine piece of ass. I wouldn't mind having another go at her."

Another day, another pointless exchange.

We continued in silence to a small camp that Chris had given me directions to before I left. The camp itself consisted of a beige canvas tent and a shady-looking structure made with sticks, leaves, and a tarp. Neither of them looked very reliable--I guess I expected something with a little bit more class, with it being ol' cheffy boy's camp and all.

"Hey, Christoph, you there?" I was greeted by utter silence. My footsteps crunched in the snow as I approached the tent. Something told me that he would be in there, probably busy cooking himself lunch. But when I pulled the tent flaps open, something else greeted me. The light that poured in revealed a very pale, very dangerous looking woman. Her long, black hair fell all around her thin face, her eyes, as red as Nadia's hair, glaring at me in between the thick strands. She was dressed in all black, with white, blue-stained bandages wrapping her arms.

"Oh, uh..." I chuckled uneasily. "S-sorry..."

Then I heard the snarl. I quickly turned my head to see a small, white dragon; lips curled and teeth bared, ready to tear me to shreds. I would've provided a better description of the beast, had I not immediately screamed in terror and taken off.

"Oh fuck! A dragon! Someone, anyone, HELLLLP!"

[Molotov]

“I bloody should have stayed in Shanleh,” the mutant thought bitterly. “Too many bloody wankers want to kill me, every bloody other place I go…” Molotov’s adventure in the cell had failed spectacularly, as had his short term companionship with Damion Shargath. After those failures the mutant had decided to head to Salvar, a place where his relative anonymity had prevented anyone from developing too great of a grudge.

However, Salvar was little better. Perhaps the people here had no interest in killing Molotov, but they seemed to be very intent on killing each other. Surprisingly, given his track record, Molotov had managed to stay out of the politics and the violence so far, but he had already been questioned an inquisitor representing the order of the Ethereal Sway. The mutant had been convincing enough to let the inquisitor leave him alone, but the incident had made it readily apparent that he was going to have to pick a side in this fight if he wanted to get out of Salvar alive.

The only problem was, from the best that Molotov could gather, the two sides in the fight were the church and the king. He hated both of them.

Now, as he approached the Golden Grass Inn, one of the few places in Salvar he felt actually served acceptable food, he could tell that the Civil war had reached the inn too. The entire town seemed desolate, a ghost town of shadows instead of the vibrant place he remembered. There were people there, but it was still a ghost town. The expressions on their face, panicked and desolate, confirmed it. Molotov shook his head angrily. There were few things that the mutant hated more than authority figures, but one of them was being denied a good meal.

As he approached the Golden Grass Inn, he saw another man standing by it, one who was even more shocked than he. “Guess this poor sod must have really liked it then…” Molotov thought pityingly. “Guess he’s never eaten at that bloody Silver Inn place in Radasanth.”

If this had been closer to Knife’s Edge or any other metropolis, Molotov might have been tempted to just go on his way to the next tavern. However, not only was there no other place for good food around the Golden Grass Inn, Molotov didn’t know of many other places in the area that sold things edible. For the past three hours, the only vendors he had passed were selling seal pelts, and that was something the mutant had absolutely no interest in.

Since there was nowhere else to eat, Molotov lit a cigarette. He turned to the man standing near him and offered one with a slight grunt. “Bloody hell,” he said. “I used to love this place too, only thing in this whole damn frozen continent that didn’t taste like potash, if you know what I mean. Where are you goin’ for a meal now?”

[Christoph]

Christopher’s gaze was so intently locked on the Inn, glancing back and forth between the locked double doors and the shuttered windows, that he didn’t even notice the other man approach him. What could have happened to transform a bright, lively town into such a gloomy shadow? More importantly, what could have closed down the Golden Grass? His mother had always said that she would never close, even if the entire town burned to the ground. Yet, the town stood, physically at least, and the Inn was dark and empty. He gave a confused and depressed sigh. His mother surely had a good reason for it.

At that point, the chef became aware of the man next to him. He was an odd-looking character, with a strong jaw sporting a well-kept goatee, strange tinted glasses, a metal stud in his lip, and a bullring in his nose. Of course, an average casual wouldn’t have noticed any of that under his hood. Chris was the type to pay attention to the little details, though.

“A meal?” he asked, shaking his head. “I used to work here; I live here.” The stranger’s face formed into an expression that looked something like pity.

“Oh…” He paused. “Can I grab a bite, then?”

Chris sighed wearily. “I guess. If there’s any food in there.” It must have been nice to only have food to worry about. “I’ve been gone for a while… the lock looks the same as it used to, though.” The tattered chef produced an old iron key from his coat and inserted it into the lock. It clicked and he pushed the door open.

“Hello? Mother? Is anyone here?” He heard nothing.

What he saw was the ghost of a tavern. All of the tables and chairs were exactly where he’d remembered them being, as were the glasses and the rags. Nothing was damaged – even the whine bottles were still there – but everything was covered in thin layer of dust, at least a couple weeks old. The Inn was a ghost, but it was recently deceased. Chris started toward the locked kitchen door, key in hand, but he stopped in his tracks upon seeing a piece of parchment pinned to the wall behind the bar.

“What the hell?” he asked, taking it down to examine it. The few lines of text on it were written in silver ink with sharp, precise letters. “This has the seal of the Ethereal Sway.” He read it.

By the order of the Ecclesia of the divine Ethereal Sway, the Golden Grass Inn has been closed under charges of conducting blasphemous activities, inciting civil unrest, harboring heretical fugitives, and the possession of illegal sacrilegious objects. This establishment is now under the legal ownership of the Church, and will not reopen until after a more thorough investigation.

Sacrilegious objects? His eyes widened instantly as the paper dropped onto the counter. My books! He turned sharply and ran up the wooden staircase in a panicked sprint, leaving the stranger alone by the bar.

“Hey… what about that food?” he called after him, annoyed. Chris didn’t hear it, though.

He reached the second floor only to find a wooden board nailed over the door to his room. The sinking feeling in his stomach got considerably worse. He yanked on the board, but it refused to budge. Growling, he dropped his back, slid the magical sword out of his bedroll, and wedged the blade behind the wood to pry it off. It took a few more moments to remove the cursed board, and when it finally clunked onto the floor, several of the runes had been burned into the wood. As it was, he didn’t have any time to notice it.

Chris threw open the door to find his bedroom in shambles. His bed had been torn apart, his dressers opened with their contents sprawled all over the floor, and closet was a mess. Some of the floorboards had even been torn up. A shiver ran up his spine and he clenched his teeth. They’d found the books that he’d hidden under some loose floorboards. They weren’t just any books; they were books of arcane lore. It must have been witch hunters from the Ethereal Sway. There was not other explanation. That was why the Inn was shut down. But where was his mother? Had they arrested her? Where did they take her? Gripping his forehead, the chef sat down on the foot of what remained of his bed. He’d come home to find his entire life gone

The walk down the stairs seemed to drag on like a trek down a mountain. A dark shroud seemed to be covering everything. He didn’t even know what had happened, let alone what to do next. When Chris returned to the dining room, the stranger was still there. He’d pulled up a dusty chair and was looking fairly bored.

“You all right?” asked the strange man with a degree of indifference. The chef exhaled slowly and shook his head.

“Not really, no…” he murmured back. “I… I’m going to get some air.”

“You should wait on that air for later,” said a familiar deep voice. Chris glanced toward the door and saw the massive frame of Mike, the other cook at the Golden Grass. His red hair was just as shaggy as Chris remembered, and his stomach still hung over his belt. “You’ll need it more then.”

“Mike!” Chris exclaimed, smiling for the first time since arriving. He darted over to greet his old friend and was rewarded with a massive, chest-crushing hug. “Where’s my mother, Mike? Where’s Lara?” asked the younger chef, struggling to breathe The fat cook’s round, bearded face got grim as he set Chris down.

“Chris… you’d better sit down,” he replied. “This might take a while.”

“What’s going on, Mike?” asked Chris tentatively, worry and fear infecting his voice. Something completely different had infected the stranger’s voice, though.

“If this is going to take a while, is there any way a man can get a meal around here?” asked the stranger. Mike gave the odd man a sideways glance and then sighed.

“I… don’t have a key to the kitchen anymore,” replied the hefty chef.

“Here,” Chris interjected, tossing the stranger his battered metal key. The man looked at it for a moment, and then back at the two cooks. “Just help yourself, there’s bound to be something left in there.” The cloaked man needed no further prompting; he stood and made his way to the kitchen. The younger chef turned back to Mike. “Anyway, what happened?” The red-haired giant took a deep breath.

“You’ve been gone for a long time,” he began, still seeming to be collecting his thoughts. “But you should know that for most of that time, our quiet little down remained the same. Everything was going as it normally did until two weeks ago. We knew that the civil war would reach us eventually, but we were expecting something else, like armies marching through and wrecking the place.” Chris sighed impatiently. “Two weeks ago, a band of… of agents from the Sway came through. We’ve never been a very religious town, but we stayed out of trouble. But the war had clearly made them suspicious of everyone, which made everyone afraid, which only made the agents even more suspicious. To them, everyone was a heretic in hiding, and that all they needed to do was rout the heretics out. The first place they started at was this tavern. It’s where everyone spent their evenings, after all. They went to Lara and asked her for the names of everyone who spoke out against the church in the Inn, or anyone who liked to come here instead of going to church services.”

“My mother would have never betrayed—” Chris because, outrage building in his voice. Mike cut him off.

“Of course she wouldn’t have, boy!” boomed the massive cook. Chris leaned away, startled. Even after all of his terrifying adventures, Mike still frightened him a little. The red-haired giant took a deep breath. “Gods, she should have just played along. She should’ve just said that everyone was loyal, and only had good things to say about the Sway, that they all were pious and went to their church services.”

“What did she say?”

Mike’s voice went dark and he looked down at the oak table. “She got bold… foolish. She told the interrogators that they had no right to harass her or her customers. She told ‘em she wouldn’t stand for their oppression. She yelled at their young leader, asking him what gods would give him the right to terrorize innocent people. Your mother was a brave woman, Chris, stronger willed than any man in this town or that witch-hunter caravan. But she just went too far.” Chris’s eyes went wide as his mind connected the dots and filled in the rest of the story.

“She was a threat, someone the townsfolk would get behind,” said the younger chef. Mike nodded somberly. “They needed to remove her and make an example out of her to keep the town in line.”

“They killed her,” stated Mike, his voice more tormented than Chris had ever heard it. He knew what the older man was going to say. He clenched his eyes shut, digging his fingers into his skull. “The black-haired devil claimed she was a witch. Rubbish! Lies! They planted some ‘heretical’ books in the Inn, closed the place down, and burned her at the stake. Nobody dared speak out against them after that.”

Chris was silent. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. What was there to say, anyway? His mother, his inn, his life was gone. Swept away in a single fell motion. He had nothing left. Nothing. Lara dared to speak out against injustice. At first, all he could do was blame himself. It was his books that they’d found. If not for those, there would have been no evidence to use against her. Then he realized that they would have found a way to get rid of her regardless. ‘But I only use sorcery as grounds to arrest citizens that I was going to arrest anyway.’

His eyes snapped open and he struggled to speak. “Mike…the leader of those agents… what did you say he looked like?” Mike raised an eyebrow.

“Young, black hair. He walked around with this black staff with metal all along the outside. Green eyes with scars running up his neck, like something clawed him to pieces.” Mike growled. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget that face.”

“Malachi…” Chris stood up without another word, scooping up his belongings and heading for the door. Mike stood up after him, grabbing him by the arm.

“You’re going to do something damn foolish, just like your mother!” Mike pulled Chris back as though her were a child. “I’m not going to let you get yourself killed.” The younger chef narrowed his eyes at Mike.

“Let go,” he demanded slowly. Mike refused, shaking his head. Anger welled up inside of him like a furnace constantly being filled with more fuel. “I’m warning you, Mike. Let me go or I’ll—”

Mike scoffed. “You’ll what? Punch me?” Chris growled, spinning around and ramming his other hand into the cook’s chest with surprising force. His eyes flared, practically glowing with fire for a split second as his glare burned into Mike’s face. The older man recoiled.

“You don’t want to know what I’ll do it you.” Mike needed no further urging. He let go instantly and took several steps back.

“What’s happened to you, Chris?” asked the red-haired cook, his voice subdued and uncharacteristically fearful.

“After today? All of most terrible things imaginable.” With that, Chris left the abandoned inn, completely unaware of just how catastrophically wrong he was.

[Witchblade]

Eventually Witch had moved into the large tent. Staying out in the cold was not very appealing to her and the human did not appear to be coming back anytime soon. So she took full advantage of what he’d left her with. Laying back on the course material of the tent, the halfling had no idea what she was going to do next or just how she was going to do it. With some of her wounds still healing the best course of action for the time being was to remain here, but on the other hand she didn’t want to be here when the human returned. She was more likely to want to rip him to pieces than thank him for what he had done. After all, if it weren’t for him she wouldn’t even be in this position.

Lifting her hand, she stared at the intricate pattern of the rune covering her pale skin. She didn’t know what it was or what it could do, which was worrying. She must have somehow acquired it during the battle with the Cultists. Heck, she didn’t even know if it was a rune of not. It could be some kind of magical glyph or ward that was placed upon her. Yet her body appeared to be responding normally to her. Just what could it be and what was it’s purpose?

Feeling a nudge at her hip, the halfling looked down to see Daegun pushing at her with one of his clawed paws.

“Not now, Daegun… I’m not in the mood.”

His entire demeanour seemed to fall slightly, as if she had refused him the greatest pleasure in the world. With his head bowed, he moved off to a corner of the room and curled up into a little ball. Though she felt a little sorry for him she couldn’t really be bothered at the moment. Her mind was preoccupied and she didn’t have time to play with him.

Letting her hand flop back down to the floor of the tent, Witch was about to check her wounds when she felt someone in the area. Her entire body tensed as she entertained the idea of it being more of those Cultists come to finish her off. Practically snarling, she propped herself up on her elbows and reached out with her senses. He was human and heading in her direction but he didn’t feel like one of the Cultists. They had a taint to them she couldn’t quite describe. Something to do with the magic they used, something that changed the way they smelled and felt. It was a small amount of relief that he was indeed not one of them, but then who was he and why was he heading here? He wasn’t the human from before, no, she knew his energy signature and this was not it.

His voice rang out through the area and Witch was just beginning to entertain the idea of answering him, when the flaps of the tent parted and she got a good look at the human herself. He was dressed rather oddly and was a bit on the scrawny side. And there were spectacles covering his face for some kind of absurd reason. Perhaps his eyes were not very good. She didn’t get a chance to get a very good look at him, for the moment her dragon started growling the man’s face turned from one of slight embarrassment to downright fear. Then his feet took over and he fled the tent.

Smirking, the halfling watched as Daegun, teeth stilled barred, quickly ran after the human. Though small the little guy was quite powerful and perhaps being a little too protective of her recently. Which may or may not have something to do with the recent attack she had. Either way it was quite adorable of him to consider her well-being and attack the human and it made for an interesting sight. Getting to her feet as quickly as she could without ripping her wounds open, the halfling parted the tent flaps and stepped outside. By this time the human had only made it a few feet and Daegun was quickly closing the distance he had on him. With a leap, the small dragon crashed his body against the back of the human’s legs, throwing him off balance and sending him tumbling into the snow face first. When he tried to scramble to his feet, Daegun once again launched himself at the human, knocking his small body against his side and sending him onto his back this time. As her pet jumped up onto the man’s stomach and prepared to rip the flesh of his neck wide open, Witchblade decided it was time to stop him.

“Daegun, enough.”

Though he obeyed and no longer attacked the human he did not remove himself from his position upon his chest. In fact, he stayed right there. His pure black eyes were glaring death at the man if he so much as moved an inch in the wrong direction.

“I’d stay as still as possible is I were you human.” She couldn’t help but snarl the last word at him. Pathetic, disgusting creature. He sees a baby dragon and starts screaming for someone to save him and runs for his life. It sickened her. He should learn to save himself. There weren’t always going to be heroes running around with big, shiny swords ready to protect the weak and the innocent from what society marked as freaks and murderers.

“Just what are you doing here?”

[Elijah_Morendale]

I was moving full speed away from the tent, kicking up powdery snow with each step. My heart was gearing to explode out of my chest as I looked back to see that the small dragon was giving chase--and catching up.

"Oh shit oh shit oh shi--!!" I gasped in surprise when I could feel the dragon ram itself into the backside of my legs. I immediately stumbled, falling hard to the ground. A small bit of snow got up my nose and tingled as it melted. Without a pause, I tried to get back up. I was scared. Of all the times that it would have been nice for Nadia to take over and go all murder death kill mode on another sentient being, she was nowheres to be found. I'd have to remember to scream at that redheaded figment of my imagination later.

I was nearly to my feet when I felt another incredible impact against my side, knocking the wind out of me. A silent scream left my open mouth as I looked to the side. The young, white dragon was just landing on the ground, his teeth sharp and ready to tear me apart. The cold snow went down the back of my shirt as I fell on my back. Before I could get up or grab my dagger to defend myself with, the creature pounced on my chest, pinning me to the ground. Frozen by fear, I could only look as the snarling beast sat ready to open up a new breathing hole in my throat. Then, for some inexplicable reason, it stopped. Yet, the heavy little bastard didn't get off me.

Nadia suddenly appeared, lying on her side in the snow and propping her head up with a hand. "Oh, there you are," I harshly whispered at her.

She smiled, and her mouth opened to say something, but I heard another female voice instead. It told me to stay still. Nadia must've heard it too, because her face immediately contorted in confusion. I turned my head to the other side to see the creepy woman standing several feet away. The bright sun shone off her pale skin, making it hard to look at her. I didn't know where the voice had come from, but it was pretty obvious that it was her. "Hey," I rasped at her painfully, "is this thing yours? Would you mind getting it off me so I can breathe?"

The woman seemed to ignore me as she spoke further. But, her lips didn't move as her words filled my head--telepathy, I think it's called. Good thing she used this, I'd hate to see what her mouth looked like if those strings tore through them. Nadia, on the other hand, wasn't terribly please with this woman's abilities. "Tell her to get the fuck out of our head, chief!" She was bearing her own pearly whites, much like the dragon. "Make it stop before I kick her and her nasty little pet in the throat!"

I clenched my eyes shut and silently told Nadia to shut up. When the both of us were calm again, I looked at the mysterious woman once more. Speaking hurt while the dragon sat on my chest--something I supposed I would have to get used to, it didn't look like it wanted to budge. "Look, I don't know what's going on here, but a friend of mine said that he would meet me here. His name is Christoph. Kind of tall, got a bit of an afro, wears a dirty chef's jacket. Have you seen him around?"

[Molotov]

Molotov hadn’t cared to determine what had happened to the Golden Grass Inn. Instead, once he was offered the key to the kitchen, he went inside and grabbed the meat and cheese necessary to make himself a sandwich. The Golden Grass Inn had a surprising amount of cured meat for such a fine eating establishment, and Molotov was quite grateful for that. He haphazardly made himself three sandwiches and wrapped two of them in fish delivery paper and then stuffed them into his pockets. The third, he began to eat, and was chewing his first bite as he emerged out from the kitchen.

A rather fat chef now stood between Molotov and the exit. “I’ll give the key back to your friend…” Molotov said.

The chef seemed unmoved.

“Bloody hell then,” Molotov said. He tossed the key towards Mike. “Take the bloody key, and give it to your friend next time you see him.”

The chef snatched the key, but then returned to standing between Molotov and the doorway with his hands folded over his chest. As Molotov got closer, he realized that the fat man was no threat. The mutant could sense a strong desire emanating from the chef, but he could also tell that the man was far too rattled and scared to offer any resistance were Molotov to push him away.

“Well, you got nowhere to be,” Molotov figured. It was true. He had got his food, and he had no other pressing concerns. He looked around the Golden Grass Inn and was struck by a brief moment of sympathy. “Let the poor sod have his say,” Molotov decided. “You don’t have to do a bloody thing he asks, but just give him a moment’s peace.”

“What do you want then eh?” Molotov asked.

The chef stammered. “Go after Chris…” he said. “Please, I know I can’t stop you, but he’s going to get into trouble if he runs out there on his own. He’s just shaken up now because of his mother, but if he’s not careful, then he’s going to wind up in more trouble than he knows what to do with. Please, you have to. You’re a friend of his.”

Molotov sighed. “Don’t tell me what to do,” he replied. “Bloody hell, I barely met this Chris before he gave me the key to your kitchen… and I’m not a sodding babysitter.”

“Okay, please,” the chef said again. Molotov could practically see the man’s hands clasping together as he spoke to Molotov, as if he was desperate enough for help that he’d even pray to the mutant for it. “Please, you don’t have to know him, just help him…”

Pensively, Molotov ran his hand across his jawline. He realized that he was going to have to pick a side in the Civil War if he wanted to get out of Salvar alive, and perhaps looking after Chris would be his fastest way out of Salvar. He looked at the chef who was appealing to him so desperately, and Molotov decided that he would look after Chris, at least for a little while.

“Alright then,” Molotov said. “I’ll help him but let me go.”

“Thank you,” the chef replied. Though he only spoke two words, relief flowed profusely through them. “I don’t know I can bear to lose anyone else.”

“Alright then,” Molotov repeated. He was a bit overwhelmed by the gratitude for a decision he was making based on his own self interest. He patted the chef on the shoulder and then headed out the door.

Once he was back in the cold, Molotov wrapped his dragonscale cloak around himself tighter. He looked up ahead and saw the chef who had given him the key earlier heading off into the distance. “Eh, hold on mate!” Molotov shouted. “Look, whatever’s going on, it can’t be so bad that you don’t have friends to help you, right?”

It didn’t take long for Molotov to catch up with Chris. Politely, he extended his hand and offered up an alias that would suffice for the time being. Molotov knew, even with the Civil War going on, the government of Salvar would still be interested in apprehending him.

“I’m John Lydon,” he offered. “And you?”

[Christoph]

Chris had already walked clear of the town by the time the stranger caught up with him. His maelstrom of thoughts was so chaotic that he didn’t notice the other man at first. After all, he’d just lost… everything. His family, his home, and the life he’d left behind were gone by a random act of fate.

No. No, this was not the work of fate; his life was destroyed at the hands of men, men corrupted by power. They were men that would surely leave a wake of ruined lives in their path. But, he realized on the verge of despair, there was nothing he could do. Nothing.

It wasn’t until the stranger got within a couple feet and downwind of Chris than did the chef actually take full notice of the man. He smelled distinctly of old wood smoke and unwashed socks. Granted, Chris wasn’t in any position to judge; he hadn’t had a decent bath in weeks because it was far too cold to wash up in rivers and streams as he’d used to do.

“My name is Christopher Knighton,” he replied, taking the John’s hand, gripping it in a firm handshak before starting to walk again. The stranger followed after him. Chris fought down an annoyed sigh; the last thing he really wanted at that time was the company of strangers. “I trust that you found the food well enough. Is there something else that I can help you with?” John gave and irritated grunt, clearly not about to be blown off, whatever his motives were.

“Look, you have no bloody clue what you're doing,” John growled. Chris didn’t stop walking, but the formidable man following him kept talking. “That fat sod back there, he's scared shitless for you. He looked at me with begging eyes of a scalded puppy telling me to come after you. Now if you're going up against whatever wankers did that to your inn, you're going to want me with you.” Chris stopped in his tracks so abruptly that John almost ran into him. They had gone quite a distance into the forest by that point and were now surrounded by a picket of sturdy pines.

“What?” he asked incredulously. “I’m going to want you with me? Did you eat the wrong meat from the kitchen or something? Good gods, I don’t even know you. I just met you less than an hour ago! I don’t even know if John Lydon is your real name! Seriously, the last thing I need is help from you.”

The young chef groaned and started walking again. Before he went more than five steps, a large wall of translucent, frost-covered ice formed out of thin air directly in front of him. He almost ran squarely into it, but his reflexes saved him. Chris glared back at the man calling himself John. There was clearly much more to him than met the eye. That, however, only made him harder to trust.

“You sure about that?” John asked snidely.

“Well done, very impressive,” commented Chris, his sarcasm rising to match John’s. Rolling his eyes, the chef called up his own magical energies and melted a man-sized hole through the ice with a touch of his hand. He strode through the gap, walking faster than before. The other man just wouldn’t back off, though, which frustrated the already flustered chef as he reached the edge of his camp. “Listen, I’m fine. I don’t need your help. Whatever situation this winds up getting me into, I’ll be able to take care of it myse—" His words caught in his throat as his eyes fell upon the scene at the camp.

"What the HELL is going on here?”

[Witchblade]

To say that things had gotten interesting before Christoph returned was an understatement. The halfling had been downright enjoying herself for a change, but like all things her enjoyment sadly needed to come to an end.

The halfling parted her lips and practically snarled at the human when he mentioned the name Christoph and gave her a description of his friend. Unconsciously, her fingernails hardened and lengthened ever so slightly, turning into claws that she clenched tightly against her palm, cutting into the soft flesh therein. A fresh well of blood began to drip down from her fingers and into the snow as she carefully controlled the emotions that were bubbling up inside of her.

Did she know Christoph? Of course she knew that fucking piece of shit! He was the reason she was like this, he was reason she had been unconscious, helpless and completely at his mercy while he… touched her. Bandaging her wounds or not, she didn’t care, he had been touching and she was not about to let that go so easily. If he had told his friend to come here and wait for him then he would be back, eventually and maybe, just maybe she could use this worthless bag of flesh to her advantage. The human most likely had some kind of compassion in him, after all, he’d come to the rescue of those fucking cultists so easily, he was sure to want to save his friend and get rather bloodied in the process. Maybe if she was feeling rather generous she’d kill him quickly so he wouldn’t suffer too much, then again, he had saved her life in the end. Perhaps she’d spare his life completely. Her mind was not yet completely made up.

That sword of his would be the real problem though. She didn’t know what it was about that weapon, but there was power in it and he clung to it like a second skin. It was the only reason he had won their little fight, if it had been down to skill and prowess alone then there was no way he could have won against her. But that fucking sword...

For the briefest of seconds her eyes left the downed figure of the human and instead turned to the female lying in the snow beside him. She wasn’t real, not only did she not produce any smell or any energy signature, but she hadn’t been there moments before. Only when the human had thought of her had she appeared, perhaps his mind was degenerating and she was a figment stuck there, or perhaps she was some form of demon. Either way, she didn’t care as long as she didn’t try anything funny. Not that she could technically hurt the halfling, after all she wasn’t real.

“Please bitch, deal with the fact that you only exist in his mind. You couldn’t hurt me or my little pet even if you wanted to. Though it would be humorous to see you try.” The grimace that her face had turned into softened slightly, turning to more of a sardonic and twisted smirk as she turned her attention back to the man and his rather frightened and wide-eyed glaze.

“Oh, and your friend… I killed him.”

The fiery little imaginary friend of his suddenly burst from the snow she was lying down in. Her shrill voice echoed in the silence and nearly rent the head of the halfling making her glad it was only on the inside of her brain and not actually from her ears. That screech she had could probably make her deaf in five seconds flat thanks to her sensitive hearing. Then Elijah’s face twisted into something close to a crazed expression that left him looking far less human and more like a demon. She liked it, it fit him. When he went to move though, the dragon on his chest, growled and barred his teeth once more.

“Aww, does that upset you little human? Does it make you want to kill me?” The smirk on her face only continued to twist into one of pure pleasure. His friend was still alive, but this little bag of flesh didn’t need to know that… for now.

Snapping her fingers, the white dragon resting upon his chest slowly and begrudgingly gave up his post allowing the human to move about freely. She wanted to see what he would do next and whether or not he would have the guts to attack her. She didn’t have to wait long either. The silly little human rushed to his feet and reached upwards, wrapping his hand around the worn handle of a sword sheathed upnon his back. Seeing him pull the weapon from it’s sheathe and hearing the familiar ring of it in the air only caused her to shiver slightly with the anticipation of battle. Not that it was going to be much of battle.

He charged. His steps were clumsy and not thought out at all, not only that but the grip he had on his katana was too tight and his muscles too tensed. The crazed look in his eyes and the anger burning through him made his moves easy to read. All the halfling had to do was turn her body to the side when he raised his arm, smack his forearm with the back of her hand to throw off his aim and close the small gap of space between them. With that done, she wrapped the fingers of her left hand around his throat and began to squeeze, careful not to use her full strength. When his hand came back up with sword at the ready, she merely grabbed his wrist and twisted it back, forcing him to release the toy.

Instead of the desired result, instead of him possibly begging for her to release her hold, he did something she had never expected. He grinned psychotically at her and choked out a few mangled laughs between his strangled gasps for air.

“It takes five pounds of pressure to crush the human oesophagus, want to make a bet on whether or not I can do it?”

She laughed and tightened her grip around his throat, feeling her claws pierce the soft flesh as her ears filled with the sound of him struggling to breathe. It was such a sweet sound. One that was broken too early by a familiar voice. Turning her head, Witch stared at the human who had both nearly killed her and yet saved her at the same time. Releasing her grip on his friend, she let him fall into the snow as she turned her attention to Christoph. Her boots pressed into the snow as she began to move in a slow circle around Christoph, her hands tensed at her sides as her nails once against lengthened just a little bit more.

[Elijah_Morendale]

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. It surprised me enough that the creepy chick could tell that I existed--did she have some sort of whacked-out mind hacking powers? That had to be the only explanation. But it still irritated the hell out of me to hear her suggest that I was merely a part of Elijah's fractured mind. I had a sudden urge to take over and slap her around a little bit, something that the chief wouldn't have the balls to do after being insulted as such.

Then she had to go and say that she murdered Christopher.

I screamed. It was an unearthly, ear-splitting noise that made Elijah and woman flinch. My rage boiled over--I had grown to like the chef after we dismantled all those zombies a few weeks ago. And now he was dead. My vision turned blood red as I looked over at Elijah. He seemed to be in as much shock as I was, although the look on his face implied that all he would do to avenge our friend is shed a few tears and sob a bit. I looked back at the thin, pale woman. Oh, I was going to kill her. I'd ram my katana up her crotch, twist it a full three-sixty degrees, gouge her eyes out with two icicles, tear her throat out with my bare hands, piss on her corpse, then leave her broken and violated body out here in the cold, snowy landscape of Salvar for the ravens to feast on while keeping her skull for a soup bowl.

Oh, this fucking slutbag was going to die, and it was going to be beautiful. I've always considered senseless bloodshed to be an art form.

I forced myself into Elijah's body, taking control like I usually did whenever I felt the need to cause some permanent physical damage to something. However, the dragon continued to sit on my chest, which caused a small hiccup in my plan. All I could do was continue to glare at the woman and try to explode her head with my own mind. The unprocessed handbag kept on snarling at me, showing me its sharp teeth as if they were going to frighten me. The black-clad bitch snapped her fingers, which made the creature finally get off my chest.

Now that I could move and breathe freely again, I wasted no time jumping to my feet. I locked the woman in my sights as my right hand swiftly moved for my sword. The sound of the steel blade scraping against the smooth wooden sheathe was accompanied by my rushed footsteps through the snow as I rushed the bitch. Adrenaline was pumping through my veins as I drew ever so closer to dealing cold slashy death once again.

The woman merely stood there, calm and cold as always. I let out another scream as I raised my sword up in the air, ready to cleave her face in two. In a flash, she stepped to my side and smacked my arms with her right hand, throwing me off balance. Before I could right my attack, she reached up with her left hand and constricted her thin fingers around my throat. I stopped in my tracks--she didn't look it, but holy hell was she strong. It was as if she wasn't expending any effort at all to cut off my air supply.

But this wasn't going to stop me. Straining under the pain of a windpipe that was in the process of being crushed, I raised the katana once more. Unfortunately, she anticipated this, and was quick to bend my wrist in a fashion that made me drop my precious toy. The sword kicked up a small cloud of powdery snow as it crashed into the ground.

The pain was becoming unbearable. I couldn't move, I couldn't do anything... I was helpless in the hands of this woman. Sure, I probably could've kneed her in the babymaker, but for all I knew she might have another hand down there that would've caught my leg.

I felt a wave of emotion overcome me. For a second, I couldn't sort out what it was--but then it hit me like a sack of bricks. I was enjoying this. This level of pain was a new sensation. Sure, Elijah's killed me enough times during our Thursday night training sessions, but this was on a whole new--no--real level. A smile formed on my face; small at first, but I could feel it grow into one of my regular old psycho grins. Whenever I could get a gasp of air, I laughed. My eyes lit up in joy at this sensation.

The woman merely laughed along with me as she tightened her grip around my throat (come to think of it, the crazed look in her eyes to match my own made her look kind of cute). My own giggles were suddenly cut off with an choked gurgle. Her fingernails pierced my flesh. I could feel the warm sensation of blood trickling down my neck as it began to add a few more stains to the chief's denim jacket. Before she could finish me off, however, a familiar voice cut through the air. The woman released her death grip on my breathing tube, and I immediately fell to the ground, coughing hysterically as I tried to take a few deep breaths. I touched my neck. The small gashes where her nails pierced my neck were tender and oozing blood. I felt dizzy.

Twenty gold says that you wouldn't have had the guts to kill me anyways, you stupid sack of shit, I thought to myself.

I looked up in the direction of the voices. Though my eyesight was rather blurry, I could make out two figures. One of them had a colorful yet really ugly mohawk an the dirtiest dress code I've ever seen, while the other had a dirty white coat on. It was the chef.

I weakly smiled. "Oh, hey. Wassup? I thought you were dead." I fell face down into the snow in an unconscious heap.

[Molotov]

Molotov scowled. He wondered when he would get to finish his sandwich. He had been eating it as he left the fat chef, but keeping up with Chris had been problematic enough without trying to stuff his face. Now that they had arrived at a camp, Molotov had wanted to eat, but instead, he found himself overwhelmed by stupidity.

He looked over at the people he assumed were Chris’ friends, especially after the casual introduction that occurred in the midst of their fighting, and realized he wouldn’t be able to get a bite just yet. “No wonder this bloody chef is getting in to trouble when these are the kind of wankers he wants to be with. Bloody fighting in the middle of Salvar- don’t they know it’s too sodding cold for this kind of violence unless you really hate the bastard?”

The mutant wondered how much longer he was going to have to follow Chris in order to keep his promise to the fat chef back in the Golden Grass Inn. Molotov had only uttered the promise to mollify the man and to leave without incident, but now he was beginning to wonder if it was worth the trouble. Chris didn’t want him, Molotov had already had to pull a few tricks out of his bag just to follow the chef this far. Now that Chris had seemed to return to a pair of friends who sought that their time was best spent roughhousing, then Molotov wanted no part of it.

However, once the man with black hair who had said hello to Chris passed out, Molotov realized that the situation was more complicated that. This wasn’t two friends having a struggle, it was a fight. The casual way that the man had spoken had at first hid this fact from the mutant, but now that he realized it, his face formed into a tight frown.

“Bloody hell, when it isn’t my trouble, then its someone elses,” Molotov thought. The air around his finger tips began to heat up as slow burning balls of fire began to hover around his fingers, and they formed two large fireballs that hovered right in front of his palms. Only now, he noticed that the sandwich he was carrying had been burnt to a crisp as a result. “I should make this quick and just get it over…”

He eyed the woman, gauging her for weaknesses and strengths, though his first reaction was just utter shock when he saw the way that her lips had been sewn together. “Poor bloody bird…” Molotov thought with limited regrets. “No wonder she wants to kill people, if that happened to me, I’d bloody be fit to be tied myself.” He wondered if Chris and his black haired friends now weren’t responsible for the way that the woman’s lips had been sewn.

With a sigh that was halfway between ennui and disgust, the mutant took a few steps so that he was in between both Chris and the woman, and also no closer to either of the two. “Look,” Molotov barked. “I bloody have no idea what kind of a sodding game you’re playing at here, and if you’d really want to know, I just don’t bloody care. Thing is though, I was carrying a sandwich with me in my hand, only half eaten, and now the thing’s all burned, just because I had to make fireballs to stop you wankers from doing whatever bloody dance you were playing at, and I hate to see a good sandwich get burned in vain. So here’s what’s going to bloody happen. You two are going to do whatever you want, except hurt each other. Insult each other’s mothers, snog, tell each other how much you love old Showstopper concerts, I don’t bloody care. A sandwich was burned in keeping you two apart, and so you’re not going to fight each other.”

And there Molotov stood, one hand extended out towards both Chris and the woman with sewn lips, with a fireball ready to hit both of them. “I can’t let a good sandwich like that die in vain,” he added, knowing he probably amused only himself. “It’s the bloody principle…”

[Christoph]

For a single tense instant, the entire situation seemed balanced on the razor tips of the pale berserker’s claws. Chris stood, poised, his sword out and pointed directly at the snarling woman who’d attacked Elijah. He was prepared to use the rune-covered blade, just as he had before. A tingling, burning sensation crept up his arm from the sword’s hilt.

It wouldn’t take more than a single stroke to, he knew. The pyromancer scowled at her, daring her to make a move. If she made the wrong one, he’d part her head from her shoulders. After all he’d been through that day, he was not in the mood to put up with this kind of crap. His muscles tightened and his jaw clenched. It felt as thought the sword itself was tugging his arms into action.

Then, John’s words struck him like a head butt to the face. Sandwiches? Chris chuckled at first, but his laugh expanded exponentially in moments. He lowered his sword; what had he been thinking? The laughter separated him from the situation for a moment and drowned out his rage.

Looking back at the aggressing woman, whatever she was, the chef’s smile vanished. She’d curved around John’s imposing form, her unnaturally blackening eyes and murderous attention still locked on Chris. Apparently, she didn’t have the same respect for sandwiches that he and John did. He cringed, backing away.

“Listen, calm down,” he pleaded, not wanting a fight. He’d barely made it out with his throat un-shredded during their last exchange. “Nobody’s going to hurt you.”

Unfortunately, his plea did nothing to stop her; Chris continued to backpedal in the face of the bestial woman. The stranger retracted his arm slightly, angling the fireball he held at the back of the pale woman's head. The chef cursed under his breath, shooting a look at John that tried to convey ‘don’t piss her off more, for the love of god’ as effectively as he could with his eyes.

“Please,” he said, turning back to the girl. “This isn’t a good idea. Don’t… claw out my eyes and juggle them, or jump rope with my intestines?” He scolded himself silently. A fine time to be joking around.

[Witchblade]

All she wanted to do was feel his blood flow between her fingers as she ripped his throat out. All she wanted was to watch the life slowly fade from his eyes as she took that away from him, leaving them grey and dead and staring at her face and making it the last thing he would ever see before he slipped into a world of nothingness. She wanted that power over him because he’d helped those cultists balance that power over her.

But in the end he saved your life.

That didn’t matter, it didn’t matter! She wanted to believe that it made no difference to her, but she knew it did. She just didn’t want to believe it. And even though he could have attacked her right there on spot for what she’d just done to his friend, he didn’t. He lowered his sword and stood before her pleading with her to stop, as if his words could make a difference. As if she was really listening to him… as if she really cared. But she found herself pausing anyway. Her foot was poised to take another step towards him only it never did. And the tensed muscles in her arms seemed to relax ever so slightly as she stared at him. That’s all she did for a few seconds was stare at him with eyes slowly being consumed in blackness.

What are you doing”

I don’t know…

You’re letting him go after he nearly handed you over to those other disgusting humans? You’re just going to walk away?

Was she just going to walk away? Her indecision was plainly clear on her face, fight or flight. Then she felt the confusion slowly fade away as the bloodlust began to set in once more, taking over all other thought and leaving nothing but it. Leaving only the lust for fighting, for death and for killing. It was consuming and nearly impossible to resist.

“Come on… nobody has to get hurt.”

Her eyes narrowed as they focused on him. His words pushing through the red veil that The Malice was placing over her mind, but the more she began to fight back against it the sudden and splitting feeling her head was turning into. Grinding her teeth, she reached up with one of her hands and felt the cool skin rest against her forehead as the pain only grew stronger.

Witch, don’t do it! Don’t listen to The Malice!

Who’s voice was that? She’d never heard it before and it definitely did belong to The Malice and it certainly was not her own. Shaking her head, the halfling tried to clear it of all the different voices that were spewing forth meaningless words from within, drowning out her own thoughts in the process.

Don’t give in to The Malice; it’s only trying to play you. You’re stronger than it, fight back!

The onslaught of screaming words that came from The Malice only forced her to bring her other hand up and clutch at the side of her skull, as if holding it could somehow ease the pain and the confusion and allow her control over her own mind once more. Slowly, the claws that her nails turned into receded, turning back into the regular fingernails that any person possessed. She locked the voice away with a corner of her mind where it would stay for a time until it found a way to free itself. It was a familiar strategy that she used on it, one that it was becoming increasingly more resistant to, this little episode proving that to her just now.

The pain faded as her eyes cleared and returned to the normal crimson colour they possessed. As the halfling straightened herself and became aware of what had just happened and what had nearly happened she found herself without the words to say or explain anything to Christoph. She normally never felt the need to explain herself to anyone, especially a group of humans but right now she just felt… embarrassed by her own actions. She’d let that darkness within her get the better of her and the three of them had seen a side of her she never liked anyone to see. Fighting was one thing, killing was another, but when The Malice started to take over, she turned into something completely different than who she wanted to be. It was nothing but a blood crazy being that existed only for death and the fun that slaughtering a few thousand would bring. She took great pleasure in killing, but not in the same way that it did. It was something she barely could explain to herself, but there was a fine line of difference between them and she’d never stepped over that seconds ago.

Turning her back on Christoph, the halfling looked at the downed form of his friend. There was a small splattering of blood in the pristine snow by his neck, blood from the wounds that she had caused. They still bled but did not appear to be life threatening. Wordlessly she walked over to him and knelt down beside him. Daegun came up beside her and whimpered, placing his white scaled paws upon her thigh and pushing on her lightly, as if worried she may do something. She merely petted his head before rolling the human onto his back.

I can’t believe I’m about to do this…

Taking a deep breath, she extended her hand over his neck and began pulling on energy within her body she hadn’t used in years. It resisted at first and she found herself having to concentrate harder, but within a few seconds a gentle glow began to illuminate from her hand. Soon, it turned into a pure, white light, almost whiter than the snow around them and once it reached a fair size, she passed the energy from her hand into the human’s body. Immediately the five puncture marks in his neck began to close, leaving no scar and only the smudges of blood as their evidence. As he began to stir and slowly come around, she stood and moved towards the tent to gather her belongings.

[Elijah_Morendale]

Sandwiches. I distinctly remember hearing something about sandwiches as I came to.

I recovered from my little blackout lying on the cold, snow covered ground. My throat hurt something fierce, as if someone drew a couple iron stakes through it and didn't take them out straight. Groaning, I touched my throat, happy to find that there were no gaping holes there, but there was blood... And lots of it. On my neck, and staining the snow near where I lay.

I sighed inwardly. Nadia, what the hell did you do this time?

My head was spinning as I tried to get a grasp of the people around me. There was the real mean-looking woman, and some guy in a dark coat who looked like he was in dire need of a hot bath and a new hairstyle. Next to him stood Chris.

Wait, Chris?

"Hey, man! This girl over here told me you were dead!" I shot a thumb at the dark-clad woman standing over me. My voice was still weak. Whoever it was that attacked me while Nadia was in control must've done quite a number on me. But, I didn't want to think about that right now--I was gonna' have a nice, long chat with my little friend when I could get some time to myself. I tried to stand up, a task made difficult by my head spinning every which way.

I held my arms out to steady myself against the tilt-a-world. "Now, somebody said something about a sandwich. I hope to hell you brought one for me. I haven't had anything to eat since lunch yesterday." My eyes eagerly darted between Chris and the homely man in the coat.

[Molotov]

Now Molotov only chuckled slightly when he saw the unconscious man come to. The mention of sandwiches was amusing, but the mutant was beginning to realize how grave his situation was. He had pressing issues on his mind, the tingling sensation that he felt on the back of his palm every time his adrenaline started pumping being chief among them. However, he had followed Chris, all at the behest of a portly cook. The mutant had done it, partially out of human kindness, but mostly because even he felt a little guilty about leaving right after eating.

The mutant’s first impression had just been to follow after Chris for a little while, but then the chef had started to irritate him, so Molotov followed a bit longer just to needle the upset chef. Now, he wondered whether or not he could, in all good conscience, leave Chris with these new “friends” that he had made.

“Bloody hell,” Molotov thought exasperatedly. “How did the poor bloke go from palling with fat chefs to these stupid wankers. That one that passed out looks fit to be tied, and the other’s a sodding murderer. I’d think she might have done those mouth stitches herself, just because she bloody likes it. Dumb bird.”

Chris was definitely the arrogant sort, but even in their limited interaction with each other, Molotov could tell that he wasn’t a real killer. The misguided chef might kill, and he might do something that he would greatly regret, but even then, Chris wouldn’t be a killer. He’d just be another in a long line of people that were bound to make mistakes they would later regret.

“People like me,” Molotov realized. He knew there was nothing he could do to completely snap Chris out of his arrogance, but his sandwich joke had already begun to work wonders. He could see a change in the demeanor of the man. Molotov knew if he left, then Chris might go down the same path he had gone when he was seventeen, a path that he was only recently recovering from. Even with everything going on in his own life, he couldn’t sit by and idly watch as Chris’ destroyed himself. With people like the sewn lips woman with him, Molotov knew it was all but certainty.

“Well Chris, now that you’ve got all your blokes in order want to get moving on whatever the bloody hell you were doing?” he asked, figuring that they might as well put whatever the cause for the earlier unpleasantness was behind them. “Either that, or we sit around and wait while I get something to eat. Your choice really…”

[Christoph]

Chris paused halfway to where the disoriented Elijah was sprawled out on the frozen ground. Between being followed back to his camp by John and almost being clawed to shreds by raven-haired psychopath, he hadn’t had a chance to think about what he was going to do next. The weary, physically and emotionally tattered chef sighed and slumped into the shallow snow next to Elijah, letting his ornate sword rest on his lap.

“I… I don’t know where I’m going from here,” he replied softly, glancing over at his newest acquaintance. He closed his eyes for a moment and ran his fingers through his hair, brushing the thin layer of snow off of his head. “I’ve spent the last three months traveling through this forsaken frozen wasteland so that I could get home. Only now it turns out that I don’t have a home to go back to anymore.”

“What do you mean?” asked Elijah, sitting up and tilting a confused head.

“My mother is dead, the Inn is closed, and most of the town is hiding in their homes,” he explained, hanging his head. “It’s not my home anymore.” His friend’s scruffy head jerked toward him.

“What?” he asked in disbelief. “Damn, I’m really sorry.” Chris chuckled darkly.

“That’s not even half of it. You remember Malachi, right?”

“Dark priestly guy with the big staff?”

“Yeah, good, noble Malachi. He’s the one who had my mother executed.” His blunt statement and cold voice seemed to catch Elijah off guard. The pale man’s eyes went wide and he stammered in an attempt to respond. “Her only crime was standing up to him and trying to protect the town, and now she’d dead and I have nowhere to go. I don’t know what to do now. What I really want to do is track that bastard down and pay him back for destroying my life. It’s bad enough that he used us as pawns against that vampire, but then he killed my only family. I want to find him and make sure that he never destroys another life again, but… but…”

“But you won’t, will you?” The woman's chilling voice echoed in his skull, sounding like something between a scoff and a disgusted snarl. “You won’t because you’re a weak, pathetic little human.” Chris turned his head slowly toward her, his eyes narrowed and his fists tight.

“What did you say?” he demanded. The woman stood up, taking a step toward him.

“You talk about justice, but you lack the resolve to see it done.” Her eyes burned into him like embers. He recoiled slightly. “Look at you! Wallowing in your own shit and hoping someone feels sorry for you! You’d speak of revenge, but you don’t have the spine to go through with it. You disgust me!”

John growled from the side. Apparently, Chris wasn't the only one who could hear her. "Oh bloody shut up, or I'll start going 'bout what a minger you are..."

Chris sighed. “No… she’s right.” He stood up purposefully. “I can sit around here and mope, or I can take action. I’m going to track that monster down and I’m going to slit his throat for what he’s done. I’m going to end his reign of terror, alone if I must.”

[Witchblade]

The halfling smirked as she watched her words affect the human so greatly. He was so easy to manipulate, most of them were. All one had to do was threaten their pride, call them a coward, a weakling, tell them the truth and they grew a sudden bravado that they hadn’t had moments before. It really was pathetic. He shouldn’t need someone to goad him into doing what he wanted, especially if his mother was someone he cared about so much. He should have the guts to do it on his own, and the fortitude to follow through with it. But the way he was looking right now, Witch wouldn’t be surprised if he gave up after the first bump in the road.

Smirking, Witch began to clap as Christoph stood up and finished giving his speech. “Oh, yeah… why not just throw some more melodramatic bullshit out here. Congratulations, you’ve grown some fucking balls.”

Rolling her eyes, she turned her back on him and disappeared into the tent, only to emerge a few moments later with her rucksack and her cloak in her hands. There was only one last thing that she was missing, The Rot Slayer. She hadn’t seen it with her other things, but then again she doubted that the human could properly lift the weapon, so it was probably somewhere in the area lying in the snow. He probably left it where she had collapsed, which meant it was just a few minutes walk from here.

Absently, she threw her black cloak over her body, covering it against the cold she barely felt and hiding herself from the view of the humans around her. The hood she normally hid her disfigured face behind did not move though, there was no point. They knew what she looked like and one amongst them seemed none too worried to point out her little accident with her. It was hard not to want to rip him into pieces, but Witch had just pulled herself from the embers of The Malice, she was not about to happily go skipping right back into it and start something she had no intentions of finishing. Opening her rucksack she began to pull out some of her weapons. Though Chris had left most of them on her person, her Titanium plated and spiked leather gloves were not and neither was her belt of throwing daggers.

Wrapping the belt around her hips, she quickly tightened it and then let it hang. Following that she slipped her hands into her armguards and using her telekinesis she quickly tighten the strings that held it in place. Before she turned back to the humans.

“Now that you’re feeling so much better after spouting all of that crap from your mouth, why not turn the drama down just a little and ask for some help before you go guns blazing to your own death?”

He chuckled, coldly and cynically; so much different than the man she had originally met. She actually liked this one much better. “Why? Are you in the mood to kill some zealots?”

Her smirk matched the cold look in his eyes. “I’m always in the mood for killing.”

[Molotov]

Molotov wasn’t happy as he heard the conversation that Witchblade and Chris were having. He had wanted to interject, but instead his mouth formed a tight little line of frustration, as he realized that he had reached Chris in perhaps the most tragic part of the arc. Just the words coming out of Chris’ mouth solidified it. “He’s talking about the whole thing like it’s a bloody game, and like he’s the worst person at it,” Molotov thought. “It starts here, for revenge, righteous indignation, whatever bloody thing he’s on about, but that’s not how it ends. Soon, he’s doing things so bloody cruel he forgets that he ever had the ability to be good. And then he does more evil, he keeps trying to one up himself just for his own sake.”

Though he dearly wanted to say these things out loud, Molotov knew that there was no point. Chris wouldn’t listen. Part of him wanted to wait for the woman with the sewn lips to turn her back, just so he could immolate her, but then again, he couldn’t do that either. He knew that she was just a catalyst for a downfall that was already going to happen. As much as he wanted to then, Molotov decided he wouldn’t do anything to the woman.

Instead, he looked at the last member of the group, the man who had wanted sandwiches. “He’s bloody daft, I know that, but maybe he hates this bloody minger as much as I do,” he thought. He made a point that he would do what he could to probe the fourth member of their group as much as possible.

With that, Molotov made his last introduction. “Hey there,” he said with a sardonic wave. “If you know why you’re bloody friend is acting so soddawfully stupid, then I’d really like to know. Tell you what, I’d love to kick those churchies up and down the streets of Sulgoran’s Axe just as much as the rest of you, but know what, I still have a bloody brain? Now please, sandwich boy, just be a bloody brick and talk to your friend and let him know he’s throwing his life away… just please, do it before he ends up doing something he regrets… And yeah, I’m John Lydon by the way.”

For a moment, Molotov considered the revolver by his waits. Two shots, the first one for the woman the second for Chris, and then all his problems would be solved. He didn’t know who they’d kill if left to live, and so it seemed, in a way, like the humane thing to do. Yet, Molotov couldn’t, but only because he knew, if he did, he would feel like a hypocrite.

Molotov wrapped his dragonscale cloak around himself a bit tighter as he looked out on the cold. It was not going to be a good day at all.

[Elijah_Morendale]

I brushed some of the remaining bits of snow off my denim jacket as the freak with the mohawk addressed me. "Don't be so quick to assume that I want to join his little hunt, John." I paused for a second in deep thought. "And come to think of it, I'm not quite sure what's going on inside his head myself. I've never seen him this..." I sighed. "I can't seem to find the word I'm looking for." My dark bangs swayed as I shook my head. Chris was taking a turn for the worse right now.

Almost as an afterthought, I returned the introduction. "Elijah Morendale, by the way." I flashed a smile that quickly disappeared.

I tossed around John's suggestion of trying to reason with my friend. But, how would I go about it? He seemed kind of out of sorts--if I said one wrong thing, he'd probably light my head on fire. I bit my lip hard as I tried desperately to think of something to say.

Nadia crossed her arms and leered at me. "Chief, the poor sap just lost his mommy dearest. The least you can do is tag along."

"Yeah," I quietly whispered in response. "But taking on an Agent of the church? That's about as close to suicide as these guys will ever get. I mean, you saw how much carnage Malachai wrecked during the zombie raid."

The imaginary redhead tossed her hair nonchalantly. "That's why I would be the one hacking his guts out."

I shook my head slightly. No, not even Nadia was going to force me to come along to almost certain death. I cleared my throat, catching the chef's attention. "Chris?"

"Yes?" He had a different look about him than the one I was used to seeing. He was cold; the look in his eyes screamed with the fury of revenge.

I swallowed hard, fearing a fiery response. "Count me out of this one. You guys go ahead without me."

I clenched my eyes shut as a small, uneasy wave of silence passed between us. When I was sure that he hadn't burned me to death, I cracked open an eye. He stood defiant, his arms crossed across his chest. His mouth was twisted into a slight scowl. "Why?"

As I shook my head, my voice cracked a little. "I can only imagine what it feels like to lose your mother, but I don't want to be a part of this. What you're doing is only going to get you killed. And in the off chance that, you know, you guys survive... It won't bring your mother back anyway." I stood there for a few more seconds. Nobody spoke.

I turned around and started to walk away. "Good luck to you anyways," I offered in parting. As I drew away, I couldn't help but to envy Chris. At least he had someone that close to him to lose. For the first time in ten years, a couple tears streaked down my face as I recalled how my own mom and dad abandoned me.

[Christoph]

“No, you don’t have any idea what it’s like!” Chris replied in a shout, standing up after Elijah. He clenched his fists, not wanting to accept what he was hearing. “My mother was the only family I had! She’s dead now, and the entire life that I’d been trying to return to for the past six months is gone. Don’t you get it, Elijah? I’ve only known two types of lives: the one I’d left in my hometown and the life of trials, travel, and violence. I’ve got nothing left besides that second life, and the man who did all this to me is still out there, terrorizing other innocent people as we speak. After all we’ve been through, how can you abandon me now?”

"Abandon?" The denim-clad man stopped in his tracks. "Let me tell you something about abandonment." Elijah swiftly turned on his heel and walked up to the chef, his tear-streaked face red with anger. "As far back as I can remember, my parents treated me like shit. I was kept at a point where I was barely alive--I was rarely fed, always cold, and so, so, very lonely. Then, the fuckers dumped me off on an aunt and uncle when they grew tired of me. And let me tell you, what they did was only worse. Then, they'd pass me on to the next branch of the family tree when they were done. It was like that until I ran away from the entire fucking lot of them."

He stood tense, his fists clenched, his once strong voice breaking down. "You, on the other hand... You at least had someone who cared about you. You had a family. You've known what it feels like to be loved by someone else. Yeah, I know you lost that family, and I am sorry as all fuck that it had to be under these circumstances. I can understand how pissed off you are." Elijah paused for a moment. "But killing in vengeance won't make anything right. Your mom will still be dead, joined in the earth by either Malachai and yourself." The ice-crafter slowly turned around and resumed his path. "Chris, man, you're the closest thing to a friend I've ever had. It'd tear me apart to see you die. That's why I can't be a part of this."

Christopher's glare intensified until his eyes burned like demonic embers. "And after all the times you've been abandoned during a time of need, you'd do the same damn thing to someone you'd call a friend?"

Elijah threw up in hands in frustration. "So I'm a fucking hypocrite, but at least I'll still be alive."

"Just go. Get out of my sight!"

“I’m sorry.” And then he was gone, vanishing into the snowy brush and branches, leaving an empty silence in his wake. Chris had never felt so cold in his entire life. He slammed his fist against a frost-covered tree trunk, letting out a cry that blurred the line between anger and anguish.

“It’s time to go,” he said at last, composing himself and forcing the image of his friend’s back fading into the forest from his mind. The time had come to take charge and do what he’d vowed to do. Malachi was still out there, alive and well. Chris would remedy that. “I want to get as far as possible with the daylight we have.”

Without waiting for any word of confirmation from the other two, the chef started taking down the tent and packing up the camp with cold efficiency. He didn’t even notice the stinging chill of the snow between his fingers. Elijah was gone and was never coming back. It didn’t matter. All that did was getting on the road and finding Malachi before he was lost forever as well. He stood, all of his belongings strapped to his back. With a huge effort, he kicked the woman's massive sword out from under a large pile of snow by the fire circle where he'd hidden it the night before.

“The Sway caravan headed down the southern road,” he said. “So either they’re taking the long way to Knife’s Edge, or they’re going to the border with Alerar. All I know is that I want to catch then before they reach either destination.” He turned and started for the rocky road. “If either of you really want to follow me, I’m leaving now.”

[Witchblade]

If she’d had the heart to care, the words from Christoph may have affected her. The acceptance that he clearly wished his friend would give him and the company that would come along with it were not being offered. He yelled and ranted about how life had been harder for him never having a family than it was for Chris to lose it. She felt sympathy for neither, having no memories of parents or any kind of family at that, the Halfling was without any kind of understanding in the current situation. So she merely heard the words and brushed them aside.

He was emotional, that much was certain and it appeared as if his best friend was abandoning him in his time of need. How sad. And how utterly predictable. Elijah, as his name appeared to be, certainly didn’t seem to possess a single brave bone in his body. In fact, she was rather certain when he had been attacking her, it had been that little bitch of a woman inside his head more than him. The fact that Elijah stomach what needed to be done was of no surprise and no consequence to her. The human would most likely only berate Chris on the moral repercussions of his actions and how this wasn’t really him and this wasn’t who he wanted to be, blah, blah, blah… Better off without him around.

Quietly she watched as he began taking down the tent. There was no point in helping him, not because she didn’t want to, but because she had never used a tent before and really had no idea how the things came apart other than just hacking away at it. So instead she remained quiet and watched his cold efficiency as he moved about, like a stone gargoyle, completing the necessary tasks without thought or emotion.

It was going to be a lot of fun watching his downward spiral.

When he finally stood straight and mentioned that it was time to go, the halfling slung her rucksack over her shoulders and took a few steps closer to him.

“I’ll join you, but first we have to backtrack and retrieve The Rot Slayer. You most likely removed it from my person when I collapsed because it was too heavy for you to carry.”

After all that she had gone through to get that sword, she was not about to abandon it in the middle of fucking nowhere Salvar. Not only would that simply piss her off, but she had the distinct feeling that Megan would like that even less. The woman was a bitch with parchment and pen and too much time and power on her hands. She was not about to give her more reason to fuck around with her life than she already had. Leaving behind that sword would just be inviting trouble.

Without saying anything, Christoph walked over to the fire pit and kicked at a pile of snow around it, one she hadn’t really paid any attention to. His foot caught on something and snagged, but the sight of glinting metal hit her eyes. Arching a brow, she walked over and brushed away some of the snow with her boot, revealing the worn and familiar surface of The Rot Slayer.

So he had been able to drag the sword here... interesting. Perhaps he is much stronger than he looks.

She hadn’t exactly seen him carry the sword around or even try to lift the damn thing, but even getting it to the camp was a feat worth noting in her mind. Not many humans could lift this sword and though she’d never admit it out loud, she would be damned impressed if Christoph had the ability to do that.

Searching around the snow for the handle, the halfling grabbed a hold of it and hefted The Rot Slayer from the ground. The snow easily fell away to reveal the large, six foot titanium sword, equipped with multiple nicks, dents and a crack or two. It looked only slightly better than when she had freed it from the mountains of Kachuck, but there was a chance the snow had just cleaned off some of the grit and crap from it, making it a little more...shiny. Slipping out of her rucksack once more and swinging the blade around until it rested upon her back, Witchblade used her telekinesis to pull and wrap the straps around her body and tighten them, holding the five hundred pound chuck of metal firmly in place and enough of a distance off to the ground to not impede her movements. Then she slipped her bag back onto her shoulders.

Once it was in place, she turned and started heading after Christoph, her baby white dragon quickly following at her heels. Though he clearly looked as if he wanted up on Witch’s shoulder, she wasn’t in the mood to carry the extra weight. Wisely, he kept his distance from Chris, either feeling the man’s sudden change in mood or for other reasons she didn’t know, but she was happier the farther he stayed away from the human. In his current state he was likely to punt kick the little runt away from him if he looked at him the wrong way, and she would to hate to have to rip him apart for doing such a thing. Well, maybe not hate.

[Molotov]

Molotov could practically feel the ghost of his past breathing down his neck as he watched Chris lug the gigantic sword for a murderer. He despised the situation, but yet there was little he could do other than light a cigarette and wish he could have left like Elijah. “Some bloody friend that is,” the mutant thought, unsure of whether he was sarcastic or not. “That’s a bloody brick right there, someone who gets up and leaves when you start killing.”

Since there was no one else who could convince Chris not to throw his life away now, Molotov figured it would have to be him. He had listened to Elijah’s words intently, knowing that anything he could gain about Chris’ personal life might help the chef return to his senses. As he continued, almost silently, fading in the background, he was unnoticeable, save for the smell of cigarettes that wafted towards Chris and the woman.

More than anything else, Molotov wanted to leave. He wanted to have a life that would have allowed him to leave, one in which he felt he could look upon the world and flash it two stiff middle fingers, because all his debts to it have been repaid. Right now though, he knew that he had to save Chris from following in his path. If he didn’t, then all the people he had murdered in cold blood would have been in vain.

As they continued moving, the more and more Molotov thought about Chris, the memories that fateful day when he had gone from disgruntled and abused student to serial killer became more vivid. He could practically see himself in the lab, the smells of phosphorous and sulphur dancing in his nostrils as his eyes shone red with a madness he couldn’t control. He could see himself, minutes later, crying tears of anger and frustration as he’d set his favorite teacher on fire. Seconds later, he would burst through the hallway, unleashing a pillar of fire on an unfortunate group of students that happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

By the time Molotov was finished with Jamison academy, most of the students were still among the living, but the fire didn’t extinguish itself for days. Before he left Radasanth, the mutant had hid in the nearby trees and watched the efforts of fire control, secretly stoking the flames every time he had the chance. By that point, he wasn’t acting out of anger, he was acting to have justified his past decisions. Since he had already taken the label of monster, he felt obligated to live up to it.

“The first killing’s the bloody scary one,” Molotov remembered. “That’s when your rage is coursing, and you just hate. That’s the only one where you’re focused, when the anger inside of you seems so bloody pure that you just want to reach out and grab it. Once that’s done though, you’re a monster and you have to live with yourself. You can’t go back home, so you become the monster that the people you loved for in the first place never wanted you to be.”

Every day of his life, Molotov regretted what happened at Jamison Academy. He had come to terms with his own role, but more than anything else, he hated that the person he couldn’t make restitution to the person he’d wanted to more than any other. His mother had been the one who had pushed to send him to Jamison Academy, despite Molotov’s father’s objections. Molotov had promised that he would make something of himself there, that he would make everyone in their slum proud that one of them could have risen up and overcome. However, his mother had grown sick and died before he could find a cure for her illness, and being of non-noble lineage, he found that his options in the government of Corone were limited. Thus, he’d lashed out on the school, disgracing everything his mother had ever wanted for him.

With his mother dead, Molotov knew he’d never be able to make it up to her, no matter how hard he tried. Chris was about to make the same mistake, and kill in his mother’s name. Molotov didn’t want to see it happen.

The more Molotov thought about it, the more unbearable he felt the situation was. He continued walking through the storms, and it seemed like they had been walking for two hours without getting anywhere. Though Molotov supposed he shouldn't complain, time spent walking was time not spent killing, but even then, it seemed to be a long trek for revenge. The whole time Molotov had remained silent, because he knew that it would be pointless to argue with Chris, though eventually he figured he'd have to give it another try. He ran up to the chef and spoke to him again, hoping that one last appeal might make more sense than all the ones before. “Use your head mate,” he implored. “Think about who’s coming with you and where your friends are. Once you’ve gone… you can’t come back. Think about that man, just think about it…”

Molotov knew pressing Chris would just make him hostile, so he move backwards for a bit to put some distance between himself and the chef again. The experienced mutant didn’t expect his words to have any kind of a sudden effect, but he hoped that when that moment of rage came, Chris was thinking about the people in his life that truly mattered, the kind of people who could have saved Molotov four years ago.

[Christoph]

The trek carried on for long hours in silence and misery. Chris brooded about his past and future while he trudged through wet, ankle-deep snow. He’d lost most feeling in his toes well over an hour ago. The chill spread until it felt like he was walking on bricks of lead instead of flesh and bone. It was actually this kind of unpleasantness that lifted the chef’s spirit. Snow, ice, and cold were what he’d grown up in.

The months and months he’d spend in tropical and temperate climates had almost had him forget the invigorating caress of arctic winds and the bittersweet kiss of snowflakes on his face. It was Salvar; he was home, even if it wasn’t the same way he left it, and that filled him with resolve. It was with this unexpected resolve that he responded when Molotov finally spoke again.

“I did think about it; I’m still thinking about it,” said Chris with a sure voice. He slid his fingers idly over the blade of his sword. “And the more I think about it, the more clear my path becomes. This isn’t just about avenging my mother, not that her death doesn’t deserve vengeance. I knew the man responsible for my mother’s death. We met recently in the western side of Salvar. I saw first-hand what he was capable of, what power he possessed, and the kind of loyalty and obedience he inspired in his men. At first, he seemed to be as good a man as a religious fanatic. Now, though, it has become clear that he’s nothing more than a monster corrupted by power. That’s why I’m doing it. I’ve been in a real war before, so don’t talk to me about moral implications of another battle to destroy a monster before more innocent lives are ruined.” It was his home. His home was worth protecting. It was worth fighting for, worth killing for.

* * * * *

Few words were spoken after that, leaving little more than ominous murmurs uttered from the icy tongues of distant winds. The freezing air swirled vengefully with grainy snow, stinging lungs with every breath and threatening to scour exposed skin raw. The wind intensified further as the sun’s decent continued. It wasn’t long before a veil of oppressive clouds covered the sky.

The Salvic storm struck swiftly and without sympathy. Fierce winds swept across frozen fields, mercilessly lashing at the group. Every step became and effort, though Chris didn’t dare show any weakness in front of his new company. More and more, he found himself clutching the hilt of his sword; it seemed to fill him with strength and warmth each time his skin touched it. Even so, his hidden weariness was taking its toll. Of course, that wasn’t the reason he gave when finally calling for them to stop and make camp.

“We’re going to get lost if we keep going through this storm in the dark!” he called to the others through the white noise of the blizzard. “We can’t even see the road anymore. We’d better stop for the night.”

[Witchblade]

They walked in silence. The last protests silenced by the last spoken words. She preferred it that way, for the only sounds around them to be the crunching snow underfoot and the whistling of the wind in their ears. Whistling that intensified and grew into a deafening roar the further they continued on and the stronger the winds became. Lashing out towards them and trying to push them back in some kind of vain glory, as if it had the strength to stop them. But it was a fierce storm and it seemed to only be building in intensity. The snow that lashed against her no longer felt like the soft, gentle flakes that had caressed her skin before, now it felt like tiny shards of steel that wanted nothing more than to rend and gore her. It struck along her arms, her face, her neck and her chest, causing her to wrap her vlince cloak across her body in an effort to keep it at bay.

Temperatures did not affect her as much as a human, but this was still a little beyond what she could take. She could only imagine how cold and frozen the humans were getting, though none complained. Not out loud anyway, sadly for them she could hear directly into their thoughts and she could sense the weariness coating every step that Christoph took. He needed rest. He’d be no good to anyone pushed beyond the point of exhaustion and ready to collapse. But she didn’t say anything. It wasn’t really her place to care if he pushed himself that far.

Daegun had long ago retreated to the inner depths of her rucksack, most likely wrapped in a few thick layers of blankets trying to stay warm. The dragon didn’t seem to mind the cold and the snow that much, then again she had never had him in a storm like this before, but once the snow’s depth had passed their ankles, he could barely keep up with them and so she had allowed him to travel within her rucksack once again. With the weight of The Rot Slayer on her back, she barely felt the extra pounds coming from him anyway. Not that she ever really had. He had never really been that heavy and her strength allowed her to carry much more than was normal for most warriors. Then again, there were people far stronger than her out there.

When the sun set, the halfling didn’t so much as see it as she did feel it. The thick clouds overhead had long ago obscured much of the light from the sun and left the night in a perpetual state of grey, where it was neither light nor dark. But the whipping snow and winds made it hard to see much of anything beyond roughly six feet in front of her. It was a time after this period that Christoph finally called for rest and to make camp. He made an excuse about getting lost, which was a very real problem but she knew it was also his weariness eating away at whatever reserves of strength he had.

Silently, she watched as he picked out a spot that was somehow better than all the others. Perhaps it was the small grouping of trees that he hoped would provide some extra shelter against the screaming winds. He took off his rucksack and began setting up his tent once more, his motions hindered by the biting wind and snow. But he didn’t ask for help and she didn’t offer, not that she’d know what to do anyway. Instead, she slipped out of her rucksack and released the latch on The Rot Slayer. Grabbing the ice cold handle, she walked over to one of the trees and thrust the sword into the ground at its base. She couldn’t take it in with her into the tent, but she needed to be able to find it easily enough come morning.

It didn’t take Chris long to finish setting up and soon the three of them were inside the run down tent that was supposed to protect them against the harsh Salvar storm. Opening up the top of her rucksack, Witch motioned for Daegun to come out and the moment she did, the little guy practically jumped into her lap, clinging to her for body heat. His tiny little scaled form was shivering rather heavily as he pressed himself up against her torso. Smiling softly, she ran her hand down his back. He’d have better luck clinging to one of the humans if he wanted to warm himself up quickly, but she wasn’t about to tell him that.

[Molotov]

Molotov didn’t much care for the idea of stopping. He was tired and cold, and looked forward to eating one of his remaining sandwiches out of the cold, but he didn’t much care for the prospect of sleeping around a woman that he was relatively certain was a murderer. “And I already bloody whipped out the revolver,” he realized. “Like a fucking ponce, like I was trying to impress a bird back at school. Now if I pass out for the night, she’s going to be after it…”

Once they were inside the tent, a tent that Molotov had put only a marginal effort into setting up, the mutant warmed the air around his body so that he was more comfortable. Though he could have projected this ability to extend to the others as well, he opted not to. It was his subtle way of mutiny that he would let both the murderous stranger and her potential young acolyte shiver in their sleep.

With a slight smirk on his face, he watched with a perverse glee as a little dragon that he hadn’t noticed before snuggled with the murderess. “Not a bit of warm blood between the two of them,” Molotov thought snidely. “And if it comes to a kind thought, I’d probably take the dragon.”

He yawned visibly, but he sat up and began to eat his sandwich. He wasn’t sure how long he’d be able to go without sleep, it had been a long day of travel and the wind had made it that much more grueling. Still, he didn’t trust the people around him. More than anything else, he worried that Chris might leave in the morning without him. Though Molotov had only known the chef for a matter of hours, the mutant knew he was the closest link to Chris’ past. He couldn’t do the job as well as Elijah or someone genuinely meaningful, but Molotov had still met Chris at a different point in the chef’s life.

Molotov thought over the transition he had seen in Chris again. “When I met this poor sod, he was distant and vacant, but he still bloody was willing to help another bugger out with a meal,” the mutant recalled. “Right now, he’d bloody stab a sod before giving him food.”

This was the link that Molotov knew he might be able to exploit. It would be a useful connection between the two of them. The mutant resolved to keep one of his two sandwiches without eating it. It might be the only proof he had that, at one time, Chris was something other than a monster. He knew that there would be moments where Chris would doubt him if he said that.

For now, Molotov would just eat the remainder of his sandwich, hoping that it could stay his eyes becoming unbearably heavy until the other two were asleep. He relaxed, longing to close his eyes, and managed to stay awake surprisingly long after the rest of the group had gone to bed, just waiting in his area, lying prone. Terminally suspicious, once he had ascertained without a doubt that the rest of the group was asleep, he let his eyes close. His hand remained on his revolver, just for the added security.

[Christoph]

Chris had been utterly exhausted by the time the tent was up. He’d fallen asleep swiftly, despite his paranoia regarding the dangerous company that he was in. Even so, he had a surprisingly sound and dreamless sleep, his sword held to his chest for protection. When the weary chef woke up the next morning, he was warm, even though the air was dangerously cold. He was even sweating a little and his hand was sore from gripping the sword so tightly through the night.

“What else can you do?” he mumbled softly, tracing the runes covering the blade.

* * * * *

Once again, silence hovered over the group as it left their sleeping spot and started off again. Fortunately, they hadn’t strayed far from the road the night before. It wasn’t long before they were following the trails of merchant sleds along the snow-covered road. The wind was as frigid as ever and the snow was knee-deep. The morning sun cast a blinding glare off of the crystalline hills but provided little warmth for the travelers.

It was during this second silent march that a sense of futility finally surfaced. Malachi was over a week ahead of them. He would have horses and any trail left behind would be long gone under the snow. If Chris had to guess, the cursed priest would have already taken the first road west, straight to Knife’s Edge to aid with the battle. Once he got there, the chaos would consume him and his retinue. On the off chance that he continued south, his likely goal would be to leave the country for whatever reason. He’d cross the Alerarian border and vanish. They could track him for years and still never find the bastard.

This is hopeless, he thought, despair finally setting in. Perhaps Elijah had been right. It was pointless. Even if they did catch up and track Malachi down, what would it matter? Would they be in any condition to fight him? Would they stand a chance, anyway? It wouldn’t bring his mother back. It wouldn’t put anything back to normal. Besides, the warrior priest was probably going to get killed in the civil war, anyway. He sighed, letting his posture slouch slightly and started trudging just a little slower, letting his hand fall idly across the handle of his sword.

No! What was he thinking? He didn’t have time for self-doubt, not with Malachi roaming free and unchecked. That priest was a manipulative monster. He needed to be stopped. Justice needed to be served. If Chris didn’t do it, who would? He would find the damned priest one way or another, and he would kill him. First, though, he’d need to find him. As it was, the solution to that was to arrive very soon.

“Well, there’s where the road branches off,” said Chris. “And there’s a house there.”

[Witchblade]

Silence was comforting to her. She didn’t need to fill her ears with meaningless chatter in order to pass the time on a journey, In fact she preferred the quiet as the only sounds that surrounded them were of the wild, the wind and their own feet trudging through the thick snow. Snow that was more impeding and annoying the further they travelled. It was up to her knees by this point in time and though she wore knee high boots and her pants were made of leather, she could feel the cold seeping through to freeze the skin below. It was trying in vain though, she was already cold and it wasn’t from the wind and the Salvaran winter.

During the trek, she could feel the waning sense of determination begin to strike within the mind of Chris. It happened, it always happened. But she said nothing. She kept an eye on him from under her hood as she listened in on his thoughts knowing he was completely oblivious to it. This was his journey and his choice, though she was unsure if she would try to encourage him from continuing should his thoughts continue the way they were. She had nothing to gain from it, just the satisfaction of fighting and taking more lives.

Silently, she watched and waited, when his shoulders fell and his head bowed ever so slightly, she waited. Then his hand brushed against the hilt of his sword and everything within his mind changed as if struck with a flow of electricity. Fervently he began to play through the reasons to kill this man once more in his mind. It only brought a slight tug to the corner of her lips, one that could be interpreted as a smirk. It was not the first time she had seen him look for comfort in his weapon though. He always held it close to him, like some kind of safety net and she was beginning to wonder if he wasn’t relying on it too much. There was power in that weapon, that much she could feel and she could sense and though her mind dismissed the idea right away, she couldn’t help but think he was letting it control him in such a way. Not in a sense that the sword was a sentient being, but just the power itself.

When words were finally spoken into the cold air around them, the halfling turned her eyes ahead of Chris and to the road. She followed him as it branches off and soon she could see the makings of farmhouse ahead. It wasn’t particularly large, or small. Modest in side and made of old, grey wood that was stacked one on top of the other. Light was coming out from several of the tiny windows and puffs of grey smoke rose from the only stone structure that she could see, the chimney. Several yards away were another building, this one larger though it did not look to be as well made. The barn, she could smell the animals in it from here, horses and cattle, kept inside and out of the deep cold.

As they grew closer, another smell caught her.

Stopping for a moment she turned her head in several different directions as she tried to find the source for it, but it was quite weak and almost indistinguishable on the wind, as if it had been lingering for hours now. Its strongest presence was coming from the direction of the house, but not actually the house itself. Farmer’s sometimes smelled more of their animals than they did themselves, which was why their herd were seldom afraid of them. This was a distinctly humans smell. Walking ahead of Chris, the halfling began to head around the side of the house and to an area in the snow that was disturbed, kicking away the thin layer of it she found the hard, frozen ground equally so.

Here she could smell a variety of different things, horses and metal and something far more basic that made the blood pump faster through her veins; fear. Fear always had a distinct smell to it, like anything else. It was the way the sweat came off the body and the chemicals it released into the air, sparked by adrenaline and fuelled by anxiety. It was a potent thing and her more base and animalistic nature felt the need to rise whenever she was around it.

“There were humans here not too long ago. I cannot tell how many, but it was a rather large group to still leave their scent lingering on the air. They have horses with them and weapons too.”

She couldn’t be entirely sure about the weapons, they may for some reason be carrying a large amount of metal on them.

The door to the farmhouse suddenly swung open and the head of a man popped out from the other side of it, covered in a mop and mess of brown hair. She could not see the rest of him, as he kept most of his body still inside the warmth and safety of his home.

“Hey! What the hell do you think you’re doing!?”

[Molotov]

Molotov had woken up abruptly that morning, and his entire body had been a bit stiff from the way he’d fallen asleep. It made him grumpy, and his patience for both Chris’ mercurialness and the woman’s misanthropy were waning. The moment he heard her mention something about smelling lives, he couldn’t help himself but to make a snide comment about how she was roughly as useful to them as a hunting hound.

He didn’t like the idea of bringing Chris around other civilized people. “If his own friend found him insufferable, imagine how he’ll be with the rest of these bloody people,” Molotov feared. “If I had my say, I wouldn’t let him at a single person until I had him housebroken. Right now, I’m not sure if the fucking sod wouldn’t throw a hissy fit, start crying for his mother or even take a piss on the carpet.”

However, the mutant knew that Chris was not going to stop at his behest, especially as a poor man who likely knew little about their situation or intentions popped his head out of a farmhouse to demand to know what they were doing. Molotov’s eyes rolled. “We’re planting grass…” Molotov shot back sardonically, his voice betraying just how much his patience had been frayed. “You should come and join us, it’s one of the best things to do in a civil war after a snowstorm.”

With that said, Molotov turned to Chris. “Let me handle this,” he said. “Your girl with the sewn lips doesn’t exactly have what it takes to be friendly…”

Sighing, Molotov went over to the man, surprised that the peasant hadn’t already run in fear. “My ‘friend’ there, the one who doesn’t look like a carnival freak, he’s looking for a person named Malacky or something. Not sure exactly why, something about revenge or a wager over an ermine race-”

Molotov’s irreverence was cut off by the reaction of the slight farmer. “Y-y-you can’t!” he insisted. “It’s Malachi!”

“That’s the name,” Molotov replied. He wasn’t surprised by the reaction. That was the kind of reaction Chris should have had to the name.

“He- he’s the cause of our suffering, all of it,” the farmer began. “We’re honest people though, truly honest, and we’re god fearing folk. We went to church every week, but that wasn’t enough…”

Molotov sighed. It was going to be hard to be sympathetic, even though he regretted the struggles the man undoubtedly suffered, Molotov was cold and tired and grumpy, and had eaten the last of his food the previous night. His stomach was growling, and the mutant found it difficult to show much sympathy in that condition, even for the truly suffering.

“We’ll go after him, bring him back here and make him apologize then,” Molotov replied. “Whatever you want, we’ll get your bloody restitution, alright?”

The brown haired man’s eyes grew even wider, a feat that Molotov would have considered anatomically impossible before he saw it happen. Looking for some kind of clue, the mutant looked in. The entire farmhouse was devastated. Implements were strewn across the ground, many of them broken. Molotov noticed that the breaks were almost even, as if someone had struck the tools across their knee to destroy them out of spite. Bales of hay were unsettled, and small tufts were strewn all around, some of them dyed with blood. There were no corpses, perhaps only because they had been moved for the sake of aesthetics. There was enough blood between the walls and the floor that it wasn’t unlikely that someone had died there recently. As he looked around, Molotov noticed that there was a bloody footprint less than six feet from him, partially frozen and partially congealed. The mutant cringed viscerally. It belonged to a child.

“Bet Chris wouldn’t even notice,” Molotov thought sadly. “And that bloody minger would just think it’s funny…” He heaved a sigh. The farmer had suffered enough without having to deal with a pathological former chef. “Just tell us what you know…” Molotov coaxed. “We’ll leave you in peace, I promise…”

The brown haired man was shaking, though Molotov wasn’t sure if it was out of fear or the cold. The mutant tried to smile encouragingly, but the only response he got was, “I can’t say anything about Malachi sir, even if I wanted. He keeps the world together…”

The mutant didn’t know what that meant, but he decided to just nod and accept it. It was probably one of those Salvarian colloquialisms he had never picked up. Given his own particular brand of tradespeak, he knew that he couldn’t criticize another for theirs. “Thank you,” was his only reply before he headed back to Chris.

“We won’t get anything out of that poor sod…” Molotov said. “And the barn’s not that warm in there either. They’ve got a little fire place and some hay, but trust me, its bloody more depressing there than it was at sewn lip’s debutante dance. Let’s just move on…”

[Christoph]

“Great job ‘handling it,’” Chris growled, shoving past and making a straight line to intercept the farmer before he could get back inside. I’ll have to take care of this myself. The chef had spent a few minutes waiting and glancing around at the various patches of blood and footprints in the snow while letting the other male member of their little freak show to do the talking. He found himself wondering just what had gone on there; he had plenty of theories.

Either way, he couldn’t afford to accept that they wouldn’t get anything useful out of the farmer. They knew that Malachi had been there recently. The gap was far closer than they’d ever anticipated. They could catch up to the priest and his retinue in a matter of days instead of months or even years. In order to do that, though, they needed to know which road their target took. They needed to know, and that simpleton was going to tell them one way or another.

“Not so fast, shit shoveler,” Chris growled, cutting the farmer off, grabbing below his arms, and hurling him face-first into the snow. “Your little sob story might have satisfied Johnny-boy’s bleeding heart, but I won’t be so easily placated.” He kicked the farmer forcefully in the ribs as the man tried to roll over.

“No, please!” he pleaded through cries of pain. “I’m telling the truth!” Chris chuckled. It was a cold, sadistic laugh that would have made his own skin crawl less a mere few days ago.

“Oh, I know you are,” the chef replied, kicking again. “But it’s not the whole truth, is it?”

“Gah! Stop!” he cried, covering his face like a beaten child. “No more! Please don’t hurt me! We’ve suffered enough already.” Chris crouched down next to the dirty man, placing a hand on his shoulder even as he recoiled.

“Those men, what did they do?” he asked the farmer, his voice suddenly soft and warm, though firm.

The man lowered his hands slightly from his face. “They came over a week ago. They demanded to use of my barn and property for church business. I didn’t know why and I didn’t ask.”

“And they stayed here all that time, then? How many were there?”

“Fifty, at least! They just came and didn’t leave for days. More started arriving and joining the first band, too. They started moving into my house. Each day, they grew more and more rowdy, breaking everything, making a huge mess, and grabbing at my wife! And one night, my youngest son wandered out to the barn. He wanted to have a look for himself and snuck out. Those men gave such a beating… I… I don’t know how he managed to walk back to the house.”

Chris nodded, emotionlessly attentive. “What about their leader?” he asked. “What did the man with the staff do?”

“He was one o’ the few who didn’t do much of anything. He just stood and watched everything… never spoke much, he didn’t. I was just glad that he wasn’t causing any damage his self.”

“So he just stood by and watched you and your family get terrorized by his men, then? How noble of him.”

“But—”

“Let me tell you a little something more about our religious friend,” said Chris. “He tricked me into thinking that he was an honorable man, into almost considering him a friend and a decent human being. Then, I returned home to find out that he’d terrorized my town and murdered my mother. Now I’m tracking him down to serve justice, and I need to know which way he went.”

“No! No, no, no…” he cried, almost sobbing. “I can’t!” Pathetic man, Chris thought.

The chef snarled. “You do realize that you’re preventing me from stopping this man from doing the same thing that he’s done to you and I to others.” He leered down at the farmer. “What kind of monster are you, to protect another monster from justice?”

“No! I’m not! He’d kill us!” begged the man, before being silenced by a swift backhand.

“Silence!” Chris demanded. “If that is your position, I suppose that I will need to negotiate in a different way…” With that, he pressed his forefinger into the farmer’s cheek and exerted a small amount of focus. A moment later, sizzling flesh mingled with the man’s agonized scream as a thin tendril of smoke rose from his face. Then, the chef heard feint, muffled sobs coming from the farmhouse. When he turned to look, he saw three faces through the house’s only window. All three slinked away as soon as they saw the intruder’s face. He stood up as he noticed John’s coming over again.

“It’s all right, John. I’ve got a new plan.” He turned to the farmer. “I do hope you kept your doors locked.”

“What… yes?” replied the farmer, his voice alarmed and confused. He was clutching the black and red fingerprint burned into his face.

“And it looks like they lock both inside and outside. It also looks likes you have the only key.”

“I…”

“And I will remind you that both your house and your family are extremely flammable.”

“What? No! Please, no!” begged the farmer, panic and pain piercing his plea.

“John,” he said, turning to face his newest companion. “Get a torch and set fire to the house unless this filth starts talking before you get there.” John crossed his arms and glared at the chef.

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

Chris growled and shoved past him, striding straight to the house. “Fine, I’ll do it myself. And I won’t need a damn torch.” Holding his hand out palm up, he summoned a large ball of fire that was closer to green, as opposed to the bright blue that it usually was. He gave one last glance to the farmer. “Last chance. No? Very well.” And he hurled the fire.

[Molotov]

The fire never made it to the wall. Molotov didn’t even unfold his hand as he caused the fire ball to crash into the snow, extinguishing itself seconds later. “You’re not the only person who doesn’t need torches,” the mutant replied scornfully. He eyed Chris down, wanting to make sure that the chef knew that he had finally crossed the line that the mutant wasn’t willing to let him cross. He had allowed the torture, but only because it had escalated so strangely and so quickly that the mutant hadn’t been able to prevent any of Chris’ heinous acts until they were too late. Now he wasn’t going to tolerate any more.

“This thing, whatever it is, your little tortured schizophrenic phase, it ends bloody now,” Molotov began. “We’re not going to call anyone else on their shit now, we’re going to bloody just go and take care of you. Have you looked around here for a single sodding second? The farm here, what do you think your good friends bloody used it for? Same damn thing you’re doing right now. I saw in that place, and there was blood, even the blood of children. They were torturing in there... you stupid wanker.”

Molotov looked at the poor farmer, and as the two of their eyes met, the mutant could tell that the situation was as he had guessed. A slight shudder escaped from his body, he hadn’t expected Chris to be as far gone as he was. There was something different about the chef, something that wasn’t completely natural. Molotov had seen the ways in which people fell, but he had never seen someone fall as dramatically or as hard as the chef who now stood in front of him.

Knowing full well that Chris was past the point where just pointing out the man’s stupidity wouldn’t be enough to stop him from committing more of it, Molotov began to remind Chris of the kind of person that the chef was only yesterday. “You could go around acting like a ponce here if you really wanted,” Molotov said. “Lord knows your bloody Malachi did, but trust me, you’re going to be bloody doing all the same damn things if you let yourself. If you want to take the high road and call others a monster, shouldn’t you at least remember the things that don’t make you one yourself?”

He pulled the last sandwich out of his pocket. It had been a bit flattened by the awkward way that the mutant had fallen asleep the previous night, but it was still quite visibly a sandwich. The mutant made sure Chris could see it wasn’t a weapon he was reaching for as quickly as he could, and then he practically shoved it into Chris’ face. “You let me at this yesterday, because I was sodding hungry,” Molotov said. “You’re the actual kind of bloody person who gives people what they need sometimes. Know how sodding rare that is. Don’t turn into another kind of bastard Chris… you’re just going to let them win. Chris, Malachi destroyed a lot of lives, don’t let him destroy yours.”

Molotov sighed after he spoke. He couldn’t really say much more. Every last word he said he meant sincerely, but he was afraid of the way that they touched his own heart. He regretted not believing the things he was saying now when they could have helped him come to his senses so many years ago in Corone.

“Look,” Molotov concluded. “I know what it’s like to see an injustice that has consumed everything around you, and the indignation it creates that makes you want to, come hell or high water, destroy every last bloody thing in your path, just to create some justice in a fucked up situation. Trust be though, you don’t bloody get it it… you just really don’t.”

[Christoph]

Chris gave a frustrated and annoyed sigh, leering at John. “You’re a pathetic fool and you don’t know what’s at stake, here,” he growled, starting toward the house to set it aflame from up close. The cloaked man stepped in his path, a few feet in front of the structure. “We don’t have an option, here. This is our last chance to catch up to Malachi, and I am going to find out which way he went by any means necessary. Now get out of my way.” Fire flared in the chef’s eyes, but John was as defiant as ever.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” he replied sternly, narrowing his eyes. Chris had had enough. He went for his sword, but John reacted right away, grabbing the chef by the neck and slamming him against the wall of the house.

Dropping his sword and letting his well honed combat reflexes kick in, Chris responded in kind and shoved his hand right into his assailant’s throat. He didn’t stop there, however. With a menacing grin, he began channeling fire out of his palm, singing the flesh on the man’s neck. Shockingly, John didn’t loosen his grip; he didn’t so much as flinch. Instead, the cloaked man’s hand became bitterly cold, painfully leaching the heat from Christopher’s face and chest.

The pyromancer reacted instantly, forcing the hand from his rapidly freezing neck and driving his skull right into John’s nose. In the mere second that the holier-than-thou bastard stumbled back, Chris had muttered the two-word incantation of his strength charm and was already bull rushing him. The charging tackle hit John right at the waist. The momentum combined with the chef’s sudden boost in strength brought his foe to the ground swiftly.

Once the two landed in the disturbed snow, the brawl intensified. Knees and elbows grabbled with each other, fists flew, and heads smashed together as the two struggled for dominance. John knew what he was doing, obviously a veteran of countless scraps just as the chef was. He was able to immobilize Chris’s legs right away. He responded by squirming free of the hold and ramming his elbow repeatedly into his opponent’s throat.

Christopher’s strength charm made its impact quickly, giving him a significant upper hand after the first few seconds. After grappling in the snow for several moments, he had John pinned to the ground. Not even truly aware of his actions anymore, he smashed his fist into the man’s face over and over, hearing bones fracture and crack with each impact. He snarled maliciously, determined to cause as much damage as he possibly could.

[Molotov]

Molotov’s head was swimming in pain for a moment, but only a moment. A little blood ran down his face as he cringed, clutching his wounded face in pain. The blow would have been staggering enough to have knocked most unconscious, and if Chris had been a bit less emotional, the chef might have been able to land a more damaging blow to the temple.

Now, the mutant’s body was healing itself, even as Molotov covered his face to shield himself from future blows. He managed to breathe out a stream of cold air straight at Chris’ face, too shocked by the sudden burst in Chris’ strength to be able to do much more than that. Still, that was just enough. The ice caused Chris to clutch his face, and that loosened Chris’s grip just enough for Molotov to toss the suddenly muscular chef off of him.

As he picked himself off, Molotov was all but healed. Quickly, he snapped his nose back into place, and spit out a bit of blood that had spilled out of already healed abscesses. He couldn’t help but smirk a little, Chris’ sudden bursts of strength had come as a considerable shock to him, but the mutant figured that his healing powers would likely have the same effect on the Chef.

The situation had taken a turn for the worse quickly and, despite how obvious it should have been, unexpectedly for the mutant. He didn’t have much time to think, as Chris had turned the battle into one where survival was at stake. Aware that his sudden healing might buy him at most a few seconds to regain his composure, the mutant immediately sprung back into a fighting stance, hoping that there might be a way that Chris might somehow come to his senses.

“This isn’t how this was supposed to bloody end…” Molotov thought regretfully. “Stupid fucking wanker of a sod, all he had to do was just bloody walk away, instead though, he wants to impress the greatest minger I’ve seen on the entire planet. Hope Chris bloody likes the taste of bloody string when he goes in for a kiss…”

Still, the mutant wasn’t willing to give up on Chris. There was too much at stake, Molotov believed, more than anything else, that there would be some redemptive power for him in saving the young Chef. Chris was still falling, but Molotov hoped that somehow he’d be able to stop a complete descent, even against the odds. In an action that begged more of hope than of strategy, Molotov formed a large ice cube and sent it hurling straight at the Chris’ temple.

The mutant cringed the moment after he’d created the attack. It might have knocked Chris out, but a sharp projectile aimed at the throat would have been far more effective. It would have ended the life of the chef, who between pulling ice off his face and picking himself up, would have been mostly unable to defend it. Now, Molotov knew that if his attack missed only by the slightest, all it would do is bruise the fallen chef, letting Chris get back up to his feet and gather his sword.

As the projectile sped towards its target, Molotov cursed himself for his cheap sentimentality.

[Witchblade]

Things really did degenerate in this little group of hers rather quickly.

Chris seemed to be falling faster than a boulder down a hill at a ninety degree angle. The human was quickly becoming something she could barely recognize from the man she had originally met. Oddly enough, she didn’t know which one she liked better, the compassionate and caring Christoph, or the morally skewed one. His actions upon the human did bring a slight smile to her face, one that tugged at the corner of her sewn lips. The blood that was in the air now was old, and masked, frozen in the snow and she was waiting for the human to unleash a new barrage of it that would stain the ground red once more.

He never got the chance to. His little ball of hell fire and fury—green of all things, she swore it had been blue when they’d been fighting—was extinguished long before it could reach the brittle and worn word of the house. Extinguished by none other than John, or whatever the hell he wanted Christoph and her to think his name was. Idiot was what it should have said, her telepathy had made it easy for her to discover his true name right from the beginning of all of this, and the supposed one he went by. Not that it even mattered, because she didn’t even recognize it as anything special. Though from some of the memories that constantly danced through his head as he argued with Chris, the man was no Letho Ravenheart or Damon Kaosi, so she saw no reason for him to argue the human down and away from his little torture scene. Still, it was an amusing scene to watch.

Crossing her arms just under her chest, the Halfling watched as the two humans began to roll around in the snow, each one fighting for dominance over the other in a fury of fists, feet and legs. Chris easily got it and began beating his fists into the face of Molotov and the sick sound of bones breaking filled the air, but oddly enough she couldn’t really smell the blood from the mutant. He was healing himself and at an incredibly fast rate, much faster than her own healing skills.

Sighing, Witch began walking towards the farmer, still cowering on the ground and watching the battle wide-eyed and fearful, like a doe before the wolves closed in.

“P-Please, I can’t tell you where he went!”

The man was pleading with her as if she actually gave a fucking rat’s ass about him or his family. They could all burn and the only thing that would bother her would be the stench their rancid bodies left in the air.

Instead of staying still, the human began to crawl away from her, through the soft snow and closer towards his house. Sighing, she quickly caught up to him, kicked him hard into the side and sent him rolling onto his back.

“Please don’t run, it really gets on my nerves.”

Placing her boot on the centre of the man’s chest, she exerted just enough pressure upon it to make things uncomfortable for him. Turning her head back to the battle, she cut off her telepathic link with Molotov so that only Christoph could hear her.

“Chris, you want me to set the house on fire now? Chris? Chris, stop fighting Molotov for one second and answer me.” He didn’t appear to be paying attention to her. “I’m going to set the house on fire now... I’m gonna do it...”

Raising one of her hands, the Halfling snapped her fingers and watched as a blue sphere of fire formed just above her gloved palm. Hearing the human at her feet begin to protest once more, she applied more pressure to his chest and heard the strangled gasp as he wisely stopped talking. With a quick flick of her wrist, she sent the sphere flying towards the house and watched as it impacted upon the wall. The flames burst forth in a shower of blue and as they began to catch upon the dry wood, they slowly began to return to the normal red that fire should be.

Laughing softly, she looked down at the farmer once more. “Now, about that information.”

One should never send in a boy to do a woman’s job. Tilting her head to the side slightly, Witchblade closed her eyes and forced her way into the mind of the human. She could have done it nicely, she could have made it seamless and rather uninteresting for the man, but where would the fun in that be? She deliberately tore into his mind and relished the way his body tensed beneath her boot, struggling to get out from under her. No doubt he was clutching the sides of his head as she continued to dig through images and memories like a hot knife through flesh. Her much stronger will easily overcoming his as he could do nothing but whimper in pain.

[Christoph]

Chris spun in the air and instinctively leapt back after hitting the trampled snow. The icy projectile flew by, barely missing his head. Apparently, Molotov had been hiding more from them than his name. The pyromancer knew that his attacker would likely continue the volley and he found himself wishing that he hadn’t dropped his sword. No sooner had this desire entered his mind as he scrambled and crawled blindly through the snow than did his hand suddenly grasp the hilt of his prized blade, even though he hadn’t dropped it anywhere near where he’d landed. He wasn’t about to ask questions, though.

Springing to his feet with his sword in hand, the chef expertly parried the incoming volley of magically formed ice as though they were flying beer mugs in a tavern. He darted forward through the slush, brandishing his weapon. The Prevalida blade flashed with a blue shimmer but was stopped with the sound of metal sinking into wood as Molotov parried with a black wooden nightstick. The cloaked man sneered. Chris snarled. Where did that come from?

The sword had taken a sizable bite out of the wooden club and the chef was keen to press the advantage, slashing at Molotov again and again, forcing his opponent back as he tried desperately to defend himself with the inferior weapon. Wooden shavings and chips flew off and helped the dirt and blood decorate the snow. It only took a couple of seconds before the wooden club was cut into useless pieces. Chris grinned in triumph, but his foe wasn’t done yet. The man narrowed his eyes and formed a chest-sized sphere of orange fire between his hands and flung it forward. The chef sidestepped swiftly and batted the flame back with his sword as though it were a ball. Without a second thought, he followed up with his own green fireball.

To his surprise, Molotov caught both his own deflected attack and Christopher’s blast and tried to throw the combined inferno back. It stopped midair, suspended directly between the two as they focused their wills against each other for control of the unnatural flame that they shared. For several moments they struggled, and no matter how hard he tried, Chris continued to lose ground as the swirling blaze inched closer and closer. Finally, with fiery tongues licking his face, he forced the spell around him, where it exploded in a shower of dirt and steam. Directly behind its impact point was the house, all but completely consumed in a roaring fire.

“Witchblade!” he roared. “What the hell did you do?”

[Molotov]

“She bloody did what you wanted me to do,” Molotov replied snidely. “Don’t bloody act like you didn’t want her to.” He was utterly flabbergasted with the woman’s depravity. While the mutant had done a number of callous, and even downright cruel things in his life, he had never seen someone who had taken such an arrogantly perverse joy to it. People like Molotov and Chris killed because they felt weak, but someone like this Witchblade killed because she wanted to feel superior.

Now, as much as the former chef might hem and haw, Molotov knew it would be up to him to save the people inside. Unaware of Witchblade’s location or her actions, Molotov’s gaze was now fixed on the fire. He could hear screams inside, and nervous, panicked instructions issued by a mother. Sighing, the mutant told Chris of his intentions, practically daring both his traveling partners to stop him. “I’m going in there to save those poor sods,” he said. “Bloody fuck if I care what this person tells me about your sodding Malachi, but since you’re going to be out here playing sociopath, answer this question for me Chris. Are you actively trying to disgrace the memory of your mother, or did she raise you to be this much of a ponce?”

The mutant hadn’t meant for Chris to really answer, he just wanted the question to be hurtful enough that he’d be able to get into the house without Chis interfering. He didn’t care what Witchblade did, and in truth, he hoped she tried to stop him. It would have given him an excuse to plant a bullet right between her two wicked eyes. Immediately, he began to temper the flames rolling through the house, doing everything he could to cool the temperature inside.

Already, the mutant could hear the screams emanating from inside the house. He busted his way in, practically ramming through the burnt door with his fireproof cloak before spying a group of children and their mother huddling up together in the centre of the room. There were flames all around them, and had it not been for the mutant’s skills, he would have never been able to reach them. Now, as he stood with them, he realized the utter despair of his dilemma. There were too many people for him to usher out at once, and Molotov doubted that he’d be able to make a second trip through. Even though he had reached all the people in need, if he wanted to save them he was going to have to choose.

As Molotov looked into the face of the mother, he could tell that she knew the grim realities of the situation just as well. The mutant desperately tried to think if there was some way his powers could save them, he might be able to hold the flames at bay indefinitely, but that would only have been if neither Chris nor Witchblade interfered, an event he was almost certain would happen if he only gave it time. He was willing to fight both of them, and he even fancied his chances, but he couldn’t do it while protecting a family from the flames.

“What do you want?” he asked the mother, knowing that there was no way he’d be able to choose between her children by himself. “What should I do?”

[Christoph]

“What? No, I…” Chris stammered, coming up short for words as Molotov sprinted inside, the burning doorway collapsing immediately after him. What could he say? What would his mother have said? How could he possibly use her name to rationalize what was occurring? He hadn’t wanted it to go this way; it had just been to scare the farmer into talking. He forced himself to believe that. The cook couldn’t deny, however, that he was at least partially responsible for it all happening. Of course, his new choice in companions was a troublesome factor in its own right. He glared at Witchblade, who was standing with her foot on the farmer's chest. She shrugged as though it were nothing.

Don’t look at me like that,” she said, her ethereal voice echoing in his skull. “What does it look like I did? I got information. They went south.” Chris had stopped listening, though.

“No! I didn’t want it like this!” he shouted, smacking his forehead with his palm. “I was handling it, and now the whole damned thing is out of control.” She seemed rather apathetic. The chef growled. “And now we’ve got to get in there and save his family!”

Chris darted to the rapidly burning structure. He could hear a woman and children moaning and sobbing within, along with heavy footsteps through the crackling inferno. Molotov was inside, but with all the obvious exits blocked, it wouldn’t be easy for him to get out, let alone with the family. He rammed against the wall next to blocked window with little effect.

“Shit!” he cursed. Fate was mocking him; even as the walls fed the raging inferno within, they were too sturdy for him to break. “Witchblade! Help me! We need to find a way inside.”

[Witchblade]

The Halfling sighed as she watched the human pace around the house, desperately trying to find a way in. He’d wanted the place burning to the ground; he’d wanted those inside to suffer, to die because they couldn’t give him what he wanted. She had sensed that from him, felt it emanating from him like the stench that constantly flowed from his very skin. But now he was changing his tune and dancing around like a little mocking bird, only he was mocking himself. Could he not make up his mind? Or was he just so confused about the whole thing he no longer knew what he was doing and what course he should follow? It was annoying to say the least and slightly frustrating, but still she had done the job he had not been able to.

Removing her boot from the chest of the human, she walked towards the house. The heat from the flames felt good against her skin, especially her face, cooled from the ever present Salvarian winds. She could not smell any burning flesh from within so she knew that the fire had not yet consumed a life and the steady sound of multiple heartbeats only served to further confirm this. They were fluttering around through the crackling and splintering of wood, but for some reason the fire was being held at bay, as if not entirely able to consume the house. She had a good idea who was doing this, though she really didn’t care anymore.

“First you want them dead and willing to stain your own hands in their blood and now when someone has shown that they have the strength and fortitude to do this, you shy away as if unable to witness their loss of life.”

Feeling her frustrated and anger beginning to rise in the back of her throat like bile, the Halfling did the only thing she could without taking it out on Christoph himself; she took it out on the house. Slipping the rucksack from her shoulders and allowing it to land rather unceremoniously on the soft snow, she then unclasped her cloak and allowed it to flutter to the snow as well, a black blotch upon the pristine white. The chill wind swept across her bare arms and into the deep v of her shirt, eliciting the slightest shiver that raced down her spine and set her nerve endings on fire.

Reaching behind her with one hand, she wrapped her long thin fingers around the handle of The Rot Slayer and then released the clasp with her other. Five hundred pounds of Titanium relieved itself from her back and settled within the hold of her one arm. Bringing the massive sword out in front of her body, she heard a rather loud and audible intake of breath come from the human still cowering behind her. But she paid no mind to him, she had gotten what she’d wanted from his mind and he hadn’t even had to tell her, now had he?

Listening to the sounds of the heartbeats, Witchblade quickly moved towards that section of the house. It was away from the windows, nestle in one of the far corners where the flames were not as thick but she bet the smoke was beginning to fill in. Indeed, a steady, black stream of it was rising towards the grey sky even now. Once she was merely a few feet from the wall, the Halfling braced herself and then brought the sword up over her head, wrapping her other hand upon the handle as well. With the strongest swing she could muster, she brought the gigantic blade down upon the side of the house. The sound of wood splintering and breaking rent the air, louder than any of the sparks and crackles that the fire could have afforded to make. Small pieces of wood went flying in every direction, some scoring her bare skin and black smoke, billowed out temporarily blinding her and choking the air from her lungs. By the time she was done, the Halfling had cleaved a hole roughly five feet in height and three feet wide into the room.

Backing away from the home, she turned and looked to Chris.

“You ask for help, you get it...”

[Molotov]

Molotov wasn’t sure what to make of the sudden changes of heart from Witchblade. If he could have afforded the luxury, he would have ignored her and got the children out by himself. Now, he knew he could get them out. He knelt down so a little girl could climb onto his back, and then grabbed a smaller pair of children in his arms. There was still one more child, and the mother seemed too terrified to do anything other than clutch her last child fearfully.

Her eyes met Molotov’s, begging the mutant not to leave her. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Someone will get you before the fire…”

Chris has come running in before Molotov could burst through the flames. The mutant nodded slightly, acknowledging the chef quickly before moving through the opening that Witchblade had created. Through his mutation, the flames practically parted way in front of him as he rushed to bring the children to safety. The mutant grunted, it was difficult to keep his concentration given the amount of weight he was carrying. The children in his arms squirmed fearfully, whining and screaming as the flames came a bit too close for comfort.

“Bloody shut up,” Molotov said between panting breaths. His language might have not been that appealing, but it had its effect. The kids stopped squirming, more fearful of Molotov’s swearing than they were of the fire around them. “And bloody, just hold on…”

The children complied. Seconds later, Molotov had burst through the flames and out the hole in the house. Despite his vulnerability to Witchblade he staggered down to his feet and collapsed out in the snow. He let go of the children the first moment it was safe, and they chattered fervently about their mother. “Bloody… hell….” Molotov managed, his entire body overcome with exhaustion after having to carry the children. “Give… me… a… sod…ing…min…ute.”

Sweat had caked the mutant’s body, so much so that he gave off steam in the cold weather. The snow, despite the way it practically melted on touch, felt soothing, a welcome momentary relief. “God bless Agarnath the Wise…” Molotov thought, grateful for the dragonwing cloak that had kept the worst of the flames off of him.

[Christoph]

Chris came crashing through the house, finding the frightened mother just as Molotov rushed out with her children. He nodded back as the cloaked man rushed for the hole that Witchblade had made. Without a second though, he scooped up the woman and sprinted for the opening in the wall. Flames licked and lashed at him, but he wasn’t about to stop.

His extensive practice with arcane fire had also made him an expert as warding off the stuff. He made it through with the farmer’s wife without so much as a singed hair, making it out just as the house collapsed. He actually allowed a small, satisfied grin to form on his face as he set her down. That faded quickly, though, as the gravity of the entire event hit him again as the icy wind hit his face.

“Shit… what a mess,” he muttered, slouching next to Molotov to catch his breath as the family rushed over to the farmer. The chef brushed soot and ash off of himself. He fell into the snow and sighed. “Listen… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to go this way.”

He gazed up at Witchblade, who was as emotionless as ever. How does she do it, he wondered? I’m not above intimidation and fear to get things done, but I couldn’t try to kill people and feel nothing. I couldn’t take pleasure from the suffering of others. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to believe that.

“What did you find out,” he asked the wicked woman. “Which way did Malachi and his men go?”

[Witchblade]

She made no move to help the two humans as they rescued those from within the home; she had done all she’d been asked to. Chris had merely wished for her assistance in finding a way into the home, he had never asked for her to rush into the flaming and collapsing piece of lumber and carry a few screaming children out of it. Which was good, because she may have refused. Not only did she have little to no interest in saving their lives, but she could not withstand the hands of the children and mother all over her, touching her bare skin. It would be her downfall and the events that would follow such a thing would probably leave none within this snowy valley alive. There was a reason she rarely spent time in the company of others, even though somehow the Halfling constantly found herself thrown into strange adventures she would rather not participate in.

As both Molotov and Christoph stumbled from the smoke ridden house, she did nothing but place The Rot Slayer once more upon her back. They dropped their precious little bundles and one by one they rushed over to the farmer, injured more by Christoph than any action she had taken upon him.

Words broke the silence, the apologetic kind but she knew they weren’t aimed at her. Whether or was Molotov or the ground of traumatized humans huddling close together and watching the remained of their house crumble and burn she didn’t know, nor did she really care. Chris’s behaviour was beginning to fluctuate too much and it was worrying her slightly. When she had first met him, he seemed like another hood Samaritan, the kind that went out of his way and even put himself into harm’s way just to help another person. Then it had shifted into something cold, something that felt little towards that of other people and had been willing to show that to those around him. But now even as he sat within the snow it becoming something new once more, as if he was trying to find a balance between the light and this growing darkness within him.

Drawing in a large quantity of the cool and smoke filled air, the Halfling grabbed her cloak from the snow and quickly wrapped it around her body, shielding it from the wind, even though the heat of the flame was keeping her warm enough. Then she picked up her rucksack and placed it upon her back once more upon her back, wondering if the bundle within was angry at her for having dropped him so roughly. The wounds she had already gained from the sharpened shards of burning wood were healing if not completely healed. They left nothing but a trace of her dark, blue blood upon her flawless, pale skin.

“The caravan headed South...”

Walking over to the human, she extended her hand to help him up from the snow.

[Molotov]

Molotov had wanted to be done with Chris. Before the house had caught on fire, the mutant had figured, one way or another, they would be done by the end of their fight. Chris would have beaten him beyond the point where he could have continued, or Molotov would have killed Chris. Either way, the battle would have been over. Now, he knew he would have to continue. Molotov could tell that Chris was going to continue after Malachi, but that there was still something redeemable about the man.

Cursing his lot, Molotov wondered why he had to discover the hardest ways in the world to seek redemption. Saving an entire village of Coronians from a succubus had been a less stressful ordeal, and that had been when the mutant had lost his most prized trenchcoat. Now, he was lying out in the snow, his pants somewhat singed by the flames, no better off than when he had initially started.

For a moment, he considered offering to heal Chris or Witchblade. While he hadn't really looked, he was sure they would have sustained a few knicks and bruises in the least. However, even if Molotov’s heart was big enough to help them, it couldn’t override his common sense. “Sooner or later, I’m going to have to kill that minger…” the mutant realized. “The bloody more beaten and tired she is when it happens, the bloody the better it is for me.” Soon, he realized the point was vacuous. Witchblade naturally had healing at his level. The mutant decided to remember that, just in case it ended up necessary later.

With a sigh, he knew that, for better or worse, this adventure was going to continue, and in the end, someone was going to die. Molotov knew now that Witchblade had powers that allowed her to read minds, and that somehow, he was going to have to find a way to counter that, both in her ability to read his senses, and in any abilities she had to change the senses of Chris. Secretly, Molotov feared that it was chicanery by the sewn lipped monster that was driving Chris to the point of insanity, because it had become apparent that Chris’ slip into madness was something that wasn’t wholly natural.

Regardless, Molotov would persevere. He had persevered through everything he’d been through before, be it alienation at a boarding school, leading a group of misnanthropic mutants through the Gisela tournament or saving children from a fate they didn’t deserve. The mutant’s life had begun to resemble that of a cockroach, though he seemed to accrue more and more resentment regardless of what he did, he managed to become harder and harder to kill.

“The bloody minger thinks she knows what she’s doing here,” Molotov figured. “She’s got it all planned out, the whole scenario, but bloody hell, if she thinks it’s going to be easy to run through Salvar killing people, she’s got another thing coming.”

With that, Molotov fumbled in his pockets for his cigarettes. After a bit of fumbling around and slight consternation they had been lost to the flames, he put one in his mouth and lit it. As he breathed out the blue grey smoke and watched it dissipate over the crisp, snowy Salvarian landscape he wished it farewell, hoping that, at the end of the adventure, he would be far away from both Chris and the woman.

“So,” he said, speaking as if absolutely nothing had happened, eager to turn the page to the next chapter. “Where to?”

[Christoph]

Molotov’s words served well to clear the chef’s mind and bring everything back into focus, reminding him of his purpose. Malachi was out there; he was close. If they could catch him, the whole ordeal would not have been for nothing. He glanced back and forth between his two companions, almost as surprised that neither of them had left yet as he was that they hadn’t killed each other.

He looked at Witchblade's outstretched hand. On one hand, he was a tad paranoid. On the other, such a gesture was so unlike her that it must have had some kind of significance that he couldn’t grasp Even so, he stood up on his own, brushing himself off and making eye contact with the woman long enough to whisper, “save that for when I really need it.” His tone was somber.

“Witchblade… extracted the information from the farmer,” he replied. “Malachi and his caravan continued down this road. They didn’t take the road west. That means we stick to this road as well and hopefully catch up with them. I figure that we can move faster than a caravan that size, unless they all had horses.” He hoped that it would be that easy. For whatever reason, the agents of the Sway weren’t heading for Knife’s Edge after all.

Gladly turning his back on the ruined farm, Chris returned to the road in silence. He didn’t even motion for the others to follow. He wasn’t surprised to hear their footsteps and the trot of the tiny dragon behind him. They had their own motives for accompanying him. He was suspicious of both of them, obviously, but he was in no position to argue with their formidable aid.

Without a word they continued their trek down the cursed road to their likely demise. Trudging through the snow, they chased their prey – a prey on the verge of escaping beyond any reasonable means of pursuit. They were fleeing to a land that Chris had never been to before. Malachi and his band were headed south, and thus the three of them would take the southern road as well. They would go to Alerar.



Spoils request summary:

Christoph: the activation of the second rune on his sword. It provides the magical ability to protect its wielder from adverse environmental effects. (Keeping him warm in bitter cold and cool in blistering heat, etc…)

Molotov: the sammich. It's stale, has a bite taken out of it, and has been squashed repeatedly, but it came from the Golden Grass Inn, so damn if it doesn't still taste good.

[Skie and Avery]

Quest Judging
When Blood Runs Cold

STORY

Continuity ~ 6/10. Pacing brought this down. By the time I’d read everything, I’d forgotten why some of the characters were even there to begin with.
Setting ~ 7/10. Nothing spectacular. I liked references about how Molotov steamed when he’d come out of the burning building back into the cold.
Pacing ~ 4/10. This was pretty awful. The quest was interesting, but it got bogged down a lot. For one, you guys had a lot of posts, especially on Elijah’s part, where the majority of the content was just going back and retelling what had been written in previous posts. Yeah, it shows your characters view of it, but here it hurt more than help. Christoph and Witchy had a time with this too, and overall this is why the quest suffered. Also, it seemed like the more the quest went on, the more Witchblade was just saying the same things. More on that in Persona.

CHARACTER

Dialogue ~ 7/10.
Action ~ 5/10. Again, suffered with pacing, and some of Christoph’s actions really didn’t make any sense to me, like when he started beating the crap out of that poor farmer.
Persona ~ 4/10. I can understand that Christoph was angry and desperate, and how something like the death of his mother would change a person, and that the sword and Witchblade’s goading would stoke the fires, so to speak. However, it was too extreme to be believable. It was like, okay, first he comes across as a normal guy who’s a bit down because of all the bad luck. Then comes righteous anger, which is a heroic trait. Suddenly he’s torturing a farmer. O…kay. Even if the righteous anger is the start of a villain…seriously. Let’s… just… and then he’s yelling at Witchblade for doing what he just tried to do? I can understand the confusion of your team members, and if the extremity of this was on purpose, it wasn’t explained well enough to do anything for this thread but hurt it. As far as Witchblade herself is concerned, your character was very flat here. You gave some sign of an inner struggle in regards to how she felt about Christoph and the way he saved her life, but for the most part you completely ruined that as the thread went on. Your character showed nothing that I could relate to as a reader. Even if you wanted me to hate your character, I need to relate. I need to get close enough to see her as something I could loathe, and maybe loathe her more because I see something I can identify with there. Your character wasn’t tangible at all in this quest. She was background noise. Also, I couldn’t tell if cold affected her or not. Sometimes you said that it had no effect, went on about how she was already freezing, etc, and then a few posts later, she’d be shivering over something. If she’s meant to have a resistance, but not immunity, to cold, it should have been made more clear.

WRITING STYLE

Technique ~ 5/10. Limited use of techniques. The writing wasn’t bad, but it just didn’t draw me in at all. There was very little flow. Straightforwardness is great for clarity, but sandwiches are so much better when you’ve got some cheese and mayo to go with the meat. Sometimes mustard.
Mechanics ~ 7/10. A lot of mistakes here with spelling. One of the humorous ones was in one of Witchblade’s posts - I believe the last one. She wrote that she’d at first thought Christoph was some sort of “hood Samaritan.” I don’t know how loudly I laughed at that one. I couldn’t help but imagine Chris with his afro and chef’s hat, coming up to some junkie on a corner, saying, “Yo nigga, want some hizzelp? Ya’ll know how I do.”
Clarity ~ 8/10.

MISCELLANEOUS

Wild Card ~ 5/10. That Sandwich needs to go on the list of famous Althanas artifacts.

TOTAL ~ 58/100. <commentary here>

Rewards

Christoph gains 4370 EXP and 812 GP and requested spoils
Molotov gains 6054 EXP and 754 GP and requested spoils
Witchblade gains 4666 EXP and 640 GP
Elijah Morendale gains 1938 EXP and 290 GP

[Witchblade]

EXP and GP added!

Christoph reaches level 5!
Witchblade reaches level 7!
Emo-boy reaches level 3!
Molotov reaches nothing... because he sucks.