A Profit Far From Home

[Poetra]

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This quest is complete, so please do not post here unless you are one of the original posters reposting. ~Poetra
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"Good night..."

Exhausted from the day's travels, the young cleric settled into her bedroll and almost instantly fell asleep. Trust came easily to the girl raised in a monestary, and her bodyguard was no exception: She trusted him with her life. Over the weeks and months, they had visited few temples, as the Goddess was apparently less worshipped than Ren originally thought, and none of them had the information that she needed. Frustrated, she had insisted on speeding up the search, which had thus far yielded even less results and more sleeping.

Some time in the night, a rustling came from the woods. Deeply asleep, Ren did not notice the sounds of a scuffle, or that she was lifted and carried into a wagon. It wasn't until morning that she realized that she was enveloped in some kind of rough, black cloth bag. Confusion washed over her as she reached up to touch her makeshift prison. How in the name of the Goddess...? Alarm crept up inside her, gradually turning into a cold, hard knot of fear.

The cart began to slow, and voices filled the air, their accents thick to her ears. Other voices joined in, their tones more authoritative, and Ren decided to try for help. Taking a deep breath, she ignored the dust in her lungs and cried out, "Help me! I'm in here! Please!" Silence fell on the voices for a moment, and then laughter blanketed her in despair. No help would come.

A moment later, the wagon resumed its motion, carrying the girl toward an uncertain destiny. Feeling hopeless for the first time in her life, Ren curled up inside the sack and simply sobbed, hot tears flowing freely over her cheeks, hands, and knees. Please, Great Goddess, free me! How can I serve you in bondage? Please!

Again the cart halted, only this time hands lifted her, placing her on the ground in such a way that she was forced to stand or be dropped. Suddenly, the cleric was blinded by the sun as they removed her opaque shroud. Blinking, she wiped the tears from her face and hands. Too stunned to continue her pained sobbing, she waited for her eyes to adjust to the brightness, and tried to focus on whatever she could that could indicate her whereabouts.

The air was heavy with heat, and filled with various smells that reminded her of her days at the marketplace. Okay, so a marketplace, but why? The voices around her spoke quickly, but their accents obscured their words far too much for her to understand. Finally, her vision cleared enough that she was able to make out the people around her. Various skin shades, from nearly black to simply tanned, were gathered around, staring intently at Ren. Confusion was quickly replaced with self-consciousness, and suddenly she felt naked even though she wore her armor. Shrinking back, she tried in vain to cover her bare stomach with her arms. She moved backwards only a step before hands from behind held her fast while someone else roughly brushed her hair. Ren winced, but was otherwise numb with fear. She couldn't even think!

More words were exchanged, particularly between two of the darker skinned men, and an order was barked at the person brushing her hair, which now lay in a satiny sheet along her shoulders. The one with the brush grasped her gently, but firmly, by the arm, and led her to a wooden cage filled with people of varying ages and appearances. Their eyes were haunting, filled with despair and resignation, some with impotent rage. Safely inside the cage, the door was closed and barred, and guards posted.

What now?

Nervous about all of the strange people, the fearful cleric found an empty corner and claimed it, settling into a sitting position where her knees served as a chin rest. She could feel the eyes of others on her, but she ignored them, preferring to be alone as much as she could be. I have to figure this out. I need to know what's going to happen to me. But how?

[Malagen]

It was one of maybe a handful of truly hot days in the usually frozen land of Salvar, but Malagen still wore his trademark attire; a massive heavy hooded coat that made him look like somebody not to be trifled with. And in a way that trademark look was the very thing that got him his current job, working as a guard for a pack of worthless slave traders. Because they were looking for the meanest most dangerous tough guy around when they hired the newest batch of mercs to guard their wares. They found Malagen, his cold, emotionless, unfazed expression “winning” them over at first glance. He had the eyes of a merciless killer, of somebody to whom life was a currency just like any other and as such was expendable. Simply put, they needed somebody who couldn’t care less about the whining and the sobbing inside of the cage. Needless to say, they knocked to the right door.

It was true, however, that this recent employment was far beneath somebody like Malagen. Because, after all, he was Malagen, Dram Messiah, a man-god in the land of Ferioh, somebody underneath whose feet people, regardless of the land and race, should crumble to their knees. But while his pride and his reputation (that failed to follow him from his native land) could do a lot of things – mostly stroking his already colossal ego – they couldn’t put something much more essential and basic. They couldn’t put food on his table and unlike back in Ferioh, here, in this brave new world, he had to take care of himself.

He needed money and only with this necessity something became apparent to the dark man; he wasn’t really capable of doing pretty much anything save for the killing. He was a killing machine, his every move honed and aimed for the heat of battle, but aside from that partially trained and partially inborn instinct he was pretty much no better then a random peasant that he discarded as fodder. He couldn’t farm (nor would he fall so low to tile the earth), he couldn’t do blacksmithing, couldn’t even read. After all, none of those were needed in a fight, where the most important thing was how to thrust his sword with efficiency.

It was because of that rather unfortunate development that mercenary work was pretty much the only job he could do and get paid for. It was a dreadfully annoying job, babysitting a bunch of helpless weaklings from an occasional “righteous” that got up on the wrong side of the bed and decided that slavery wasn’t a particularly good idea. Most of them backed away when Malagen would stand in front of them, some of them went a step further and actually wanted to make their stand. Most of those never lived to tell the tale of the cold heartless demon that slept beneath the heavy black coat. In the beginning the slave master, an agonizingly annoying scrawny man somewhere in his middle forties with a rare greasy gray hair and a hissing high pitched voice, disapproved of his rather... harsh manner in which he dealt with people that wanted to make a stand against slavery. But after a couple of interventions of the dark man, his reputation as an iron firm slave driver spread across the land and he found this most appealing. Suffice to say, Malagen got enough coin to stick around.

The most recent pack of slaves rolled in on the uncannily hot Salvar day and they meant nothing to the Dram mercenary. A fistful of weak women, three or four able men that could cause some trouble until he would slap then around and some older folk that probably wouldn’t catch too great of a price on the market. “Just another working day...” his usually clear and placid mind commented as the slaves were tended to, cleaned up and thrown into what he liked to call a “display cage” that was then taken to the marketplace. There the slaves were no better then apples or pears, stacked into a cramped area and waiting for somebody to pluck them from the bunch before they got spoiled or redundant.

“Malagen. I want you at the cage today. It is bound to be a busy day and I don’t want nobody messing with my merchandise. Got it?” the hissing annoying voice of the slave master spoke to the dark man that sat on a wooden bench, tending to his blades. Malagen simply nodded phlegmatically, adding the last layer of oil onto his saber before placing it back into the scabbards. Throwing his heavy coat around himself, the man made his way in his usual measured, clinically precise stride towards the market where the morning bustle was already reaching it’s peak.

“Ah, the marketplace... The usual cesspool of unworthy, unable and feebleminded that move around like ants in their little anthill, moving in the same pattern every day.” a thought passed through his mind as his black figure passed through the crowd that moved away from his path even at the sight of him. Truth was Malagen didn’t used to have this inner monologues back in Ferioh. Back then his mind was perfectly tuned machine for killing, discarding every needless thought and leaving a perfectly calm mind. But Ferioh was far away and his usual state of mind seemed to be going the same route. More and more he started to think of things he didn’t even consider before. More and more he started to do what he hasn’t done before. He started to feel. Dharnia was at the beginning of that change, Teenah did her share back in Scara Brae when he killed her father in front of her very eyes, and this degradation seemed only to get worse. And he didn’t like it. He didn’t want to feel. Feelings carried their own weights and he wanted none of it.

In such state of mind Malagen arrived to the display cage that he was supposed to guard. The slaves were miserable as always, their woeful disbelieving eyes asking questions how in the world they got in a situation such as this one. The hooded man passed by those looks unfazed, unscathed by the torn souls behind his back as he leant onto the cage and surveyed the crowd in front of him.

[Storm Veritas]

Salvar was a terrible place; it was cold and dark and miserable. It would also serve as a perfect sanctuary for the traveler, who was known for his hedonistic ways and desire to serve self first. Storm Veritas was well known for seeking the finer climates; his business, should one call it that, had brought him to Radasanth and Concordia. They were sunny, and warm, where his face was never wont for warmth. His typical scams and schemes had escalated, and while it would be a stretch to call him a victim of circumstance, his crimes were not altogether intentional.

Today was a better day; the sun warm and soothing, a smile on the faces of all the town patrons who would come out and spend their earnings on dumb endeavors. Today, Salvar was ripe for the picking. A few hours of running a ball-and-cup, some slight of hand and a quick, sour mouth carrying him to quite a little stockpile of gold. It would be enough to fetch him food for several days, and he would earn a better racket here soon enough. Ironically, the con looked the part of a diplomat, roaming the streets in fine clothing as his long, slick hair was pulled back taut against his head. He was tall, lithe, and had grown quite handsome, a crooked smile earning the trust of the foolish more often than not. Here today, he sought only a sandwich, a spirit, and sex.

…And let’s see what fine ladies roam the streets of Salvar this evening. Nothing like Radasanth here, I haven’t seen a half decent whore in days. This place is seriously hurting for some talent… a pitiful display.

His crooked smile, a result of his own, twisted logic and self amusement, remained on his face until he turned another corner, another nondescript sunny street. To his left, ahead, several people locked in a cage, of all things. The people inside grasped at the cage pars, their eyes wide and fearful and terrified. The destiny that lay before them was likely very much unknown, and their destinies undoubtedly dire. Outside, a large, grim figure, one standing about in a large coat, used a menacing sneer to steer others away from the slavery of those within the cage. It was a bizarre scene, and a disquieting one at that. Storm was no hero; he had always served himself first and foremost, yet this type of abuse was not acceptable, even to the scoundrel.

He watched from a distance, his long, slender fingers deftly rifling an apple from a market stand. Unfazed by the display of human ownership, the grateful, portly cart owner smiled as he took two small coins in hand. From fifty feet away, Storm could turn his frame slightly from the corner and eye the cage. The people of Salvar knew nothing of him; they were aware of neither his electrical proclivity nor his fast hands and lethal daggerwork. Here; he was a nobody; a blissfully anonymous face in the crowd.

Slavery? What type of vile pieces of sh*t would condone this type of business? Who the hell could run such an operation? This is an abomination. How can these people stand by and do nothing?

Storm was no hero. He had done many things in his life that were downright despicable. Many of his scams and games and tricks had ruined lives, yet he was able to look past the terrible acts and cast them aside as fools being mercifully parted from their money. Today, there was something terrible before him, and he had become a man of action. In this new land, he had a fresh start. He had an opportunity to step up and be the man he knew damned well that he should have been. Today he would have to stand tall and do the right thing. Today, he would have to be the hero.

[Zerith]

Why did I even want to come to Salvar in the first place?

That was the question Zerith was asking himself. He had just arrived earlier today and he was already beginning to regret coming here. It was cold and misery just seemed to loom over everyone. Of course things didn’t change in the marketplace either. Zerith didn’t see any warm greetings or genuine smiles being given or received. In his eyes the only things he was witnessing were business deal. Merchants stood with their goods selling to consumers who just wanted what they came for so they could go on with their lives. Did these customers even bother to wonder what the quality of what they were buying was? Chances were they weren’t too concerned for something like quality. Perhaps they just wanted finish their shopping as soon as possible so they could leave the marketplace. Who could blame them for wanting something like that?

Zerith would have probably done the same thing too if it wasn’t for one thing. His curiosity kept him here when something caught his attention. It wasn’t anything special really, just a wooden cage. The people inside it were what interested him. Various shades of skin filled the cage. Some poor souls looked out from behind bars hoping to escape their prison. Others looked to the people that surrounded them wondering just how they got there and why they were stuck with all those other people. They didn’t look like criminals, just normal people who were lost. Thrust into a new world that they didn’t know how they entered and hoped that it was all just a big nightmare. Unfortunately this wasn’t a bad dream. This was reality.

“Excuse me sir?� Zerith asked a random stranger that as walking by him. He pointed to wooden prison, “Would you mind telling the reason why that cage is there?�

The stranger looked at the cage and then back to Zerith. “You telling me you’ve never seen a slave auction boy? Just stick around, watch and then you’ll find out why that cage is here. Just don’t get too close to the guards and if you’re lucky you’ll find yourself a pretty girl to purchase,� He said grinning. Before Zerith could ask the man what he meant the stranger left him and went on his business.

A Slave Auction? What kind of people would want to bid in an auction like that? Do people here in Salvar enjoying this kind of business? That’s sick! I hope the bastards that think they can get away with this get what they deserve. As for the people here that think there’s nothing wrong with this, They should be the ones being sold to the highest bidder. Yet that’s only if someone would bother to waste his or her gold on such trash.

What could Zerith do now anyways? He couldn’t exactly rush up to the cage and set all those poor souls free. If he tried to do that the guards would most likely kill him without question. That and by looking at the guards, especially the large hooded man, didn’t raise the youth’s hopes either. If he were going to try and do something then he would have to wait to see what he could do. Using his halberd as a walking stick in his right hand Zerith continued to look around the various stands around the wooden cage. All the while he would brainstorm ideas on what he could do. Even if it would only help one person get free.

[Daedalus]

Banazîr walked uneasily down the chilly street, alone and unnoticed, his grey eyes dim and introspective. Though it was an unusually warm day for Salvar, it was too cold for him, a native of Antioch, far to the south. Why did I ever come to this place? he wondered. But that was a futile question: that was like asking why he had wandered so far and wide in the first place, and why he continued to roam, though he took no pleasure from it. It was because of his past, a past he cared not to remember, no more than he cared remember all the many trials and troubles that had brought him to this place. But while he lived he could not forget it; his father's sword, a grim reminder, swung always at his side.

But now that he was here, the black-haired youth felt that there was something that he must do. He did not know what, exactly, but the feeling was familiar—and unwelcome. Banazîr had felt compulsions of this kind before, and they had, without exception, brought him nothing but trouble. In that respect, they were almost like his damned ability to sense the emotions of others: useful, even necessary, but terribly frightening at the same time.

At this moment, both his physical compulsion and his empathic talent lead him to the same place. That place was here, a busy market street, filled with vendors hawking their various wares. But over all the hustle and bustle of the street, over the sounds and smells and sights of a thousand and one pieces of food, clothing, tools, weapons, ornaments, herbs, and charms, Banazîr found his eyes drawn to one particular group of vendors, and their gruesome product. Muscled guards surrounded a wooden cage containing a parcel of people. In their eyes was despair—and in their hearts, too, he could feel it, like emotional nausea.

It took Banazîr a few seconds to recognize what was going on. The sight—indeed, the concept itself—was so unfamiliar to him that it seemed surreal, like something out of another world. He walked slowly up to the bars of the cage. These people are... slaves? As the thought entered his mind, he knew, without a doubt, that this was the object of his compulsion. He had been driven here by the inscrutable hand of Fate.

But he sure as hell wasn't going any further. Not unless he had to. He was no hero. He could feel the anguish of these people in his very soul, being an empath as he was; but as much as shutting off his own feelings had become second nature to him, so too could he ignore those of others. As he stared, the guards became uneasy. They had expected a potential customer; but seeing now that he had no intention of buying, one of them gruffly told him to shove off. He did so, obligingly, but his eyes soon strayed back to the cage. His compulsion was fulfilled: he was here, and had witnessed the slavery. But there was something that had yet to happen here. He would wait, and see.

[Poetra]

Lost in a pool of doubt and fear, Ren prayed to her goddess, hoping to be lifted from the dark depths. Though her eyes were closed, she suddenly noticed the world darkening. Ending her prayer, she looked up, and her eyes fixed upon the cause of the eclipse. Tall and broad, the imposing figure of a guard was impossible to mistake. The cleric considered her plight carefully, though what exactly her fate was to be, she had no idea. I might be a prisoner, but what for? I have done no wrong! This train of thought was helping nothing, so she put aside her worries, stood up, and walked a few feet to where the guard stood.

As she moved forward, her eyes darted through the crowd, searching for answers. Pity, disgust, and disinterest filled the eyes of passerbyes, though even the most intense emotions did not move them to action. A few stopped to gawk openly at the cage, their greedy eyes devouring the scantily clad female in such a way that she flushed with embarrassment. Wrenching her eyes away, she closed them for a moment in a futile attempt to forget the intent in their expressions. Don't let them get to you... Though she could feel her body tremble and her lip quivering, she forced herself to press onward, to speak to the guard. Wooden bars stood between them, but the girl hoped he would listen nonetheless.

"Excuse me..." Frowning at her mousy, nearly inaudible voice, she tried again, this time loud enough to be heard above the din of the bustling market. "Excuse me, sir, could you please tell me why I'm here? I don't recall committing a crime..." Her voice trailed again, but this time she did not continue, instead waited for an answer. I hope he can help me... Glancing around the marketplace, her eyes passed over a group of men who appeared to be setting up a stage of sorts.

The crowd was beginning to thicken around the pen, making the caged occupants more self-conscious and restless. It was at that moment she saw a sign a young man was hammering into the ground, which read "Slave Auction: Come one, Come all!" A dull roaring, like a distant waterfall, rushed in her ears, and her vision darkened at the edges until blackness overtook her, her limp body slipping toward the cage floor...

[Malagen]

“Get out of here! This isn’t a goddamn theatre!” Malagen raised his usually deathly placid voice at a black haired youthful man that peered into the cage with the kind of interest that more often then not brought little or no money. The teenager looked like a runt that had no coin, but liked to browse nonetheless and Malagen was not in a mood for being an intermediate in a deal that brought no money. The young man obeyed. They all obey one way or the other, getting out of the way either on their own two feet or on a wooden cart that takes them to the cemetery. Which one they picked made no difference to the Dram. Returning his eyes to the bustle in front of him, the dark man regained his focus as he surveyed the crowd. They were all functions to him, moving at a certain velocity and following a certain path with an easily determinable pattern of behavior. When looked like that, it was easy to understand that threat came from those the struck out of the pattern. When looked like that, the world was a much simpler place.

And then she spoke, and her frail voice was the harbinger of the very destruction of his soothing simplicity.

She was a pretty little thing, if pretty could be defined in a mind of a man who was raised and trained with the distinct and clear idea; emotions were futile. Her glassy eyes looked up at him with a look of an angel on her knees, her fair face surrounded by a pitch-black hair that cascaded over her bare shoulders. She spoke in a weak fearful voice, her lips quivering even as she did so and her visage was painted with disbelief. She was beauty in every sense of a word, her perfect body dressed in a rather skimpy outfit serving as a steaming seal at the end of that statement. The first thought that passed through Malagen’s mind once he turned around and loomed over the girl, his expressionless face just emerging from the thick shadow of his oversized hood, was a rather crude one.

“This one will fetch quite a price...”

But before he even got a chance to answer her question (his mind still battling between silence and the good old “You’re here because you were weak enough to get caught”), the girl found got her answer and it knocked her off her feet. Literary. The realization that she was now a mere slave and that she was about to be sold like any common good (placing her in pretty much same position as a bag of potatoes) was too much for the black-haired beauty to handle. Her eyes went out, her eyelids shutting out the innocent fear in her azure eyes as her body fell to the ground as lifeless as a sack of wet hay.

He should have turned his back right then and there, letting her to sleep over the fact that she was about to spend the rest of her life in servitude, allowing the whole matter to settle in. And yet he didn’t... couldn’t. There was something unnerving about the girl, something that made his insides churn and twist, that made his chest ache for just a fraction of a second. Could it be... remorse? Sympathy? No, those were emotions, and emotions were for the weak. But then why this rotten feeling? Why is looking at her, all caged up and hopeless just like so many before her, why is it disturbing... disquieting? His hand reached for the rusty padlock.

“What are you doing, man?” one of the guards asked him, looking at the dark man with a perplexed and profoundly surprised look.

“She fainted.” he simply said, proceeding to unlock the door, his tone truly unbothered by the annoying guard. They were all below him anyways, and the explanation that was given was more then they deserved.

“So? Who gives a damn? She’s neither the first nor will she be the last. You know the rules; the cage stays shut until the auction.” the guard continued, approaching Malagen and protruding his hand to stop the unlocking and take the key away from the dark man. But before he even got halfway, Malagen’s fist came in a backhand motion, throwing the blonde haired man to one knee and breaking his lip. It was a controlled punch, the kind that was weak enough not to do any serious damage, but strong enough to make it absolutely clear he meant business. “Alright.” the burly man replied, his tongue rummaging through his mouth in search of a loose tooth. Luckily his search was in vain and all his teeth were still in place. “But the boss will hear about this.”

Malagen couldn’t care less. The man wasn’t his boss, he merely had something that Malagen needed; money. He worked here because he could do things his way, not because he was dancing at the tune the slave master played. With a quick jerk and a rapid twist of the key, the padlock gave out a satisfying click and the man entered the cage. Most of the slaves knew him. Those that didn’t heard enough to know that it was time to pull back in their own little corner, shifting their eyes away from the empty blue eyes of a murderer. He gave them a quick look, issuing a hands-off warning before he knelt on one knee beside the girl. His mind justified this act, or at least desperately tried to justify it by saying it was not mercy, but rather an investment. Nobody wanted to buy a weak fainting slave. Well, that was what he tried to assure himself in at least.

His hand moved in for a slap, but less then an inch from her face the hasty motion was stopped and for some reason he couldn’t find it in him to hit her like that. Coming from a man that killed countless in whose midst there were both women and children, this occurrence was something that uncanny couldn’t even encompass. Was he growing soft in these lands and together with the unnerving mellowing, did he somehow manage to grow a consciousness? Or was it just that piece of fish last night that made him feel weird? There was no use on dwelling on it though. Instead of a brisk slap that would for certain tear her away from whatever realm she escaped to, his large hand grabbed her by her shoulder resolutely, giving her a firm shake.

“Come on, get up. Nobody’s going to buy you if you just lay around. And trust me, you want to be bought.” he spoke with no warmth in his voice, his tone business-like and frighteningly cold. But it wasn’t that Malagen wanted to speak in that tone to the woman. It was the only tone he knew, the voice of a man that was raised to be cold and emotionless and merciless. He was grown into what he was today and on his own he could never change. Picking out a shiny tin flask from the insides of his cumbersome thick coat, he opened it up and offered it to the girl. “Drink.”

The guards, four of them in total, couldn’t believe what their eyes were looking at. The most ruthless and relentless amongst them in a role that by no means fitted him. A murderer offering help to a slave.

[Storm Veritas]

He who hesitates is lost…

And yet there was little Storm Veritas felt empowered to do or capable of doing. He watched a window of opportunity slid open, the largest of the guards opening the gate, leaving it ajar, and fetching something for one of the enslaved to drink. The others in the cage scrambled back, seeking sanctuary near the perimeter of the cage, away from the man. Yet the girl, tender and weak, took the drink from him. She was different; doe eyed and beautiful. And far too young to be enslaved in such a place.

But what the hell can I do about it? Rush the cage, kill the guards, save the day? F*ck no. The whole town rains down on me, and I’m on the lam again.

He began to move closer, almost oblivious to the drifting of his lithe figure towards the cage. There were a handful of guards around the cage, all staring in disbelief. It would only take one powerful charge, for the wooden cage was still rimmed with metal reinforcement, and their hands were all clasped to the bars, peering in. One strong volt would send them all flying. Of course, anyone else touching the cage would likely be shocked in the process, but it appeared both the surprisingly sweet head guard and the girl herself were clear of the metal, solidly grounded by wood.

Not here. Not in the wide open. Not too many people here can do what you do, and if word gets out that some overblown electrician is killing people again, your days in Salvar will be short.

Still dressed the part of a gentleman, Storm strolled about the outside of the cage, and inquisitive look on his face as he eyed the human wares inside. A gentle nod to the guards, and he continued about to the rear of the cage, where several of the prisoners sat, dejected, fearful of the guard who had entered. The back of the cage was a cleared area, short-cut crabgrass lined with a few short evergreens.

It will be perfect…

The pleading, helpless eyes of those inside were pathetic, yet he felt little for those strong enough to resist yet unwilling to help themselves. His hands were folded behind his back as his athletic frame stretched out his fine linen shirt admirably. His eyes scuttled; assessing the situation. Indeed, all four of the guards looking on had rested themselves against metal filaments around the cage. Their hands, or faces, or shoulders were leaned strong into the frame, lazy postures used to pass a slow day.

“Some of your weaker looking subjects, I’m afraid” Storm began, making idle chatter to justify his presence. A man of his stature, wearing clothes so proper could easily be mistaken for a trader, and there was little doubt he would garner the faith of the masses by showing some interest. “Yet maybe we can work something out.”

As he spoke, a soft sizzle behind him. A few wafts of ozone drifted to his nose, his right hand buzzing a soft powder blue, very extraordinary yet out of view. The electrical energy in him had grown, had magnified, had developed into an enormous weapon, yet finding the right times to use it was difficult. Here, he could use it without detection, and he lavished the opportunity to extol his wrath. A smile snaked across his face again as the sizzle became louder, his buzzing hand coming into view and taking hold of the metal corner to the cage.

[Daedalus]

And so the plot thickens.

As Banazîr watched, his prediction was fulfilled; though on the surface, the events taking place in the cage were baffling, they were but the manifestation of Fate, whose promptings he had been privy to for a brief moment. He had known something strange would happen here; else, why had he been compelled to come here against his will? Some outside force must have arranged these circumstances—or so he fervently hoped. The only other explanation was one he was unwilling to accept: that he was insane, the compulsions driving him were the byproducts of a mind under siege, and what he perceived as Fate was merely the projection of his own delusions onto everyday occurrences.

But whatever the truth was, Banazîr could not deny the evidence of his own senses. The very guard who had gruffly shooed him away from the cage now proffered water to a fallen slave, having left the cage door open. Why? The question haunted his mind, only one among countless unanswered others raised by his talent, his conscience, his desires—and his past. But the past was forever gone, the present forever flowing; this question had an immediacy that the others did not.

For an answer, he delved into himself, and so into the minds of those around him. His empathic talent, suppressed when he had ignored the caged slaves' bleak despair, now sprang to life with unusual vigor. His awareness showed that most of the crowd was apathetic, waiting for the auction to begin, but here and there were pockets of strong emotion. He felt himself awash in a sea of sensations. Greed was most common, a sickly reflected light, as moonlight upon gold that, fickle to its true nature, has imitated copper and tarnished; hot, sweet-smelling desire followed next, aroused perhaps by the beauty of the slave being helped. In a few places he felt anger, chafing his mind as the scent of brimstone assaults an open nostril. The guards oozed disdain and callousness, like stale carcasses stewed in mud and marshwater, while fear emanated from the caged slaves in an endless, wordless, soundless scream.

But the guard Banazîr was interested in was like none of these. A barrier, hard and impenetrable, guarded his emotions—or was it merely that he had no emotions to show? But if so, then why would he help the slave girl? He must have a weakness, somewhere, a soft underbelly to match his tortoise's shell. But even as Banazîr searched for such a weakness, his talent began to fade. For a few moments, he had glimpsed the world in ways unimaginable to anyone but him, and more powerfully than anything he had hitherto experienced; but now, fickle as the will o' the wisps, his talent vanished. His last empathic sensation, curiously out of place, was a rumble—as of thunder in the far distance. But what that could mean, he had no idea—at least until the meaning became blindingly obvious.

No warning preceded the electrical discharge that assaulted the guards grasping the metal bars of the cage; they were caught unawares, jolted forcefully from the bars they held and flung to the ground. They sprawled there, stunned, as if struck by the wrath of some angry deity—not dead, but shocked and badly bruised. For the briefest of moments, there was nothing but utter incredulity from the crowd. Then chaos erupted. Many in the crowd tried to run, instinctively afraid of an inexplicable act of destruction. Probably some thought that the guards were indeed dead. Others, however, were slower to act, or were even curious or bold enough to want to stay or investigate. Some saw a chance for thievery, either of slaves or from the guards. The ensuing pushing and shoving quickly spread through the assembled masses.

Quickly appraising the situation, Banazîr sprinted towards the back of the cart to get away from the crowd surrounding him. He didn't know how all this would end up, but he could at least avoid being bruised in the chaos. He also suspected that if he tried to get out through the encircling mass of people, he would emerge without a wallet. Stepping carefully over the body of a guard concussed on the hard cobblestones, he reached the rear of the cart only to find another man already there—and four guards, three still sprawled and one now getting to his feet, all of whom looked even worse-off than those around the front of the cart.

His abilities diminished, Banazîr had no idea that it was the very man who stood in front of him that had caused the chaos that surrounded them. But as he looked at the scene in front of him, he couldn't help but feel déjÃ* vu. Perhaps an unconscious segment of him recognized this man as the source of the ominous thunder his talent had sensed; perhaps not. Mostly, though, he got the familiar feeling that he was in exactly the wrong place at exactly the wrong time.

[Zerith]

“Just how long am I going to have to wait for this auction to start?� Zerith asked himself. The truth was that he would rather not the auction start at all, or ever again. However he couldn’t exactly say that out loud when surrounded by a crowd that was eager to see what was being offered today. While the few around him may have heard someone asking when the auction started the youth was actually asking just how long he would have to wait until he could do something to help the slaves. Of course nobody but Zerith knew the inner meaning behind the sentence that came out of his mouth.

Then he saw her, a young girl that seemed to be about his age stuck in the cage with the others. She was lovely, her black hair gently covered her shoulders and her blue eyes looked around the crowd as she probably wondered where she was and what was going on. She may not have realized it but chances were that most of the men in the crowd were keeping an eye on her and hoping they had enough gold with them to be able to take her to their home. There they would be able to do whatever they wanted this beautiful girl to do and Zerith didn’t even want to know the possibilities were, every single one would probably disgust him. Even though she didn’t know it, Zerith too now had his eye on her. The difference was that he didn’t look at her as something to be bought and made to do whatever he wanted but instead he looked at her and saw the one person in the entire cage that he would try to get out. Of course he was also hoping to free others in the process, she had just become the most important one in the wooden prison.

Something that was unexpected was when the girl fainted. What was even more surprising was that it wasn’t Zerith who acted first but the large hooded guard. He walked to the door of the cage, punched a fellow guard and then not only opened the cage but also left the door open for people to enter and others to escape. As he entered the other slaves backed up against the wooden bars until they were a far from the man as possible. Yet that didn’t seem to matter to him, from what Zerith could see all that matter to the guard was the girl. While the hooded man was tending to her the other four guard did nothing but watch what was going on inside of the cage. Somehow this event distracted all the guards and gave Zerith one thing, his chance to actually do something worthwhile.

As Zerith approached the cage another beat him in the race to be the first to act. He wasn’t able to see exactly what this new stranger who dressed like trader did. As Zerith finally pushes past the last person all he could manage to catch a glimpse of was this person reach his hand out and holding onto the metal corner of the cage. It wouldn’t have meant anything if it weren’t the fact that it looked like the man’s hand buzzed with electricity. Whatever his reason was for doing such a thing was it did manage to do something. It would help Zerith greatly.

The electricity traveled out of the stranger, through the metal until and into the guards in an instant. The four guards wouldn’t know what hit them until it was too late. They couldn’t have expected to feel the sudden jolt of electricity until they were flung to the ground stunned. “You know buddy I have no clue who you are or what you’re trying to do,� Zerith thought to himself as he looked towards the stranger that was the cause for the shocking surprise. “But if we’re trying to do the same thing, I’m really happy you’re on my side.� Of course not everyone had the same reaction that Zerith did. Before the youth knew what was going on around him the crowd burst into chaos and people were scattering in everything direction. Customers left to find safety followed my merchants who left most of their goods behind. The slaves didn’t need anymore of an invitation to know what was going on so now many of them were flooding out of the cage and out to freedom. They would disappear into the chaos and from there they would get to choose what they did from there. They were their own masters were free to live their own lives.

Yet not everyone was running away. Some were staying behind to see just what was going on while others were stealing some of the merchandise left behind. Zerith also stayed behind and raced around to the back of the cart. There he saw one guard already climbing to his feet. He would have managed to stand up too if it wasn’t for the fact that Zerith didn’t want him to. The youth acted quickly and swung his halberd so the shaft connected the guard’s face and knocked the unfortunate man unconscious. He saw another youth that ran to the back of the cart as well, however this person wasn’t dressed like one of the guards. Was he trying to help out the slaves too or did he come here for other reasons? Whatever his reason to come back here was didn’t really matter to Zerith. For now he would just assume the youth was one his side. He would have introduced himself to the youth and the man that had helped greatly but he suddenly realized something. The girl was still in the cage.

Passing the youth Zerith made his way to the door of the cage where slaves were still climbing out of and had to force his way through the remaining numbers that were desperately wanting out of their prison cell. Finally when he did manage to climb into the cage the only thing still remaining in there were the few slaves that were just leaving, the girl that was still laying on the ground and the large hooded guard that knelt down by her side with his back to Zerith. Taking a deep breath the youth gripped his polearm tightly with both hands. “I don’t suppose you’ll be needing any help with tending to her now would you?� Zerith asked loud enough to be heard by both the large guard and the girl, if she could even hear him in the first place.

Maybe if he were lucky enough this guard would see that there really wasn’t a point in keeping this girl as a slave anymore. Or if Zerith were really lucky maybe this man would help him. Either one would be better than having to go through the trouble fighting this guard. Where things really necessary to have to come to that anyways?

[Poetra]

Kith? Is that you?

Someone was holding her gently, and something cool was running over her lips. Parting them slightly, she could taste water. Her eyelids felt weighted by lead, and she struggled to open them. The sound of voices penetrated the fog in her mind, hundreds of them, a degree of panic in them all. The acrid stench of lightning mingled with hot metal, unwashed bodies, and burning flesh, burning her nostrils. All of her senses now awake, her eyes finally opened, but not to the familiar face she had expected.

Hovering above her were two strange men. One, a formidable figure wearing a hood, glowered at her, though her panicked mind managed to register a hint of kindness in the azure eyes. The other was a boy, probably around her own age, who did not appear threatening. Terrified by their unfamiliarity, Ren planted her hands on the floor and tried to sit up, then push backwards, away from them. Her efforts were thwarted by the steady hand that had been supporting her head.

Turning her haunted, smokey-blue eyes on what appeared to be her captors, she fought to recall where she was. Events poured slowly into her memory, until finally she remembered moving to talk to the guard, and the sign. The shock had less impact than before, but the idea of being sold to another human being still turned her stomach. Completely terrified, the cleric could not stop her quivering lip or the tears that welled up in her eyes.

"What are you going to do with me?" Her voice sounded far away and scratchy, as though she had a cold.

The panic of the crowd drew her attention, and she peered out at them, though the burly guard above her blocked her view of the door. It seemed as though everyone suddenly had a better place to be, though their wild gazes often referred back to the ground in front of the cage. Following the glances, she noticed some people laying on the street, their bodies smoking slightly. They appeared to be dead, though Ren couldn't tell for sure. She longed to go to them and help, but her bag was with Kith somewhere in the Salvar wilderness.

Overhead, clouds began to roll in, and the breeze that had kept the warm day mild, cooled and quickened. Shivering slightly, the cleric sneezed, the soft sound reminiscent of a cat's sneeze. It's probably going to rain... But what will happen to me? Is this what my Goddess wills of me? A hot tear escaped, rolling down her soft cheek only to splash on her chest armor. "Please... don't kill me..."

[Malagen]

He damned well should though. Kill her, kill this young looking runt with the halberd, seal up the cage, kill the bastard that used his flashy magic and earn himself a nice little bonus for dealing with an uprising deftly. And yet even as the uncanny electricity shook the reinforced wooden bars of the cage and the slaves started to pour out of the cage, breaking around him and the girl like water on rock, Malagen didn’t move. Unfazed by the bedlam that ensued around him, his eyes were locked on the beauty that opened up her eyes in his arms. And like a giant machine in whose cogs a pebble got stuck, he simply froze, his usually calculated and eerily cold mind stuck in a perpetual string of calculations that led nowhere.

“Wh... Why is this happening?” a voice in his head spoke, and unlike his own that was colorless and empty, this one was afraid, afraid of the change that somehow was awoken. But once the shroud in front of his mind’s eye fell and he looked at her in something more then just a slave, he remembered and he knew why he couldn’t slap her, why he entered the cage. Why he went against everything he was up until this point in his life. The hair, the scared glassy eyes, the fair innocent look on her face, the way she moved, the way she talked... Everything about this girl reminded him of Dharnia, the first woman that managed to crack open his thick shell and chip the ice that formed around his heart. The woman who found death at the end of his blade. That was the only explanation he could muster that would at least hold enough water to bring some reason to the storm in his head. And he would be damned if he allowed that to happen again. The dark man turned towards the beardless brown-haired man that entered the cage.

“Take her away from here.” he simply said to the man, getting up to his feet and stepping away from the black haired girl that crept away from him as if he was devil himself. He couldn’t blame her; seconds before he was ready to stab her in the throat and do the same to her would-be saviors. But right now, when the maelstrom around him pulsated with unnerving power and the marketplace turned into a free-for-all uncontrolled stampede, he knew he couldn’t allow something to happen to his Dharnia... or whatever the girl’s name was. Just before he was about to leave the cage and enter the river of people that heedlessly trampled this way and that, Malagen half-turned to the diminutive woman.

“Run away. I’ll take care of the slavers.” he spoke, his voice still not breaking away from the usual flat chill that disheartened so many of his victims before he would thrust his sword into their flesh. With that spoken, his dominant figure entered the fray, the tide of people evading his imposing figure that walked away from the cage and towards the small set of wooden barracks that were the slavers headquarters.

He knew their exact count, fifteen of them including the old geezer that like to call himself The Boss amongst other, ego-stroking titles. They weren’t terribly skillful with a blade; a pack of wild boars with a chip on their shoulders and a body intoxicated by some local brew. But there were fifteen of them, which meant fifteen blades to dodge and fifteen lives to kill. Even in Malagen’s calculations that was a hard game to play. The odds were stacked against him, his trump card cocked, locked and ready to rock as his focus once again rose to its peak. All that was left to do was play the hand until the end and gather the chips.

He was tired of this mind-blowingly dull job anyways.

[Storm Veritas]

Sometimes, success is haunting, a taxing thing that comes to us when we deserve or need it least and cannot benefit from it. Such was the case with his own lightning-laced assault. The four guards fell free from the cage, yet the outburst of activity was far too overblown. There were many more watching than Storm had originally assessed. In a matter of moments, the townspeople were scrambling, and two strangers came to the back of the trader cart and prison. The first was wide eyed; a youth that looked surprised to find anyone there. The second was another causeless rebel, dealing a knockout punch to the slowly rising guard. Others moved, and the guard tending the delicate girl was moving as well. Things could not have gone either better or worse.

No good deed goes unpunished; what the f*ck were you thinking?

Anonymity was now out of the question; while he doubted the first to find him knew that he had caused this melee, someone had to have seen it. He became wrapped up with the event, and doubts of his own highly-wanted status left him creeping slowly, backpedaling into the evergreen trees which marked the back of the cart. He was completely unaware that none of these men had any desire to strike him down or expose him. To have such an outpouring of general goodwill and concern for the liberation of slaves was an abstraction; a prospect far too wild for him to conceive.

There were eyes on him now, far too many eyes, in fact. These people would identify him, point him out, make it quite commonly known that the man who had freed the slaves was the wielder of the lightning. An extradition would take place, and he would be pulled back to Radasanth. Away from the lands of Salvar, back into that fetid place, that wretched prison that dominated his memories of Corone.

”There’s no f*cking way I’m going back there. No f*ckin way!”

His words to the men behind the cart likely fell on confused ears, as a terrified Veritas was certain that he was seeing the beginning to the end. There was no option now. He had to leave. The fate of this girl, this pleasant little damsel… it was no fate of his. This was the time for self-sustainment, for the propagation of life, for the extension of his own days. He would not be caught.

He turned, and the inviting ring of trees welcomed him in their cold, dark embrace. He spun about his right foot and made a bolt for the hard firs, ducking his head to enter them quickly and seamlessly. It would be dark enough here; he would be ok.

The set of trees was no forest, but extending some three or four hundred yards, he could escape sight. He moved swiftly, ducking and darting and leaping back and forth between the tall and prickled pines. His feet found soft soil, pressing wherever he could find no leaves or sticks or stones. It was a silent retreat; a very necessary escape.

Better. Safe now.

He was nearly positive none had chased him, none had followed so far as he knew. From a perch behind one exceptionally thick trunk, he slid a head around the corner, glancing back at the spot. His curiosity was answered quickly, as he could see the back of the cart here with a surprising ease. His eyes pulled taut into a squint again, his body low and alert and tight. He watched, the consummate voyeur, awaiting the next set of events about the cart.

It was a strange thing; Storm could neither scrape the courage to stand face to face nor discard the outcome of what he had set in motion. He would have to hope the girl would be safe from here.

[Daedalus]

What the f*ck is going on here?

Banazîr found himself unable to think fast enough to understand all that was happening around him; time and events flew by him unheedingly, as if he was somehow removed from them. An unfamiliar youth with a halberd darted in behind the cart and knocked out the guard who was getting to his feet. The man he had come upon suddenly behind the cart fled into the forest, casting fearful glances behind him and muttering about something. The guard who had entered the cage now left it and headed for a nearby barracks, leaving the woman alone with the same youth that had knocked out the guard; all the other slaves were fled already.

But while all this bustle and hustle went on around him, Banazîr stood alone, silent and confused. What am I supposed to do here? If the hand of Fate or some other being has guided me here, then to what end? What purpose? Am I merely a pawn in a game beyond my comprehension? Is there some deeper meaning to all this? Or do I hallucinate, fantasize; do I project my own unreasoned suspicions onto the world's happenings? His mind was in turmoil, boiling with possibilities, but his next thought was hesitant, grim, plaintive:

Am I merely insane after all?

Banazîr shook his head. This was no time for such thoughts. The commotion in the crowd was dying down now; the guards that had not been knocked out or killed by the blast were beginning to come round and get to their feet. What shall I do? Whatever it is, I must do it fast. Should I merely leave, and forget this incident? But he could not find it in himself to do such a thing. Something had pulled him here, and he must know what. It was not mere curiosity that motivated him: it was anger. Someone or something else had controlled his actions by bringing him to this place, and the phenomenon was not unique: he had been compelled to do things against his will before. If he but knew the source of his compulsions, he would be one step closer to destroying them forever.

As Banazîr pondered his decision, his powers came slowly trickling back, and he remembered the guard who had so interested him before. If he was going to stay at the scene of his compulsion to investigate, as he had made up his mind to do, he needed someplace to start. The apparently emotionless guard had interested him before; he might as well continue his examination now. Last he had seen of the man, he was heading for the nearby barracks. He looked up, and found to his surprise that the guard was still walking towards them; Banazîr's introspection had not lasted as long as it had seemed to him. Striding briskly past the one guard who had managed to get to his feet, and was now emitting a long, low moan of pain, he moved after the tall, dark man, waiting for his talent to give him more hints as to the man's nature.

[Zerith]

Of all people Zerith seemed to be the one that was beloved by lady luck. Could one imagine just how surprised the youth must have felt due to the hooded man’s actions. Somewhere in Zerith’s head he believed that the guard would have just dropped what he was doing and attacked the youth. Yet for some reason he didn’t even reach for his weapon. He even trusted Zerith to care for the girl! Of course whatever the motive was for the guard’s sudden departure wasn’t exactly the first thing on Zerith’s mind. Somehow by chance he ended up with the job of helping this lovely girl get away from this place. A task he would be sure to accomplish, or die trying.

Things didn’t end there either. Shortly after the guard climbed out of the cage the stranger who caused the initial chaos took off and disappeared amongst the trees for some weird reason. Was he hiding from something? Or was he suddenly scared that something bad would happen? Whatever his reason for leaving were he wouldn’t be the only one to make a sudden exit. The boy, the youth that was using the cage for cover went off in his own direction, which seemed to be after the hooded man. In Zerith’s opinion the only reason the youth would have wanted to follow the man would be because of temporary insanity. If the boy was insane or not could have been anyone’s guess but Zerith wouldn’t stop him. He wouldn’t stop any of them from going in their own direction now. All that mattered to him was getting out of here with this girl. To where exactly he had no clue but he could always figure that out later.

The first thing he’d have to do would be to make sure the beauty knew that the youth didn’t meant to harm her. Hell for all he knew she could have been thinking he was here to kill her or make sure she stays in slavery. So to try and make the girl feel a little more safe Zerith did the first thing that came to mind, he calmly looked to her and smiled. The smile was a warm, friendly one. Definitely not the type someone would give you if the meant to do you any type of harm. It was a gentle smile, one that should have been able to show that Zerith was nothing near a threat to the girl, rather a kind soul that with time and getting to know each other she could eventually trust.

“I saw you in this cage,� Zerith began speaking softly. “When I realized there was going to be a slave auction I wanted to help the people behind these wooden bars escape and somehow thanks to some others that was exactly what happened too. All the people that were held in here have already left and now that hooded man has told me I’m to take you away from here as well. So I want to make it clear to you that I not here to hurt you in any way. Instead I’m going to help you get out of here and back where you should be.�

With that said Zerith reached his left hand out for the girl to take, “Let me help you up. If you don’t think you can walk yet I’ll carry you if need be as well. I do suggest we find you something else to wear though to keep you warm, it feels like it’s going to get a little chilly. We can find something amongst the goods some of the merchants left behind if you don’t have anything though we should get going before either these guards get up or other guards come after us. Yet that’s only when you feel up to it okay?�

Everything Zerith wanted to say was finally out of his mouth. He explained why he was there and told her what he was planning to do. The only thing missing was an introduction. That was only added after he thought of it.

“By the way my name is Zerith and although the circumstances aren’t exactly what I’d want them to be at the moment it’s still a pleasure to meet you. Even if I don’t know your name.�

[Poetra]

The chaos surrounding the slave auction was dying down, yet it continued to overwhelm the confused cleric of the Goddess. The giant man left, giving charge of Ren over to the younger man around her age. Another man darted out from behind the cage toward the guard, but she couldn't follow the purposes behind any of it. Finally, her temporary guardian spoke, giving her small insight into his own motives. He seems genuine... I wish Kith was here! He would know what to do!

In her mind, Ren could hear his calm, no-nonsense voice, ordering her to remain steady or fall. Taking to heart his demeanor, his rock solid presence, she firmly grasped the offered hand of the boy she now knew as Zerith, and pulled herself to her feet. Still shaking inside, her countenance was now contemplative, though her naievete was still clearly readable in her smoky azure eyes. Her legs wobbled slightly under her weight, but she ignored it, concentrating on the escape.

"You're right, I will need something. Perhaps a cloak?" she answered, her teeth chattering slightly as a gust of cold wind cooled her skin. "And my name is Ren..." Faltering slightly, she was not sure if giving her surname was wise. After all, he could be anyone! Pressing her lips together, Ren decided not to finish the introduction, choosing safety and anonymity over courtesy. "Where shall we go afterwards, though?"

Before waiting for an answer, the girl headed for the exit, the cold bars finally proving too much for her. To the left and across the street, a merchant had abandoned a mercantile cart. Quickly, she rummaged through the wares, though all she could find were tunics of various sizes. Well, it's no cloak, but it covers everything, I guess... Choosing a crimson pullover tunic made of linen with a large golden star embroidered on the front, she slipped it on and turned toward Zerith. The bright fabric stood out like blood against her pale skin, the sleeves far too long, and the hem riding up along her upper thighs. "Well, will it work?"

[Malagen]

The slavers burst out of the barracks with a groggy expression on their faces, their wobbly legs taking them out of the soothing darkness of the interior and into the blinding light of the day. But even in such state they were able to see that something is amiss, the heavy ruckus of the crowd echoing in their ears tenfold. That was the price they were paying for another night spent at the local whorehouse, drinking until they had more then their fill and until some sleazy filthy woman took them to her private chambers. Then somewhere before morning, when the first cockatrices were creaking in their deafening raspy voices, they would trudge through the streets until they found their bed in the barracks... or the ditch at the side of the road. Whichever looked cozier during their intoxication.

Today all of them seemed to pick the warmth of the bed sheets instead of the cold mud of the smelly ditch, and they were all out by the time Malagen made his way to the slaver’s quarters. Their sword hands held to their weapons just tight enough for the heavy blades not to fall from their grasp while their other hands seemed to be scratching over their personal areas in a slow animalistic motion. They were a band of walking dead, every sound to them was amplified to the point of madness and every movement something they had to put all their minds to. Not to mention the fact that their skull seemed about two sizes too small for the bedlam they awoke last night. Suffice to say, they were an easy prey.

Malagen’s hands slipped beneath his cumbersome coat, his fingers deftly wrapping themselves around the smooth hilts of his sabers and twisting them just hard enough for the blades to make a dull metallic click and release themselves from the clutch of the scabbards. In such manner, with his hands behind his back, looking as an old man with a back problem, he stepped in the middle of the circle that the slavers started to form. This was it. This was what he was raised for. All jobs aside and the money whose jingle meant food on his table, but what was about to take place was the very thing Malagen was made for. Battle. Destruction. Strife and spilled blood and horrific screams of gurgling throats that failed to inhale air and only managed to exhale crimson life liquid.

“Malagen? Wh... What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be...” but that was as far as the man got with his sentence. The demon in black moved with deadly swiftness, his hand producing a perfect silvery saber (help upside down) and launching it in an upwards motion. It didn’t exactly decapitate the man... Instead it slashed diagonally from his throat, splitting his skull like a melon. This served as a wake up call for the others, but the call didn’t come fast enough for the man on Malagen’s left. The second blade emerged from the insides of the dark figure’s attire, the katana bladed saber slashing the throat of a young looking lad. His brown eyes stared in disbelief, his hands desperately trying to stop the massive hemorrhage. Sweeping his blade sideways as he put his body in a hasty circular motion, two more were moved down, one of them receiving a slash across his eyes and the other falling to the ground after a precise slash at the base of the neck. Only seconds later and two twin slashes later two more were lying in a puddle of blood that was growing by the second. The rest backed away, shook their heads, decided to play it smart, wait for their chances and strike when the right time came. Little did they know that they could wait for that time for eternity and they would still end up waiting. Because the Dram Messiah was a machine and machines made no mistakes.

And then the thunder ripped through the massacre screams and even before he was smitten by the gun round, Malagen knew what just happened. His emotions happened, that was what happened. The damned black haired slave happened. She blurred his calm, made him do something out of the ordinary, made him rush into the battle without accounting all possible factors. And the factor that was left out of the formula of success was The Boss. Grinning widely behind the muzzle of his five foot long rifle, the slave master looked with satisfaction as Malagen’s massive body spun backwards and collapsed onto the dirt with a huge puff of dust. The pain was riveting, ripping through the placidity of Malagen’s mind as he tried to bring himself back to his feet. No suck luck. The bullet alone nearly tore his right shoulder apart, and even if that wasn’t the cast the remaining slavers were on top of him already, their feet falling all over his body like an evil rain. He slashed at them once with his healthy hand, chopping of one foot at the knee, but those remaining mercilessly mowed him down. It was only a matter of time when one would strike his temple. And when it did the world went dark and death came for the evil swordsman.

***

Except it didn’t and it took Malagen only about a minute to regret that it didn’t. A dull thud and an excruciating pain brought him back to life, the sound of a rib cracking just adding to the relentless wake up alarm. His muscles convulsed with ache, and yet his visage remained the same, no cringe, no painful cramp of his facial lines. He learned to deal with pain a long time ago and pain alone couldn’t break him. When he finally managed to open his eyes, his first sight was a darting fist that struck him straight into his left cheekbone, making his head fling backwards. His arms and legs tried to move, but the only thing they managed to produce was the clinking of the chains that held him bound to a wooden wall of the barrack. Once his head was finally back in the right position he could see the same faces that he saw before he blacked out outside. The slavers were all gathered up, their fists and knuckles more then ready to revenge the death of their comrades before they kill him in the most painful manner possible. Gathering the bloodied spit mixed with fragments of his teeth, Malagen managed to find enough strength to launch the unsightly sickly matter at the closest of the guards.

“Bring it, you wuss.” he simply muttered in a weak voice.

They listened to his dying wish and they weren’t about to stop until the man was minced meat.

[Storm Veritas]

From his spot in the woods, everything appeared to be going according to what he hoped would resemble “normal”. The rescuers freed this girl, this doe-eyed maiden, and shuffled her off to be disguised amongst the townspeople. He had actually done something good, and some small part of him welled with what must be pride. The girl would be safe, and he could escape.

That’s enough. I’ve got no time for charity cases anyway, no matter how nice an ass they may have.

As he turned to the wood, however, there was an explosion of sound and a melee ensued. The wooden barracks door thundered open, the word of an uprising no doubt at hand. Storm pulled himself down, a low, crouching machine as he rambled forward. He cut through the woods smoothly, his head swiftly bobbing from side to side, deftly dodging the low-hanging timber and stepping quietly around dry leave or loose twig. His eyes were wide, soaking in bedlam as he gazed.

The good slaver, were there such a thing, was attacked by a throng of men. Although he fought mightily, he was quickly overwhelmed, and a barrage of miscreant animals was about him. Clubs, pitchforks, even a few firearms… it appeared too late to save the brave warrior. This enraged the wily Veritas, as the slaver seemed not so distant from himself. A weathered veteran, no hero in the true sense, but a man who does what he has to do. This was a man that deserved a fighting chance. The supposed-diplomat kicked his shoes and untied his hair as he began a charge. Moving forward, Storm’s eyes flashed about the square before the cart; the safety of the girl, the other brave emancipators, and townspeople caught in the crossfire would all come to question.

But “Storm Veritas” can’t return to town. They know the man with the hands of lightning. Not in public; not if you plan to leave any survivors.

He paused, quickly pulling off his shirt and tousling his hair. Kneeling low, he pulled up the moist earth, smearing long thin strips of mud across his face. His lean, athletic physique was unlike what anyone would expect of the banker-type who had literally shocked the world. Within a period of thirty seconds, he was a monstrosity, frenetically running forth on four points. In his hands, the two daggers that he used so skillfully. He assumed a wild gait, charging from the woods like some neanderthalithic cretin. Looking up through bright blue eyes, he saw a circle around the man in black. He was being tormented, assaulted.

Time to change. Become a monster. Save mercy for those that deserve it. You are NOT a human.

He burst from the woods quietly, now barefoot and clad only in mud-covered slacks. The pants were pulled tight across sinewy legs, and his wild ebony hair streamed to his shoulders. He emerged from a section of forest distant from where he had gone in; and he ran forth on his knuckles and feet, a bizarre leaping jaunt that spoke of some missing-link style creature.

Before him, there was one man with his back to Storm, a club reared and ready to bludgeon the man in black again. Storm leapt, striking the man between the shoulder blades with a mighty two-footed kick, driving both daggers through the sides of his throat in some carnal game of piggy-back. The man crumbled to the ground, a heap of crimson covered gore as Storm turned wild eyes to the man on his right. A tall, gaunt drunk with thick white stubble looked down at Storm from above the line of his rifle; yet the un-cocked hammer told of the tremendous hesitation. His eyes told the rest of the story. It was the unmistakable glare of confusion and fear, exactly what the outnumbered Veritas would need.

With long rivulets of blood streaming down his face and hairless chest, the maniacal man-beast swung the dagger from his low crouch. The cries for justice and retribution ushered by the slavers had ceased, replaced with a confused, unsettling silence. The twisted kriss dagger tore through the lower leg of the slaver, and Storm lunged from his crouch, striking the man somewhere near the face as he bent down to assess his wound. The spray of blood was cleansing; some tribal shower of savagery, allowing Veritas a respite from his many crimes.

Yet they will know who you are. They aren’t THAT stupid here on Salvar.

The other slavers turned to him as the man in black stood again. The two were outnumbered roughly ten-to-two, but they seemed odds more manageable. Were the others to face the firefight, this could all be over quickly.

[Daedalus]

As Banazîr followed the man, though he felt his powers returning, he could sense nothing but the shell he felt before: cold, emotionless, indecipherable. But he got no further in his examination as the doors of the barracks burst open, parting to reveal a staggering mob of guards. Without warning, the guards' collective hangover hit his mind like a sack of bricks. He gagged, and another question rolled through his already overburdened mind. Why does my empathy always peak at the most inopportune moments? Focusing himself, he overcame the nausea, and looked at the scene before him, with both his biological and spiritual eyes opened wide.

The tall, dark-haired guard without emotions stood in a quickly-closing circle of half-awake slavers. Conflict lurked beneath the scene, waiting for an opportunity to emerge; yet, focusing on the guard who was the center of the storm, Banazîr could feel dimly an excited, almost feral anticipation. This puzzled him almost as much as the shell he had encountered earlier; This guy is taking on a dozen or more guards, and he's not worried. Then another thought hit him, almost as hard as the guards' hangover. He's gonna get slaughtered.

Still, Banazîr could not find it in himself to do anything but watch as the latent conflict rose to the surface—and emerged in a shower of blood. He stared, transfixed, as the guard exploded into action. Banazîr could feel a river of adrenaline rush through the man's veins—or was that his own chemistry at work? Was it his hand wielding the dual sabers, slicing through jugular veins to release the swiftly-flowing blood within? There was no difference at this point; Banazîr felt himself drawn inevitably into the inexorable killing-machine that was this man he observed. As the man's sword mowed down guard after guard, Banazîr's imagination followed the tip of his blade, partly in empathy, but mostly in gruesome fantasy. He could not really feel this man's muscles as they moved in deadly rhythm; but his overactive imagination combined with his talent to produce a form of self-hypnosis.

Some small part of him spoke, shocked, confused, alone: What is this I feel? This is not me. I am not doing these terrible things. I deny this! But he could not break free. Though he had killed a man himself once, still he was an innocent compared to the bloodshed witnessed here. And, like any innocent, he could not but be fascinated by the antithesis of his own uninitiated state.

The gunshot tore his soul as much as it did his ears. He found himself kneeling, his fingernails biting into the palms of the clenched fists he held over his ears. Banazîr was himself again; the gunshot had taken empathy as easily as it had innocence. In their place was anger, and Banazîr's chronic curse: madness. As he looked up, witnessing the chaotic crowd of vengeful guards, he saw as it seemed to him a pack of wolves—subhuman, insensible, without morals of their own and likewise beneath his own. He did not remember that the man himself was a slaver, nor recall the fear of the slaves as he had entered the cage; all Banazîr felt was rage.

His sword seemed to draw itself as as the previously unnoticed Banazîr advanced on the guards, so fixated was he on his prey. Though not a particularly skilled adversary, he felt confident of his abilities now; he was fully conscious through his madness, and knew exactly what he had to do. As focused as the guard he had been observing, he let the guards distract themselves with the savage that burst out of the woods to attack them. By the time the first guard heard his approaching footsteps and thought to look away from the attacker from the woods, Banazîr's father's sword was already hewing him, limb from limb. His screams rang loudly, but not loudly enough to match Banazîr's own.

[Malagen]

It would be wrong to say that Malagen made peace with the fact that he was about to die at the infuriated hands of the hungover slavers. To make peace with your own mortality one would have to be worried about it, clench to it, want to prolong it in any way possible. To the Dram this was all a game of facts, the whole world was just a collection of story snippets that were really just bits of information in one big formula that always led to the same result. Life was not something he would desperately cling to simply because there was nothing in his life to cling to. He was a bastard child of insane Ferioh shamans, his mind plagued by their teachings that exterminated everything human from him. He was an empty shell, drifting endlessly on the tides of fate, aimless, meaningless. In such life, death was not something to fear. It was a reward, a welcome ending of a dreadfully long and cumbersome path.

And yet that same fate that gave him one-of-a-kind in every hand dealt seemed the very same thing the kept throwing him this minute bits of hope, pieces of patronizing pity that always ensued when the matter at hand would become too dire to handle. This time it came in a form of a bestial man, a shirtless woodsman that came charging out of the grove like a bat out of hell, mowing down one of the slavers with his daggers and shattering the face of the very same bastard that nearly turned Malagen’s shoulder in grinded heap of bone chunks and torn muscles. And as if that wasn’t mocking enough, another leapt to aid the dark man, and it was none other then the same young runt that he briskly chased away from the cage only minutes ago. He seemed to be in an enraged stupor, relentlessly massacring the flesh of the man that was soon no more then a handful of bloodied stumps lying in a puddle of crimson liquid sprayed with limbs and entrails. It was a disgusting scene, a prime example of what infuriation could induce in a person, awake something they never thought they could do. But on top of that, it was a pointless carnage. Malagen was a murderer, there was no argument about that little fact, but Malagen made clean kills. This, this was the decimation of everything human about the victim and ultimately the significant loss of energy.

Energy that the dark man lacked at this point. Because even as the two enraged men stepped in to unleash their fury at the sluggish slavers and the aforementioned slavers turned their attention to the new would-be heroes, Malagen slumped to the ground like a lifeless corpse. His chains were released, the two savages more important then the wounded soon-to-be-dead goody two-shoes that wanted to play the role of the knight and free the slaves. And they weren’t too far off at their assessment. The severe blood loss that came as a direct result of a wide open wound in his shoulder combined with the fact that he probably didn’t have an unscathed rib left in his body worked well in their favor, bringing Malagen face down in the dirt and struggling to keep his consciousness present for the last crescendo of the unlikely show.

Truth be told, the Dram Messiah was ready to play dead until the slavers deal with the two attackers and he really does become a rotting corpse. With nothing to live for, there was nothing to fight for, nothing that would await him as a reward beyond the dirt and the sweat and the spilt blood. And then a man that was until recently deprived of all emotions gifted himself the greatest gift a man can give to himself; pride. And this new backbone whispered in his ears, telling him that he was better then a bunch of weaklings that couldn’t hold down their liquor, who had to pay for their women and who held a blade as deft as a ten year old with a mental illness. He would not be brought down by their festering ilk. He was better then this, and because of that he deserved death from somebody who was indeed above him, who had the authority to claim his life. No, he would not submit to them, bend to their weak wills and die like a wretched dog. No, he would arise, arise and defy.

When he brought his bulky figure back upright he was a goddamned apparition, an eidolon of darkness with a bloody face and azure fire where eyes used to be. He rose from the earth like a phoenix, his body as serene as his one-track mind that regained the uncanny focus and set Malagen back on track. He was a wraith, standing behind the upset slavers that approached the two saviors like a summoned demon, eying the remaining seven foes only for a blink of an eye. What followed was clinical gore that scythed through their ranks effortlessly.

His healthy hand grasped one of his sabers in an upside down manner and ignoring the fatigue in his muscles, the sluggish movements of his limbs retained the lightning haste. He brought the slim blade from the right in the horizontal motion and even as the man heard the high-pitched swish behind his back he knew it was all over for him. Yet, his head didn’t even start to roll down from his neck and the comrade at his side suffered the same fate as Malagen brought the blade back and completed the double slash. The two bodies that toppled over managed to disturb the remaining five, making their heads dart backwards in order to assess this new intrusion. The first man that turned his head got his skull split open with a diagonal downwards slash, spilling his brain matter all over the dirt and leaving the remaining eyes bulged open and looking at eternity.

He didn’t have much left. The swift outburst that took three lives in less then a second took heavy toll on the dark man and he probably had one, maybe two shots worth before even the new backbone that raised him from the dead would buckle under the physical laws. “Only one thing to do... Make them count.” and he did. The fourth man, a rather plump looking bald fellow in his mid forties thrust his blade at the apparition that sprung to life behind their backs and Malagen reacted as an apparition as well. His body spun sideways, his long black hair and his heavy coat following as a slight delay that nearly made the man look as if moving in a blur. This made the man pass beside him and struggle forward as his weapon struck air, but even as it did so it was met by a backhand strike of the blood drenched saber that went straight through the side of his gut. It made the man spin around his vertical axis like a rag doll, his painful wails sweet music to Malagen’s ears.

His sword hand trembled, threatening to become as lifeless as his other arm that was flinging uncontrollably at his other side. His knees gave out a welcoming cry, teasing him, calling him to allow them to buckle. His vision blurred to a heap of broken images and deviant colors and starry nebulas. Only his ears still fulfilled their god-given duty, and they were enough for him to hear a man circling around his weary body in order to blindside him. With a flick of his wrist, the dark man let his blade fly sideways, pinning the man to the wooden wall as his shivering hands dropped the short sword and groped the blade that stood out of his chest.

Staggering backwards like a drunkard, Malagen collapsed onto a wooden bench, his slumped shoulders and bowed figure a clear sign the man finally gave in to the weariness. It was alright now. He gave them hell. That was all that his pride demanded of him. Don’t fade away. Burn out.

[Zerith]

Hell broke out yet again. This time though it was only between two groups of men. The first were the slavers, the bastards that had to make their living by selling people to pathetic buyers that were too lazy to do work. The other group of people wasn’t even that. They were just three individuals that just seemed to leap into the fray for whatever reasons they had to. The truth was that Zerith would have joined them as well in this slaughter but something had him occupied at the moment. That something was currently asking what he thought of her recent discovery.

“It doesn’t really look like it will keep you very warm.� Zerith replied. It was just a simple tunic really, although it was definitely too large for Ren’s figure it just didn’t look like it would do a good job or providing warmth. Honestly it looked ridiculous, with a large star embroidered on the front and the color of the material made her stand out amongst the crowd. Looking at it made Zerith wonder just what was Ren thinking when she picked a shirt like that. “I think you would be better off with a cloak rather than that,� Zerith suggested. “But if it’s comfortable you can wear that, it does provide a little more covering�.

It was after he said that the chaos began. The loud gunshot, the bloodshed, the three fighters taking on a group of slavers all seemed to occur as a result of Zerith’s answer to Ren’s question. The young fighter gripped his halberd tightly as if he was expecting a small group of slavers to come and attack either Ren or himself. Although he didn’t know this girl he would do his best to protect her. That was just him really, the type of fool that would do something foolish to help a stranger. Right now the best way he could do that was to try and get Ren away from here. The three men that were leaving behind a pile of slain slavers could take care of themselves and defend themselves if they needed to. This girl though was different, she just didn’t seem like the type of person what would fight so the only logical way to get her out of trouble was to get her away from it and to somewhere safe.

“Let’s hurry and go someplace safe Ren,� Zerith spoke loud enough for her to hear his voice from the chaos nearby. “I don’t want to risk your safety here so before we find ourselves confronted by some slavers or something we should get going somewhere safe. I don’t care where as long as it’s not here all right? Wherever you want to go I’ll follow. If we need to figure out where we should go we can do when we don’t have to worry about being killed. Let’s just get out of here okay?�

[Poetra]

“It doesn’t really look like it will keep you very warm.”

"I've never had to worry about it. My cloak was being used as a blanket when I was taken, though, so I'm kinda stuck..."

Sounds of battle erupted from the direction the large man had gone. Whipping her head around, she could see a rather primal person, and one of the others who had helped her escape, running into the fray. What do I do? I can't just stand here! They helped me, I need to help them! Hearing Zerith's pleas for her to run for cover, she could only glance at him with a shocked expression. She struggled inwardly, ready to slap him or yell at him, but also realising the protectiveness behind his words.

"I'm sorry, but I can't run away. I may not be able to do much, but I've got to try."

Turning, she ran toward the building, no longer interested in being protected, at least for the moment. As she neared the door, a bit of intelligent thought kept her from jumping headlong into battle unarmed. Slowing, she crept toward the opening and peered in. Bodies were strewn all over the floor, blood seeping from wounds and splattered on floor, ceiling, walls, comrades and foes. The gore was horrific, but Ren had a mission, and ignored the whirling of her stomach. On further study, she discerned the feral man and the other were still alive and kicking... literally.

The hulking guard was not seen at first, until his miraculous and horrifying awakening. The violence redefined the word as he tore people apart with cold, bloody precision. His life oozed from his body, however, and soon he slumped back to the floor. So few were the remaining slavers, Ren felt secure that the others would keep them busy. Taking this opportunity, she darted in, keeping her body bent over in a poor attempt at stealth. After what seemed an eternity, she knelt next to her true savior and assessed the situation. He needed medicine, and badly. Oh no! My bag, its not here! Panic threatened to seize her mind, but she took a few deep breaths and considered her options.

Gripping the hem of her new tunic, she tore it into strips. As she reached over his body to wrap the wound on his shoulder, a strange and familiar scent came to her. Herbs... The aroma came from below her, and she was surprised to realize they were in the clothing of the man she fought to save. Her new mission was clear, and she turned her full attention to it. Her hands searched through his clothing franticly, hoping beyond hope to find that which would aide the suffering man.

[Storm Veritas]

The others having mostly fled, and the bodies slain about him, Storm was left with only one other swordsman to share in the endgame. The man in black had collapsed to a nearby bench, the puddle of crimson beneath him a ghastly happenstance. The others had stumbled away to safety, the girl and another of the smaller men, the warriors who had so bravely risked themselves. Here, on his knees, there was only flesh and gore and death about him, a terrible circle of carnage.

The bringer of pain and suffering, the harbinger of doom. What a fine man you have become.

The voice of his father, the never approving tyrant, the condescending bastard. It was too real now for Veritas, too damned all-encompassing. He had become a monster, he had become a killer. There could be no going back from this. No return to normalcy, no petty grifting. He had butchered four or five men with merely short-blades, and was doused with a thick, fast-drying layer of burgundy blood. It was caking to his skin in the heat, browning and painting him in tiger-stripes, the thin streams of scarlet and spraying life-nectar leaving him a demonic sight.

He sat still on his knees, taking in the environment about him. The crowd was beginning to grow, the morbid curiosity making the onlookers grow bolder and bolder still. They needed to see the mortal wounds inflicted, the merchant of death and destruction still sitting here, a vile monster for them all to behold.

Barely human. Barely even worth a second thought. Nothing better than the monsters that you once tried to protect people from.

It was the first time that he had killed so many; and there was no air of self-defense that one could fall back on for the justification of so much destruction. He had attacked to save the girl, he could try to convince himself, but even that was a lie. She was property, and while slavery tickled him as wrong, it was far less abrasive than some of the other things that he had witnessed and allowed to transpire.

He had intervened not to save, but to kill. To murder. He felt the bloodlust, the rage, the desire to destroy, and he was a very effective assassin when he did strike. Inside, he knew that there was no good reason for this action, no underlying justification for the death of so many.

There couldn’t be; he liked it. At his core, he lavished in the killing. He enjoyed being the deathbringer. Watching the blood flow slowly over his skin, Storm realized that he was born to do this. Born to kill. Born to destroy.

There was nowhere to go, now. Nothing that he could do, nowhere to run. He was tired of running. Perched in the center of town, he knew the constables couldn’t be far off.

Let them come. He was tired of running. It would end one way or the other.

[Malagen]

When he finally stumbled from his position of an ancient tyrant sitting on his throne to the blood-soaked dirt below, the world started to shut down one piece at the time. The color was first to fade away, the endless azure so uncanny for these lands at this time of the year seemed like a blue blanket drenched with too much bleach. Blue shifted to faded blue, then to no blue at all as ominous grayness devoured every trace of color, making the sunny sky above devoid of all hues to Malagen. The sound was the second to go, the countless murmurs and the dousing ruckus shifting to nothing more then just a heap of slurred voices and sounds that were coming from a deep damp well. Or rather he was sinking deeper into this well. Yes, that would explain the eminent coldness all over his back that made his body shiver gently. “Death shivers.” he thought in his usual matter-of-factly serene tone that his mind usually used for his inner monologues.

He didn’t mind much about it all. Death was just a waystation, something all were bound to strike on their path sooner or later. But he did suddenly became aware of lateness of things, or things left undone and unfinished, pages left unwritten in a story that shouldn’t have ended up in some lousy town at the hand of some two-bit slavers that couldn’t even parry a sword if their life depended on it. And there was a new emotion he was introduced to at that moment, and it left a sour taste of a rotten apple in his mouth. The emotion was regret and it seemed that it had been introduced to the life of an emotionless man a tad too late. He closed his eyes. It was alright. There were worse ways to go anyways.

Tiny, frantic hands, passing over his body. Searching for something desperately. Either his sense of touch was still present or he is being pickpocketed down in the seventh circle of hell. No, the cold at his back was still there, clinging to him like a sick demented monkey, and the unrecognizable echo of some delirious symphony was still the same, if not a touch clearer. If only his eyelids weren’t made out of solid iron he would probably see the monochromatic sky as well. How come death never came swiftly and painlessly for the likes of him? How come the bad men always tend to meet the most horrific painful end? He should’ve been a hero. Heroes always live happily ever after and always wind up in a castle or a house with a picket fence with a nice woman and a happy-happy family.

But the hands just kept rummaging, gently and yet at a great pace, as if somebody’s life was depending on it, trying to find the hidden compartments in the interior of his thick cumbersome coat. He dragged his lids upwards, revealing his azure eyes that seemed just as faded as the sky above. He wanted to tell whoever was here that she (She? Yes, now that he thought about it, it was definitely a she with her feminine smooth fingers and gentle audible sighs) just be done with it and, oh, by the way, give him a swift death if possible. But what his eyes were bestowed upon was not black and white like the world, and not blurred and slogged as everything else, not wrong like all that took place on this fateful day. “I...I know you...” he whispered, and even his whisper seemed static and chilly, robbed of any emotion. Yes, he knew her. Only she should’ve been halfway to the outskirts of this wretched town with that young runt, that halberd-wielding brown-haired fellow that he instructed back in The Cage.

And yet she was here, risking her freedom for a malicious murderer that a day ago wouldn’t spare as much as a spit from his mouth even if she was dying from thirst. “Go away... You should... go away!” he tried his best to shoo her away, but neither his voice nor the feeble movement of his arm served as a good persuasion. She just kept looking down at him with those big damned doe eyes filled with warmth and compassion, everything he didn’t deserve contained in that single glance. And it burned, it burned on that place where his heart could’ve been if he wasn’t a heartless killer, hurt to see such an act of mercy and being unworthy of it. It hurt when it shouldn’t. Because he was a machine, a god of war and the very embodiment of death in case the grim reaper wasn’t around to fill the role. Or so he kept saying to himself. But that damned thing burned all the same under the sympathetic look of the unnamed raven-haired girl. And it all came down to a simple choice; be a murderer and die in a pool of your own blood in some god forsaken middle of nowhere where marriage with your cousin was perfectly legal, or take the gift she had to offer. For the first time in months the frozen facial features of Malagen shifted into a minute smirk. How come there was always a woman at the fork in the path of a man’s fate?

His hand, crimson and shivering, caught her own by the wrist, tainting the perfection of her own perfect pale tan. But instead of pushing it away, it led it deeper beneath his coat, led it to the series of compartments that stood within the bulk of the thick cloth. There were three rolls of bandages in this one that he bought the other day at the local bazaar, buying them off from a healer that had only one chance to agree to the price Malagen was offering. Luckily, the elderly rounded monk saw that he meant business and sold them for a bargain, just so he doesn’t end up on the sharp end of... well, anything sharp that the dark man had in his inventory. They were soaked with the healing ointment and disinfectant, packed in small burlap wrappings and sprinkled with small dried pieces of various herbs that let out a scent of menthol and myrrh.

“Work fast. You should not tarry here.” he instructed her in the flat raspy voice once he released her hand. He had made his choice, to whatever end it may take him.

[Poetra]

Ignoring the demands for her to leave, Ren continued to rummage through his clothes. So intent was she, that she was unprepared for the strong fingers that clasped tightly on her wrist. As he led her hands deeper into his clothing, she felt icy fear creep into her conciousness, fearing something she didn't understand. But when her finger brushed against a pouch, she realized the truth. He's helping me save him...

“Work fast. You should not tarry here.”

The warmth of his hand left hers, and she felt the bloody residue he'd left behind already drying. Jarred into action, the priestess lifted several bundles into the open and splayed them out on the floor next to her. Chaos still loomed around them, but the calm of necessity was more than enough to keep her mind on the project at hand. Quickly she sorted through the materials, and located just about all of what she needed. Except the fever-herbs. We must find some soon, once we can leave...

There was no time to mash the leaves, though her saliva would hold them together. Something to keep them on the wound... What can I use...? Her eyes scanned the area, but nothing was clean enough. On a whim, she looked down at herself and noticed abstractly that her own tunic that she had so recently "acquired" was still clean, for the most part. Without hesitation, she tore the hem into a strip, and continued to tear off strips until there wasn't enough fabric to tear.

With trembling fingers, Ren used one emerald rag to wipe the wounds clean, a hint of gold thread reflecting light softly. Once she felt that she could do no more, she smeared the make-shift poultice onto them, and tied it down with the remaining cloths. Finished, she rocked back onto her heals to rest, and wiped her forehead with the back of her wrist. She wasn't satisfied with the results, but at least he had a chance to live now.

"You need rest, and I need more herbs. Otherwise, you will catch a fever, and maybe still die." Her voice was gentle, with a no-nonsense tone. Her eyes betrayed weariness and doubt, but were highlighted with hope. "How do you feel, warrior?"

[Storm Veritas]

The bloodlust was unsettled, as the constables would never close. He stood in the clearing, as those circled around, drifting back slowly and away from this comical monstrosity. His appearance had become ludicrous; he was clad in mud and blood and gore and sweat, but beneath it, the barely human beast which teetered on the edge of sanity was far too real. There would be no apologies for the lives taken; nor would thanks be necessary. He had certainly done what he felt responsible for out of passion and fire, rather than organized care and goodwill.

The wait was tortuous, and his heart slowed. The cool breeze that soothed the skins on this unseasonably warm day tingled his skin, the beads of sweat the first to feel the effects. The mud cover was streaked now, long thin streams of perspiration clearing a path down his muscular frame. The blood remained in scattered patches, crimson stains upon the skin. He was quite probably injured, and scratches and bumps and burns were beginning to whisper at him, no doubt the quiet phase of healing before the pain would come. The adrenaline was coming down now, the endorphine seizing up. Even his breath slowed, the gasps for air coming more evenly, more regular, his lungs moving with some rhythm now.

Beneath the happy mask of insanity, he was spiraling, his realization of his own misdeeds starting to hit him again. They would come for him again, and would come in full force, when he was alone. The running man would have to continue traveling, have to keep moving. He was not getting better, not moving towards some real existence. He was not becoming the man he wished to be, and not the one his father had once been. He was a monster, nothing more.

But today… today you can make a difference.

As if driven by some imbued sense of duty, he pushed on, moving in the direction of the other fighter, the felled warrior who was being treated by the girl from the cage. Protectively, Storm turned his back to the two, his still keen-eyes darting about for some sign of further assault, some follow up attack to end this once and for all. There was nothing yet; they had bought themselves some time. There was a gentle grace about the girl, and a heroic nature upon the downed fighter. The two were diametrically opposed to the diplomat turned demon that was Storm Veritas. He was once a man of dreams and aspirations and will. Today, he was a blood and mud-smeared Neanderthal, his primal urges to kill and bludgeon matched only by the guilt that followed. The voice in his head tormented him.

You’ve gone and f*cked it all up, now. A good man is down, because you hesitated, you were too slow. The girl will never leave alive. You’ll be hunted like a f*cking dog.

For now, there would be no time for second guessing. He turned his head and knelt gently, his daggers sheathed and hands exposed. Beneath the façade of gore and sinewy musculature, he spoke in a voice that was serene, almost scared. The girl had worked hard, and the man looked better, but the short breaths, his color, his distant eyes… they were still the eyes of death. This man would certainly not leave this spot of his own accord.

“Let me help him. He has lost a lot of blood. His heart is slowing. Let me help.”

Moving closer, the hands of Veritas began to buzz with a tingle of energy, the air smelling of ozone and the sizzling sounds returning. The fingertips burned white with electric energy now. He would be either heralded or assaulted, and he prayed that the judgment of the girl was worse than it appeared.

For any smart woman would not trust such a maniac.

[Malagen]

Blood loss was in many ways like being on a really bad trip, like taking a drug too strong or too venomous that messed up your senses and took you to the dreamland via a shortcut plagued with apparitions and monsters. Every face was distorted, sound deviated to wails or shrieks or some unearthly combination of the two. And it was always cold, colder then a grave in the middle of Berevar mountains, and the chill embraced you like a treacherous lover with a kiss and a knife. Malagen felt this way before. Back in Ferioh they actually had training for such situations, cutting the veins and leaving the trainee in the middle of the forest. If neither the cold nor the wolves got you, you passed. Otherwise you didn’t live to tell the tale. Malagen went on this training trip three time, twice on his own accord.

But back then the wounds were never this severe and he never had to cut through a handful of slavers, then get beat up and shot only to cut through another handful. That’s why today he had his angel, his own personal messiah that struggled with the wound as if she was saving a good man. If she only knew... If she knew how many were killed by those blades that aided in her escape, the wailing women with ripped guts, the shattered skulls of the children, the men that came and fell by the dozen, like scythed hay on a sunny summer day. If she only knew that she was saving a monster. This drew out a real smile on his face as her hands frenetically applied the herbs and procured the makeshift bandages made out of already too short tunic for Salvar weather. If she could see what he had done she would have been halfway to Corone just to get away from him.

He could feel the herbs’ cool numbing sensation spreading over his shoulder like a tide, overriding the pain and interchanging it for uncanny serenity and senselessness. It would take weeks for the wound to heal and it would take a wonder for his bone structure to heal the right way after the pulverizing projectile, but the hemorrhage was stopped and that meant the trip through the dreamland slowly shifted to backtracking. She spoke something about a fever, her large black eyes sympathetic and pathetic and sweet enough to give a man cavity, but the sullen warrior just waved his hand weakly. He managed to put his healthy hand to use, pushing himself backwards just enough to sit and lean his back on the wooden wall behind him. The effort took so much of his already severely depleted energy that his eyes rolled back, thought about staying there for a second, then returned to the girl in front and her inquiry.

Before he managed to tell her that he’s fine and that she should go, a barbaric looking man that fought during the onslaught came forth. He was a savage apparition, muddy and bloody and as trustworthy as a Lavinian thief, but he was healthy enough for the task Malagen had for him. The perfectly placid and emotionless face of the fallen Dram peered at the man and his queer magic for a couple of seconds before summoning the man closer, close enough he could whisper into his ear without the benevolent girl to hear. “You take her out of here right now. Irregardless of what she says. Drag her out of here if you have to.” he spoke to the man, his voice frighteningly cold and indifferent given the situation. Malagen’s eyes were dauntless, resolved, as movable as a mountan range as he looked into the man’s eyes. He turned to the raven-haired lass next.

“I told you that you should not tarry here. Go, get away from here.” he spoke in the same flat voice. But she just kept staring at him, and he knew she would take some convincing to do what she should have done the second he released her from the cage. “I’ll be fine. I know these people. They trust me and they will believe whatever story I serve them.” It was a flat-out, prime time lie and he had the perfect face for it. Nothing could see beyond its ironclad mask, no secret revealed by his tranquil eyes. “Now you two get out of here before the law arrives. I’ll cover for you. I am their man after all.”

His hand felt its way through the muck of his own blood mixed with dirt and reached one of his scimitars, wrapping around the hilt meekly. With the last ounces of his energy he lifted the sword and pointed it to the girl. His face shifted from the perpetual calm mask, an uncanny occurence to say the least, and it was frowning. “GO! Go before I change my mind and turn you all in!”

[Daedalus]

As rapidly as his intentions had been overrun and subverted by his own monstrous instincts, Banazîr withdrew from his trance-like rampage tenfold as swiftly. It evaporated like the morning dew as the last slaver's soul flew from his open mouth, leaving the boy to deal with the carnage he had created. A sack of bricks would not have sufficient weight to serve as a metaphor for what happened next. The only appropriate expression would be this: Banazîr's mind stopped.

Often, people say of something that it is "unbelievable", or "inconceivable". They do not mean this literally, but as an expression of surprise. Banazîr, however, was not surprised. To him, the terms mentioned apply more literally: he did not, would not, could not believe what he had done. It was the ultimate denial, not only of his own memory but of what all his six senses were reminding him every instant: that he was a killer. It was a denial, ultimately, of himself.

But if a person's mind and spirit will not perform their functions, the body, as it always does, has a replacement—a backup. Banazîr's paralyzed soul was pushed aside, ignored, as the body asserted control of itself. His head swung stiffly upward, his mouth gasped for air, his lifeless limbs mobilized, and he turned to look upon the man whose slaughterous actions had provoked his insanity. Beside him were a mud-streaked, blood-soaked man Banazîr could barely recognize as the maniac he had fought alongside and a raven-haired girl wearing a tattered crimson tunic.

Banazîr merely stood there, watching them. His body had nothing better to do, after all—not until its master regained his senses, at least.

[Zerith]

No matter what you say or do, regardless of how much important you put on something it always seems to happen. There’s always that one woman who does the exactly opposite of what you ask them. It could probably be a matter between life and death and still she will ignore your concern and do what she thinks she should do. Sure enough Ren just had to be that one woman, ignoring Zerith’s suggestions of finding cover and instead running into the chaos to help that one man that told Zerith to take Ren far from here.

“Way to go, idiot,� Zerith mumbled to himself as he slowly made his way to join them, dragging his feet behind him. “Way to go and get the job done.�

Trying to look on the bright side Zerith noted that all the people that would’ve done harm to the woman were either dead or running for their lives. Was it luck that more strangers protected the girl? Especially that one man, the one who stood in the cage when Zerith climbed into it earlier. Did he protect Ren for the sake of being able to sleep better at night or did he actually care for her? Hell, was he feeling proud of what he did as he lay on the ground dying? Whatever his motives were he did help Ren and Zerith, the least thing the youth could do was see if there was anything he could do to help.

“GO! Go before I change my mind and turn you all in!� the injured warrior ordered.

Was what Zerith saw real? This man, laying in the dirt had enough strength to lift one of his swords and point it at the girl who was trying to save his life. Why the hell would he do something like that? Did he think that he didn’t need anymore help? Or perhaps he was still trying to protect her even as he lay dying. Either way he did give Zerith a task to complete and the youth had every intention of completing it.

“He has a point,� Zerith spoke up as he joined the others around the fallen warrior. “We have to get out of her now before the authorities arrive. If not you’ll end up behind another set of bars Ren. Besides, I’m sure that whoever comes looking for us will treat the rest of this man’s wounds. He’s not going to let us stay here either. So let’s just go!�

Heading in the opposite direction all the shouts were coming from Zerith stopped briefly and turned around. His eyes stared at Ren, “NOW! We can’t afford to wait any longer. I swear that if you don’t come now I will drag away from here!�

[Storm Veritas]

The brave soldier lay on the ground, a mess. He was slowed, weak, a clearly beaten man. In his eyes, Storm could see a sort of courage, a type of ferocity that he had seen rarely before. A brave warrior, another soldier type he sailed with. That same passion, that same fateless bravery. It existed in another man, another fellow with the same sad, tired eyes. The man he had traveled with before, a man he thought was one of a kind.

Letho Ravenheart.

He wanted to run, wanted to respect the wished of a dying man, but couldn't bring himself to do it at first. Leaning down over the wounds, he felt that same shivering buzz in his hands, and watched the electric heat dance before his fingertips. It singed a large wound on the man's chest, the smell of burning flesh both putrid and satisfying. If nothing else, he knew it would help the man, slow his death, ease the transition.

"Relax, my friend, and trust me."

The wound would heal if the man did, and Storm laughed at his words. None of these people were his friend, not the girl or the other two strangers that he had come to fight beside. Fate had brought them together, a duality of duty and coincidence. When one suggested they run, Storm decided that it was time to answer the call of the man who reminded him of an old friend, now lost.

The townspeople wouldn't dare bother him now. He easily lifted the girl over his shoulder, despite her pleas. He turned from the others, a half smile and a nod. They had helped him, perhaps saved him. He would take the girl to town, perhaps back to Corone or Raieria. It didn't matter, he just would bring her somewhere free. Somewhere that she could be a person again. She bucked on his shoulder, but her attempts were futile. She wouldn't have to trust him; she didn't have a choice.

[Malagen]

After the barbarian closed his wounds with his electric fireworks and then proceeded to do Malagen’s bidding, the salvage party that rescued the slaves was gone. The cleric lass buckled and struggled; she seemed profoundly resolved to stay and help. She had a heart of gold and the demeanor to go with it; shame she was too much of a dullard to misplace them, misuse them on a bastard like him. It was yet another detail that linked her and Dharnia. Both women were too foolish to see that Malagen was too decayed to be rejuvenated, too corrupt to be a hero. Heroes would ride out of this wretched town on a white horse with those gentle hands wrapped around their waist as they scudded into the sunset to live happily ever after. Or some ballyhoo along those lines.

But Malagen was no hero and he had a different fate waiting for him. The crowd started to gather around the massacre site, their eyes bulged and disbelieving. Some of them dislodged the contents of their stomach at the crimson imagery of a dark artist that was sitting with his back against the barrack wall, half-dead and twice as dreary as usual. His eyes were dead, cold, in sync with the Salvar landscape. His lips were caught in a smirk though, the caustic mischievous kind that struck fear even into some of the bolder that dared to walk through the battlefield drenched with blood.

Soon the perpetual, well synchronized, clanking of the armor could be heard, heavy feet and iron boots clink-clanking their way through the stone-paved streets and approaching the site. The mass made a path instantly for the law, letting through the tall, masculine figure dressed in official guard attire, his armor spic and spank, the fluffy plume on his helmet dangling mockingly. In tow, some twenty men were trying to keep their eyes before them, but the training they had was insufficient to prevent them from taking a glance at Malagen’s handwork. There was upset in their eyes, sheer disquiet and perturbation. It made Malagen proud.

“You there. What happened here?” the captain of the guard approached the fallen Dram messiah, holding his hand on the hilt of his sword and his stance proud and stoic. Malagen did something that he couldn’t remember doing in quite a while. His lips curled even further and his chest rumbled with what seemed like a caustic laughter. “Who is responsible for this massacre?!” now the voice was irritated and angry as he got into the face of the dark warrior. Malagen tried to bring his armed hand to decapitate the captain, but his muscles, drained by the blood loss, refused to obey. All he was left were words.

“You’re looking at him.” the voice, raspy and dry, got through the smirking lips.

“You... You monster. Restrain him! Take him to the dungeon!!” the captain got all flared up, his face frowning deeply, his eyes keen enough to cut a man in twain. Malagen refused to respond with anything else save for that same haunting rumbling laughter, cold and acerb, spreading through the scene like a bad odor.

A monster. The title certainly suited him well.

[Slayer of the Rot]

A Profit Far From Home

Sorry for the time it took to judge this folks, and as such, I'll skip comments in the rubric to save time. I would like to mention first off, Ren's style fits quite well to the personality of her character. Plus, her posts were short and sweet, and simply got to the point. Second, I liked Malagen's character quite a bit. There's a lot of people outh there that try to go for that "Emotionless Killer" but they can never do it just right. You've just about hit the nail on the head, and the fact that he does feel emotions at time suited it well. While I'm not completely familiar with Storm's story yet, I liked that lapse into beastial killer there, and you did it well. Kudos. Unfortunately, Daedalus and Zerith seemed to be background for the quest, melting into the scenery. I didn't get nearly as much of a feel for the characters as I did with the other three. So...onto the judging!

Judgement
Introduction: 7
Setting: 6
Strategy: 7
Writing Style: 8
Rising Action: 7
Dialogue: 6
Climax: 7
Character: 8
Conclusion: 7
Wild Card: 7 (Reminds me that I have some slaver ass to kick in Salvar...)

Total: 70

Spoils: You guys didn't ask for anything, but I'm feeling generous, and I liked the asskicking you gave those slavers.

Poetra receives 930 exp, and during her flight from the slavers, through the woods with Zerith and Storm, she found a crimson cloak with a gold star embroidered on the left shoulder, left by some hapless traveller. The cloak has the added effect of delivering painful first degree burns to anyone who touches the cloak, that Ren doesn't wish to. Can only do so twice a day.

Malagen receives 890 exp, and will find that a coupon for a free upgrade to his sabers has somehow magically appeared in his coat.

Storm receives 890 exp, and 300 gold that he swindled of stupid people earlier on in the day with his ball-and-cup game.

Zerith receves 760 exp, and also fins that a coupon for a free upgrade to an item of his choice has appeared in one of his pockets.

Daedalus receives 740 exp, and..well, since he said he was only registering his character to complete this, I won't bog him down with a reward. He can PM me though, if he does intend on continuing the use of this character.

Alle Cuisine!

[Thoracis]

Everything added!

Malagen levels up. Congrats!!!!