BB: Shyam of the Dead

[Molotov]

(BB members interested should PM)

Molotov threw his cigarette into the marshy water he was wading in and watched it float away. He had come to view the swamps before he was officially going to be brought to see the area the Ceann Cath had marked out for the Bandit Brotherhood. Naturally suspicious, Molotov had decided to go on his own before the Ceann Cath made their official decision, just to see if there weren’t some better land than that which the Draconians were offering.

However, all that the mutant had found so far was muggy weather and mosquitoes. He was smoking profusely, not as much because of his chain smoking habit, but to keep the insects off of him. There were snakes and lizards in the distance, but they seemed to pay the mutant no mind.

Occasionally, Molotov exhaled an icy breath, just to keep the temperature down around him. The sun was beating down hard, despite the fact that the lush green foliage of Fioraiar should have provided enough shade. Eventually, the mutant had tired himself out wading through the water. He resolved to find the first non-muddy, solid ground that he could find, build himself a little shed of ice, and take a nap. The sun was too hot for him to do anything else.

Eventually, Molotov found a nice little embankment. He pulled himself out of the knee deep water and just sat down. Lizards and insects were crawling all over the land, but the mutant didn’t care as he set himself down beside a tree. He lit another cigarette, though unlike the others he had been smoking to keep the mosquitoes away, this one was just for the pleasure of it.

Once the cigarette smoke blew out of his nostrils, Molotov finally smiled. “Bloody hell…” he thought to himself. “There’s a way to sodding dress in the swamps, and I wasn’t doing it right. I’ll have to talk to Kyo about this, warn her that there are certain outfits that will breathe a lot easier, maybe convince her that wearing as little as possible’d be good for her.” He chuckled a bit at that joke, disappointed that he didn’t have anyone to really share it with.

“You like that, don’t you?” he asked a frog staring at him from a lily pad out in the marsh. “That was a good one, eh?”

The frog only lapped at a fly in response. Molotov chuckled. “Thanks for being a brick there,” he replied. “Really bloody appreciated it.”

His thoughts were interrupted by a passing riverboat. Molotov looked at it quizzically. There were a few things about Fiorair that Molotov had learned, and one of them was not to expect boats moving around the swamps that often. The area didn’t seem to get many people, most of them were far more afraid of monsters than he was.

As the boat drew clearer, Molotov realized why he should have been. There wasn’t a living soul on the boat, at least a living soul that had a prayer. Up on the deck, there were a group of zombies, viciously clawing out the flesh of a slain beast that had been unfortunate enough to end up in their path. Far more zombies waited on the edges of the boat, peering out into the forest ravenously, desperate for something to feed upon.

Molotov cringed. Even with the foliage, there would be no way that they wouldn’t smell him out. He might have been able to hide himself, but that wouldn’t have been enough. Instead, he was going to have to kill every last zombie on that riverboat. “Bloody hell,” he cursed, wondering just how much bad fortune he could manage. “At least the stupid wankers hate fire…”

[Izvilvin]

It'd been three weeks since the Drow had left Scara Brae, leaving civilization behind to once again seek the solace that came with living life as a shadow. A passing silhouette in the murky waters of Dheathain's swamps, Izvilvin refused to reflect on his past life, forced himself to focus on the present. He needed to be on his toes at all times, at least until he found himself familiar with the swamp. The warrior needed a network of connecting routes to different sanctuaries, if they could be called such, before he could begin to formulate any kind of plan for his future.

He was far from humanity, from buildings and social templates, yet Izvilvin couldn't help but cringe with each footstep. His feet sunk into the murky waters, an inch into mud at the bottom of the swamp - no attempt he made at stealth was good enough, so he'd begun to focus on setting a steady pace instead.

A forest-green cloak wrapped tight around him, the Drow peered ahead from beneath the lip of his hood, vision piercing the fog to reveal the way forward. He didn't know where he was going, but knew that as long as he wasn't staying still or leaving a trail behind him, he was doing a good thing. The trees were tall, ancient, with deep grooves in the bark, stained green by the filthy water.

He stopped for a moment, noticing a narrow river crossing his path in the distance. Wildlife swirled about his feet beneath the water, but Izvilvin's focus was forward. From such a distance, he could make out of the outline of a boat - but just barely.

Izvilvin had come to Dheathain without leaving a trail. As far as he was aware, not a single person had seen him since he'd helped kill the Spider-God in Scara Brae. He wasn't about to let a random patrol find him out.

And yet still he wanted to learn as much as he could about this land, to be prepared. Hoping to find higher, dryer ground from which he could eavesdrop or sneak aboard, the Drow quickened his steps and kept his eyes and ears aware.

[Molotov]

Molotov smiled as he saw the zombies notice him. “That’s right buggers,” he shouted at them, a large fireball appearing in each hand. “You bloody sods are gonna have to pay!” The mutant threw his fireballs at the zombies, hitting two of them in the smalls of their backs. He watched, with staid amusement as two of the undead creatures began to run around panicking as the rest of their group continued clawing away at the carrion on board. A few others up in the crow’s nest of the shift had spied Molotov, but they did little other than reach at him from their perch up above.

“Yeah, yeah, shout all you bloody want,” Molotov said. Despite himself, he was beginning to think that he might enjoy himself. This was the kind of adventure he hadn’t had in a while, and it was a refreshing change of pace from dealing with the high politics of the Ceann Cath. There were no gestures to be learned, no proper way to bow or requirements of courtesy, fighting zombies was far more plain and simple. Either the zombies survived, or Molotov did.

By the time the riverboat had stopped, the zombies were all chaffing at the bit, practically fighting with each other to be the first to lower the gang plank. The mutant was surprised that somewhere in their undead brains they had that much sense, he had been planning on freezing them neck deep in the water once they had jumped into the water with reckless abandon. He did take some solace in that the two up in the crow’s nest had done exactly that, only their leaps of futility had only caused their undead bodies to splatter on the deck.

Deciding he’d still like to see the zombies swimming, Molotov dedicated his energies to burning the zombies plank even before it could touch the ground. A few forearms caught on fire, but the boat was still teaming with eager zombies ready to fight.

[Izvilvin]

A cliff-like overhang of mossy, drenched earth served as Izvilvin's lookout as he watched the battle unfold. His eyes piercing the green particles that dangled in the air, the drow watched with mild interest as a single man, his voice dripping with either joy or adrenaline, grabbed the attention of the figures on the boat.

'Figures', yes, not definitely not humans. There were similarities between humans and whatever humanoids inhabited this vessel, surely, but even from this distance Izvilvin could see the strange way they moved. Grey faces covered in dropping, torn flesh showed no emotion as they began to lower a makeshift bridge, still showed none as Molotov's flame assaulted their arms. Definitely not humans.

While he tried to decide whether or not to get involved, and more importantly on which side, Izvilvin shifted slowly down the side of the dangling cliff to get a better look. Were these the natives of Dheathain, or was the fire-wielding man a sentry for the communities here? It was an attack on Izvilvin's ignorance, if nothing else; perhaps the best idea was to simply not get involved.

Maybe it was instinct, maybe the way the creatures shambled and moved without verbally communicating to one another, maybe his feet were just too cold, but Izvilvin wanted on that boat. He leaped, pumping his fist to the sky so that his ring would spawn wings - they angled perfectly, as if they knew where he wanted to go, and brought the surprising drow down onto the far end of the deck before the wings disappeared once more.

Immediately, his better look informed him of the hostility of the creatures. They hissed from their mouths, looked through eyes that had no emotion, no pupil or iris. Moreover, those who noticed him lashed out, forcing the warrior to react quickly.

He drew his blades and pivoted left, twisting just out of the reach of a nearby undead, dragging Mjolnir behind him to snip off the leg of another at its knee. They came from all angles, but he had a step over them, leaping up a balcony using only his momentum. Here he dangled precariously over the creatures, but stepped over a railing to find himself on an upper deck.

Before him was the steering wheel, a mast, plenty of cargo and a score of undead; behind him was the railing and a six-foot drop to the main deck. Without hesitation he came forward, meeting the unarmed, quick creatures with brutally swift swipes of his Damascus swords. He severed two arms from one, pulled his momentum to his right to drag two long, deep gashes into the chest of another, and ran through their falling bodies to swerve around the mast.

From his left came a loud shriek, calling his attention to a desperately diving creature, arms extended toward him. Izvilvin wasn't fast enough to dodge, but managed to cross his arms as the undead latched on, bringing its mouth forward to try and bite. Strong as it was, the drow was too slippery to be trapped, dropping low and backward out of the zombie's grip. In one smooth, powerful motion, he brought Icicle around and embedded the length of the blade into the undead's chest. Rather than waste time trying to free it, Izvilvin let the sword lie as he spun against the far railing of the boat, drawing one of his diamond daggers into the now-free hand, ready to face the coming charge.

[Molotov]

Molotov was surprised that anyone would get on a boat full of zombies. “And of all the sodding races, a bloody dark elf,” the mutant thought, his eyes open wide with surprise. “I would have expected this from a stupid dwarf.” Still, Molotov couldn’t help but be impressed. The drow was certainly holding his own.

Quickly, the mutant began to recalculate his strategy. When fighting alone, it made the most sense to keep the zombies on the boat, where they wouldn’t have been able to reach him. However, now that his odds were improved by the arrival of another, especially one who seemed that adept at melee combat, Molotov figured that he’d be best served by making his way up onto the ship. With his fire abilities, it was exceedingly unlikely that any zombie would be able to touch him, especially with someone to watch his back. What concerned Molotov more was the zombification of the dark elf on the boat. Any fighter confident enough in his abilities to take that suicidal of a strategy would be difficult to take down.

Avoiding the swamp water where he had already frozen zombies in, the mutant created a bridge so that he could board the boat. He made sure to pick an entry point where the zombies wouldn’t see him coming, though that was difficult to do given the number of creatures teeming on the deck.

As he made his way up the boat, a group of zombies either caught his scent or saw him moving. Molotov grinned. He picked up his pace a little, though he was careful given that he was moving on ice on an open bridge. He didn’t care much for the idea of slipping and falling into the water.

The first zombie that made its way onto the little bridge had none of Molotov’s sense of discretion. The creature slipped immediately, kicking its legs up as if it had yet to realize that its feet were no longer on the floor. Molotov chuckled at the creature’s misfortune, watching it flail until he realized that it was heading straight towards him, the inclined ice bridge functioning in the same way that a slide would.

“Shit!” Molotov thought. Without concentrating on where he was going to land, he leapt off the slide, jumping to the other side than the one where he had frozen the zombies. He crashed into the water with a loud plop, feet first, and sunk a good fifteen feet into the water before he was able to swim up to the surface.

“Of all the fucking things,” he cursed. “Bloody sodding wanker zombie, can’t even use a sodding slide. No wonder I already killed a whole lot of you buggers…”

However, the tide had now shifted in the zombies’ favor. A good number of them had turned away from the drow in order to look at the man who had just fallen into the water. As Molotov looked into their eyes, he knew exactly what they were thinking. They were planning to jump in.

Molotov cursed that he could only barely swim.

[Izvilvin]

Three zombies came in at once, so Izvilvin waved Mjolnir in a wide swipe to try and drive them back. The hard part about fighting the brainless undead was not their sheer number, and surely not any kind of skills they possessed, but the fact that they had no fear of him. The Damascus blade's lightning effect didn't so much as slow them.

So he did the next best thing, and charged right for them.

Mjolnir led the way, as the warrior's ebony arm drove the sword into the chest of one of the creatures. Pulling it back, Izvilvin decapitated another with a loud swoosh of the blade; ducking below the swipe of the third, the drow rose to pull his diamond dagger up and into its sternum, downing all three. He quickly saw his mistake in leaving the side of the boat, for he was now surrounded.

The possibility of being devoured alive was becoming more and more likely, but Izvilvin didn't let the idea phase him. Instead he rushed for a large chest nearby, jumping atop it to get a bit of leverage over the creatures. He slashed once to his left, once to his right, and threw his dagger at an approaching zombie, quickly replacing it. Each movement downed a zombie or severed a limb, but it seemed hopeless. One of them caught him by surprise, grabbing his leg just long enough for another to pull him off the chest and onto the deck.

He strained against the sudden weight, fearing the coming bite that would end his mortal life. The Icarus Ring no longer held enough power to pull him free, and all hope seemed lost.

Before him, though, lay a flute - just within his reach. Izvilvin had no sense for magic, no knowledge of it, but somehow the instrument called to him. He grasped it in his hand, brought it to his lips, and simply blew. The sound was elegant despite his total lack of experience. He only hoped it had some magical tie to the undead.