First Target: The Unbeliever

[Godhand]

It was a couple of days ago in Radasanth when the order came down. After that Red Forest thing, Godhand was happy to let Raieaera sink into the ruin it had brought upon itself. But, of course, someone up on top had a soft spot for the elves. Isn't that always the way? Those old guys sat in their ivory towers, sucking down pasta alfredo and fuckin' chitlins, you know, the worst part of the pig all fried up? And sending Godhand out to die for a cause and people he didn't even believe in. Terrible. But what could he do? They were on top and he was on the bottom. If he didn't follow orders he was back out on his ass, possibly worse if they thought he might turn fed.

One of the old dons, Gaggi, had given him a list. On it were basically the worst criminals in the war; some group calling itself the Necrosition. The list detailed each of their abilities, or at least the abilities the surviving scouts had managed to discern. Each one of them was absolutely lethal in his own way, but one in particular caught his eye. Sir Anderson Maxwell, alias The Unbeliever. He was causing the Bladesingers quite a bit of trouble; apparently his special ability consisted in canceling out all magic. Godhand ran his hand over his sheath thoughtfully; a fellow after his own heart.

Well, no matter how dangerous he might've been to a mage, Godhand was not impressed. From what he read, there was absolutely nothing the wizard-killer would be able to do against him if he managed to catch him away from his friends. The mercenary packed up that afternoon after studying the list, packing a wagon with every weapon he thought might be useful. He left the Magnums behind, though; they were no use in that God forsaken land. Something to do with old curses.

[Ataraxis]

Ten days in the dungeon. Ten days, eighteen hours and a few seconds over thirty-eight minutes, she guessed. It was getting harder to trust her internal clock with every drab day in a cellar that stank of mould and muck, of stone corroded by stale and dripping water. Her bare feet were scratched, as were her knees and palms, and the dampness of the cell’s stone floor did little to soothe the ache. Worst, she was shackled to heavy, rusty manacles that made her wrists and ankles red and raw. If she trusted the cottony feeling in her mouth and the grating of her bones, she would soon get lockjaw. Things were looking dimmer every time she thought on it.

She could see in the dark, and that was barely any consolation. Utter dark or the sight of that festering cell amounted to the same. Neither gave her hope, but she enjoyed closing her eyes only for the lure of falling asleep, perhaps even dreaming of times before the her imprisonment in the Unbeliever’s cage. Of the day she had been moved from the Obsidian Spire to this derelict castle through means she still did not understand. Sadly, she couldn’t even get that, for fear that the rats would swarm and devour her was a powerful deterrent.

Something clanged at her left, like a brass bowl and utensils on a wooden platter. The ring of a fork and knife would have lit her soul, days ago. Not because they would facilitate the meagre repast of stale, salted meat and mushy things she could only guess were carrots, but because she could use them as weapons, or perhaps tools to escape. But it was all so foolish. After all, she’d learned that her prison had no lock, and that her warden was not alive.

In the darkness she wept, and not even the rats deigned comfort her.

[Godhand]

Giacomazzi had supplied Godhand with two fine Fallien Geldings to pull the wagon. Now he didn't consider that, literally, godforsaken desert nation anything but a worthless sandy hole in the ground, but apparently they knew their stuff when it came to horses. On the other hand, they believed them to be sacred so lashing them to a wagon filled with weapons was probably considered "so very sacriligeous". The mercenary didn't give a damn about that, but he did briefly wonder how in the Hell the crime boss had managed to get a hold of horses like these. What was there in Fallien? The mobster snorted. Bodies, and probably lots of them. God only knew how many holes had been dug in that desert.

The trip out of the city had been uneventful. It was still, Jesus, probably a week to Raieara, but at least the Geldings would make it a comfy ride. No animal in the world gives you any guff after you take it's balls. It was only after he cleared Radasanth's last guard post that he began to feel ill at ease. He could feel someone watching him. The feeling got more and more intense the closer he came to The Razor's Edge, a narrow pass through a cliff that was a favored ambush point for bandits. He knew what they did to merchant's caravans, of course, and he knew that those fine steeds dragging him along probably made him look rich. Still, it'd be a cold day in Hell before any Goddamn robber punk ever made a move against Godhand Striker.

It was as he was telling himself this that the first of many arrows came down. The mercenary shouted a curse and dove under the tarp covering his wagon. More arrows came down, but they bounced off of it harmlessly; it was that special cloth-dehlar blend that Lillian made, God bless her darling soul. Godhand cursed as he rifled through the weapons he'd brought, only now seeing the foolishness in leaving his guns behind. Just because they were useless in elf land didn't mean the trip there would be any safer for their absence.

[Ataraxis]

‘I can’t feel my legs… I can’t feel anything… Ataxia… sleep paralysis.’ An alarm went off in her mind, but there was no reaction save for the surge of terror that assailed her. The rats. The rats were coming – she could hear them, the hundred tiny feet scratching the stone, their whisker upon her skin. Before she could wake up, they would be done, and would leave nothing but gnawed bones. No red stains, as they’d drink it all.

When her eyes opened, she truly believed in a miracle. At the very least, they had been reasonable enough to leave her head intact. When she noticed a muted light that pierced the gloom, she understood that she had been moved. The light burned her the more she looked, but she took as much of it as she could. If they could take her up, they could take her down again. Not a single drop of it would be wasted.

“I had almost forgotten about you, child.” The voice was grim, hoary as though it had not spoken in decades. He was far from where she was stretched, and as such she could not see him. Still, it was not difficult to guess that this was Anderson Maxwell, the man who’d introduced himself just before throwing her in the dungeon. The Unbeliever himself. “Lucky I told my servants to feed all prisoners regularly.”

Had she the strength, she would have sneered. She had been fed a grand total of three times, and had regurgitated the first maggoty repast. “What do you want.” Lillian coughed, unable to even turn her words into a question.

“I want to know how you suddenly appeared before me, ten days ago. Granted, that information will not be of any important, but I remain a curious… being.” The snicker of irony was strained, as though he became more and more aware of his own nature as he spoke. There was a brush of cloth and metal; she guessed he had shrugged it off.

“The black armour… in the Spire.” Lillian sighed, her voice heavy with pain and defeat. She didn't care what she said, or to who she said it. It was all the same, now. “On the chestplate... I touched the stone.”

[Godhand]

Godhand had to literally dig through the weapons he'd brought to find something useful. The things was that the mercenary was at heart a melee fighter, and he didn't really have anything besides his guns that were of any use in a situation like this. Or so he thought. His fingers suddenly grazed something smooth and round. He tossed aside a set of throwing knives only to find a cannonball, one of a pair he'd tossed into the wagon as an afterthought.

It'd been years since he bought it, back when he was a member of the very first incarnation of the Bandit Brotherhood. Good kids, if a bit of a grabass organization. They'd planned to go to war with some despot state nearby that had enslaved some elves or something; he certainly couldn't remember what it was about. Still, the mobster had gotten all excited and, flush with stolen wealth, had gone on a bit of a shopping spree in the bazaar.

Knives, swords, cannonballs and even a twenty four foot Zweihander had been purchased. It had all been for naught, though; their leader dissapeared the eve before an attack plan was to be made. Probably assassinated, but nobody ever found the body so who's to say? Godhand liked to think he'd gone off to live in an island filled with beautiful amazon women that serviced him in every way. Hahaha, no, only kidding. The mercenary figured he was buried in one of Fallien desert's many graves.

Godhand picked up the cannonball, pleased with it's weight. Almost immediately afterwards he turned and hurled the projectle at the nearest cliff side. The stone and the sphere both practically detonated upon impact, sending thick dust all over the area. There was a confused roar from the attackers, a panicked neighing from the Geldings, and then the mobster leapt out of the wagon.

[Ataraxis]

Lillian closed her eyes, once more greeting the darkness. She remembered the tower of unliving black, remembered the people who had led her there from a frantic Eluriand. Led her with dozens of other students from the IstienUniversity, to a fate worse than death. On the higher floors of the Spire was a room, where the obsidian pulsed with white veins. At its heart was a black armour, magnificent in its make, but it had been bound by chains of the starkest white. Chains, however, that had been broken by the mercenary Godhand. Unfettered, the armour beckoned her – she answered, touching the onyx stone. Lillian cursed there and then: she remembered that, when she had been teleported, they had been moments away from an undead onslaught, one that spearheaded the very arrival of the Dark.

“Ah, yes. The stone that brings him to us, or us to him.” The frail voice broke her daze, returning her to the dull grey of the marble ceiling. The Lich was in musing, as though trying to fill in what blanks remained. “Then, without any clear instruction, the stone must have sent you to the closest among us. A sensible theory.”

“You keep… saying ‘us’. Who are you, Unbeliever?”

“We are the Necrisition. Of the Necromancer, we are the all-reaching Fist.” There was the grate of a chair against stone. Echoes of heavy steps, shaking what sounded like a full-plate armour. Breaking the monotony of the dappled grey ceiling was the face of the Lich himself, pale like the drowned dead, milky eyes that glowed a sickly orange. Staring right into hers, unmoving. “And it just so happens that, as of this morning onward, we are those who now rule Raiaera.”

He maintained the gaze, one from which she found herself unable to break. The world went dark again.

[Godhand]

"Who the fuck do you think you are!? I paved the way for punks like you!" There was a short pause as Godhand, fuming, loomed over his fallen assailant. The kid looked up at him, face swollen and nose bleeding, and uttered a pathetic mewl. The mercenary paused, then raised his foot and stomped into his skull. "FUCK YOU!"

He'd taken full advantage of the diversion the cannonball had caused. The mercenary felt his way through the dust, drawn to and fro by the bewildered yells of the bandits. Each time he managed to get his hands on one it was quick work; just clasping his hands over their windpipes and giving a quick squeeze. They didn't put up much of a fight at all, but not many people could in a situation like that. By the time the dust cleared, the last men standing were Godhand and the bandit leader. The mercenary had tuned him up pretty good then; he was still in a bad mood from getting sent to that hellhole Raieaera and didn't have much patience for bottom feeders like them. Then came the stomp, and that was that.

Godhand briefly considered stowing their bodies into the wagon to take them back to Corone after the job was done to see if there was any reward for them, but quickly dismissed the idea. The last thing he needed was for that necromancer to resurrect these punks in the middle of his journey. He could already imagine it; he'd be whistling a merry tune as he drove past a tattered battlefield, clicking his tongue once in a while to urge the geldings onward, and then one of these assholes would lunge up from behind and sink their teeth into the mobster's melon. Godhand shuddered; what a way to go.

The mercenary walked over to ground zero from his cannonball attack, looking to see if he could still salvage the projectile. But, dumb fucking luck, he couldn't find it in anywhere. What the Hell was he thinking? It was probably in low althanas orbit after ricocheting off the stone. Godhand chuckled as he hefted himself back unto the wagon, shaking the reins to let the horses know it was time to go. It was still a long way to Raieaera.

[Ataraxis]

The iron bars shook as the gaol door snapped shut, sending grit and dust from the rocky ceiling to pelt the girl. She awoke, a headache flaring in her mind something fierce. Maxwell had done something to her, but all she could recall was the eerie glow of his eyes. But Lillian didn’t fool herself into thinking there was some other trick; sometimes, a look was all it took. When she tried to stand, her knees quickly buckled and she fell in the puddles of fetid waters with a splash.

She didn’t understand what was stopping her from breaking out of this feeble cell. Though the locking mechanism was magical in nature, the bars themselves were nothing but packed rust. Her normal frailty could not make them budge, but she had tried to call upon her powers countless times, without success. No gargantuan strength, no razor sharp threads. Nothing she did worked, and it frustrated her to the point of despair.

In this cell, all she had was a brass bowl, a knife and a fork. “Oh, and a wooden platter, not that that’s going to help me.” With much contempt, she observed the tray, saw the splinters along its edges and the darker line than ran through it, proof that it was made from two different planks. Watching it made her furious, and she did not know why. She did not care why. She hated the damn thing, as much as she hated everything in this god-forsaken dungeon. And the rats! Gods, she hated them all.

One of them twittered in a corner, long whiskers lapping the dried bottom of the bowl of cold porridge she had been given, three days ago. Feeling a need to relieve her violent urges, she threw the tray at it will all her might. The rat scampered, its fat body collapsing as it squeezed through the bars. “Great, and the damn thing broke.”

And then it hit her. Wasting no time, she scrambled for the remains of the platter. There was a thin sliver of wood, so thin that it broke when she took it in her hands. The other part was on the verge of splitting again, a process she had decided to accelerate. She took the fork and knife from the bowl and plunged them both, blade and tongs, into the fissure. With a bit of wriggling, the platter came apart. Then, she did the unthinkable.

Lillian undressed herself.

There was no reason to blush and gyrate as she usually would, her audience being naught but the red eyes of a couple of rodents. Hastily, she dipped the dress into the stale waters that soaked the floor, turning the thing into more of a rag than it already was. She hurried to the bars, wrapped the wet cloth around two of them and ran the thick sliver from the tray into the knot. She took both ends of the wooden handle and turned.

Her hands were bleeding from the countless splinters, but she did not stop. These bars were nothing but rust, and this particular application of force would be, should be... had to be more than enough. The iron wailed, and she strained even further. Sparks flew as they snapped. Lillian was elated, and she instantly began work on her shackles, simple work… very painful work. She pulled her wrists out, compressing her hands as much as she could until they were freed, one by one. It had taken days of fasting for that, but as willowy as she was, she had managed to lose even more weight. She repeated the gruesome progress with the manacles at her ankles, and within half an hour, she was free.

She was dressed again, but holes riddled the fabric. She was standing again, but blood dripped from her wrists and ankles, the skin peeled off with their forceful liberation. But she was free.

And she was furious.

[Godhand]

Thank God he'd thought to bring along a couple of fur coats to line the bottom of the wagon. The mercenary had had to fish one out almost the minute he'd gotten past the Raieaeran border; fuckin' rogue weathermages had conjured up vicious blizzards around the corners of elf land to repel attempts at aiding the elves. They'd probably been successful, too; Godhand couldn't imagine anything but a Fallien horse getting anybody through that blasted cold. He thought about that gun running deal with Djakara; what a fucking disaster that was. I mean he'd gotten out of it more or less okay, and all those shotguns had definitely made his bosses happy, but it was still a nasty bit of business. He'd had to fight his way through an army, backing an incompetent leader and surrounded by incompetent allies and it was just bad, bad business. He was definitely put off Salvar after all that.

Godhand breathed a sigh of relief when he saw a village appear on the horizon. It didn't look razed, anyway. That was a start. When he finally steered his exhausted horses into the settlement, he got an overwhelming feeling he was in a ghost town. I mean everybody was still there, but it just felt wrong. Quiet. The town's residents stood on their doorways, watching him with caution. They all wore black; they were in mourning for their country. Just then a man clad in full plate armor and bearing the crest of Sir Anderson stepped out in front of his horses, holding out a hand to stop them.

"This village is part of the court of the honorable Sir Anderson Maxwell. Travelers are not welcome here. Our lord has already delivered this month's quota of dead to the great Xem'Zund'; it is by the infinite mercy of our lord that your life is spared. Go back to Corone, traveler."

"Oh, certainly, my dear knight. Could you just...Wait, for a moment? I am unsure of which path to take back to my home. I was disoriented by a blizzard, you see. Perhaps you could point me in the right direction? Let me just get my map, and you can point out where I am. It's right back here, you see."

Godhand walked over to the back of his wagon and smiled when he found the second cannonball.

[Ataraxis]

Every step up the winding stairs replenished her, filled her with a new wind that was most likely fuelled by rage. Yet, there was something Lillian had to recover before she could even consider unleashing it. Until then, she would have to rely on her small size and a once despised ability to be so easily ignored. It helped that they'd also taken away her boots, imagining that they could house some small, hidden weapons. Fat chance, but a good try. 'Regardless, I'm not leaving this place without them.'

Lillian found her path barred by a heavyset door, bolted shut. This one was going to take more than a stick and a wet rag to bust open, and so the girl decided to bide her time. She hugged the left wall some three feet away for the door hinges, calculating that when it would open, it would provide her all to cover she needed without crushing her into a bloody pancake.

No more than a dozen minutes of wait and she saw shadows play behind the grilled slats. The clink of keys, the unlocking of a padlock. The panel creaked open, blessing the dark and grimy stairs with a modicum of light. Rattling bones and moaning drawls announced the presence of the undead warden, come to feed one of the other prisoners. A stupid idea, considering how one was unconscious and the other was dead. God, she could already smell the horrid stench of the porridge. In a way, those two were lucky to be where they were now.

When the warden passed her, she lightly shut the door. It wouldn’t do her any good if the Maxwell goons came to this one’s rescue. No. She wouldn’t have it.

Lillian bull-rushed the zombie, planting the splinter-turned-stake into his rotting atlas, twisting dryly. She pushed herself off him before tumbling down the stairs and fell on her hind, just in time to watch the damned ghoul break apart on the steps until his corpse was swallowed by the depths. Pocketing the rot-stained stake, she walked through the unlocked door.

The castle was empty. She crept along corridors with walls as scarcely decorated as the abode of a blind man, testimony that this Anderson was no afficionado of art and had no interest in interior design. A few random turns and she happily stumbled onto the very room she was looking for, left unguarded as well. She wondered at the possibility of a ploy, but the lack of security could have been due to a lack of a workforce to begin with. If they had to leave their stations to patrol the small town she could see through the arched windows, then she still had a chance of getting out of this place in a single, unmarred piece. “Here’s for hoping.”

The chamber was vast yet just as vacant as the rest of the ruined castle. At its center stood a marble plinth, nondescript save for the objects that lay upon it – notably a pair of boots and the finest of rapiers she had ever seen, crafted from Delyn. Her rapier. She took them both and sped out of the room, hopping from foot to foot as she shod herself and strapping the weapon along with her rope belt.

It didn’t stay there for long. The last guards in this joint had rounded the corner, and they were all undead.

She had a tooth to pick with their entire kind.

[Godhand]

Godhand tore a chunk of flesh off of the drumstick, happily slurping up the juice. God, it was delicious; the meat practically melted off of the bone. He would have been able to eat it with a spoon. The village girls crowded around him, eagerly refilling his cup even after he took only a small sip of ale or swooping down to dab at his chin with a cloth whenever it got too messy. The mercenary wasn't usually a messy eater but this wasn't the sort of thing you ate with a fork and knife; when someone laid a whole bird out in front of you you were expected to dig in. An elderly man sat in front of him with his hands clasped together, gazing at the mobster with what could only be described as pure and unbridled hope. He was the town's head. They'd all seen him go to work on Anderson's guards, and he figured this was supposed to be some sort of reward. It wasn't that hard, anyway. It was a small settlement so only about twenty men had been assigned to guard it. Finally, the mayor or whatever he was spoke.

"Tell me, great warrior, are you here to save Raiaeara from the scourge Xem'Zund?"

Godhand swallowed noisily before slipping a hand into his jacket and producing a sheet of paper, pushing it over to the mayor before resuming his meal.

"I don't know. Is he on that list?"

The elderly man hurriedly fumbled with his spectactles before eagerly reading the mobster's hit list. The whole of the town crowded around him, trying to get a look at it over his shoulder. He suddenly went very pale and tremblingly pushed it back towards Godhand, who plucked it up and slipped it back in his pocket.

"Sir, you can't truly mean to fight the Necrisition! They're monsters!"

A murmur shot through the gathered crowd. Godhand snorted, not in any derisive manner but merely to clear his sinuses after such a meal, and began to wipe his hands on a nearby cloth.

"Yeah, well..." He swallowed a burp, "I'm bigger."

There was a quiet giggle from one of the girls, but the elder quickly shot her a withering glare.

"Warrior, you musn't-"

"No, c'mon, shut up. Don't ruin a meal like that with predictions of doom. Listen, I'm looking to start with the guy on top. The mage killer. You wouldn't happen to know where I could find him?"

"I do!"

Another one of the girls in the crowd piped up. Another glare from the elder. He cleared his throat, uttered a brief prayer, then addressed Godhand.

"Our 'lord' Maxwell lives in a castle nearby. It's the ransacked remains of our true patron's keep. I'll have the town's cartographer make you a map. But please, be careful!"

[Ataraxis]

That rapier felt good in her hand. Especially after she’d gotten a fair bit of exercise with it.

Lillian kneeled over a corpse – a real, dead one, this time – and wiped the lean blade on its green and yellow doublet, now stained with a slash of rotten blood. The fight had been far from easy, considering how enfeebled and emaciated her sojourn in the dungeons had made her, but she had made up for that surprisingly well. Apparently, skill with such weapons ran as much in her blood as it did in her father’s. She tried to step over the first of her victims, but simply decided to hop and vault over the second and third, before breaking into a run for the exit.

Stealth was no longer an option. Ever since she put on her boots, more and more of the decrepit lackeys seemed to flock to her. Just as well, for that would save her the trouble of hunting them down in the future. Veering to a left, she sped down a sloping hallway, where more of the reanimated dead seemed to awaken. As she ran, she let the rapier trail behind her, her grip on its ornate hilt tightening ever so slightly. The first to come upon her had quickly lost its eye, which was sliding down the blade like roast on a spit. The image made her nauseous.

Two more twisting stabs in the throat and it was down for the count. Her desire to gloat would have to wait, however, as the massive blade of an axe just barely missed cropping her hair a few inches shorter along with her neck. She was glad to see that the guard’s decomposed muscles could not fight the forward momentum, letting the curved blade thoroughly embed itself into the flagstones. She twirled, easing the point into the crook of its elbow, severing the articulation. Dumb as it was, it pulled and saw its arm ripped off, skinless fingers still curled around the heavy shaft.

She would have to leave this one to its unlife, however, as two others thrust their spears, one snagging a strap of her dress and the other cutting into her shoulder, yet luckily glancing off the bone. She screamed, almost tearing up, but took full advantage of the gap they’d left and dashed between them. As they turned inward to watch her, they struck each other with the long hafts and fumbled.

The exit was just within her sights. Heavy, gigantic gates, but they were left slightly agape to let people in and out without the trouble of cranking it open at each and every come and go. Except that they were now closing on her. “Damn it, one of them is reeling the lever!” She lowered herself, risking it all on the last decisive sprint, but the gap was too small for her to slip through head on. On the last critical inches, she spun sideways and let her boots carry her across the slick marbles and into the world outside. She skidded, ending her spin in time to see the gates slam shut in front of her, almost biting off the tip of the rapier she still held.

She had held her breath all the while; only now did she exhale her relief. The nightmare was truly over. No more cages, no more undead, no more cursed porridge. She was free.

Lillian backed away a few steps… and jarred into something tall, something hard. Her exhilaration had all but died. “I... I give up. Do what you will.”

Spoils: Nothing!

[Godhand]

The horses were exhausted. He probably should have rested in that town before setting out, but he really didn't want to break his stride. He was making record time here. Plus, there was something else. A weird feeling he couldn't really describe; it was urging him on to Maxwell's keep. Godhand knew it'd probably be a real rough scene once he got there, and that it'd be a hell of a lot easier with some friends to back him up, but he didn't plan on getting the New World Order involved in this. Sure, he'd probably get the entire list done in a day with their help, but if he forced them to come along he'd be no better than Dirks and his manor monkeys. That was no way to treat the most dominant Power Group on the face of Althanas.

The ride up to Sir Anderson's manor was a bit interesting. For a region that usually didn't see a lot of snow, south Raiaeara certainly sported it well. The mobster felt like he was back in Salvar. He felt some reminiscing coming on, but he snapped himself out of it. Focus; now was no time to be day dreaming. Elf land was a rotten place thanks to that necromancer; Godhand felt that at any moment a sea of zombies might ambush his caravan. He thought back to the Red Forest fiasco and the veritable Goddamn mountain of enemies he'd had to cut through to get out of the Obsidian Spire. He hoped he'd never have to go through something like that again, but no such luck.

Focus! Focus! It was the damn cold. It lulled you into thinking about earlier times.

"Earlier Times. Hmm, that might make a good name for a whiskey..."

It was as Godhand was pondering this that he ended up nearly at the foot of The Unbeliever's keep. He gave himself a start when he suddenly acknowledged the large stone castle in front of him, strapping the Muramasa to his belt and dismounting from the wagon. The geldings were anxious; Godhand could tell. He couldn't blame them. Fucking elf land. This was no place for a couple of desert horses.

The mobster gripped his sheath and turned, mentally preparing himself for the trial ahead, when suddenly a petite young figure in a raggedy dress dashed out of the keep and slammed it's gates shut. Godhand would've recognized that ass anywhere; it was Lillian! Just as he was about to greet her, however, she backed right into his chest. She suddenly went real rigid, then whimpered out a surrender. The mercenary blinked, dumbfounded, and then grabbed her right arm with his hand and coiled his left around her stomach. Then he did that tango move where he swayed back and forth. She went rigid again as soon as he layed his hands on her, but then she recognized his scent. Lillian stared vacantly at the keep's doors, her eyes tearing up and her upper lip quivering, before spinning in Godhand's arms and furiously hugging him.

"Mister Godhand!"

"What's going on, short stuff? I missed you in that fucking Spire!"

She instantly began to blubber out some sort of broken explanation, something about a light and bad food and jail and she was so scared, pause, so scared.

"That's...Terrible? I don't-"

She gave a loud moan as she grabbed two fistfulls of his shirt, crying into the cloth.

"Whoah, no, c'mon! I just got this shirt! Quit that!"

[Godhand]

Lillian shivered in Godhand's arms as he led her back to the wagon. The seamstress spoke to Godhand of the Unbeliever, of how he had negated her magic and to be careful. The gunman merely nuzzled the back of her neck and told her to calm down, to forget about it. Her eyes lit up for a moment when she recognized the tarp covering it, but she was too weak and cold to make any sort of comment about it. The mercenary cleared away an area for her in the back, pushing the weapons over to one side. He swaddled her in one of the luxurious fur coats with uncharacteristic tenderness, rubbing her shoulders through the cloth to try and get her warmed up. What could he say? He liked the kid. After wrapping her up in a cocoon of furs, the mobster gently arrayed some lighter blades on top of her to disguise the furry lump in the back of the wagon. It'd be no good if she got gobbled up by some zombies while he was off taking care of the Paladin.

With that done, Godhand turned and made his way over to the keep. He began pulling his fingerless black glove tighter over his left hand. It was a tic; something he did when he got anxious or excited. And boy was he ever excited. They'd write stories about this; one man taking down an entire Xem'Zund stronghold. He thumbed his sheath with a smile; they didn't need to know the details.

The mercenary kicked open the doors to the keep, the cogs keeping it closed spinning wildly in the opposite direction. To their credit, the otherwordly doormen didn't seem surprised at all. They merely groaned and stumbled towards the intruder as zombies are wont to do. Godhand ignored them, briskly stepping through the manor with impunity. Every time one of the creatures got within five feet of him the magic animating their bodies was absorbed into his sheath. They instantly collapsed into a heap, the swordsman carefully stepping over their bodies as he ascended the keep's floors. After about fifty cadavers he reached what looked like a royal court, the castle's master lounging upon the throne. He gave the mercenary a wicked grin, locking eyes with him. Godhand just smiled right back, grinning upon noticing the tear tattooed on his cheek.

"Nice tattoo. Does it mean you're sad?"

The Unbeliever's smile quickly turned into a frown as he pushed himself up from the throne.

"It signifies how I weep for a world that's gorged itself to bloating on foolish superstitions."

"I'll take that as a yes."

The Dark Templar snorted derisively at the mercenary, glaring at him like one would at a wart on a beautiful woman's lip. There was no need for words anymore; one of them wasn't going to exist much longer. Each one burst from their position almost simultaneously, quickly locking hands in the center of the room. The mobster's face froze in a pained scowl when Xem'Zund's general began to exert his strength, squeezing Godhand's fingers between his while pushing the wrist back. He fell to one knee, groaning in agony as Maxwell continued to push, a sadistic smile on his face.

Then, nothing. The gunman's scowl slowly began to turn into a grin and his groans into laughter, quickly getting back up to his feet and reversing the pressure. The Templar's fingers were crushed instantly and now it was his turn to scream. Godhand released his grip and pushed him back, before throwing his hand forward and catching the man by the throat. He quickly fell to his knees, gasping.

"What...What are you!?"

The gunman paused and considered the question.

"I'm bigger."

Pulling his sheath from his belt, the swordsman tossed it into the air and caught it in reverse before stabbing the mouth of the scabbard into Maxwell's head. There was a sickening sound like blood getting sucked down a drain, and then Anderson's youthful features began to fade. His skin went to pale to ashen and his hair from white to grey. His muscles deflated and before long there was nothing on the end of Godhand's sheath but a desiccated skeleton. The mercenary plucked the scabbard from the Templar's forehead, his entire body crumbling when it was removed.

---------------------------------------------

When he got back to the wagon Lillian was looking at him, a fur coat draped over her head and her cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk's. Turned out she had eaten all the leftovers Godhand had saved from the earlier feast; he'd planned on eating those as a reward to himself after beating Anderson. He was livid at first, but after she looked at him with those big ol' puppy eyes he had no choice but to forgive her. Now she was dozing in the back of the wagon-turned-carriage as Godhand rode them back to the settlement.

It was an easy fight, but the mobster knew it was probably the only Necrisition member he'd have no problem with. Quite simply, he had no magic for the Unbeliever to negate. By the time the Templar had realized that, it was too late. Still, even with all that considered, the mercenary couldn't help but feel a swell of achievement rise in his chest.

One down, five to go.

Spoils: Sir Maxwell Anderson's soul has been absorbed into Godhand's sheath. The significance of this is as yet unknown.

[Raelyse]

Story

Continuity – 5 – Ataraxis did well in this, explaining exactly what Lillian was doing in Anderson’s custody, even though it was a bit later than I expected. Godhand, however, didn’t do as well. I didn’t feel as though the mobster thing was sufficiently fleshed out and I would have liked to know what incentive he had for doing something that he obviously did not want to do. Godhand’s introduction was very vague and gave me very little.

Setting – 5 – I felt that Ataraxis contributed the most to this thread with this category with great descriptions that brought her prison and her experience alive. Godhand, however didn’t really play with the environment as much as he could have or describe it in any great detail. There was the cannonball thing, but that was brief and I still think you could have done more.

Pacing – 4 – Once again, Ataraxis did well while Godhand seemed to lumber through his posts, seemingly eager to finish the quest without caring how he did it. I could tell instantly that you just wanted to get it over and done with. In short, I looked forward to Ataraxis’ posts but not to Godhand’s.

Character

Dialogue – 7 – This was good from both of you but I only thought that Godhand got interesting in his later posts. He was quite boring and cliché in the first few, but Ataraxis was solid throughout.

Action – 6 – I really liked Ataraxis’ writing of how Lilian broke out of her prison; it really highlighted her intellect. Godhand did Godhand things, but there wasn’t really anything outstanding which is why you didn’t score higher. I also brought this score down because the two of you rushed through battles and fights and I really would have liked to see the Anderson one prolonged.

Persona – 8 – I got a great feel for both of your characters from this thread, but you didn’t score higher because I didn’t feel as if you put enough effort into channeling your character’s thoughts into writing and when you don’t do that, you can’t effectively communicate their emotions. I felt that Ataraxis brought this category up, I would have scored Godhand a 6 by himself.

Writing Style

Technique – 5 – A few devices here and there but nothing that was really effective in making your writing interesting. I felt that Godhand could have put in more effort here. His writing in his first few posts was very simple and this brought the score down.

Mechanics – 4 – This shocked me because I found six instantly noticeable spelling and grammar mistakes, including one where Lillian mentions IstienUniversity. This is just shameful, you guys. You could have easily scored 8 or 9 and gotten a huge boost, but you didn’t read through your posts or even spell check, which led to this score.

Clarity – 5 – This was a hard thread to score here because Ataraxis was crystal clear but Godhand was quite awful easy on. I decided to average the scores and I got this. Godhand, you really need to put in effort earlier in the thread. You reminisced and deviated on tangents that were only slightly related to the storyline. It was obvious you just wanted filler.

Wild Card – 3 – Ataraxis deserves higher, Godhand deserves lower, Althanas deserves better. You two are up there with the best active writers on Althanas but you (maybe just Godhand) chose to rush through a quest and put in minimal effort so I have no choice but to give you a Wild Card score that reflects that. Ataraxis did fine, though below usual standards. Godhand was, for lack of a better word, just plain awful in this quest. You improved in your last 2 posts, but most of the stuff before that was way below your average. I understand the temptation to rush through storylines so you can get spoils or progress stories but you have to realize that you’ll get much less in the way of scores and EXP if you go down this route.

Total Score – 52

Godhand gains 2200 EXP and 80 GP
Ataraxis gains 1800 EXP and 40 GP
(Scaled up due to FQ)

Ataraxis does not gain any spoils from this quest.

Godhand, consider your spoils from this quest accumulated to whenever you want to claim the effects of your soul sucker.

[Cyrus the virus]

EXP added. Buttface levels up!