Decadence [Closed]

[Winterhair]

Closed to Witchblade

High and mighty did the baleful sun hang in the air, shining brightly as it illuminated the sands below. Upon the forms of the four travelers did it press it’s never ending heat, the very air shimmering with warmth. Wraiths of light and illusion crossed in front of the four, causing distraction and disorder amongst the tiny group as they mistook the illusions for monsters or places of rest. It didn’t help that the sand beneath their feet was about as easy to walk on as ice, as their steps often sunk into the hidden dunes or tripped upon concealed potholes.

Of the four, Vincent was the only one who was not just focusing on moving forward. His silver eyes claimed the burning sands as their own, scanning the dunes warily for any sign of danger. For this, he brought up the rear, his stamina proving to be the greatest amongst them. The leader of the group was a grizzled ranger with a hard, lean look about him, wearing a desert cloak not too similar from Vincent’s over his loose-fitting clothing to conceal a myriad of bulky hilts and shapes. In second came a smaller man, wearing a white hooded coat to conceal his face and long sleeves to conceal his arms. However, his movements were long and elongated, unlike a swordsman’s at all. And his weapons of choice seemed to be twin assassin’s daggers than came from his sleeves, thus proving his profession. In third was a woman wearing naught but a simple strap of cloth around her breasts and a small skirt to conceal her femininity, but along her legs and arms she wore four swords, each made of a deadly Damascus. She wasn’t unattractive, and more than once did Vincent find himself watching her bottom sway side to side.

But the desert heat had put everyone in a bad mood this day, as there was not a cloud in the sky to distort the light nor the heat. Even their mild-mannered leader had managed to snap more than once at the three, leaving an awkward silence between them. Vincent rubbed his head as he sighed out loud, adjusting the Delyn claymore on his back and the katana at his side as he contemplated why he even took this job.

It had seemed like a good idea in the first place. Samantha had suggested to him to take a quick job in order to get some money, since he had spent all of his on his new claymore. And even Vincent wasn’t stupid enough to try and get supplies without some cash. So he had joined up with this trio who were hired to go exterminate a nest of giant scorpions, which had been bothering trade lately by attacking caravans traveling through the desert. But now he wondered if it had been a mistake after all.

Suddenly their leader stopped and held up a hand. As a group they stopped, each going to ask the same question, when his voice came. “We’re nearing the nest. I suggest we hurry; a sandstorm is coming.”

Vincent looked around; there was not a cloud in the sky, like before. How the hell did he know a storm was—but the rest of the group was already following the older man as he moved towards a rock rising up from the dunes, with a small opening in the side. They followed him without question, and Vincent realized that they had been together a lot longer than he had been with them. After a couple moments of silent thought, the swordsman followed them, an ominous breeze disrupting the heat and stirring the air.

[Witchblade]

It had been a long time since she’d stepped foot on Fallien soil. The last chance she’d managed to slip into this country, a war had been raging through it. Citizens had been dying in the streets while harpies reigned down upon them from the skies. The air had been filled with smoke and ash and the dirt and sand drank greedily of the blood that ran through it. Oh, it had been a beautiful time. One she had enjoyed very much. How long ago that had truly been, she could not say. Was it months, or even years perhaps? The halfling never bothered to keep track of time. It did not affect her like it affected the other races. Even the haughty elves felt the passage of it, albeit much slower than the despicable humans. Witchblade could barely understand why a race that lived for such a short amount of time could take over so much of known Althanas. Then again, they did spread and procreate like a disease. She supposed it was because they were like insects, strength in sheer numbers.

Now though, as her feet moved through the sand with ease and assuredly, the land of Fallien seemed much more calm and peaceful. She had spent a short amount of time in Irrakam, enough to still see the scars of the civil war upon her features. But then she had left. The city was not for her, the open desert dunes and rise and fall of the waves that thrived were. Fallien always seemed like a dead land to those that didn’t know to truly look beyond the dry heat and the scorching sun. Life thrived here, life that had learned to adapt to the climate and find the things it needed to survive.

High above her, the sun mercilessly beat down on the world, attracted to her by the black cloak wrapped around her body and protecting her deathly pale skin from the harsh light. She’d burned here once and though she could heal relatively fast, she’d prefer not to go through that feeling again. The heat she could handle without incident, the sun on the other hand burned her skin like a branding iron. Even though she felt the warmth tickling her flesh and heating her clothes, it just did not seem to affect her as much as it would another. No sweat leaked out from her pores to cool her body, her body remained cool no matter what. Never like ice, but always below that of a normal living temperature. Whether it had something to do with her halfling state or not, she didn’t know. And she’d stopped caring the day she’d stopped looking for her past.

Adjusting the straps of her rucksack, Witchblade turned her crimson eyes from the sand below her, to the sky above her, bright like a jewel and without a cloud marring its singular surface. It looked like a calm, inverted river high above her that she could barely wait to dip into.

But this isn’t Concordia.

She’d left that behind; for now, for forever.

As her eyes continued to scan the horizon, the halfling felt her skin prickle and her senses suddenly jar awake and stay on edge. At first, she didn’t understand why. Nothing appeared to be around her. No life, no death, not even a monster or two. It was just the endless sand and the sky with no relief in sight. Then she saw it heading towards her. A cloud so thick it threatened to blot out the very sun. Only now did she feel the slight sensation of wind beginning to move her cloak and whisper through her hood and along her face. She knew, the closer the sandstorm got, the stronger the wind would become. With her past experience in mind for the region, the halfling decided it might be best to find shelter. After all, she wasn’t looking solely after herself. She had something rather precious with her that would not fair so well breathing in the tiny particles of rock.

The problem was; where did one hide in a desert?

For miles in all directions she could only see the frozen waves of save and nothing more. No trees, no rocks and no refuge. She could always take to the sky, but she did not know the height of a sandstorm and whether or not she could withstand flying high enough to overcome such a thing. Not to mention she could be overtaken by the wind. The ground seemed like the safest place, but only if she could shelter herself somehow.

Cursing inwardly, Witchblade continued at the same pace. She had no other choice. She knew what lay behind her, but not in front of her and she didn’t risk flight. The storm hit her before she found safety. It buffeted her person like a thousand warriors trying to push her back. She felt every one of them. Every stinging sensation as the wind blew her hood off her head and the tiny shards of rock rubbed against her bare flesh. A few managed to sneak into her eyes and she could feel them water red with her own blood as they tried to clear away the annoying substance.

Unsure of which way she’d come now and which way she needed to go, the halfling stumbled through the sand. As she had thought, the thick cloud of dust blocked out the light of the sun and her eyes quickly adjusted. They saw every small particle flash and dart before it hit her body in rapid succession. Eventually, she stopped paying attention and merely held her arm out in front of her face, trying to buffer the debris flying at her. It helped, but barely. Just enough to allow her some semblance of sight.

She lost her footing once and stumbled down the side of a sand dune, when she came to her feet, she noticed a darkened patch off to her right. Turning towards it, she felt more than a little relief as she noticed the signs of an underground burrow or cave. She was not entirely sure which. But the walls were solid and made of a substance not unlike sandstone.

Once Witch found herself within the confines of the passage, the sand stopped its assault upon her person. Free of it, she shook out her clothes and trying to free the tiny grains from the small nooks and crannies of her cloak. It looked as if the passage was made by some sort of creature, though the smell from within seemed foreign to her nose. And the walls crumbled when she touched them within enough force. It was as if they were held together by a mere bond of some kind and nothing strong enough to hold up to the test of time.

Knowing the sandstorm would not let up anytime soon, Witch decided she had nothing better to do than explore this space. Just as long as whatever lay inside did not try to eat her. The Karuka-tal were the only underground species she knew of in Fallien, but this was no cave and there was no reason there couldn’t be more.

[Winterhair]

They just made it as the sand storm ripped into the air, cutting the air with earth and screams. The roar of the wind was so loud that it drowned out any orders the ranger tried to give, until the only thing the four could focus was running to the entrance of the nest. Vincent grit his teeth as sand and wind stung his flesh, his desert cloak flying out behind him from the wind and his running. His hair, white as snow, flew in front of his face as fangs peeked from the expanse of his mouth, a primal growl erupting out as he dealt with the pain. The old ranger and the assassin seemed to be holding out fine, their long coats and cloaks covering them from most of the damage, but the woman in front of him with the four damascus blade attached to her body was in great pain. Her skimpy outfit gave little protection against the weather, and she screamed in agony before another rip of wind sent her tumbling off her feet and down one of the dunes. "Tara!" The ranger shouted, his voice now reaching Vincent's ears, and the swordsman watched as the girl disappeared into the sand.

What are you doing, Vincent? Go and save her!

Vincent blinked as a feminine, motherly voice entered his head, and he nearly groaned aloud at it. It was that same voice that had been bothering him the entire time since his fight with the angel at the Citadel and Cellius the vampire, coercing him to go against his instincts and his normal apathy towards weaklings and such. He hated it; the voice weakened him, made him do things he normally wouldn't do. It made him human, god damn it.

What the are you waiting for? Save her!
Oh shut up, let him do whatever the hell he wants.

The second voice now came into his mind, arguing with the first. Vincent didn't appreciate the voices in his head, but he had come to welcome the darker, masculine voice that drove him to kill and become the animal he was. It was a welcome burden, and the fact that it often drove away the female voice was helpful. However, now the voices had risen to a roar in his head, and Vincent clutched at it while the assassin next to him gave him a strange look.

"Get the fuck...out..." He growled, before the ranger started scooting the down the dune of sand, calling out the girl's name. The assassin quickly followed, giving Vincent a glance back before running down the sand at full speed. "Damn it..." Vincent cursed before quickly following suit, leaping into the air to give him a boost of speed.

His kinetic energy drove him past the assassin, a blur of gray and white as Vincent flew forward. His speed belied his size, and the surprised assassin half-drew his daggers before realizing that it was not some beast but his comrade. The ranger was frantically searching for the girl, his grizzled face worried as he called her name out over and over again. Vincent, on the other hand, had already seen her; she was half-buried in the sand a few years away, lying face down in the sand as the storm threatened to steal her life away.

Gritting his teeth, Vincent burst forward, his hand covering his eyes as he ran in her general direction. Without stopping, he bent over and slid his hands under the girl's breasts and stomach, lifting her without trouble and flinging her limp form over his shoulder like a rag doll. "Let’s go, 'ahve got 'er!" He yelled at the top of his lungs over the roar of the storm, and the ranger and assassin immediately reacted by running to the entrance just another few yards away. Vincent followed suit and ran after them, careful not to bang the unconscious woman around too much as his silver eyes pierced the storm ahead, glowing inhumanly.

He almost threw himself into the entrance with the girl, the huge claymore on his back banging painfully into his side with the strange katana at his side. The change was immediate; the storm's clutches didn't reach into this cavern, it seemed. The ranger rushed over to Vincent immediately and addressed the silver eyed swordsman. "Put her down here..." He gestured to a spot on the ground, and immediately Vincent took the girl off of his shoulders and laid her down. The ranger reached into the folds of his cloak and pulled out a small vial of blue liquid, parting the girl's lips and letting some of the stuff drip into her mouth. Meanwhile, Vincent had taken to examining his surroundings, not particularly caring about the girl's condition. Why had he saved her, then? A frown creased his face. It hadn't been the female voice...no...He had done on it on his own instincts. Shaking his head slightly at the thought, he noticed the assassin examining him curiously. "What?" He growled at the smaller man in the white coat.

"Nothing." the assassin spoke, a cold voice that sent icy shivers up the swordsman's voice. "You acted strange out there, newcomer."

Vincent gritted his teeth. He hated being addressed as that, and was about to say so when a cough distracted him and made both him and the assassin look to the girl. She had sat up and was breathing heavily, the old ranger adjusting her with his arms as he watched her worriedly. "Are you alright, Tara?" He urgent asked the blond haired woman, and she nodded breathlessly, staring around at Vincent and the assassin.

"Just...a little hard to breath...is all..." She whispered, the voice echoing in the small cavern and carrying to Vincent's ears. "...who...saved me?" She also murmured, and Vincent felt his spine crawl as both the ranger and the assassin looked to him with expectant eyes. He glared back at both of them, his bad mood growing into anger.

"What? I just picked 'er up, is all." He snapped at them, and Tara's gaze fell upon him curiously as her breasts heaved. "Don't expect me ta' do it again." He growled out this last part in emphasis.

"There are some things you need to learn." The ranger spoke now to the snow haired swordsman, and walked over to him with a hard look in his eyes. "We're a team; each of us works with one another and watches the other's back. So it has been between us for years now." Tara nodded, and the assassin slightly moved in recognition. "I appreciate what you did for Tara, but something tells me you aren't much of a team player."

Vincent bit back the sarcasm that threatened to spill from his mouth and clenched his massive fists ins anger, the voices long gone from his head. He would have preferred even them to this bullshit. "I don't give a fuck. I ain't part of no team; I'm just here for the money is all. Get in my way..." He glanced at each of them with cold, platinum eyes. "...and I won't hesitate in slicin' you up as well."

A smirk crossed the assassin's face as the ranger chuckled slightly as well at Vincent's words. Only Tara and Vincent wore frowns upon their faces, hers in one of mild confusion and concern as she stared at the huge man and his of anger. "In any case..." the ranger chuckled a little more before grinning up at the swordsman.”...welcome to the team, Mr..?"

He blinked. He had never given his name, had he? Well, they had never offered theirs and never asked for his, so he had felt no need to tell them. "Winterscar." He spoke cryptically, short and sweet. There was no need to tell his first name. "You can call me Winterscar."

The ranger nodded. "Good to have you with us. We can always use a hand or two. My name is Dareth, and the young lady you just saved is my daughter, Tara." He gestured to the still sitting form of the girl, who waved one hand lazily and smiled at the swordsman. He didn't smile back. "And the man over here goes by the name Striker, although I doubt that's his real name." He chuckled as the assassin stayed silent, white coated arms folding over a thin chest as the man tossed back his hood, revealing a pale, youthful face with a frame of black hair.

Winterscar nodded to him as well. Of the three, the assassin intrigued him the most, staring into his dark eyes with his own light ones. "Alright. Sounds good ta' me." His anger slowly dissipated into a dull boil as he felt his adrenaline calm down, still irritable but not enough to strike out at his comrades any more. "We're in the nest?"

Dareth looked to the still form of Striker, who listened intently down the tunnel which was just large enough to allow them to stand side by side. The ceiling was low, and Vincent could have raised his hand and touched it if he wanted to. "Yeah, we are. From here on out, no one make a sound unless given permission, understand?" Each nodded in agreement, even Vincent. He wasn't stupid enough to not know when to really be quiet; he just didn't like to be.

Beckoning the other three forward, the ranger slowly drew a short sword from his waist and whispered to the others. "According to the info I got, there is a huge nest of giant scorpions just a mile into these tunnels. It consists of a huge cavern of sorts, or so I'm told. We're told to expect to worse, so I hope each of you are ready." He watched their faces for confirmation, and Vincent simply grinned as he clenched his right hand on the hilt of his strange katana at his side.

Without another word, the three of them were off, running into the dark embrace of the tunnels while the storm raged on.

[Witchblade]

Light slowly began to leave the passage, blurring everything into lengthened shadows. Her eyes quickly adjusted. More a tuned with the night and the moon than the day and sun, Witch barely slowed her pace within the tunnel. Her eyes caught every dip in the ground and every crack within the walls around her. When her steps brought her so far from the mouth of the tunnel that no light filtered in after her, she raised a single arm from within the confines of her cloak. The black material slipped off her skin, revealing the armguards and the sharp spikes that protruded from the worn Titanium plating. Snapping her fingers, a bright blue flame erupted above her palm, bathing her pale skin in the sickening colour that made her look like the walking dead. Shadows danced across her face, making it look harsh and devilish.

Throwing back her cloak from the rest of her body, Witchblade drew in a deep breath, testing the air. It felt cooler down here. She could feel it as it permeated her lungs and caressed her skin, threatening goose bumps that never came. Without the sun, the desert of Fallien grew cold and the gentle slope downwards of the tunnel meant she already lay feet below the surface. Should this place collapse upon her, even she would have a hard time clawing her way to the surface. Perhaps sand would fill her lungs first, suffocating her in a slow, painful and outright boring death.

Keeping her arm before her and the flame shifting and sparking in the darkness, the halfling found herself in a small opening where the tunnel branched off in two different directions. Neither seemed a better choice than the other. Walking to the left one, Witch drew in a deep breath, smelling the air and the taint of that unknown creature that lay heavy within it. Moving over to the next one, she did the same. Only a smell she had no expected to find met her nose; the smell of humans and multiple humans at that. Drawing in an even deeper breath, she could tell there were at least three, maybe four and definitely one female. She could smell a bit of fear coming off that one and it made a pleasurable shiver that no temperature could ever give her run rampant across her skin. Her fingers itched with the need to release her claws and dig them into perfect flesh, ripping and tearing and causing the blood to flow and soak into the sand.

Her nostril flared and she felt herself taking a step towards the tunnel. Followed by another and then another. Before she even realized it, she’d walked over twenty feet into the tunnel.

“Imagine the look on their faces, that utterly magnificent look of sheer terror and pleading as they realized their end lay upon them.”

She stopped mid step, her breath catching within her lungs. Had Witch almost let The Malice in? Had she been so close to going after them and stain this place red?
“Don’t stop now. They can’t be too far within for you to be able to smell them.”

The Malice was probably right. They were nearby. But she refused to go after them and kill them. She refused to sink her claws into their flesh and end their life. Merely thinking about it brought back the images of Killian and Jacob and Adrian into the forefront of her mind. And with them she remembered the look on Trey’s face and the feel of the bone in his neck snapping beneath her strength. Grimacing, Witchblade bowed her head and stopped, turning as if it to walk back the way she had come.

“What are you doing? They’re right there!” She ignored it, pretending it did not exist, the simplest way to deal with the thing. “You can’t fight against me forever! You can pretend you’re not a monster, but you know you’re lying to yourself and one day, you won’t be strong enough to battle me anymore. You’ll give in and become what you were meant to be.”

The odds of it being right were strong, but she didn’t care anymore. Witch fought The Malice for as long as she could and refused to give in to it. If she breathed, she won. It would never dominate her and for that reason she kept walking forward. As the voice ranted and raved within her skull, blocking out all thought and all sound, the halfling continued to press forward. Her steps far more laboured than they had been before as she struggled merely to keep the concentration needed in order to move forward. Then she heard it, the sound of footsteps softly thudding against the sand. It echoed off the walls and travelled down to her ears, pushing through the haze of The Malice and giving her something tangible to focus on. The louder it got, the more control she felt until she knew the humans would be upon her soon.

Instinctively, she shifted within the confines of her cloak and wrapped one of her hands around the worn hilt of a dagger. The familiar feel of the leather sent a sweet thrill through her body as her eyes strained into the near pitch black of the tunnel. Dropping her hand away from the flame, Witch used her telekinesis to push it forward, feet away from her. Her eyes barely caught the first of the movements, something that looked like a mere shift of the shadows. They broke away to reveal a rather burly and older looking man, quickly trailed by a thinner man in a cloak and barely dressed female and another man brining up the rear. All held weapons out and at the ready and her body tensed in reaction though she did not move yet.

[Winterhair]

The darkness of the corridors enclosed upon the four, encasing them in a shell of silence. The only sounds that were emitted from them now were the soft padding of their feet upon the dry ground, and the small grunts of effort as they ran along. Vincent was in his element now; he was the hunter, the wolf in the night that was silent until it rent its fangs and teeth into its prey. He smiled in anticipation of the battle before them, a fanged gleam that had his companions seen him they would have thought him a devil of some sorts in the darkness. None of them relied on artificial illumination to make their way through; all four relied on the dim lighting from the earth itself, the feel of the ground beneath their feet as they ran, the changes in the air as a small wind swept through. Vincent tightened his grip on the strange katana he held in his right hand, the silver blade of the intricately inscribed weapon glowing lightly in the darkness, and took a sick and twisted pleasure at the way the metal hilt dug into the palm of his flesh.

Vincent threw back his desert cloak, exposing his tan body and hard muscles to the dry air. It sang over his skin like a lover's kiss and he breathed in a small hiss of relief, closing his platinum eyes for a moment of ecstasy. It had been too long since he had felt the thrill of the hunt to this extent. He only hoped that the prey could satisfy his expectations.

Suddenly a dim lighting could be spotted ahead, and as one the group stopped, not needing any command from the ranger. "Whats that?" Tara whispered, but was quickly shushed by by the assassin. The ranger took small steps forward, his short sword ready in front of him as his grizzled face slowly became more and more illuminated by the strange light. It seemed to glow a pale blue upon the ranger's face, making him look like an old, pale corpse before he moved further into the light. Striker and Tara followed closely, the assassin spinning his curved daggers around his gloved fingers as Vincent saw his body tense. Still the swordsman could not see what gave off the light, he was too far behind the others to. He heard the ranger speak in a harsh voice, one of distrust and antagonism. "Who are you? We have already taken this job." However, as Vincent came into the light as well and took his place next to Tara, the voices in his head erupted like a maelstrom.

Its her! Its her its her its HER!
Oh no...I didn't pre-
ITS HER! The Beloved Daughter of the Dragon is HERE!
Vincent, don't get too clos-
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Suddenly the voice said something unintelligible, completely drowning out the female, motherly voice in a stream of words in a language that the swordsman did not comprehend. However, a deep blood lust filled Vincent at the uttering of these words, a hunger filling him that was not unlike a beast's. What the hell was going on? Why was his battle lust activating at a time like this, when there was no sign of an enemy anywhere? And what the hell were the voices in his head talking about?

Then he saw her. Standing there in the light of the hovering blue flame before her was a woman, dressed in a black cloak of night. Her eyes burned crimson as they bore into Vincent's platinum one's, the two's gazes meeting in a deadlock of wills. Her hair was strange, a metallic combination of raven with stripes of silver, gold and bronze rippling through it. On her back the hilt of a sword rose above her head, indication of the massive weapon behind her. The strangest trait about her was her lips; they were sown shut by a needle and thread. Dimly amongst the blood lust filling his body at the moment did Vincent wonder how she spoke, but that too was soon overtaken as his breath slowly became heavier, more of an animal's pant than anything. He reached over and grabbed the blade over his katana, clenching it hard in an effort to control the beast within, and his blood ran in rivulets down the metal of the weapon to drip onto the cold ground below. He sensed the girl next to him saying something to him, grabbing his arm and trying to yank his arm away from the sword, but his mind and body were far too gone for him to pay attention to her.

ITS HER ITS HER ITS HER ITS HER ITS HER ITS HER ITS HER ITS HER ITS HER-

"-SHUT UP!" He roared before clutching his head and leaning against the dirt wall, his body trembling with the effort of not losing control of himself. Again, he was dimly aware of voices shouting his name in concern and alert, the rest of the group apparently having forgotten about the woman in front of them.

Well, not totally. The ranger spun around, a grimace of anger upon his face as he pointed his short sword at her. "What the hell did you do to him!?" He roared, forgetting his own code of sound. All Vincent could hear though was that same voice repeating over and over again in triumph, maniacal laughter emitting from his own throat as he slowly lost his mind.

[Witchblade]

The scent of blood filled her nose. The sweet, decadent smell of it, better than any treat that any human could have ever made. Her nostrils flared and her pupils dilated until the crimson of her irises were nearly overtaken by black. Over extended and sensitized, her eyes broke through any darkness in the tunnel around her. She could see the drops of sweat as they rolled down the skin of the humans. She could see each grain of sand in the walls around them and every rumple and tear in their clothes. The blood of the one seemed like a beacon to her. Bright and red and calling to her in all the bleak colours of the earth that surrounded them. Something about the smell of it overrode her mind and caused her mouth to fill with saliva, as if craving to taste what he so heedlessly spilled upon the floor.

She didn’t understand why. Witchblade had seen so much blood, practically rivers of it and had filled them with her own hands. She could not fathom why this of all could call to her senses and beg for her to do something. But the halfling knew too many years of controlling herself. She had tamed the voices within her until they were nothing more than a dull roar and all of her instinctive reactions were by now well under control. Though she may be struggling within herself as her eyes stayed locked on the struggling man, on the outside, the only sign of this was a slight tensing in her shoulders and necks. The tendons and muscles bulged against her skin as she fought with herself.

Then The Malice returned.

“Can it really be him? Of all the places, of all the times, to find him here. CAN IT REALLY BE HIM!?”

She had to stop herself from snarling aloud and drowning out the insane laughter and the pleadings of the humans. The noises were enough to almost make her scream at them to shut up, just as he had when no one had been talking to him. Her sensitive ears were picking up everything right now, every shuffle of clothing and every deep breath in and out. She could even hear the beating of their hearts. The white-haired man’s beat faster than the wings of a bird. She almost wondered if it would burst from his chest at any moment and the idea of helping it along briefly entered her mind.

Using her sheer willpower and strength of mind, Witchblade locked away The Malice within a deep corner of her mind, somewhere it would have to fight and crawl for perhaps days to reach the surface again. She would keep it there for as long as she could, just to give herself some semblance of peace. Without its gravelly voice shouting within her, the space suddenly grew a little quieter. The need to end the noise and make it all stop slowly diminished and Witch began to relax once more.

Turning towards the older human, the halfling pinned him where he stood with a simple look. “If I wanted to do anything to him it would be to kill him and if I wanted him dead, he’d already be so.”

Shifting her now black eyes away from him, Witch began to move towards the struggling man, but her steps quickly came to an end. Even as he hit his knees upon the sand, clutching at his head and still filling the tunnel with laughter, the others moved in on her. She was not the real enemy here, not this time. Her eyes narrowed upon them as her frustration began to mount. They were trying to stop her! Who did they think they were to get in her way?

She said nothing to them. Instead, she merely tensed her legs and sprinted forward. Her speed increased dramatically and in the shadows of the tunnel it looked like she disappeared from in front of them and reappeared behind. Tilting her head to the side, Witch did something she rarely if ever did lately, she entered deep into the mind of the man before her. She didn’t need to go far. The moment she pierced his psyche the echoing sound of the voice practically pummelled her and nearly brought her to her knees. She swayed and then steadied herself and digging through the haze of screaming, she began to push back the thing inside of him. As she locked it within a tight cage, she couldn’t help but recognize the voice, the feel of it, and the cadence of it. It was the same. It was The Malice.

Closing the voice within the darkest corner of his mind she could safely reach, the halfling began to retreat. The presence of her mind leaving the man she now knew as Vincent until only the faintest trace remained, the one she could use to communicate with him. Once free, she stumbled and fell against the side of the tunnel. Her back pressed against the cool sand as she drew in a deep breath, not even realizing she’d forgotten to breathe.

“You should learn to control yourself.” She said to him and him alone, cutting off her telepathic links with the others.

[Winterhair]

Darkness came over Vincent as he slowly lost himself to the voice within, the guttural language it spoke a screaming repetition within his brain. That darkness seeped into the cracks of his brain, leaking into his eyes, flooding his very soul with shadow. Everything that came into his vision was cast in that black absence, and mocking faces leaped out at him from anything that moved. They leered down at him, making fun of his helplessness, watching as he struggled with the beast within. It filled with rage, a dark terrible anger that filled every bone within his body with the urge to step up and rip those faces apart with his bare hands. How it would feel to tear their throats out with his teeth, his fangs pierce their jugular and drink their lifeblood, the sweet warm liquid running down his throat. As the image filled his mind he found it harder and harder to resist, and almost moaned aloud at the want, no, the need to fulfill it. It was unbearable.

Just when Vincent was about to break and give in to the beast inside, the unthinkable happened: The voice became quieter. Not too much, as it was still yelling in its triumph, but enough so that the swordsman had enough breathing room to step back from that ledge he was about to leap off of. He felt some wet and warm run down his cheek, and raised a shaking hand to touch whatever it was. Looking at his finger tip, he saw blood. The voice slowly became even quieter and quieter in its screaming, as if someone had taken a spell of silence to it and was slowly administering it in doses. Vincent felt more and more of his sanity and himself return with each "dose", and shakily stood up on his feet as he clutched at his head. Looking around, he saw the faces of his comrades. Tara's was filled with fear and anger, a simultaneous mixture as her eyes switched from Vincent to the woman, who was now standing against the wall, breathing heavily. Dareth had his short sword out and pointed at her from a few feet away, his eyes staring distrustfully at the dark lady. Only Striker seemed to be at ease amongst them, standing near a dark hole leading to another section of the cavern. His arms crossed, Vincent saw a smile cross the man's lips before Striker turned away, his white hood hiding him from view.

Still panting heavily, Vincent heard a woman's voice in his head. At first he started, thinking it the other one, the soft, feminine one that bothered him in battle and held him back; then he realized it was not. This voice was harsh, striking, yet still smooth and silken at the same time. It reminded Vincent of a snake he once encountered during his travels; long and beautiful to look at, but lethal to touch. "You should learn to control yourself." The voice berated him, echoing within both his ears and mind. He turned in the stranger's direction, meeting her crimson eyes with his furious platinum ones.

"Who...the fuck are you?" Vincent growled out, baring his canines in a subtle threat as he picked up his katana, now dripping red from the blood he had sacrificed to it with his left palm. "Who the hell gave you permission to go inside my head?" His words were backed with coiled tension, anger once again rising up in his bones and warming them for combat.

[Witchblade]

His reaction amused her. She felt his anger like a flame that heated him from inside and spread throughout his blood like molten lava, fueling him and pushing him forward. He fed off it like most people fed from food. She could see it on his face. There was some kind of pleasure in that, hidden behind the deadly grimace he showed her as if trying to intimidate her. It merely made her smirk. He forgot that she had been inside of his head. She had felt what he had felt and she now knew things about him that he perhaps was not even aware of. At this point in his life, the Dragon was nothing more than a nuisance for her. The power that hid below the surface of her pale skin could crush him with a mere thought. He should consider himself lucky that she had merely helped him instead of destroying him. Yet, that thought had never crossed her mind and Witch knew exactly why.

She’d never met another person that heard the voice of Malice.

In all her years of wandering the cities and forests and regions of Althanas, she had never come across another person who heard that antagonizing voice. She had met others with their own voices, their own nagging words left hanging in the back of their minds to slowly erode their sanity, but nothing on the level of The Malice. It was something that no one could every truly understand unless they experienced it. There were times when it needn’t even talk to affect her. Merely a slight push in the direction it wanted her to go and years ago she had never been able to recognize this. But now, she could see through its facade and knew when its influence bled into her mind.

Pushing away from the wall, Witchblade took a few careful steps towards the Dragon. The smell of his blood still saturated the air and she could barely hide the affects of it upon her person as it slowly excited her more and more. Her skin still felt every shift of the rough clothes covering her body. Every breath and heartbeat within the cave resounded in her ears and her head and the pain growing within her skull demanded she silence each and every one of them. Her now black eyes pierced his silver ones and their swirling depths. Like a contest of wills, the two of them locked gazes and refused to budge.

Silence reigned in the tunnel to the ears of the humans.

“Prefer that I’d left you to madness and darkness, Dragon? Maybe you like the influence of The Malice, as it rips into your mind and turns you into nothing more than a blood thirsty beast that can’t even decipher friend from foe. If that is so, then please, feel free to tell me and I’ll quickly undo what I have done and leave The Malice in free reign of your mind.”

Like before, these harsh words were for him and him alone. The others could not hear them echo inside of their heads because she closed off the link she had with their mind.

“Well, Dragon?”

Her lips pulled back off her teeth, straining the strings that held them shut and turning her mouth into a macabre grimace that revealed white teeth just as sharp as the ones he bared at her. Oh, how she wanted to sink them into his flesh and taste the blood that fell from his hand.

From the corner of her eye, she saw the old man take a few steps towards her. The blue flame of her light some feet back reflected off his blade, warning her like a beacon of the danger the sharp point provided. With a low growl, she broke off from the standstill between her and the Dragon and turned her eyes towards the human.

“I really don’t suggest attacking me from behind, old man.”

He narrowed brown eyes on her, as if trying to intimidate her. Perhaps he was strong, perhaps not. She didn’t really care; she could collapse this tunnel upon him and be done with it if she really wanted to.

“Undo what you have done to him.” His rough voice echoed down the tunnel in a commanding tone that was used to having others follow it. But she was no lap dog.

“That choice is his to make, not yours. Because I assure you, should I undo that, he’ll rip you apart, slowly and painfully and enjoy every agonizing scream that you and your daughter make. Better yet, maybe he’ll pick her apart in front of you and watch you rage, knowing you can’t do anything about it.” Her eyes dared him to take another step towards her. “Now, back the fuck off.”

[Winterhair]

The woman's words echoed in his head once more, and even through his fury Vincent could feel something he hated. There was power behind those words; power enough that through the harsh, guttural speak of her voice Vincent was nearly dropped to his knees. That power shoved itself into his mind once again, flooding into him as her eyes turned a deep, pitch black and her breathing grew heavier. Those eyes bore into him as he tried to match her intensity with his own, his anger causing his eyes to swirl lazily within their confines. His left hand throbbed in time with his breathes, his blood leaking out of the gash on his palm, dripping slowly onto the soft ground as he squeezed it into a red fist. Vincent's body shook with pain and emotion as he watched her approach him carefully, taking slow, easy steps that made him back up himself. Clutching his katana, he held it out before him in a defensive position as she slowly lifted her sealed lips into a smile. No, it was a macabre grimace, and Vincent started as he saw the points of sharpened fangs not unlike his own peering out from the cavern of her mouth. Just who the hell was this woman? He didn't know, but she filled him with something that he couldn't stand. Fear.

Fear, and as his nostrils breathed the stale air, he smelled something coming off of her that he had felt himself. It was some sort of lust, not unlike what he was feeling now as well. Even with the strange voice in his head gone, at least for the moment, Vincent wanted nothing more than sink his teeth into her pale neck and drink from this woman's body, to shove her up against the wall right then and there to feed from her slim form and satisfy his body's longings inside of hers. This freaked the fuck out of him--no woman had ever made him feel so turned on yet so afraid at the same time. He was no vampire; then why did the taste of blood send longings through his body that it took all his will to resist? And why did he feel the same longing come off of the pores of the woman's skin, invading his nostrils and making a different form of control become obsolete?

"What the hell are you talkin' 'bout?" Vincent growled through his lust, his eyes swirling faster and faster as he too advanced upon her, Devourer pointed at her her heart. "My name is Vincent, not 'Dragon'. And what the hell is this Malice you keep on talkin' 'bout?" As he got closer and closer, another surge of lust and fury went through his body, and the voice in his head once again started to murmur. The woman turned from her defensive position facing Dareth, whom had been looking for away to incapacitate her, and threw the swordsman a look of mild surprise and alarm as her pitch black eyes bore into Vincent once more. "Just WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?!" Vincent roared in frustration before clutching his head with his right hand, dropping the katana with a loud CLANG that echoed through out the cavern.

Even as the voice began to murmur once more, however, he felt that same outside presence from the woman enter his head and the voice began to subside once more. Glancing around quickly at the others, he saw that Tara was looking at him wearily, and Dareth moved to her side, pointing his short sword at both Vincent and the woman now as he threw a protective arm around his daughter. His brown eyes held anger and caution as they surveyed the pair, and the swordsman recalled the woman's words as she had addressed the ranger before. Oh shit...Vincent managed to think, stumbling towards the father and daughter as he tried to speak, but the ranger had moved forward, faster than Vincent could have ever. Pressing the point of his weapon against the silver-eyed man's throat, Dareth snarled at Vincent even as the other made to push the weapon away. "Don't you move, Vincent or Winterscar or whoever you are. If what this woman says is true, then there is a lot about you that we don't know..." The ranger stole a glance over his shoulder at the assassin and his daughter, standing near the exit of the the small room, then returned his grizzled face back to Vincent. "...and until we do, I don't want you going near my daughter. Or I'll kill you on the spot." His eyes now shifted to the woman behind the swordsman, who stood watching cooly with those eyes of hers. "That goes for you as well, whomever you are."

Vincent said nothing as the silence grew between the five, then turned and glared at the dark woman just a couple yards away before bending down and grasping the hilt of Devourer, picking it up before sliding its length into the sheath at his side. Breathing heavily, he walked slowly towards her, keeping his fury at being manipulated like that and the lust that run through his veins under check. He came within a couple feet of her and closed his eyes, biting his lip as he growled out his next words. "I don't know what the hell you did to me...and I certainly don't like being used like that." He opened his eyes to meet her black ones. "But ya did stop me...so whoever you are, I owe ya my thanks."

[Witchblade]

Witchblade chuckled lightly. The sound echoed within the tunnel soft and barely audible, until it slowly grew louder and louder, filling the space. It held no humour within its depths and instead sounded cold and harsh. Slowly she came back from it, drawing in deep and heavy gasps for air that seemed to send the greatest pleasure through her. Humans truly could be such odd and idiotic creatures. They acted on impulse alone, maybe just a small amount of instinct. But most of all they acted on fear. She could smell it in this place as clearly as she could smell the blood still dripping from the hand of the Dragon. It practically permeated the tunnel and worst yet, so much of it poured from the Dragon. How it disappointed her that such fear could come from him. The smell of it alone intoxicated her and delivered shivers of pure pleasure throughout her system. As much as Witchblade tried to fight it, her instincts were that of a predator, an animal born to hunt and to kill. Should even one of them turn to flee right now, she wouldn’t be able to hold back on the instinct and pin them to the ground and rip into their flesh. That would truly show them who they needed to fear. Not the struggling man before them all, barely in control of his own person, but her instead. Oh, how easy it would be and how good it would feel to give in to that and sink deeper into the pool of darkness. She had fought too long to just give in to easy though.

The situation had spiralled out of control and turned in a mess of mistrust and anxiety. Should she make the wrong move at this point, that old man wouldn’t hesitate to end her life, or try to anyway. Though he appeared to be rather quick in his movements, the halfling doubted he actually could kill her, little existed in this world capable of killing her. She knew, she’d searched for a long time and wandered for more than their short human years allowed them; now all three of them were a completely different situation entirely. Something needed to be done to remedy this, either by her or by the Dragon.

“You owe me more than a simple thanks, Dragon.” He owed her information and the truth and the meaning behind why he heard the same voice that echoed throughout her mind. He owed her. “As for who I am, you may call me Witchblade.”

Her eyes turned from the Dragon, leaving him and his somewhat softened expression before turning towards the humans. He could wait for now, but they would certainly have their time to talk. Witch was not about to let him slip through her fingers so easily.

“You don’t even know the real name of your little assassin friend over there and yet you stand here blabbering on and on about trust; it’s pathetic. Here, let me sum up what you need to know so you can fit it in that disgustingly dull brain of yours. The boy, he just needed a little assistance in learning how to control himself. If I were you, I’d start worrying about far more dire circumstances, like the fact that all your shouting and general noise has disturbed the residents of here. I assume that job you mentioned earlier has something to do with these tunnels.” Witch took a brief moment to tickle the mind of Dareth, allowing him to feel it as well. He shook his head and cringed slightly; as if confused over the sudden and odd feeling that seemed to float through his brain. “Ah, yes, I see now. You all took a job to exterminate some giant sand scorpions. Well, by all means, continue. They’re awake now and moving and I’m sure more than happy that someone delivered a mighty feast right to their front door.”

They were still far off from their current location and maybe, just maybe if the stupid humans shut their mouths for more than ten seconds, the scorpions could become discourage, but Witch did not see that happening anytime soon. They felt more than they heard and all their movements had most likely vibrated down the tunnels towards their inner most nest. She only wished she knew more about the sand scorpions, including what they preferred to eat. Considering the lack of vegetation in this region, the halfling could safely bet upon their more carnivorous nature than that of some kind of friendly beast, not to mention most mercenaries did not get hired to kill a bunch of fluffy bunnies. The scorpions must have been bothering a nearby settlement.

[Winterhair]

Dareth opened his mouth to perhaps retort the telepath's statements with some of his own, but before he could utter a word a tremor shook through the tunnels. It wasn't a short, quick burst of explosive power; rather, it was a light rumble, the feel of an ominous incoming of something huge. The group as one looked towards what they thought was the source of the rumble, deeper into the mouth of the beasts' lair. It seemed that Witchblade's words spoke truth, and Vincent saw Dareth wince and sheath his short sword quickly, keeping his eyes on the newcomer and the silver eyed swordsman. "You bring up a valuable point...witch." At first, at the reference the swordsman thought the ranger was calling her by her name, or the name she had given out. But by the sneering inflection in his tone, it was then obvious to Vincent that it had been said as an insult, not an indication. "We're wasting valuable time with you." Dareth turned to the tall man standing by the woman. "You coming?"

For a moment, Vincent said nothing. All eyes were upon him now; Dareth's hard and angry ones, the assassin's cold ones, and the girl's frightened and worried orbs all were focused upon he. In each gaze he felt their judging thoughts, their fears and worries, hopes and hates. What they had thought he was, and what he was now. God, it was annoying. If not for this myterious stranger who had somehow managed to trigger something within him, they'd already most likely be dead.

In the end, common sense gave out. "Yeah, I'm coming." He murmured, his voice back to normal as the hunger and the lust began to slowly dissipate from his body. Each step he took towards the group drew him farther away from Witchblade, and he focused on controlling his breathing now as he drew closer to the assassin. Striker nodded at him, cold eyes never blinking, before crossing his arms and looking at Dareth. The ranger nodded for them to go on, and motioned the sword-wielding girl to go with them. Again, Vincent noticed how his eyes never left Witchblade, who only stared at Vincent as he turnes his back to her. He didn't want to feel that same helplessness again.

"Vincent...you go first." Dareth's voice was crisp and clean, a direct order. "Striker, I want you second, back him up. Tara, I want you in the middle. I'll bring up the rear this time..." He eyed Witchblade once more. "...that is, if you don't wish to come along."