“I want you to quicken my end!” ((OPEN battle))

[Malagen]

((Open to all who wish to fight Malagen (up to three max). Keep in mind that this is NOT a Citadel battle, so watch your steps. This shit is for real. If you have the 'nads, join the party.))

There were more people in the marketplace than there were fleas on a beggar, and yet Malagen felt alone. It was a peculiar emotion for the barbarian, a novelty that his system couldn’t quite digest yet. Not so long ago he would’ve been able to get rid of these ridiculous feelings as if they were no more than lint on his sleeve. But the infrangible equilibrium that once reigned supreme in his head was nearly gone. He could still latch onto the threads of it, on the fragmented remains that still bestowed him with composure, but that absolute calm, that perfect balance that enabled him to be an infallible killing machine, was gone. And it was all because of that damned woman.

Ira Shinkara had been the culprit, the stone that spread the ripples on the surface that was perfectly still once upon a time. A strong woman she was, unlike any Malagen met before, proud, unyielding, defiant even when they battled and he held her life in his hands. Initially, he found such stubbornness in a woman intriguing, interesting in a way a two-headed calf was or a magician with a trick that was hard to see through. But she turned out to be more than just a forgettable attraction. She grew on him, like a disease that grew on a healthy organ, like a plague that spread and ruined the world. And somewhere along the way she had awoken a side of him that he never knew existed, opened the door that led to a room filled with feelings he had locked away so many years ago.

He thought he loved her because of that.

He wound up hating her instead.

It had happened several weeks ago, in a middle of a night no different than the one before it or the one before that one. The wench that somehow broke through the walls he had been building ever since he could remember, the goddamned bitch that crawled inside of him like the snake she was, she upped and left. Some missions to do, other people to care about, and there was no room for him to tag along. Malagen didn’t hate her because of the pain her abandonment caused. He hated her because she made him vulnerable to that pain. Because that pain made him feel alone now, alien to the people around him. Even when he conversed with them, it was merely out of necessity and little else.

***

On the other side of the counter, in a weapon shop of no particular renown, a blacksmith swore on the grave of his dead mother (amongst other things) that the sword he sloppily brandished was the best blade in all of Radasanth. Could be the best blade ever made if you asked him, thank you very much. The slick-haired man swung it around with the skills of a weekend adventurer, proving once again that sword-makers usually wield hammer and prongs with some skill, but little else. Not that it mattered to Malagen in the long run. He didn’t have the money for the prevalida blade and he couldn’t just kill a man and take it from him. Because that would be wrong. Ira said that. “You can’t just kill an innocent man!” or some other righteous baloney like that. Perhaps it was time to quit listening to the voice that brought him naught but ache and unrest.

“Two and a half thousand and it’s yours,” the shop-keeper concluded his pitch, sheathing the weapon and laying it down on the red velvet in which it had been wrapped. “You won’t find a better offer anywhere.”

Malagen picked up the weapon and examined it. It truly was a magnificent blade, sharpened with delicate care, hilt motifs hand-carved in ebony, sheath polished to the point he could see his disfigured reflection in the blackened wood. It lacked the hilt guard like his saber, but it wasn’t a weapon made for defense anyways. It was a killing machine, an object made for a single purpose; destruction. And it sought an appropriate wielder.

“I have a better offer,” Malagen uttered after nearly a minute of careful examination, the unnatural, dead calm clear in his tone. His sword arm, however, was anything but calm. It moved with such a speed that if you blinked as it started moving, you’d open your eyes to a blade touching the sallow skin of the salesman’s neck. The two watchmen that guarded the shop reacted immediately, their clumsy, sweaty hands reaching for the hilts on their hips. But before they even touched the leather, the barbarian had his saber out with his offhand, pointing it at one of the sentries. His eyes were still on the proprietor of the shop. “I let you and your goons live and you let me have the blade. Three lives spared. I think it’s a fair price.”

The interior of the shop became so quiet that the sounds of the murmur outside the door seemed intrusive, loud enough to disrupt the standstill. It seemed that any one of them could make the entire scene go downhill. “Hmm?” Malagen asked with a grinning gesture. “No?” Still there was no response. “Very well. You won’t deal with reason. We’ll deal in blood.”

Chaos overtook the interior of the shop, sounds of metal clashing, wood breaking and flesh tearing available for every passerby to hear. One of them, a gawky teenager with a sack of flour on his shoulder, was curious enough to spy on the cause of this ruckus. And once he did, his cry “MURDERER!” spread across the Bazaar like a shockwave. Covered in blood, with both his blades drawn and soiled by the life liquid of his three victims, Malagen emerged from the shop, a fuel for the wave of panic that spread in an almost concentric circle around him. Playing the nice guy hadn’t paid off. It was time to play the villain again.

[Abaddon Thornbreed]

Abbadon had been walking aimlessly in the Bazaar when the cry "Murderer" resonated in the area like a shock wave. He smiled to himself as he began walking towards the center of the calamity as people shoved passed him fleeing from the scene. He was a giant of a man standing 8 feet tall, and was ripped like a proffesional body builder every inch of his gargantuan frame was bulged out inflamed with intense physical power.

At this point his right hand reached behind his back to grasp the the handle of his steel zweihander as he slowly pulled it free from its sheath. A typical highlander slaughter sword, it certainly lived up to its reputation.

When time came and he crossed paths with the mysterious figure that had caused the commotion he could tell it was him. Blood plastered across his features, hands clentched around his katanas he was either the culprit or a lucky survivor. He hadnt been around to see the calamity unfold, but something deep down in his gut told him that this was the guy. The look on his face, how he held himself, how he remained calm it was all pointing towards one thing. The murderer.

But whether it was his hands or not that had shed the blood was no longer his concern, it never had been. He wanted to fight, he lived to fight, kill or be killed it didnt matter cause in the end they were just killing time.

No exchange of words, his icey blue eyes merely locked onto his as both hands clentched his great sword as he readied himself for the inevitable conflict.

[Malagen]

It was so easy to revert to the old ways. It felt like returning home after being away for ages, like putting on your old, worn coat that seemed to fit just the way it was supposed to. Being good and benevolent was an uphill battle for Malagen, a constant struggle to keep the inner monster at bay, and he was able to hold his ground while he had Ira as support. But the Fallien woman was gone and without her the barbarian started to slide down the slope, away from the light and back into the darkness.

The marketplace sang his tune now, an aria of screams and shouts, a theatre of shifty eyes and hasty feet. The establishments next door to the unfortunate blacksmith – an apparel store that dealt with leather armors and accessories and a shady pawn shop with dusty drapes, low ceiling, three thugs and a cliché, conniving hawker – closed their shutters in a hurry, locking and barring the doors. The street vendors didn’t have the luxury of such safety, so they either hid in the shades of their awnings or fled with as much goods as they could carry. A woman crossed his path by accident, dropped the basket filled with loaves of bread once she saw the blood-covered man and ran for her life. Malagen let her have it. Fleeing game wasn’t much of a sport anyways.

Not all were so easily taken by fear, though. A hulk of a man stepped forward like some ridiculous fairytale hero, wielding just as ridiculous huge sword. Malagen was a rather large person, but this man was huge, a freak of nature that had to bow while walking through most doors and probably couldn’t even properly ride a horse. The massive greatsword that he held in his meaty hands looked about as large as a longsword to a common man. But Malagen wasn’t impressed, despite the fact that he had to look up towards this tower of flesh. He would cut the fool down just like the rest and make him look up towards their executor.

But before he had a chance to deal with this massive threat, another emerged. A squad of Bazaar guards pushed and shoved through the crowed, their heavy armors clinking and clanking and making one lousy parade out of themselves. The tin cans, all five of them, formed up behind a guard with an exceptionally large (and exceptionally moronic) plume sticking out of his helmet. Their spears were at the ready, their muscles taut, but their breathing was heavy; the mere act of responding to the call of the panicky masses seemed to fatigue the sentries. Nevertheless, they stood as calm as they could, those pathetic CAF rejects, as if faux composure would somehow help them in the upcoming battle.

“You two! Lower your weapons!” the captain demanded, pointing the spear head first at the monstrosity of a man, then at Malagen. “Are you responsible for this ruckus?”

The barbarian look at the guard, then down at the blood-tainted blades in his hands and then back at the captain again. “What if I am?”

“Then you’re going to lower your weapons and come with us or we’ll skewer you like a no good brigand you are.” The man was trying to look tough, trying to act like one of those army sergeants that led his troops by example, but he was doing a lousy job. Like a bad actor, it was easy to see through the paper-thin roleplay to see the hapless man beyond it. Further proof of this came when Malagen raised one of his blades and pointed it at the motely half-a-dozen. All but one of them flinched. It was almost too easy.

“Very well,” the villainous barbarian responded, releasing his hold on both blades. The clatter of metal against the cobbled stone was supposed to be a seal on his surrender. Instead it was just a prologue to a bloody chapter. For as soon as the six moved in to apprehend him, encircling him with their long spears, Malagen moved like a murderous monster he was. A flick of a right foot and his trusty saber jumped back into his hands, and a flick of a wrist later one of the spear tips was pushed away. The other five came at him in unison, but the analytical, trained mind of the barbarian anticipated the thrusts even before they began their path. His body moved dexterously, positioning itself between three shafts, deflecting another and trapping the last one with his free hand. It all went downhill from there for the guards.

Temporarily stunned by an almost impossible evasion, they weren’t ready for the deadly counter attack. Malagen’s saber moved with a definite purpose, slicing, parrying, cutting spear shafts and finding the undefended spots in the clunky armors. The guards were heavy and slow, unable to follow his movement through the cracks in their helmets. All they saw was a shadow, a blur and then the finality of darkness. One of the six was left alive, however. With the tendon at the back of his knee cut, he was kneeling as Malagen grabbed him by the helmet crack and yanked him up.

“Go. Get others. This party has just begun,” he said to the man, his tone as emotionless as if he was telling him that the weather was sunny and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. His eyes and the tip of his blade turned to the mountain of a man next.

“So, you too want to dance with the devil?” he asked the bulky swordsman. “What are you, some kind of a hero?”