Soul Separation (solo)

[Breaker]

It is unwise to be too sure of one's own wisdom. It is healthy to be reminded that the strongest might weaken and the wisest might err.

-Mahatma Gandhi

As evening embraced Radasanth the world seemed so simple. A donkey drawn cart crept up a gradual slope, wooden wheels whining on damp hinges still wet from an afternoon shower. But as the modest wagon crested the hill of cracked cobblestone, Cronen's world had never been so complex.

The cart vanished into the cringing rays of waning sunlight, the farmer at its side wiping sweat from beneath his woven grass hat with one hand and encouraging his meager steed with the other. Those streaks of crimson starburst carried less heat than a thimbleful of fire yet the air hung hot and heavy. The bloated clouds above bided their time, waiting to let slide a salvo of stinging raindrops.

"The storms come often, this time of year," the young girl said from her place on the disheveled bed. "But they never do last long. My mother says that Radasanthia be a lady, and in autumn, she be pregnant. Always weeping for one reason, but never for lah-" Her treacle tart breasts rose and fell as a luxurious yawn interrupted the sentence. "Pardon. Never for long."

Cronen could see the auburn haired lass in the window's ghostly reflection. Elsie. He spared her a glance then resumed his study of the barren streets.

The room was decorated lavishly, with royal blue upholstery and carpets, archaic artwork on the walls. Steady burning lamps kept it dimly lit, their scented oil hinting at woodsmoke and rosebuds. The girl looked utterly at home there, sprawled amidst a mess of ruby coverlets that matched the drapes to a fraction of a shade.

Cronen shook his head and ran a calloused hand through his hair, still damp from the sweat of earlier efforts. The perfect harmony of that room in the high society hotel grated against the turmoil in his mind. He could feel it rising to the surface again; the wordless rage, the desire for destruction and that blank state of being where nothing mattered.

"Are you leaving? Will you see me again soon?" Cronen ignored the questions as much as the plaintive tone of her voice. It was not their first time together; she knew the answers to both. Yes, and probably not. A wry grimace marred his otherwise attractive features for a moment. The fact that the girl had read him well enough to divine his departure irritated him. Any habit that others could follow fed his monstrous paranoia. So strong was his desire to remain unpredictable that he almost disrobed and rejoined her on the warm, soft bed. But an even more dangerous beast was awakening inside him, one which needed empty space to stretch its wings and belch its fiery breath.

"Latch the window behind me, or you'll be entertaining a whole batch of burglars." The warning left his lips as he swung the portal open and slipped out in one smooth motion. The girl said something about burglars being better company than he, but she would heed the instruction. She always did; even more predictable than he.

With the enchanted Breaker Boots fastened to his feet, Josh sprinted down the grey brick wall of the hotel, wind whistling past him, drying his hair the rest of the way. He descended three stories in as many seconds, finishing in a full stop that left a fresh crack in the cobblestone street.

Letting his legs carry him at a whimsical brisk walk, Cronen tried to let his mind wander. The girl. She was not truly young, certainly no more than three years his junior. She was the child of a Nobleman who had more daughters than he could be bothered to find husbands for. With a life of nothing but needlepoint and courtroom balls, the girl seemed glad to sojourn with a mysterious stranger once in awhile.

It was no use. Thoughts of the girl and her sisters slipped through Cronen's mind like rainwater runoff down a slotted sewer. And when everything else cascaded into that unknown darkness, it left him with nothing but a void, an emptiness in which anything could happen. Sometimes the fits lasted minutes, sometimes hours. He could not remember the events of each, but they always ended with blood on his hands, blood on his clothes, and rubble all around him. He had learned to let his body lead him to the slums, the bad places where a wrecked tavern was seldom newsworthy. If the boiling blood in his brain meant anything, he would snap at any moment...

The soldier stopped short. His aimless pacing had not led him to some routed ghetto, but rather to one of the most respected places in Radasanth. Somehow, the Breaker Boots had led him up those carved stone steps without his senses even registering the location. Something must have drawn him there, he reasoned, confusion temporarily overwhelming the insatiable anger.

Cronen reached out one black clad arm and grasped the wooden handle of the Citadel's double doors. He entered the elegant building as an automaton, not controlling or knowing his path, he followed something deeper than instinct inside.

[Breaker]

The Citadel. Not a place his wrath should have chosen. No amount of slaughter could slake this thirst if the fallen mortals rose to shake his hand afterwards. Besides, the multitudes of magic in the vaulted building put his hackles on point. But still he moved, metal boots silent on the marble floor, marching with all the patience and sentience of an electric train towards an unknown destination.

Cronen froze. Sniffed the air like a wolf on the prowl. The wispy scent of cloves wreathed his nose, and an instant later a hand landed on his shoulder. In any other circumstance he'd have broken the offending arm before the bearer could blink. But only an Ai'Bron monk could move so silently as to sneak up behind him. And the monks, for all their might, would not harm a non-hostile visitor to their temple.

Cronen turned. Regarded the short slight man with a bald head and bedraggled robe. It was Medsan, a high ranking monk in the Ai'Bron order. The two had conversed on several occasions in the past, and the wise fool often left Cronen's head spinning.

"May I be of assistance, Joshua?" Cronen's teeth clenched hard enough to press a diamond from coal. His hazel eyes blazed an unhealthy battle lust, seething through the monk as if to scorch a hole in the gilded wall.

Medsan sighed. "You know," he spoke in a painfully patient voice. "When we of the order are troubled, we turn to the wisdom of the Eternal Tap."

Before he could continue Cronen brayed a laugh, the sharp sound capable of cracking stone.

"Why don't you just tell me the answer to my problems, Medsan? Can't you read my mind?" The monk's forehead tightened, then relaxed. When they first met, he had made a habit of interacting with Cronen's subconscious telepathically. The soldier had grown too strong, however, developed an immunity to the psionic invasion.

"Not anymore, I fear," His tone became clipped, like tree branches tapping in the wind. "Which is why you should-"

"-And what does that tell you about the Tap? How Eternal could it be, if its might does not extend to me?" A malicious humor drove Cronen's words, snapping the insult like sailcloth stretched taught. He expected, desired a reaction, but received only silence. Medsan waited until the last echoes of the taller man's barb had died and decayed, then spoke his piece, as usual calm and collected.

"Perhaps, my young friend, it is because you are not of this World." They stared at one another for minutes, neither blinking nor budging and inch. Finally, Medsan continued.

"I think," he intoned, each word sewing a lead lump in Cronen's stomach, "that you have evolved far beyond the natural reaches of your race. But while you have enjoyed the positive effects of the Eternal Tap on your body, you have forgotten the tax it takes from your mind."

Something exploded in Cronen's brain. As if trapped inside his skull, he watched himself move, felt the motion but could not control it. He lashed out with a left hook strong enough to slay a horse. The monk melted downwards, ducked under the punch and struck Cronen in the chest with a puny palm.

Cronen flew as if a battering ram had delivered the blow and bounced of a solid stone wall, left a crack as long as a lightning bolt behind and landed flat at Medsan's feet.

[Breaker]

The noise echoed sharply, as if a boulder rather than a body had been dropped on the marble floor. Cronen lay still for a moment, listening to the repercussions dwindle until even his ears heard nothing. Then slowly, laboriously, he stood and looked down at the monk.

"Sorry about that," he said earnestly, with only a hint of his previous anger. "I came here..." The most confident man in Radasanth hesitated, tripping over his words. A cold sweat seeped from the pores on the back of his neck. A deep breath, a violent shudder, and he started again.

This is not me. How he wished the monk could still read his thoughts.

"I came here, I think, for help. I haven't been able to control... everything I do." A sudden blinding pain exploded between Cronen's temples. He shook his head like a dog dislodging a tick and nearly whimpered, "Can we go somewhere else to talk? This place makes my teeth itch."

"I think that might be best," Medsan nodded and turned, robes fanning, commanding Cronen to follow.

Out the door, down the worn steps and through the cracked streets the odd duo walked. The effeminate monk with his air of calm security followed by the tall chiseled warrior who jumped at small noises and whispers of the wind.

They did not speak until a kindly smiling server seated them in a cafe called the Den Jardin. Monks and laymen dotted the tables, positioned like china dolls on hard wooden stools, sipping teas with a thousand different flavors and aromas. The structure itself enstowed Cronen with a sense of calm. He thought he could feel the building breathing, and with each fresh breath the walls shimmered hypnotically. Soon steaming mugs of peppermint tea arrived in front of the new patrons. Medsan massaged his hands in the lilting steam which drifted lazily up from his mug.

"A cup of tea contains a thousand stories about the self," he chuckled enigmatically.

Cronen waited patiently for a minute, then gripped his mug and downed half the scalding beverage without blinking. He exhaled a long puff of fog and felt his eyes wander instinctively, like dutiful hazel guard dogs. With his back against the front wall of the Den Jardin, Cronen monitored the door with his peripheral vision and analyzed the rest of the room. Near the rear a layman dropped a chopstick and hastened to retrieve it. In the far left corner a muscular monk's shoulders and neck tightened as if in aggression, leading only to a violent sneeze. The kitchen doors burst open, a fresh tray of hot drinks emerging. Cronen's hands balled into fists that clutched the tablecloth, threatening to tear it.

Damn it, there's always SOMETHING going on. Why did Medsan bring me here?

In frustration he looked back to the monk just as the diminutive man flung a mugfull of scalding water at his face.

[Breaker]

There was no thinking; only instinct and action. The sounds of the cafe took on new life as Cronen's eyelids snapped shut, taking the boiling liquid intended to blind him. The pain registered like the distant ringing of a bell, one more alarm urging him to move. His legs drove him upwards like an arrow from a bow. The soldier's mental map of the room was still fresh in his memory, his wonderful life-saving memory. A three tiered grid of wooden beams supported the building's roof and walls. The calloused hands, open and reaching, smashed straight through the first board they met but grasped the second. The long limber body curled into a ball and swung upwards, a gymnast spinning off the bars. Cronen cleared the first and second levels of supports, but splintered another beam with his shoulder as he landed prone on the top level. Above him the sturdy thatched ceiling. Below him... madness.

Even as the tender skin around his lids swelled and blistered, Cronen forced his eyes open. He heard the whispers of hidden weapons unveiled, the whoosh of doors flung open, the shouts of mercenaries in disguise commanding underlings. While he fought to see, to focus, his ears strained to sort single voices from the melee.

Men outside, ladders, listen for footsteps on the roof. Enemies everywhere. Don't think, MOVE!

Medsan was nowhere in the blurry image his pupils projected. Wicked men in monks' robes clutched swords and stared up at him or unsheathed daggers and looked for an angle to throw through the overlapping grids. The layman who dropped a chopstick popped the ends off his false utensil, revealing a small blowpipe. He lifted it to his lips and puffed out his cheeks. Cronen rolled and heard the poisoned dart impale the ceiling. Directly below, a server set his tray of teacups on a table and unearthed a compact crossbow. Cronen tapped the clasp on his left boot while mentally commanding the enchanted item. A hundred pounds heavier, the black boot plummeted and struck the edge of the tea tray which protruded off the table, catapulting its contents. Scalding water steeped in a variety of flavors showered the server and several others.

Danger was still omnipresent. A resourceful mercenary with a katar in one hand scrambled to retrieve the screaming server's crossbow. Josh pulled off his other boot and hurled it to crush the nose of the layman before he could fire another dart. All around came the muffled thuds of wooden ladders landing on the eaves.

I'm a fish in a barrel. I need a WEAPON.

No place to go; nothing to do but bring the assassins to his level by returning to theirs. Fists clenched, Cronen lifted both arms above his head and brought them down on the beams in a crushing blow.

He could survive a building collapsing; the others would not.

[Breaker]

The oaken beams split with the roar of an ancient dragon awakening from a hundred year hibernation. Cronen hit the hardwood floor tucked tight in a ball, rolling beneath a sturdy table for protection against an avalanche of timber that never came. As his meditative battle-calm became ever more complete, he realized he had smashed a hole in rafters which may have been purely decorative; the building was obviously capable of standing on its own.

The manic frustration which threatened his sanity had fled the moment the tea burned his face. The feverish battle was a tango in which he knew every step after the nightclub clusterfuck of everyday life. Weapons stabbed blindly at him from every direction, for no man was brave enough to join the Breaker beneath the table. He reached up, clutched the crosspiece and spun the heavy object like a child's top. The thick oaken legs disarmed some mercenaries and broke the arms of others. One man fell to his back forever with a deep gash from a loose nail spewing blood all over his brown tunic. As the table's rotation slowed Cronen grabbed one of its legs in a two-handed grip and stood, spinning in the opposite direction. He wielded it easily, using the broad flat surface to batter men like a housewife beating rodents with a broom. Skulls and sternums cracked under the vicious impact.

The mercenaries in the cafe were all dead or dying, but shouts carried through the doors from outside. A familiar crackling and the faint smell of burning wood. Cronen glanced over his shoulder. Several lamps lay on the floor, flames greedily licking at the toothpicks of what was once fine furniture.

Fine, the fire can clean up while I get some fresh air.

The sturdy table left a jagged hole as it took the door off its hinges. Cronen followed it amidst frenzied shouts from the attackers. They swarmed all around him, filling the centre of the cobblestone street. Their multitude of weapons and caliber of skill made little difference. He was chain lightning; he was energy incarnate. He was Death itself; for everywhere he touched men fell away from his bare hands.

As the last warrior fell, failing to breath through a lung ruined by his own cracked rib, reality shimmered. It was as if another cup of tea had been emptied in his eyes. Josh blinked and dragged a blurry hand across his brow. Sweat fell from his fingertips, but struck smooth marble instead of cobblestone.

The hair on the back of his neck bristled. He was back in the Citadel... no, still in the Citadel, in an empty white illusion room facing a red door.

The door opened soundlessly and Medsan entered.

"Well," the monk confessed, "that was an interesting experiment."

[Breaker]

"Am I your guinea pig now?" Cronen roared. So powerful was his cry that it ruffled Medsan's long eyelashes from five paces away, but rather than echoing thunderously, his voice seemed dissipated by the void like room. The soldier sank to one knee on the marble floor, breathing hard after the furious battle, and even more so from the exertion of containing his rage. Every fiber of him wanted to give in to anger, to leap the five paces and tear the monk limb from limb. Breaker did not like being deceived. All that stopped him was the presence of his rational mind, reminding him that within the Citadel's enchanted walls he was a minnow among orcas.

"So," he managed as his chest stopped heaving, "so, is this the way of Ai'Bron? I come here asking for your assistance, so you set a score of imaginary assassins on me?" Standing, Josh realized he wore nothing but a simple black shirt and pair of pants. His feet were bare; the Breaker Boots were gone. Before he could wonder if he was still trapped in an illusion, Medsan steepled his fragile fingers and spoke.

"All that I did was introduce you to an illusionary cafe. From then on, I removed my real self from the room and relinquished control of the illusions to your subconscious." The monk inhaled, and a vague queasiness flickered across his face, as if he smelled bile. "What happened after that, I'm afraid, was merely what you expected to happen. Incidentally, the real Den Jardin is a much more peaceful place. If you ever take the time to visit it in the waking world, I suggest being more polite to the patrons and staff."

A feeling of helplessness spread through Cronen as if injected intravenously. He cracked the knuckles in his fingers, hollow popping sounds swallowed by the limitless white room.

"And how did that help? What was your goal, to show me that I'm a paranoid monster?" Fists as solid as stones clenched and unclenched, restless energy without a goal.

"You are asking the wrong questions," Medsan said, spreading his hands. "Try this one... how did it make you feel?"

Josh blinked, shuffled his feet and ran a sweaty palm through slick hair. The restlessness was still there, fanning the fire inside him. But the prickling sensation in his scalp was gone, the idea that his skin was alive and willful had vanished as well. He was calmer, if marginally. Seeing the revelation in the soldier's eyes, Medsan nodded.

"You cannot deny who you are Joshua, although you have been trying for a long time. Repressing half of your persona will merely make it stronger, vengeful. You must learn to control it without ignoring it, and exorcize it, but without losing control. Otherwise, you may become a different person entirely."

For a few long minutes Cronen stared into nothingness, and when his hazel eyes flicked back to Medsan, they were determined and steadfast as two shards of flint.

"How?" The question seemed to hang in the air as Medsan approached one step, then two.

"Again my friend, I can put you in a situation appropriate for self discovery. You have all the tools to teach yourself this lesson." Three steps, four. "Remember who you are, do not deny yourself." The soft, milky pad of his forefinger loomed closer, then made contact with Cronen's forehead.

[Breaker]

A cold breeze ruffled his loose black shirt like a flag of death.

The air smelled of rotten vegetables and decayed flesh, of boiled tar and unsettled dust. Beneath his bare feet, smooth stone turned sharp where a hairline crack marred the construction. The soldier licked his lips, tasted a ferocious anticipation in the air. It was the kind of impatience that had been honed by time, like a dagger whetted over and over until it could slice through a leaf on the wind. Cronen knew the expectant anticipation well; he had witnessed it before in the most obsessive junkies, the most addicted sociopath killers. It was the taste of violence, nigh and unstoppable.

BOOM!

Cronen blinked until the mist cleared from his eyes. He stood on a stone wall top with his face almost pressed against a parapet several inches taller than he. Without thinking he leaned to one side and peeked through a convenient arrow slit. Two crossbow bolts clattered against the wall's exterior, and a third whizzed through just as he pulled his head back. His mind raced in attempt to process what he saw.

A horde of barbarians milled restlessly outside the stone keep, at least five hundred strong. Josh spun on the spot, tried to take stock of his surroundings, but none of it made sense. The wall tops were awash with blood and discarded weaponry, but no corpses or living men for that matter were in sight. He scanned the other three walls of the square keep, each side of it perhaps a hundred yards in length.

BOOM!

The stone foundations of the thick wall shook, announcing what could only be a battering ram brought against the door by a team of the pelt-cloaked warriors. It made no sense. Even if the savages broke in, they wouldn't all fit in the limited space. What could they...

BOOM!

Shards of stone fell from the parapet, and Cronen's heart plummeted with them. In the centre of the Keep's muddy yard was a patch of lush green grass, and bound hand and foot to a stake in the middle of that oasis was Elsie, auburn hair plastered to her dusty face by sweat and tears.

Josh had no recollection of the conversation with Medsan or that he had been in the Citadel moments before. He had been confused and unnerved by his strange surroundings, but seeing the girl in distress galvanized him into action. On the wall top, where enemies could only come at him from one of two directions, he could have defended himself against any number. Compartmentalizing this realization, he froze on his way to the nearest staircase as the battering ram struck home again. This time rather than a rounded boom he heard the distinct sound of cracking timbers.

[Breaker]

No time to rationalize the bizarre stone structure or the inexplicable horde attacking it. Like water through a sieve everything filtered out of Cronen's mind except the present imperative: Save the girl.

He couldn't see the door, but from the sound of shuddering wood he guessed it was directly below him and it hadn’t quite given way. But it wouldn't stand up to more than another blow or two from the unseen ram.

No time to bring Elsie to the parapet; if he tried the horde would be upon them in the open courtyard. He snatched a short spear with a long blade from the walkway and vaulted up on top of the parapet, then plunged off the other side like a diver from the platform as a half dozen crossbow bolts whistled overhead. He had only a split second to aim but did so impeccably, landing like a cat directly on the battering ram which was no more than a hastily axed tree. All around him sounded cries of shock and rage, and pain from the left where the barbarians had dropped the tree, suffering broken wrists and fingers, gashes where the branch-handles had gouged them.

The savages on the right held fast to the ram, however, and Josh lost his balance. He fell, hit the ground and rolled trying to regain his feet. They swarmed him like locusts, rough men in fur cloaks and horned helmets, stabbing and hacking from every direction with spears and axes.

Cronen was faster than them, gouging the ground with the point of his short spear and levering himself up. He leapt over and over again, his torso spun in a rapid barrel roll. His legs kicked out like a windmill in a gale, heels breaking bones and weapon hafts alike. So intricate and spontaneous were the patterns his body wove that none of the enemy could get a fix on him. After the first eight fell dazed or unconscious, the rest retreated to a safe distance, confused by the super-soldier who opposed them.

Josh gasped for breath, feeling all too clearly the toll the ferocious effort took on his lungs and leg muscles. Blood trickled down his triceps and ribcage where spears had grazed him, tearing his clothing. He could not rest; no time to recuperate. Already the leaderless horde had realized the most obvious plan; the mass of them attempted to encircle the lone warrior while a fresh crew hefted the battering ram and went back to work. They were backing up, prepared to charge, when Josh seemed to disappear.

A pockmarked lout with a wolf's skull for a helmet fell to his knees, blood gushing from an open wound in his throat. The man directly behind dropped his axe with a gurgle and clutched at the spear in his neck with nerveless hands. The horde glimpsed Josh again as he caught the falling axe and went into a roll, using its double moon blade to hew the knees of two unfortunate fighters. As the energy burst ended Josh was panting, chest heaving, but he fought onwards, using the enemy's stupefaction to his advantage. He dove high over the bleached caps of the ram teams, struck the door at the same time as the blunt trunk. The tortured oak portal collapsed inward in a shower of dust and splinters. The ram team dropped their burden and unsheathed weapons, glowered at the solitary fighter who still opposed them, empty handed in the stone archway.

[Breaker]

They rushed in waves with a typhoon roar, a seething mindless mass of flesh and weapons. They broke on the rocks of his fists, the razor sharp cliffs of his knees and elbows, the points of his barren feet. His movements were precise and clipped yet fluid as light, filling every empty space the weapons left. They could only come in a groups of four or five due to the constricted doorway set deep in the thick walls, and for a moment it seemed that he would finish them all in that fashion. Then as his lungs strained and sweat pooled in his eyes, he stepped on the spiked helmet of a fallen barbarian. It punctured the sole of his foot and he stumbled backwards.

They poured into the courtyard, heavy boots churning up the muck, for all the world like ants invading an enemy colony. Josh struck out twice, felling one man with a punch to the jaw and cracking the sternum of another with a heavy palm strike. Then he realized it was useless, like trying to dam a rapid river with loose sand. Willing himself to find his second wind, he turned and sprinted towards the stake, where Elsie tried to scream around the soiled rag in her mouth.

He reached her at the same time as the two barbarian frontrunners, bumped one aside with a body check and used a clever wrist throw to guide the others axe. Its keen chipped blade parted the bunched ropes as Elsie fainted from fear and shock. Josh followed through the wrist throw and flipped the roaring lout head over heels, dropped to one knee and managed to catch the limp lady in a fireman's carry.

Haggard steps carried them to the wall, but his legs would not bear both of their weight up the stairs. Instead he staggered towards a corner, using his free hand to catch the haft of a stabbing spear. With superior strength he wrenched the weapon from its owner's hands, struck the man in the groin with the hardwood butt, then swept his foot so he fell and tripped up two more axe-wielding enemies.

Depositing Elsie against the stone wall, he turned and flung himself upon the advancing army. His hands were tiger claws rending muscle from bone; crane beaks stabbing at nerve clusters and pressure points; gorilla fists battering heavy bodies aside; a two headed viper striking at the speed of sound. His feet sketched a dance ornate enough for a palace ballroom, spinning around the fallen barbarians. Some screamed in pain, others made no sound at all. A transparent cloak of death swirled in his wake.

And then, time stood still. Cronen was balanced on one foot, his raised leg about to deliver a crushing kick to the inside of a knifer's knee. His right arm was outstretched, steel fingers clasping the collars of two fur coats, shaking the wearers till their skulls cracked together. His left arm twined around the arm of a barbarian whose face was a portrait of pain, using an elbow lock to control the man's movements, making an effective shield of him. Nearly omniscient, he soldier checked on Elsie from the corner of his eye, and lost his footing.

She was still unconscious, being pressed against the wall by grimy hands with yellowed fingernails. A hideous long haired barbarian shoved a knee between her thighs as he fumbled with his belt. Between Cronen and the girl, a wall of seething warriors.

Something inside him snapped, separated, and as he stumbled... he changed.

[Breaker]

The man that sank to one knee, head bowed to avoid a chopping axe, vanished. A beast rose in his place, shoved the three men he held captive and caught the knifer's next stab at the wrist. Broke the man's arm in three places with a single twist, stole the knife, then swung the wailing barbarian in a circle by his ruined limb. The brutal tactic gained him a moment of respite, and he used it to toss the pain-crazed knifer aside and sling the stolen weapon.

It flashed like chain lightning in the heatless sun. Breaker watched, ruthless as the steel itself, as the pinwheeling blade buried itself between Elsie’s eyes.

Stripped of their prize the would-be rapists turned in anger, but Breaker was already upon them having shattered the wall of men like a charging bull. The fire in his lungs had spread throughout his body, pain turned to white hot rage that fueled perpetual motion. He smashed the long haired man against the wall, twice, thrice, so hard the blood spatter blinded the nearest ranks of the horde. Gone were the elegant steps and evasions that left him almost unscathed. He raced haphazardly through the ranks of enemies, every part of his body a weapon, destroying all that passed before his blood-filmed eyes. Weapons that had pierced his flesh before glanced off his muscles, barely breaking the skin. His furious pace churned the muddy ground to liquid until it led him to a corner between two stone walls.

Surrounded by enraged beast-men far lesser than himself, he placed the palms of his hands on the perpendicular walls. Intangible surplus energy poured out of him and into the stones, and then with a wordless roar he struck both walls.

From a distance, the keep seemed to vanish in a puff of smoke. But as the dust settled a pile of shattered rocks became visible, with only a dim outline of what had once been the keep's foundations still in existence. The breeze died and then picked up, colder than before. A boulder stirred, shifted. Two calloused hands emerged and braced on either side of the hole.

Covered in grey dust, Breaker looked more like a mountain than a man. Sinew showed in his shoulders as he hauled himself upwards, free from the crushing rubble. He was caked with sweat and grime, his hands, clothes and face covered in the blood of others. But he was alive.

[Breaker]

A casual stroll through the lunatic asylum shows that faith does not prove anything.

-Friedrich Nietzsche

It was night.

Joshua Cronen strode lightly over the twisting cobblestone streets of Radasanth proper. Shadows from flickering streetlamps played across and around him, formed pools of darkness here and there which he could melt into at a moment's notice. At peace with himself, he could become one with the night as easily as embracing a yielding lover. He was aware of the damp grit between his boots and the road, picked out the individual scents of lurkers in hidden doorways, comprehended snatches of conversations behind closed doors. The shimmering of pothole puddles sounded as ocean waves to his keen ears. The Breaker persona buzzed in the back of his conscious, wordless rage harnessed carefully away from his emotions, laying in wait, controlled.

Medsan had released him from the Citadel after a long day of rest, smiling simply at the peace his protégé had found. Josh radiated quiet confidence, a tangible canny that lent hope to the good hearted citizens, struck fear and reconsideration in the scarred souls of the criminals. He walked as whimsically as the warm wind at his back, without the aimless fury of before, instead carelessly enjoying the dark.

He approached the eerily familiar door of the Den Jardin cafe, letting the violent half-memories slide away replaced by the exquisite incense smells, the feel of the fine wood grain beneath his fingertips. As he opened the door, a familiar scent traced his nose, whetting a carnal flavor on his lips.

"Josh!"

Elsie leapt and clung to his neck with both arms, and he carried her back to the street where they strolled arm in arm. Relinquishing his plans for a warm cup of peppermint tea could not have been easier.

"I dreamed of you last night," Elsie whispered for his ears alone. Her eyes were full of earnest warmth.

"Oh?" Josh quirked a knowing eyebrow and winked. "What were we doing?"

She giggled, "You saved me from a ferocious army of awful men. Quite heroic I do imply." He used one crooked finger to brush loose bangs behind her ear, slid the hand down her soft silk dress to admire he curve of her hips.

"And then what happened?" He inquired, innocent as a dove in flight.

"I woke up." Elsie's grin could have brought a barbarian horde to their knees. She pressed herself against him, nipped his neck with ivory teeth. "I have rooms reserved at Radasanthia's finest in. We have the rest of the night to finish that story."

[Veatrix]

Soul Separation by 016573
(http://althanas.com/world/showthread.php?t=17567)

Hey there and hope you’re well. I’ll be taking over this short piece and hopefully, this judgement will give you a better idea on how your writing strengths and weaknesses are. I’m sure already know what those are, but a little constructive criticism wouldn’t hurt? If you have any further questions or complaints, send me a PM and we’ll chat.

STORY (19/30)

Continuity (4/10)
No past events were explained - why was he in Radasanth with Elsie? Along with that, the quest seemed like a string of battles clumsily put together. Story was light as it progressed. It was a nice to add Elsie into the mix during battle, though.

Setting (8/10)
For the most part, setting was clear and concise, ripe with various metaphors and colorful language that really lit up the posts. You utilized all five senses wonderfully – so much so that each of the settings painted themselves easily enough in my mind. Post 1 had some great excerpts, especially the donkey bit – that was pleasant and very well-appreciated. The two different Citadel arenas were also well-described, and the sheer destruction Cronen caused paralleled God of War wonderfully.

Pacing (7/10)
Despite Post 3 and 4 being so far apart in post date, the development of the thread was seamless . Literally, I read it in one go because I really wanted to know what would happen to Cronen. Good job on keeping me entertained for a good amount of time.

CHARACTER (22/30)

Dialogue (9/10)
Dialogue and body language was excellent and fitting for most of the thread. The dialogue between Cronen and Medsan was both intriguing and character-based. To me, it’s very important that I get a feel for the NPC’s, and Medsan is a fully fleshed-out character. I would love to see more from him, because he just seems so wonderfully bad-ass. And the bit involving the cup of scalding water? Unpredictable and exciting.

Action (7/10)
It was clear, concise, and easy to read. Although some of it felt a little rushed, with some details seemingly just being left out because they weren’t written, the action carried the story on. The battle scenes are great to read with angry rock music, but I get a very prominent “HULK SMASH” kinda vibe, which is not necessarily bad, but a tad one-sided. One thing that bothered me was how Cronen placed Elsie to rest on a stone wall. Unprotected. Just bothered me a little.

Persona (6/10)
The confident exterior of Cronen was heavily exposed to not only be wild and unpredictable, but also sentimental and human. I love complex characters, with real emotions, and I felt that Cronen wasn’t just a one-sided smashing guy that just wanted to destroy. His obvious attachment to Elsie was certain, but this could have been improved upon greatly. I believe there was only one mention of him wanting to actually save her – it would have been nice to see his determination worked into the action somehow.

WRITING STYLE (22/30)

Mechanics (9/10)
A few choppy sentences here and there, but overall, perfect. There is one misspelling in post 9 (he instead of the). If there were any other errors, I didn’t catch them. And I read this thread three times.

Technique (6/10)
Not many metaphors jumped out at me for being awesome. Clear feelings of foreboding were present for much of Cronen and Medsan’s dialogue, and the action was intense and chaotic enough, but everywhere, life seemed to fall flat. Excerpts with Elsie were cute at best, droll at worst.

Clarity (7/10)
Sometimes during the action, I would get lost in the flurry of movement. Punch here, kick there, kick off the wall here, hit there. It sometimes got a bit chaotic, but I got most of the action down pat anyway. As well, the language and words used were easy enough to follow, but creative enough to capture attention.

WILD CARD
(5/10)
Although the thread was a technically and grammatically wonderful thread, it just seemed to lack inspiration. There didn’t seem to be a real point to the thread. It seemed like a rush effort, which is understandable, considering the amount of time between two of the posts. Most of the time, it seemed written like it wanted to be finished. Even so, it was entertaining, quick and easy to read. Cute ending, too. And Medsan is a great Citadel monk. He needs to be in more of your stories, seriously.

68/100

Rewards
016573 gains 3459 EXP and 132 GP.

[Taskmienster]

Exp and GP added!

[Veatrix]

Done and done. Closed and moved!