Findren Mire - Ink stained Violence.

[Corvus MacCallum]

Closed.

The Kingdom of Findren was small, only having maybe a handful of settlements spread through the most foul of lands. Every inch of the ground was a suckling mire of liquid and dirt, gases from the decaying bodies pulled under being sporadically released from passers-by and giving it the stench of death so rightly deserved in the land. Anything outside the settlements was not only temporary but often abandoned due to the seething evil of the creatures inhabiting such an enviroment. From the mud-lakes cutting and carving through the frail path-ways came the Boil-worms. In the twisted and suffocated forests of blackened bare branches were often the dwelling of the Blood-Fiend, a creature that was perhaps some evidence of the evil magic that seemed to have warped this whole land. People here were hard-living, no nonesense and due to rampant though possibly well-deserved paranoia... completely hateful towards outsiders within their boundries. It was a dark place, there was no warmth to be found in the sunlight, all it would do is harden the mud caked against your clothing or skin and remind you of how Findren takes hold of unwary visitors and never lets them leave.

Another round-up... I'd love to tromp through here with some mercs and raze the place... but that would just make them operate with even more secrecy.

Underneath a mud-caked sheet just outside one of those smaller settlements was the Highlander Warrior Corvus. In his sight was the town square and filling its space was a number of caged wagons, each one had atop them the arm of a Gallows. The guards of these storage vehicles were covered by chopped up pieces of animals strapped hap-hazardly to their frame, many staring out to the locals from behind some monsters skull. The weapons they clutched made the Wolf-mans blood boil, there were some examples of weapons that were in all regards Evil, often from a demon sealed within the blade. But these were the tools of Monster Hunters like he, vintage weaponry and easily recognizable from the designs of the hilts and grips. He had heard rumours of the Cult setting themselves up in an ancient fortress once dedicated to the destruction of large beasts, what kind no one seemed to remember anymore, those weapons deserved a far better fate than what they were being forced into now.

Doors and walls were bashed upon throughout the Settlement, locals immediately surrendering any Outsiders to the waiting hands of the Warriors. A gathering of sacrifices to be transported across the Mires to that Fortress, how many hundreds had already been taken there for their lives to end, he was putting a stop to this. Not the only one to try but the Highlander was taking time to choose his moments carefully, he'd already tried to let himself be caught and wheeled there, but the natural area and interfering elements meant he was left wandering the swamp for days on end... still couldn't get the taste of Blood-fiend meat out of his mouth. Now he was going to simply beat the shit out of them from the starting point and maybe squeeze a Boil-worm over the bastards until they let it slip where the Fortress was.

From his position of being partially submerged Corvus continued watching them gather up the Outsiders, he wanted to just rush forth, blade drawn and cleave through all those aggressors... but someone would get hurt or held hostage as a result. Better to wait all are locked up and safely secured an... fuck.

Fighting had broken out, a feline-earred demi-human had decided to resist. Nothing but a young scrawny man who really should've known better, couldn't be blamed though, he didn't know rescue was already at work. Soon others were trying their luck and getting quickly bashed and cut up, the Highlander gritting his teeth from his hiding spot, wishing they just submitted and let him do his job to save them without injury.

Why can't anything just be fucking simple.

[Whitlen]

Three months after leaving the only real home she’d ever had, Whitlen Hadley fingered the last few coins she had left. I’d better start painting, she thought to herself bleakly, or I won’t be able to eat tomorrow. Tucking the coins back into a small, worn leather pouch, she contemplated her next move. She had been traveling almost non-stop since her initial departure, with only short stays in towns along the way. She had no real destination, but craved something new, something different, that would fill the void in her soul – though she would never admit that to herself, and certainly not in those words.

Dawn was just now breaking, the sullen light of the breaking day slipping silently over the barren wasteland beyond, only to be diffused by a thin fog. Sighing with mild impatience, the girl shoved an unruly flame-hued lock of hair behind her left ear, and scanned the street for movement. Any moment now, a coach would be arriving to take her to her next destination, a city two kingdoms away whose name she could not recall, not that she really cared. It would be a good place to sell some paintings, and maybe find a piece of herself. Besides, it was all she could afford right now, and then only because they had to travel through some god-forsaken mud pit, or so she’d been informed the day before.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, a small, weather-beaten coach of advanced years approached, the wheels creaking and moaning against the strain of movement. The two horses that drew it were chestnut mares, also aged but well cared for. Whitlen adjusted the strap of her pack on her shoulder, and readied her coins. When the carriage came to a full stop, she paid the driver and climbed in. The interior wasn’t much better than the outside, but the journey was supposed to be fairly short, and she wasn’t in a position to argue. Besides, it wasn’t as though she was used to the “finer things”.


~****~

Whitlen woke with a start, not having realized she’d fallen asleep until that moment. At first she couldn’t figure out what had roused her, but she realized quickly that the coach had come to a halt and was listing oddly, as though one wheel was missing. Something didn’t feel right. Alert and a little nervous, she listened for something that might explain away her feeling. Someone was moving around outside, their boots making odd squishy noises as they stepped. It only sounded like one person, and there were no voices to suggest otherwise. Where is the driver? Her heart thudded in her chest as fear set in. Bandits, she decided, and she shifted into a defensive posture. The steps came closer, and the door opened quickly.

When the hooded man peered in, Whit burst into action, kicking her feet as hard as she could toward his chest. Unprepared, the would-be assailant barely had time to turn his head slightly, and took a heel just above his temple. Though she was thin, she was tall for a girl and fairly athletic, adding power to the contact. It was enough. The man crumpled unconscious to the muddy earth. Fearful of an accomplice, Whit poked her head out of the open carriage door, taking stock of the situation. About five hundred yards away sat a small, dingy settlement. What looked like a caravan of slavers was milling around, many dressed similarly to the man she’d just knocked out. Their presence increased her nerves, particularly in light of the gory image of their carcass-adorned wagons. With an effort, she returned her gaze to her own traveling arrangements. The carriage itself had a broken wheel which appeared to have been wrenched by the sticky mud mid-turn, and the driver was nowhere to be found.

Taking advantage of the din the slavers were creating – and the fact that nobody seemed to be looking in her direction (yet) – the girl slipped quietly from the vehicle, her possessions slung over her shoulder. The murky terrain seemed determined to slow her down, sticking to her boots like paste, but did not accomplish any real hindrance. So far she had not been detected, and she slipped into the shadow of a building to gather up her courage. I’ve got to get out of here…

[Corvus MacCallum]

A still body does not rest long in Findren, before his mind could recover the connection between brain and body had been severed after several harsh bites from some fat tuber of a creature within the mire just off the path. While quiet it pulled and tugged with ferocious hunger until the head came completely free, slats of spinal cord following along into the murky depths. The rest of the corpse would not take much time in finding itself made a meal, though it may take some time, already pulsating leeches were rising up from the gunk to attach to still warm flesh.

The Highlanders nose twitched and wrinkled with irritation, he had smeared much of himself in some foul concoction he had stolen from a shop within that settlement after overhearing it deterred the smaller, parasitic denizens of the Bogs. Typically it was applied to boots and horse hooves, but typically a person wouldn't be on their belly beneath a mud-coated sheet in an attempt to stay hidden. He was at entirely the wrong angle to witness the full events of the cart trouble, he had seen it rattling along at a brisk pace. Then his sight was blocked by a building and so far it had not appeared in the village, two large Cultists... he had to pick that word carefully from what would come forth naturally... were dragging the driver through the street however heading for the cage-caravans.

On a very dim side of things much of the fighting had ceased, though bile rose within the Highlanders throat on seeing the injuries those who fought were left to nurse, most had managed to escape with a mere beating or large gash in their bodies. Some weren't as lucky, being carried on an uneven foot as they got used to life with only one leg, others having friends or complete strangers rip off material to cover a pouring eye-socket. All this and it was before they reached the damn strong-hold. Then came the part Corvus had been expecting, what he recalled from his own experiance of being captured, the Deacons exposition.

"Though vile our lands, though hard our life, it is pure. Though harsh our nature, though terrible our duty..."

Thats a laugh, these fuckers are laughing at the captives...

"... it is honest. We who perform the duty that should be undertaken by all humanity to cleanse this half-blooded filfth that dare connect themselves to our holy race. Cabbalah demands we do his work and all who do it, do so gladly. Praise Cabbalah you verminous half-breeds, praise its name so that you die a painless death by its hand and be one less drain upon this world of Humans. Cabbalah!"

Huh, who'd have thought that preaching about genocidal ideals would be open to re-writing... I'm going to enjoy this.

It made little sense to the Highlander, why were such brutes, clad from head to foot in carrion, accompanying such a puritan preacher. He had known of religious sects that kept their warriors just as holy in apperance and mind... maybe they just couldn't take the Findren out of the local, seemed a reasonable assumption. There was movement now though, a few of those warriors leaping up upon the cage-wagons to raise out the Gallow arms. Fresh rope being slung atop them and then came an expected yell from the Preacher.

"Bring forth the most dire of defects, may their wretched souls be strangled forth from their hideous bodies and allow Cabbalah to bless our travels to its holy domain!"

Slowly and... faintly reluctantly Corvus dragged himself along through the muck and mire, trying his best not to inhale the gasses released with each squelch upon the sucking mud. Claws for once failing to gain any purchase, having to use the surface area of his palms to gain enough grasp upon the dirt and pull himself along. He couldn't afford to be slow, but then he also couldn't afford to be spotted at this point, he had to get closer, get that bastard Preacher... hell, any of them. But among the Axe-weilders, the Lance-twirlers there were some armed with hefty Crossbows and while he was a speedy wolf, he had no interest in taunting taut bow-string.

While all this went on a few of the out-lying Warriors kept up a decent search through the out-skirts and buildings of the Settlement, all locals either within their homes now or cheering as part of the congregation near the Preacher. One such Warrior spotting herself... though in all honesty, with the dead hides and bones latched across her form it was hard to tell... a thin strand of errant red hair from a nearby corner.

[Whitlen]

With only a moment to collect herself, Whit wasted no time with frivolous indulgences such as fear or uncertainty. Instead, she looked for a safer place to wait out what seemed to her to be some kind of mass kidnapping. She could hear screams, the sounds of panicked abductees, ringing in her ears. The sounds only hardened her resolve, encouraged her will to escape. Something still felt wrong, but she couldn’t figure out what it could be, and dismissed it as a distraction she couldn’t risk contemplating just yet.

Glancing quickly at the carriage, she could see the man she’d laid out beginning to stir. Not good. Looking around, she noticed a door about three feet to her right leading into the building she was already leaning against. Without further thought or hesitation, Whit crossed the short distance and, as quietly as she was able, opened the door. As she closed the door behind her, she did not realize how close she had come to capture, as a warrior that had come to investigate something he had seen – her hair, of all things – came around the same corner she’d only just vacated.

Still not certain of her continued safety, the girl rolled her tongue over her bottom lip, fiddling with the small silver hoop that adorned it, a nervous habit that indicated deep thought. Before she could do much, though, a sharp knock came from the door she’d just come through, causing her to jump slightly. Without a moment to lose, Whit scanned the room she was in – apparently some kind of mud room. To her left was a pantry, so she practically dove into its sheltering shadows.

The pounding on the door continued, but was drowned out by the cheer of a crowd outside. Then, nothing. Outside, toward the front of the house, Whitley could hear more cheering, and a deep male voice rolling over the din. Unable to make out the words, she could only assume that something good had happened, which, to her mind, meant that the strange warriors had either left or been sent packing. Lulled into a sense of safety, she poked her head out, intent on leaving the way she’d come so as not to disturb the residents of the home.

“Gotcha, girlie,” said a female voice, as a strong feminine hand encircled Whit’s slender wrist. The door that would have been her freedom stood open, and she realized that she had been tricked. Turning her eyes to her captor, she was assailed with the grisly visage of one of the warriors – a woman – dressed in poorly constructed furry meat. The barbaric woman towered over the girl, nearly six feet to her five-foot-seven, and leered down at her menacingly. With no further dialogue, the wannabe Amazon lifted the startled artist from the floor, and dragged her bodily through the house and out the front door.

Outside, the crowd was enchanted by the words of the zealot preacher, hanging on his every word. At the sight of the fresh prey, however, all eyes turned toward the tall, svelte red-head being dragged literally kicking and screaming from the house. Whitlen clawed at the hands that held her, alternately dragged her feet and kicked them at the warrior’s knees, and all while screeching a primal battle scream at the top of her lungs. To her dismay, the zealot warrior woman merely grunted with irritation, and took no further notice of the attack.

“Bring the harlot, that we might sacrifice her. We shall be blessed this day!” The voice of the preacher rang out against her, beating against her sense of self-preservation, and forcing her to act or die. In a last-ditch effort, Whitley leaned in and bit the hand of her captor. Hard. The taste of blood filled her mouth, the metallic tang making her feel nauseous. The restraining hand opened reflexively, giving her a moment to try to run, but it was not enough. Yet another warrior, this one a muscled goon draped with the same horrific carcass-wear, was there to stop her. With almost no effort, he grabbed her by both shoulders and lifted her slightly off the ground...

[Corvus MacCallum]

What had originally been the Highlanders hiding spot, was now just a mud-coated sheet being flapped and shoved in a slowly increasing wind. The rabble of the Preachers people cheering and yelling out as Whitlen was gripped by their noble warriors, screaming for all their worth a myriad of sentences containing harlot, whore, slut, all those lovely connotations given to a woman simply because she had red hair and wasn't hideous. They were baying for blood and far more interesting in seeing the unnaturally coloured woman... red hair is an exceptional rareity among Findren natives... the Preacher yelling forth for her repulsive form to be bared and then slung in a noose. The Warriors were rather eager to obey but everything stopped when from out of the cacophony of noise... came a sound Findren natives barely knew but it got a solid reaction from those among the captured who spent any degree of time in the wilds.

Aaaaarrrwooooooo!

The congregation went silent, the Preacher himself paled at this strange noise. Shortly after the dieing notes of the howl his face seemed to rupture itself with hatred and anger as he turned upon the captives. Blaring out commands two of the Warriors quickly obeyed and hauled out one rather frail looking old-man, the long ears, but heavy wrinkling suggesting a slight amount of Elf-blood within his veins through many generations.

"You... you know what this is, what was that sound?"

The old man gave a hackling chuckle, sounding half-way between amusement and bringing up an internal organ before finally raising his head to give a weary smile.

"Its a Wolf, a real angry one."

The Preacher was not a young man, but the creases in his face from the anger of such a foreign noise seemed to age him a good twenty extra years, his arm sweeping outwards in his pristine robes.

"String him up with the Har-"

Ssthunk!

The Preacher had been giving that order to one particular Warrior, who would no longer obey any command for within his chest... through most of his pelvis and after a few moments clean through it, was the Six foot long Iron Slammer of Corvus the Highlander. Tough men were born of Findren, warriors and callous takers of life but to see a comrade cleaved with such comtempous ease by a sword from the sky, it clearly shook them up.

Not a bad throw...

Cracking a smirk across his fanged maw Corvus looked down upon his handiwork from the roof of the villages inn. On seeing Whitlan being dragged forth along with the preparation of the Gallows the Highlander could wait no longer to act and had sped his way through the mud trail attached to his hiding spot, great gouges riddled the wall of the Inn he stood upon in a mad scramble to get into an advangetous spot. An important fact of the Findren mentality was that threats came from the ground, or from under their feet, the air held nothing dangerous beyond Carrion feeders.

With the assembled mass still unsure of what had just occured the Highlander took his chance. Leaping from the roof of the Inn, a two-storey building he reached forth, and managed to scrabble hold onto one of those Gallow arms, then bringing his feet up kicked off solidly to sail downwards towards the Warriors just as they realised some shape was moving very quickly into their midst. Before he reached the ground Corvus had brought forth both of his other swords, each tasting blood on the moment of his landing.

From the left he gave a spin to his Broadsword and plunged through the head of a heavy-set Axe-wielder, his katanas weight made trying to use it one-handed wasn't entirely a great idea but with flash of muscle contractions and stretchings he sent it across a Lance-twirlers gut, the razor-edge splitting the skin open in a shockingly clean gash that was immediately ruined by the out-pour of internals from the bastard. For the moment his grip released itself from the Broadsword handle just so he could clutch the Katana in both hands in time to side-step the untrained swing of a large barbed bladed Claymore, the Highlanders elbow smashing hard into the opponents ribs as he drew up beside them, followed by a sharp turn on his heels and the strange... Kafwumph... of the Katanas large yet narrow blade. It was not as strong a weapon as either his Broad-sword or Slammer when it came to taking and delivering the hits, he had to rely on dodging...

By the hair of Fenrir's Scrot this fucker cuts.

This was proven as in one fluid motion his foreign sword cleaved straight through the Warrior he had spun past, the top half sliding straight off its perch just in time to catch up with his pelvis smacking against the mire. Continuing his spin the Highlander quickly shifted his weight, back bending just in time to avoid the thrust of a large flat-bladed spear, then he quickly pitched forward as it was retracted for another blow. Rising up from his mud-splattered dodge Corvus lunged forth with his Katana much like the Spear-owner was doing, each getting a hit, the Highlanders went right through the Warriors chest and speared through his heart, all the Cultist fighter could manage was embedding his spears thin blade through Corvus' shoulder.

The fighter who had grabbed Whitlan parted from the woman to try and press what little advantage they had on the strange Wolf-warrior for now. A growl of anger tearing straight through the Highlanders fangs as the cultist grabbed hold of the Spear still lodged within his shoulder, the katana dropping from Cors hand as both clawed mitts went straight for the Spear-shaft as well. Try as he did the Warrior couldn't budge the weapon from the Wolf-mans grip but as Corvus rose up... he certainly had better sucess, yanking it free from his right shoulder in a spray of crimson he gave a hard yank upon the sullied weapon bringing his prey right against him.

Crack.

Came the sound of the Cultists shattering fore-head from a solid head-butt but he didn't get time to savour the pain. Speedy follow up consisted of Corvus taking advantage of his opponents flung back head, those sharp flesh-shredding teeth baring and then lunging forth, sinking straight through the Warriors neck, clamping hard... something juicy in his grip and then ripped back his head. In a fountain of blood attempting to travel through familiar paths Corvus tore free the entirety of the Warriors throat, spitting it at an approaching opponent to gain a momentary stall.

Things were kicking rightly off, the Highlander had laid low a fair number of them, but been horribly careless in getting injured. Was the mud, had to be, tough to get a strong footing... with a few solid steps however the situations balance was now to be readdressed. In the brawl he had come against the first Warrior he killed, left hand stretching out before clutching at the handle of his Slammer and drawing it up to his shoulder. Was almost enjoyable.

[Whitlen]

The battle was happening so fast around her, Whitlen hardly had time to react. The taste of blood was still in her mouth, her stomach recoiling in protest. Having been hoisted up, she tried desperately to prepare for her fate, or think of a way out of it. The preacher was still prattling on about the girl's supposed poor reputation and inability to function in polite society, when all of a sudden a haunting wolf's howl broke through the din, startling the congregation. Even her captor took a moment to look around, trying to decipher where it had come from. He looked shaken, and a whole lot of nervous, as sweat beaded on his strong features.

Thinking this was her chance, Whit drew back her right foot, angling it carefully, and directed it as hard as she could into his crotch. Instantly, his furious gaze returned to her. There was no cry of pain, no release of her body. Just pure, unadulterated rage. Oops...

The preacher was speaking again, but Whit was too focused on her impending death to hear what he was saying. Still, when a sharp kthunk brought the tirade again to a halt, the girl managed to find hope. This was brought to fruition when a strange, wolfish man broke into the crowd, slaying cultist after cultist. Her captor was confused at first, but saw an opening when one of his comrades managed to spear the new enemy in the shoulder. Dropping the startled girl with a thwump into the sticky mud, he busied himself by grappling with ... whatever it was ... completely ignoring his captive. Soon, his blood spewed forth, coating the sticky mud and the girl in it with the fluid of life.

Whitlen landed hard on her rear in the mud, adding a likely bruise to her backside to her current nausea. Sprawled out in a rear-leaning sitting position, her knees drawn up at an angle, she contemplated her surroundings. The dead or dying surrounded her, their life fluids adding a gruesome stain to the already dismal color of the earth. Ignoring that fact as much as she could, Whit concentrated on her own survival, searching for some kind of weapon. Her cornflower gaze locked on a short sword of some kind still locked in a belt sheath about eight meters away, its owner having already passed on to the next world.

Crawling through the muck, she slid a little more than once, soaking her clothes in blood and mud. Her hair and face, too, were soiled as she attempted to push the unruly, fiery locks from her eyes. Though she could not take the time to think of it, she knew that she was a horrible sight, her minimal curves enhanced by the clinging fabric. Not only that, but she would have a difficult time removing the stains from the soft pale blue fabric of her blouse.

After only a brief few seconds, Whitlen managed to scramble over to the fallen warrior. Fumbling the snaps of the belt with muddy fingers, she finally pried the worn strap of leather loose. Without hesitating, she jerked it free from the body, then wrapped it around her own waste and hastily tied it on. The sword itself was on her right side, the same as her would-be sword arm, shedding light on her ignorance of weapons and combat in general. With some difficulty, she wrested the blade out of the scabbard, then held it in front of herself with both hands, her body bent and leaning forward at a nearly forty-five degree angle. Her eyes were the only sign of composure, as they held no fear, no sign of stress or nervousness, the soft blue depths nearly impenetrable.

[Corvus MacCallum]

For now at least Whits lack of experiance with a sword wasn't being openly advertised, only two Warriors made any attempt to be near her, though their eyes kept shifting to keep watch on the Wolfen warrior and his giant sword. Their reluctance to attack stemming from the Preachers demand that she be sacrified and simply cutting a harlot down is not enough to please Cabbalah.

The rest of the Cultists and even some of the more burly among the congregation that had clamoured around the Preacher moved in to try and surround the Highlander, weapons pried from dead fingers as the village volunteers armed themselves to kill the demi-human. Blood trailed itself neatly along the sharpened edge of the Slammer blade, the vital fluid also staining the sword-wielders chin and neck from having ripped out the throat of an opponent. Clawed fingers tightened upon the roughly wrapped handle and then its power was unleashed. In a single swing two villagers found themselves seperated from most of their body, a cult-warrior doing their finest to bring up a large shield to avoid immediate demise, the shield bent... then buckled, folding in on itself, all this happening in an instant... at precisely the same time, for the same reasons the Warrior was left grimacing as their arm shattered, ligaments were torn and then finally they were launched off their feet to land heavily upon the mud. Corvus shifted his feet quickly to keep the momentum going, his blade continuing to cleave itself through the air... and anything that got in its way. Another warrior falling in two seperate pieces, more villagers that had tried to strike him down and at last the Slammer halted.

Though only a quintet had been removed it was plenty to discourage the rest, only a handful remained of the animal-covered Warriors and the now terrified villagers, all for the best, if this combat had dragged on too long one of them might've tried to hold one of the prisoners properly hostage or... well in all honesty that situation wouldn't make the Highlander hesitate and right now they had no other options except to retreat into an enviroment that was only slightly less dangerous than the angered Wolf they now faced. From behind the threatening throng out-stepped one of the biggest fighters among them, carrying a weapon rather familiar to the Highlander.

It was like a diet version of his Slammer, a plain-edged, though highly decorated anti-cavalry sword. A weapon intended to hack straight through a horse and if luck was on the fighters side, through the rider in one stroke. In regular combat such weapons were often forgotten, as were Slammers due to the immense strength and fortitude required in swinging them more than a handful of times. The grunting gorilla however only managed a single strike. The fine-edged weapon grating down along the rough ridges and bumps on the flat of the Highlanders slammer, being guided aside before that vast weapon lashed out, catching and then smashing straight through the fighters ribs before tearing his head and shoulder clear off.

His fangs and lips blood-smeared the Highlander barked out loudly at his remaining opponents, a clear signal of Who's next?.

[Whitlen]

Adrenaline, fueled by her instinct for self-preservation, pumped through Whitlen's veins, giving her the endurance to wield the sword - albeit awkwardly - against the two that approached her. To her advantage, they seemed distracted by the seemingly tireless wolf-man's decimation of their ranks. Halfheartedly they circled her, one eye remaining on the one they truly deemed a threat, as they contemplated whether or not to attack.

Inexperienced as she was, she was jumpy at best, and took their posture as a threat in itself. As one of them came around to her front she lunged, clumsily thrusting the pointy end of the weapon toward his solar plexus. With a deft swipe of his own blade, the warrior parried easily, with unexpected results. Her momentum was enough that the impact of the swords propelled her into a wide twirling arc. Neither of them would have guessed that the simple attack would result in his death as she came full circle and slashed cold steel into the thick cords of his neck just above the shoulder. Eyes wide, the girl stepped back a bit, yanking the sword free to hold out in front of her body defensively. Blood spurted a bit from the wound, and with shock painted on his face the warrior dropped to the ground and began the process of bleeding out.

Before she could take in the fact that she'd just taken a life, Whitlen was brought back to the present by a growl of challenge from her right; the surviving cultist had apparently taken exception to the death of his kinsman. Finding strength in the heat of battle, she once more hefted the steel blade, swinging it as the man came in closer for his own attack. Her blow was a feint, keeping his eyes on her weapon as he parried while she prepared a sneak attack. Springing forward using the power of her hips she delivered an impressive front snap kick to his stomach. His breath came out in a rush, his eyes bulging almost comically from his head.

Dropping the foot back into a supportive stance, Whit drew the sword close to her ear and swung again. This time she was successful, driving the edge into the wrist of his sword arm. As she pulled back, she was grateful that there was no grand spurting of blood, though his pained screams did cause her to pale a few shades. Still, he would live a while, perhaps able to answer any questions that would arise, all the while unable to harm anyone.

At that moment there was a challenging bark from the wolf-like man who had been her savior. Wiping blood and mud from her eyes, she turned to see the remaining warriors fading into the background, apparently no longer possessing the will to fight. Returning her eyes to the challenger, she could understand why; the largest man she had seen to date lay dead and bleeding on the ground, seemingly from a single wound. Impressive... With no one left looking for her death, the adrenaline faded quickly, leaving her weary and weak all over. With wobbling knees, the girl took a few shaky steps away from the site of her battle, sheathed her adopted weapon, and sank to the wet earth to take in what had just happened. Only then did it hit her - she had killed someone...

[Corvus MacCallum]

Corvus had killed... and was continuing to do that, quite expertly in fact. What was left of the Cultists and the fighting villagers were quailing on seeing the groups Champion brought to the ground in a solitary strike and it showed in their eyes as the Highlander rampaged through their numbers. The first had a hideously barbed sword that they tried to bring down upon the Wolf-man, a harsh cold clank resounding through the scream and panic-riddled air as the the cultists sword stopped dead against the Sectioned buckler on the Highlanders right arm, flick of his wrist and the segments closed together, trapping the blade and with a sharp pull used those hooking barbs to his advantage and pulled it free from the fighters grip. With a shift of his feet and then a lurch forth with his shoulders he propelled the vast Iron Slammer up into the air and then downwards almost immediately. From head to toe the Cultist was cleaved in twaine, a single stagger with one foot from an involuntary muscle twitch and the two halves fell apart... all that was inside spilling or at the least dislodging until the two halves slapped wetly against the mud.

Sensitive ears twitched on the slops and splorts of feet smacking through the sucking mire behind the Highlander. One by one his fingers tensed upon the Slammers handle as its stroke finished within the mud, for a brief moment his hair and fur seemed to change to a more silvery hue, a sharp gust of wind kicking up around his feet but whatever alterations occured were gone within the blink of an eye. Instead the regularly coloured wolf-man swept out with his left arm, dragging that Slammer from its temporary hold in the mud and cleaved straight through one of the village volunteers... as his body parts fell it brought a flash of clarity to the Highlanders mind... At the end of this, not one of the Findren natives could be allowed to live. They liked this, they encouraged it and participated too, each of them were stained with the blood of countless Demi-humans and outsiders who made the mistake of paying this settlement a visit.

Another two fighters were felled by the Wolfen-warrior, carrying him closer to the Red-headed lass and for the moment far more importantly, his fallen tools. When the second Cultist fell for their last time Corvus sheathed the hugely stained Slammer, rough chains holding it in place while the owner wrenched his Broad-sword free from one corpse and then his katana, giving a hard swing with the blades to free them of any meat chunks that had stuck to their surface. For perhaps the first time in this swirling melee the Highlanders opponent did not fall in a solitary strike, the scarred Broad-sword clashing harshly against a far more decorated but ill-treated sword from the last of the Cults numbers. He could see the grimace of pain on his opponents face with each resounding clash of the blades, the vibrations sending sharp jagged sensations of pain through the fighters muscles.

Tired of keeping up the charade of even footing Corvus lashed out once more, sharp edge of the Broad-sword cleaving down through the fighters shoulder, snapping through the ribs and gliding straight through the soft internals. As he reached the Cultists center the Highlander gave a sharp twist of his wrist, the blade ripping and tearing as it turned side-ways before with a smirk flashed to his victim the Wolf-man ripped the sword straight from his opponents body, leaving them gasping and clutching at their gaping wound before collapsing to the ground.

Thats it...

Was a suprising revelation to him, but yes, the fighting was technically over, they'd lost all their warriors and any willing volunteers. Tearing a coarse cloth shirt from one of his previous victims the Highlander worked on cleaning his blades, the scrap of material left sopping and drooling vital fluids by the end. For a moment, his sight rested upon the red-headed girl who, like all those currently within the cage-wagons had simply been in entirely the wrong place, at the wrong time, then... slowly, oh so very slowly, he turned his eyes to the terrified congregation... a slight lift and then the Preacher, the leader behind those whole ordeal, stood trembling in front of him.

All three swords stowed away left just his lethal black claws free to take life... and that he did. On reaching the villagers came a swirl of red and black, ripping and tearing at flesh and muscle, pulling it free from bone, or merely pulling until parts came loose from their connections. It was an odious task, one Corvus did not enjoy, but it had to be done... these people approved of wholesale genocide on those who weren't from their little part of the globe, it was an evil mind-set and he was going to stamp it out. By the end of it, there was merely a pile of parts and bodies heaped in the mud, Corvus standing nearby, an arm he had wrenched free from its owner in his grip. Lip curling in a snarl he stepped toward the Preacher and lashed out, cracking the religious nut-job across the face using the wet part of the severed arm. Gasping and panting from his blood-streaked face the Preacher was suddenly facing the simple prospect of meeting his god in a different plane of reality.

"You'll answer what I ask, later."

Those blood-drenched claws clutched upon the Preachers garb and dragged him through the soaked soil, harsh yanks and tugs given when the Highlander felt like some degree of entertainment. Carting the Cult member towards the Cage-wagons, the sectioned buckler smashing against the heavy pad-locks and bars until all were allowed freedom. There were no great cheers, far too much blood had been spilt, but gratitude was shown towards the blood-soaked Wolf-man... only one thing left.

"You alright lass?"

His voice was slightly more hoarse than usual, blood that had slipped through his lips thickening against the walls of his throat. He stood in front of the girl who had just ended her first life, the Preacher out cold from one Demi-human giving him just one good solid kick. Quite the saviour Corvus looked, hands absolutely soaked in crimson, blood staining his lips and chin. A savage display of raw beastial rage set against deserving targets.

[Whitlen]

Swimming in a sea of shock at all that had happened, Whitlen stared at all the blood on her hands, on the blade in them. She couldn't look past there, though. Too much death, and some had been at those hands. So much blood... her mind whispered like a mantra. She just could not handle it, and her mind started to shut down on itself in an act of instinctive self-preservation.

As her vision started to tunnel into what should have been a faint, a voice drifted over her consciousness, calling her out of the black depths. The tone was harsh, just shy of guttural, and all she could do was react. With muscles that screamed in defiance, she hoisted the unfamiliar bulk of her borrowed weapon and charged in the direction of the voice. Her eyes had not fully focused, though she knew there was a person there, bloodied and wielding weapons of his own. With a growl she didn't know she could produce, she hacked at the shape, feeling the impact of steel on flesh somewhere in the region of his forearm - probably as he was blocking the attack. There was another exclamation of sound from him, and she paused, breathing hard.

Something familiar, her mind screamed, and she blinked a couple of times, pulling out of the daze that had taken hold of her. Blood oozed between tanned fingers from the arm. Higher, she found the face of the odd wolfish man that had come to her aid. Choking back a cry, she dropped the offending sword, wishing with a sickened heart that she could undo this whole day. Her eyes burned with tears that would not come free.

Take it back!

Wordlessly the girl moved toward him, shaking hands outstretched. His reactions, expressions, words, did not register as she sought to undo what she had done. Soft, pale fingers covered rough, tan ones. Her focus, her will was so strong that she felt his wounds tearing through her own flesh almost as they closed on his own body. "As it should be," she heard her own voice whisper. At last the pain was more than she could possibly bear, and she screamed, the sound tearing through the air like summer lightning. Then, like a rag doll, she crumpled softly to the ground, the satisfaction of doing something right leaving a light smile hovering on her lips.

[Corvus MacCallum]

Wasn't a typical reaction he got, but he should've noticed the glazing of her eyes, the light twitching on her eye-lids, just too tired to care and it cost him now. Her hacks were unskilled but desperate and the Highlander hadn't been expecting any kind of suprise assault, quick reactions managing to bring his buckler up in time to catch the first hack but her random strikes brought a second one further along his arm.

"Fuuuck!"

Escaped from his gritted teeth as the blade parted his skin and began to bite deeper just above where his buckler was fixed. Thankfully she'd twigged on that he wasn't the attacker, no he was the bloody saviour of the lass and the Demi-humans now struggling against the door of the cage-wagons. The blow was clumsy but heavy thanks to the blade, gladly she quickly withdrew the blade leaving the Highlander time to suck in a nice sharp chilled breath to silence the nerves parted from the strike.

"Thats gonna fucking st-"

Eyebrows raising, Corvus didn't get a chance to finish his sentence as the girl brought herself back onto his wound, thankfully not with blood-warmed steel but with simple flesh and bone of her fingers. A shudder of unnatural occurances trickled down his spine as the wound upon his arm mostly healed, though his eyes never left the girl he was also aware of the stab wound in his shoulder getting a bit shallower... not all the way though, the girl passed out much too soon for that to finish. Like a bad habit, the Preacher was dropped into the sucking mud freeing up the Highlanders hands just in time to stop the red-heads entire body falling to the soft ground.

Time to take stock and get this aftermath sorted.

----

It had taken more than a handful of hours for the corpses to be hurled into the hungry mud-rivers and stench-riddled bogs not far from the village. Was quite a lovely little scene of ferocity as mottled, or scaled, or pulsating shapes moved through the mire and enacted their natural drives upon the body parts. Fangs shredding at flesh, blood staining the surface of the utterly opaque bogs, an arm given a sharp nudge, rolling over to reveal a vast colony of Leeches already suckling hungrily. Despite the fact there was barely a dry bit of soil in the entire kingdom and all were mud-stained or blood-soaked... in some regards, the Findren Mire was a rather clean place... also lacked Graveyards for nicely obvious reasons.

After that bit of tidying up was sorted Corvus was free to return to a much changed village. All the natives had their lives ended... all by his own hand, thankfully no young children were among them, but even then, the evil within those people was too palpable to allow them life. He was a hunter, a warrior, an exterminator was something new and not altogether pleasant, what Bard would strike up a tune to a supposed hero who wiped a village clean of life?

Now the populace were Demi-humans and non-natives, most of the injured having been taken to the settlements Inn including the Red-haired lass who had nearly cost Corvus his ability to clap. The other buildings were being pretty much ran-sacked and the Highlander had no qualms with that, thievery seemed such a minor thing when directed at people responsible for hacking off some childs leg, or blinding an old Feline-man, all because of that religious clap-trap.

Cabbalah...

The name rose up within the Wolf-mans mind as he looked upon the Preacher, currently hanging from one of his own cage-wagons, sadly not in the noose. Just bound and gagged against the gallows arm, he needed the bastard alive for now... was looking forward to exacting some hefty revenge for his kind people. Stepping beyond that rather heartening sight the Highlander came upon the busy entrance of the Inn, his recently washed hands coming up to display greetings to those who were really quite grateful their lives had been saved. He typically never hung around anywhere long enough to get any hero worship or praise, just enough time to grab his cash, flog off any excess baggage and let at least one person know what happened, that seemed more than enough.

Slowly he managed to shuffle and clank his way through the general throng, all the Cultists weapons and what armour that hadn't at one time been something squishy and breathing was heaped upon the reception desk. No one seemed all that interested in claiming them, he did have his eye on something but really there was plenty of time to worry on how to let so many well designed weapons to reclaim their history, he hadn't any use for more than one... not all had survived intact from the fight, or been correctly treated through their debasement. The Highlanders rouch claws scraping and clacking against the wooden flooring as he drew closer to one particular heap, solitary finger stretching forth to trail along a rusted and chipped Axe, its handle a good foot and a half of iron braced... well, wood, he wasn't much of an expert on materials, nor was he a blacksmith but Corvus had long since been taught the signs of respect and heritage for a weapon. Upon the head lay marks and runes of varying age, kill markings... exceptional moments, all recorded... possibly even the names of its various wielders through the ages. How many years had it been sullied with sacrifices and left slapping against some fuck-wads back to wallow in the impure gore?

... Stop giving me those puppy dog gleams you little shit, fine!

With a resounding clatter that made quite a few of the passing folks jump and shudder Corvus ripped the useless Axe out from the pile. Would cost a fortune to have the blade fixed and it would probably never get its keen edge properly restored... He couldn't resist it though, nothing but hammered iron... or steel, bit dark for that, could even be Dehlar but he simply didn't know or care... marked with hefty engravings and a strangely awkward balance, but it would be his now. Further rummaging through the weapon pile rewarded him with a nice double-belt strap for actually carting the thing around.

The Axe wouldn't be the only thing needing restoration though and quickly up the stairs Corvus clacked, curious on just how the Red-head had been doing. There was no true healer among the group, but a few intelligent elders who dealt with injured hunters and way-farers, the recovery couldn't be sped up but it was dilligently watched over. Rather wizened Birchin was taking the current shift and faced the approaching Highlander with a broad smile, the bark of his exterior creaking under such a hefty change in positioning.

"I must say, thank you once more."

"You're welcome, all of you are... So how is she?"

"It's... most unusual to be honest. Where you said you had been cut by her-"

"-Accidentally to be fair, poor lass seemed out of her wits."

"Oh of course, but she recieved that very same wound upon her own body, I've read of this only once. Life-force trade, in that though it was to heal the soul and spirit, this is of the flesh though it seems she has limited tolerances..."

"To be honest could be me own high tolerance, my people can take a fair whack of punishment. So she takes hold, winds up with my arm wound and the jab I got in my shoulder right?"

"Precisely yes. I'm rather glad her body seems to have a safe cut-off point otherwise what little we can offer would not be enough... as it is, leaving her to rest and heal will do fine."

A slow nod came from Corvus which seemed to signal the end of the conversation, the Birchin creaking his way past the Wolfen-warrior, then out of sight and sound.

Unusual race, I can understand animal hybrids, but sentient plants, it just strikes me as odd... hmm, knock knock perhaps?

His eyes trailed towards a wooden door, behind it, was the room Whit had been placed within to recover. Lightly rapping upon the harshly sanded material it popped free from its position, ever so slowly creaking open.

[Whitlen]

So much blood...

Time had slowed to a crawl as the blackness took her, drowning her in disjointed dreams of blood and death, lashings and sermons, bitterness and self-loathing. She could hear the horrible voice of Master Kellerman tearing her down, feel the stubble of hair that had slowly returned, and feel the bitter tears streaming down her cheeks, their wake chilled by the night air. No longer could she cry out; her emotions were buried too deep. Tears are weakness. Sobs beget pain. It was almost a mantra. She saw again the twitching corpse, smell his fluids, as the he was starved for oxygen, his neck at an irregular angle aided by the noose around his neck. In her dream, though, there was blood - in his eyes, pouring from the tear ducts, oozing from his mouth and nose and ears. In her hands was the weapon, the rusted sword that signified her hatred...

Opening her eyes, she surveyed her surroundings and took stock of her own body. She didn't know how long she'd been out, or where she was, nor did she see her bag anywhere. The bed beneath her was lumpy, but in that worn, comfortable way that comes with age and a good breaking-in. The blankets were gray, scratchy, and a bit stiff - probably sun dried. The sheets were softer, but threadbare. Everything smelled clean, though, which made it all the more welcomed.

A slight adjustment in her body's position, followed by a brief wince, revealed blinding pain in her shoulder, as well as a mild pain in her backside, probably from a bruise. Thinking back on the last few moments of the recent battle in the muddy town explained both injuries, but didn't lessen the pain they caused. She had been bathed and redressed in a dressing gown of sorts, the owner likely a good deal older and shorter than the willowy Whitlen, as it billowed around her loosely and came three inches from the top of her knees. The white fabric was soft and careworn, with a touch of gray around the edges from multiple washings and long-term wear.

My wrappings... Disgusted by her curves, Whitlen kept them bound by tightly wrapped linen bandages, reducing the harmful attentions of men. After all, she would only burden them and cause them pain. But now that safety was gone, the bandages removed to facilitate her healing. I have to get my bag...

Thump-click thump-click...

The animalistic padding of feet came to a muffled halt at her door, followed by a gentle knock. Realizing that this was likely to be the wolf-man that had saved her, she jerked upright, causing the wounds to pull. Stifling the groan of pain that bubbled to her lips, the redhead closed her eyes and tongued her lip piercing briefly before snatching a blanket quickly over her torso. I can't imagine why he would visit... Haven't I caused him enough trouble?

The door opened, and her suspicions on his identity confirmed. Horrified of what he must think of her, but not willing to dump her drama on him, she wiped her face of emotion. Her eyes were strong as they met his, but fell away as she spoke, her voice clear and soft. "Thank you for... back there... I'm sorry I ... I shouldn't have tried to fight. I'm glad to see I didn't do any real damage..." She looked away a bit nervously for a moment, not sure if he knew her secret gift, or whether she wanted him to.

[Corvus MacCallum]

The Highlander fixed his sight upon hers, while her eyes tried to keep their strength which faultered upon the first few words. His, were a mixture of emotions, none of them negative it was simply the luster of expressive pupils enhanced by a good lense, to see the two side to side would've been a lovely little artistic contrast. Corvus took but a moment to reshift his position, little shuffle of the shoulders, scuffing of one foot to take the weight, simple little stuff that had no bearing on the situation or mood, then came the smirk.

"No wucking forries lass."

Seemed a rather concise way of answering a girls guilt at injuring a rescuer and perhaps unfufilling so he decided to follow up with a bit more, never liked being a wordy type. As his thickly diguised accent took the shape of words passing from his throat the Highlanders right arm came up to scratch along the back of his neck, not even the faintest scar visible from her attack, the healing power was pretty nice.

"I've been hurt a lot worse, sides hardly your fault. Getting dumped in a little swirl of combat would push any first timer to get pretty jumpy, add that to your first kill..."

He spotted her eyes emotion shifting a bit, eyebrows flexing for but a moment.

"... I saw how you reacted, its not unfamiliar to me lass don't worry. With any luck you'll be able to push past that, was a good job anyway to end their lives, those people rustle up any Outsiders from the Findren region here and take them to wherever the center of their beliefs are. I've heard of mass sacrifices, at the least, none of their captives have escaped... if you're wondering, the infos from these cult-fucks when they get drunk at the pubs and such, not everyone opposing them is a Demi-human so they can eavesdrop quite easily."

The Wolf-mans attention was drawn away for a moment, ear twitching momentarily on picking up noise down the hall, a finger raised just for a second to signal he'd be back in a second. Few clacking steps took him from the room to meet another of the rescued folk, this one just a plain, ordinay human male, carting with him what looked like luggage.

"Found these in one of the other houses, figured its the girls stuff."

"Cheers, you guys gonna start the relay?"

The guy just gave a slow nod and after passing the bag to Corvus took a silent parting and headed off. The relay... the people obviously couldn't live here in Findren, all were just passing or curious and with curiousity sated, Corvus had gotten several of the more dominant types to come up with a relay system, to take the current carriage and ride it out of Findren, then return with more transport to get these people out of here. At the least, an empty village was going to have enough space for the people stuck here, shame it took a massacre for Outsiders to be considered welcome.

"This yours?"

Simple question delivered as the Highlander returned to Whits room, plopping the bag on a free area of the bed. Then quickly backing up, seemed right to give the girl a bit of distance for her own benefit.

"Thanks to how muddy this place is, the laundry service is working over-time so I'm not sure when you'll get your dress back, but its being diligently worked on."

Words somewhat tailed off at that point, he'd spent the last few weeks skulking around Findren silently watching and waiting for the right times. You don't keep well practiced on conversation skills when every night you just burn off leeches or sink teeth into stuff too slime-riddled and bile-filled to offer any purchase. Maybe go back to the old traditional topic...

"If you fancy could always do introductions, I'm Corvus, I'm fine with it being shortened and you lass?"

Wish I wasn't so bad at names...

After breaking free the locks and helping the captives from the Cage-wagons... he'd been assaulted by so many various names and peoples, he'd done his best to recall them but scent and actions stuck clearer in the Highlanders mind than sounds and letters, still this was a hopefully notable moment in life, maybe they'd stick better.

[Whitlen]

Whitlen felt relief trickle through her for only a moment before it was replaced by disgust tempered with fury. Flame red curls fell softly over her right shoulder as she turned her head to the left, trying to fight the rising indignation in her heart at what she'd just been told. "I've heard of mass sacrifices, at the least, none of their captives have escaped..." His words echoed loudly in her thoughts, making bile rise in her throat. Her full mouth tightened, her eyes half closed to hide her strong reaction. Suddenly she didn't feel so bad about killing anyone, and half wanted to finish the job. Too bad you suck at fighting. Deflated, the girl sighed a little, letting go of some of the impotent rage.

During her internal struggle, the wolf-man had left the room to speak with someone. Looking up, she was somewhat pleased to see him returning with her luggage still intact, if a bit muddy. "This yours?" he asked, his tone as level as it had been the entire conversation. Whit nodded, her eyes clouded with unspent emotions that she simply refused to release. She hoped he would not see her weakness, but expected he would anyway. He kindly dropped the bag on the foot of her bed - narrowly missing her toes, but she didn't mind.

"Thanks to how muddy this place is, the laundry service is working over-time so I'm not sure when you'll get your dress back, but its being diligently worked on." He almost seemed to be reading her mind as she glanced at her belongings, longing to rifle through and find something more appropriate to wear. With a slightly wry half-smile, she looked up at him again. "No worries," she said, her voice soft and melodic. "I have a few things to wear." Silence followed for a few stretched moments.

"If you fancy could always do introductions, I'm Corvus, I'm fine with it being shortened and you lass?"

"Whitlen Hadley - Whit is fine. Nice to meet you, Corvus." She smiled a little brighter at the introduction, as was polite. "And... Thank you again for saving me. I probably wouldn't be here without your intervention." Whitlen paused, thoughtful. So many people of various races had been there, locked in their cages, their eyes filled with doubt, anger, terror... She picked at an errant fiber standing tall against the rough blanket. Memories of the past surged through her, unlikely comparisons drawn in her mind. "I didn't know such evil existed outside of one person. What happens now?"

[Corvus MacCallum]

A quiet snicker rose out of the Highlander, his buckler-clad arm rising up to scratch along the back of his neck, he'd been doing that a lot today, he liked to be acknowledged for his work but all these heart-felt thank yous and folks claiming they'd be dead without him... it did get a bit embarassing. He had to admit, he was suprised it even effected him, typically he was pretty much shameless.

"No wucking forries Whit, just a shame I can't go meeting peoples expectations of shining armour and a white horse, who'd want to be rescued by a ragged and wind-swept Wolf-man. Oh yea what comes next, well a few of the head-scratchers among the group have started setting up a little relay, that carriage you came on tearing out of Findren and then returning with a little escort and some better transportation. Everyone should be out of here in a day or two and until I get this sorted I recommend you do the same."

Well isn't someone feeling cocky as all fuck?

He had to smirk at himself for a moment on believing that he'd be the solution behind all this, but soon the Wolf-man would have the location of their cults little center of activity... and break it the fuck down, brick by brick.

Might even get to kill a God, woo for me.

Might be a bit of a shame if no one heard of the tale, Bards might be able to make some fun songs out of his breaking apart of such a vast cult, could even change the whole mentality of Findren itself. Still he had no intention of bringing anyone with him who wasn't a warrior and in the Highlanders mind, no one else was needed, he had to make his entry into the place quick, violent and keep them running throughout the fortress until he could break their numbers. The thoughts of Corvus then turned upon the thorny issue, when he rescued all the captives what then?... he got lucky there was a bit of transport in this place, though it did make sense the Cult would have carriages or wagons of their own for the long distance sacrifice hauls.

Made his skin crawl on thinking of the few rumours he'd heard, apparently their little home was a Fortress built long before Findren itself became a life-draining mire and its very design was for the protection of the people, to lure and destroy vast monsters who could threaten the region and beyond. It was not a flippant job he and others did, but many loved to twist their objectives around and make it an insult to all others who fought with noble intent.

What sort of topic to go on now...

"Aye well I've not got a baldy here on what to banter on further about heh. Though... that sword you grabbed from the mud, its got a lot of similar brothers downstairs, take one for yourself and... after your wounds have healed up properly, find some git to teach you how to use it. Findrens an exceptional little shite-hole but its always worth learning to defend yourself."

His smile had never fallen throughout his time standing about though it pulled at his face more to reveal a few of those lethal, meat-shredding ivories. This little situation would be a nice thing to keep in his head while tonights actions began... the cults Fortress was out there and they all knew where, he didn't... but tonight, he'd squeeze, bludgeon, batter or rip that knowledge right out from the preacher.

Wonder how few extremities a human can survive without...

A quiet thumping rose up from the rooms background noise, easily explainable though, his tail was just hitting against the wall while his mind rolled through the options he have on torturing the Preacher.

[Corvus MacCallum]

A handful of words were bandyed back and forth between the two until finally, as sunlight began to release its claws upon the surface of Findren the Wolf-man decided to finally gain what he'd been seeking for quite some time. The surrounding world seemed to gray and blur in the Highlanders perception as his mind shifted to darker deeds, he had already slaughtered a villages population... each one of them sick and twisted, now for one that would seek to spread that evil and wipe out innocent lives. Slight buzzing in his ears as his attention failed to grasp the background noise of simple speech and gratitude given once more to his ragged hide for saving their lives, everything just paled as he tried to get a good focus on how best to do this.

The preacher had been tied aloft, his arms bound by rope that once held the shape of a noose for Demi-humans and Outsiders in general to Findren, he had seen how they operated before, lies would be perpetrated at any time to justify killing anyone who wasn't local. Shuddering awake the Preacher was able to properly feel the pain that had been inflicted upon him by numerous hurled stones, his lips barely sealed from a wad of dried blood, then came the disorientating sensation of gravity having its wicked way with him. Splashing hard upon the heavy water-logged mud, mind still bleary but could sense motion surrounding him... dragged, a large trough being formed in his wake as Corvus hauled the religious nut out of the village limits. Findren was a terrifying place of death and decay, but for tonight, especially for tonight the Highlander was scarier than anything bubbling in the depths of the mire.

"Answer this, your death will be quick. Where do you fuckers operate from?"

Words, the Preacher knew those, was even able to ascertain the meaning fairly quick but his answer was not forth-coming... his scream was though. There was this horrible raw snapping underneath the fanatics flesh before the sound was able to burst free into the world as Corvus simply pulled the Preachers baby finger back... and back until the thing had snapped against the back of its owners hand, the skin rupturing just as the tendons would a moment after. Already tears stained the victims face, it was a fairly natural reaction to one who had never stained his life with actual conflict, no nothing but a word-flinger this scrap of meat. Then came the Wolfs voice, beneath every letter and ounce of breath released was a gutteral growl that almost disguised his speech as simple animal hatred.

"Where are you taking the captives?... You've got nine left for snapping you know."

To the Fanatics credit, he was holding firm... somewhat, still squealing like a stuck pig as his nose ran free and mixed with the flowing tears just as Corvus grasped at the broken finger, barely hanging onto his body except by very sensitive nerves. Then came the pull, the Highlander doing his finest to withold his strength so it would last as long as possible before finally what tissue remained 'tween finger and hand snapped and tore, the digit freed and hurled into the swirling mire as predators alerted themselves to blood. Suprising so far, he had really expected the bastard to crack just at the first snap... or maybe he had, none of the noises out of him could really be distinguished as words.

Belly-down in the mud, its sickly chill seeping through the Preachers finery and spreading along his sides as the heavy weight of the Highlanders foot pressed upon his back for now. Would be no point snapping any more fingers, not until the victims nerves had settled down enough for his words and mental state to be lucid. Who would have guessed torture could be such slow work?

The night progressed rather sporadically, it seemed removing some fingers hurt less than others. It was when the Preacher could be named Lefty Corvus finally decided to up the ante` and go with something, far more stirring. Despite his odour being rather passable now the oils and tinctures he'd applied earlier to avoid being eaten alive during his sheet-covered vigil still held to his flesh and fur. Safety assured the forest green eyes of the Highlander roved along the surface of the mud-lake beside them, his hand lunging forth and ripping free a thick, fleshy tube of a creature. Bloated and its mass shifting as the Wolf-man kept his grip on its wiggling form, one of Findrens native evils, the Boil-worm. Just one squirt of its internal fluid caused skin to swell, blister and cause massive irritation, that was small amounts though. Bending over his victim the Highlander flicked out the claws upon his free hand and flashed against the Preachers back, claws ripping through linen and flesh in equal measure, four thin six inch long tracks being made in the right shoulder blade of his victim. One squirt, enough to cause pain and result in flesh sloughing off from the body when scratched, now however Corvus held the boil-worm over the tracks and with both hands squeezed the highly infectious bile right out from the creatures body. Immediately the Preacher screamed for all he was worth, as the lining of his throat was expelled it became harsh squeals like a stuck-pig.

The sensations were hardly pleasant, inside his muscle tissue felt like it was being stabbed by a red-hot poker, great bubbles of flesh rising up around the wounds, but unlike the poker, the fluids of a boil-worm were not solid and instead the stuff kept seeping through, further and further. Blood mixing with the Preachers voice as it reached his wind pipe. The Highlander quickly bringing himself around to the flailing head of his victim.

"Tell me where you operate from, the pain can be removed easily, now tell me!"

His tone had risen a small amount, but he knew better than to just yell, it would be seen as a sign of weakness. Even in such hideous spasms of sheer agony he knew better than to expect the Preachers confidence to be entirely gone. The fluid would do permanent damage and likely shorten the Findren locals life-span to mere months but for now he would live... course he didn't know that. Another solid hour passed before slowly... oh so slowly the screams of the Preacher settled enough for some other noise to be released from his lips and with heavy sobs, it was precisely what the Highlander had sought to hear. Despite the state of him, he was capable of giving rather precise directions and importantly land-marks that would be seen on the way, his begging and pleading for the antidote was a reliable assurance that the information had been correct.

Thwunk.

In a way the broad-sword had cured the Preachers aches and pains in a very long-term way, which was something of a shame, for all the misery and lives the Preacher had caused the Highlander rather wished he could've felt the flesh being ripped from his face and eyes gouged by slithering eels within the mire of Findren.

He had a destination, he had a plan and he had to do what was right. Glancing at the merest hint that a sun had set in Findren Corvus hurled the Boil-worm from his grip and began his long walk through the Mire of this hateful land. Maybe he'd find some way-station to grab supplies but stopping off in any civilisation of Findren is typically a mistake when you've got a tail swinging through the air behind you. He was looking forward to giving this damaged axe a chance at redemption though.

"One cult and one God to kill, how hard can it be?"

Whitlan has been gone for about two months now with zero contact outside of the forums and so I might as well end this before it slips any further.

Spoils -

One damaged Axe, iron/steel/dehlar blade (Up to the judge). Oak handle with iron bracings, foot and a half long. Nothing special about it at all, except maybe the heavily chipped and rusted blade.

No Gold.

[Taskmienster]

Findren Mire – Ink stained Violence :: Since I was given only “go for it” for the judging request, I’m going to be doing a regular rubric, limited commentary where necessary. If you have questions or want clarification just PM me and I’ll help where I can.


Continuity 4.5

I have no clue why you were there, who you are, what your goals were other than to kill cultists, and all other background information that would be necessary to make the reader understand the continuity.

Setting 4

Other than mud, and lots of it, and some animals that eat corpses, I really got absolutely no feel for where you were.

Pacing 6

There was a lot of fighting, which eventually wound down after massive posts about killing people. The posts were a bit long winded and took a long time to work through. After that, it slowed at a reasonable pace. However, all in all, it was rather easy to follow… in the way that it was very little difference between the thread and a solo Citadel battle.

Dialogue 6

Half the dialogue was one liner. Which, to me at least, detracts from both dialogue and persona… also, you shouldn’t write dialogue (either spoken or internal) within a paragraph. It should be at the beginning, end, or set apart completely.

Action 5.5

Persona 5

Technique 4

More than a few times both of you skipped into a narrative that was almost first person for a sentence or two, and at others you both used “you” which is commonly reserved for second person. Also, there is numerous times, pretty much every paragraph, where you have a run-on sentence. They could be broken up easily enough, but the misuse of comma’s or simply the abundance of clauses clumped together, made it difficult to follow and read at times.

Mechanics 4.5

Numerous little errors here and there, omitted words, misused words, or words that were generally just not spelt completely. At times the ellipse is overused as well.

Clarity 5

Wild Card 5.5

Score:

50!

Rewards:

Corvus: 1300 exp | 0 gold as requested
((Due to the loss of gold I’m going to reward you with a dehlar bladed axe, trakym handle, with all the other little additions. It is heavily chipped, but in working order, average quality.))

Whitlen: 387 exp | 100 gold
((I know you’re not around, but if you’d like a steel sword from the thread, you’re welcome to it.))

[Taskmienster]

Exp and GP added!