Necrosition: Brink of Extinction

[Godhand]

Godhand sat in the back of the wagon, the gentle rocking lulling him into a sort of exhaustion-death as he blew a beautiful plume of smoke out of his mouth. He sucked on his cigarette like it was an oxygen tank underwater, letting the delicious haze crawl up into his nostrils and sinuses and massage his brain. He was tired. Damn tired. This wasn't even his war, but he was still forced to chase the Necrosition, vile bastards that they were, up and down the continent. And he'd seen things during the chase. Awful things. He wasn't squeamish; this wasn't his first time in a battlefield. But the wrath and sadism of Xem'Zund's hordes was beyond anything he'd ever seen. Towns, razed in an instant. Children dying only to spring right back up and shamble along with the procession of undead. Blood and bile haging in the air, so thick you practically drowned in it.

And the rot. The essence of the Necromancer that festered and writhed within anything it touched. It was starting to drive him a little crazy. The smell never went away, and he could only barely mask it with his cigarettes, which were quickly running out. But yet it remained, like a devil on his shoulder, poisoning everything he touched. He hissed out another stream of smoke and dug around in his jacket for his flask. Godhand took a deep swig, and considered his circumstances. He didn't like what this place was turning him into. The things he saw were bothering him less and less, and it worried him that he might be turning into just another Goddamn animal. He'd seen what this war did to people. Turned honest men into savage swine. And he wasn't even that honest to begin with.

He capped his flask and put it back into his front coat pocket, near and dear to his heart. The mercenary leaned back and tried to let the gentle gallop of his horses lull him to sleep. It was Drusilia's turn at the reins, and he knew a good opportunity to rest when he saw one. Sometimes when he woke up he honestly thought he was having a nightmare. That this all just couldn't be real; that nature and life couldn't be this impossibly cruel. But then he just took another drink and convinced himself that he was just being too sensitive and maudlin. That he had a job to do; people were counting on him. Not the elves, obviously. They couldn't care less. But people back home; the closest thing he had to a family. They had confidence that he was the best, that he could handle it.

And he'd be damned if he let the rotten bastards down.

[Mage Hunter]

"So, who's next on that list? Who's left for that matter?" The lips flew from the mouth of the exiled drow, even before she realized their importance. She was feeling the urge to hunt and kill another abomination, and even though her right shoulder was still bandaged from where the blade had pierced her skin in Eluriand. The dwarf that had done it had saved her life with that maneuver actually.

Really that whole situation made her feel far younger than she ever had. The dwarf was babbling on about how things used to be, and implying she was far too inexperienced to understand anything properly. What she hated more than anything was the fact the diminutive humanoid was right. It was frustrating because as much as she felt she was fully trained, she had in the course of the last month seen so much outside her scope that she was not ready to deal with.

"Let's see." Godhand dug into his pocket for the fading yellow paper, unfolding it in his hands. "Nialon Sunscar and 'Lord' Coldin Crowley." The words jerked her out of her musings before she shook her head. There was only two to go? The job was almost done, and where would she be then? The mercenary once more stopped her train of thought when he spoke up, "Hrmm. Could get messy. I suggest we don't be heroes and just take 'em one at a time, but frankly I've had it with this Goddamn country. Can you handle Sunscar?"

The Drow furrowed her brow in thought before she nodded softly, "I'd need the sheath, otherwise I'd have no way of finishing him off..."

Godhand narrowed his eyes. The air in the cart was still as they measured each other, until the mercenary finally sighed. "Alright, but don't double-cross me or else I'll kill you, your family, and so on etcetera. "

"I'll be sure to feign terror later on," The reply dripped with friendly sarcasm. She had been traveling with the guy so long, she just couldn't think about being angry at him anymore. He had almost become a comrade in arms.

"Meanwhile, there's something I need to do back in Corone. I'll leave you one of the horses, but taking the cart. I'll be goddamned if I ride bareback all the way back to Radasanth."

"I don't know about you, but riding bareback can be quite a thrill..." Drusilia replied a faint smile crossing her face. She let the weight of the words slowly pickle his brain before she spoke, "Take care Mercenary, with luck I'll see you somewhere down the road, with one more soul in that sheath."

[Godhand]

Godhand winced at her 'bareback' comment, fumbling with and nearly dropping the pack of cigarettes he'd found in his coat. If he rationed 'em just right, he might be able to fight off the nicotine shakes until he got back to Corone.

"Oh, don't you start up with that shit. I'm all wound up as it is." The mercenary flicked open his lighter and lit a cigarette. Normally he would have offered her one for the road, but it was a long way to Radasanth and he'd already made enough accommodations for his traveling companion. "And remember, if you try to make a run for it with my sheath...", he casually made a stabbing motion in the air, paused, then stabbed a couple more times for emphasis.

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

When he finally arrived in Radasanth he had red eyes, cracked lips and was dangerously close to suffering a bout of terminal psychosis where he'd rampage around midtown, toss the guards around like children's toys and eventually crash after twenty men beat the mortal shit out of him with huge clubs. But, luckily, he wasn't quite there yet. The guards at the gates must have thought he had one of those faces, though, because in an act of uncharacteristic empathy they'd waved him right through without bothering to check if he was carrying any contraband. Thank the lord for small mercies.

By the time he'd found a stable his steed was half dead from exhaustion, which wasn't a surprise considering he'd dragged a cart made to be drawn by two horses what seemed like halfway across the continent by one. He felt bad for the poor beast but he had more pressing concerns on his mind, not the least of which was finding some way to track and kill Coldin Crowley. Normally he would have just followed the corpses, but given that in Raiaera the corpses seemed to have no trouble getting up and walking about made that impossible. Not only that, but they were just too damn many of them. He was sure that at this point Raiaera had more zombies than people per capita.

But that all became a distant worry once he found a halfway decent restaurant in the upper district of Corone. He'd muscled his way past the reception, this wasn't a dive, and seated himself at the first table he saw with a spare seat. The patrons at the table started to make a fuss but they quieted down once the maître d' rushed over, blurting out apologies in seven different languages before leaning over conspiratorially and whispering to the patrons who the man was. The lady's face instantly brightened, no doubt she thought it was terribly exciting to share a table with a contract killer, but the gentleman instantly excused himself and dragged his wife away. The mercenary lit the final cigarette he had which he'd saved like a silver bullet, before either the most fearless or just plain ignorant waiter came over and explained that there was no smoking allowed in the restaurant. Godhand froze for a moment, and the tension in the restaurant rose to near unbearable levels. Finally, he snuffed out the tip of his cigarette and put it back in it's carton.

"I'm sorry. I didn't know."

[Mage Hunter]

It had been quite some time, with Drusilia finally breaking down and saddling her horse. It had taken her awhile to find one, as quite a few towns had been burnt to the ground, and with it anything of use. The looks of the areas never changed, merely how close to the northern mountains that marked Salvar's borders loomed ahead. She no longer cared about such trivial things, she merely wanted to get on with it, and find her target.

Nialon Sunscar was a half-elf, never truly accepted here in the land of her "blessed" cousins, but never truly rejected like she had been. The talk surrounding him spoke of a swordsman of superb skill, a man who used the rapier as Drusilia attempted to use the bow. He was versed in some necromancy, and some magic, but in the end, she had nothing truly to go off of. The last Nialon had been seen, he was going toe to toe with the Bladsingers during the Day of Untold Agony, when the walls of Eluriand fell.

If this was true, and Eluriand was his last known whereabouts, it would be suicidal to attempt to reach the inner realm, where Istien University stood out like a beacon of hope. Drusillia held a little respect for those that remained in the university, despite its blasphemous magic. It wasn't that she hated the people, merely their methods. It was a change that had slowly gripped her since Aegon Warsmith had fallen to the sheath that even now had taken the place of her second long sword, sheathed at the small of her back.

Even now that long sword was strapped to the saddle she had stolen from the remains of what had to have been a Raiaraen soldier's mount. The saddle had been nearly covered in maggots, and she had ended up using her own blanket to cover the beast before setting the saddle upon it, maggot free. The soldier's body, like those of the townsfolk that had surely perished in the necromancer's advances had been conspicuously absent.

It felt like a war of attrition against the underworld, a war that could never truly be won. While the forest was green and the grass similarly so, Drusilia could not help but see a faint haze of red about the lands. Perhaps it was the blood that had been spilled, or even perhaps it was the fact she had merely been here so long it had worn the edge of her anger to a subdued passion, she couldn't say. Now that she was wandering the roads heading slowly for the ruined capital of the once glorious Elvin nation, she felt alone, perhaps more than ever.

She hated to think of what Godhand was doing, but really she had nothing better to do. Her companion on this trip through hell had left her, with a horse and the very sheath that had forced the two of them upon this bloody path. While her horse's hooves thundered with each gallop down the roads, she felt a wistful sigh leave her lips. With every night she had finally collapsed out of the saddle too tired to stay upright, she felt too vulnerable.

Had she fallen for the Mercenary?

She didn't know anymore, but she knew one thing. Nialon Sunscar had to perish, so the Necrosition couldn't threaten Ettermire. With luck, he would be looking for her, and with greater luck still he would fall to her growing skills with the sword. Still, she had much work to do, and little time left to do it. Surely by now Godhand had reach the Alerian port of Etheria, and from there had gained passage to Radasanth.

Even now he could be heading back, and she still had not seen the man she had been set upon killing.

She refused to let Godhand Striker down.

[Painkiller]

Why was I in Raiera? The answer to this question makes little sense, even to me.

My memories are as foreign to me as the snows of Berevar, and my mind is full of unanswered questions. Only the most ambiguous of answers are revealed to me while I sleep, and they are as unsatisfying as the rations in my pack. In my last dream, a massive figure comprised of human corpses appeared before me, his head disappearing into the clouds his above us. His words drip like bile from his rotting lips, and horror grips my soul when I recall the sound of his voice.

You will go to Raiera, he declared in tones as deep and heavy as lead doors slamming. There, you will be found by an outcast who carries the souls of the dead. Do whatever they ask of you.

And there my dream ends, to my inconceivable frustration.

I feel compelled to follow this abomination's orders, despite his horrifying appearance. He is my guiding light in the darkness, and I must do as he requests.

Through the course of my journey across Raiera, I have heard tales of a man called 'Godhand'. The people speak of him as a hero, claiming that he has imprisoned the souls of Xem'Zund's generals within some sort of magical sword. Could he be the one the corpse-man had spoken of? Only time will tell...

---

Kurze wandered aimlessly down a deserted road in the middle of the Raieran wilderness, her gaze locked on the ground a few feet in front of her. What was she doing here? She'd been wandering the wilderness for over a week, now, and she was no closer to locating the mysterious Godhand. Her journey had left her once-pristine robe in rags; what had once been a brilliantly white cotton garment was now stained a particularly nasty shade of brown, and most of her visible skin was caked with a digusting combination of human viscera and dried mud, thanks in part to a small scuffle with a group of zombies she'd stumbled into just a few hours earlier.

The relative tranquility of the last few hours was interrupted by the sound of thundering hooves. The mentalist's weary eyes slowly lifted from the ground to meet the source of the oncoming hoofbeats, her expression just as bleak as her physical appearance. Her grip on her spear tightened as she prepared for the worst; the lone rider was probably just as weary as Kurze, but with her luck it could end up being Xem'Zund himself.

[Godhand]

Godhand placed the fork and knife down on the table, removed the handkerchief he'd used as a bib, held his face and wept. Sure, a more discerning man would have noted that the meat was slightly overcooked, that the gravy wasn't thick enough and the wine was all wrong, but Godhand hadn't eaten a decent meal in a month. To him it tasted like pure glory. The tears were streaming down his face and the waiter didn't quite know how to react. A bit of the more alarmist folks working there had warned him that if the mercenary was displeased by the meal, he was liable to fly off the handle and demolish the restaurant at the foundations using nothing but his hands and his psychotic outrage. It was thus extremely unsettling for him for this reputed monster to sob openly at the end of his meal. He tremulously stepped forward.

"Was...Was everything to your satisfaction, sir?"

"God bless you..."

"What?"

Godhand composed himself.

"Nothing, nothing. Here," The mercenary pulled a handful of bills from his pocket and pushed them unto the man without even looking at them.

"Sir, this is far too much! I am but a waiter!"

"Hey, don't...Don't sell yourself short. You bring people food. Don't you know that a good meal, served well, can change a man's entire day? Hell, can change his entire life?"

Godhand stood up and straightened his coat out, giving just a barely noticeable nod to the waiter before walking out.

Outside, it was beautiful. Now that he'd had eaten, he felt an extremely pleasant sense of lethargy. The sun was bright, birds were chirping; now that the sense of urgency was gone, everything seemed magnificent again. He truly had the sense that life and the gods were intrinsically good and kind, and no evil could ever last in the world.

He had the good sense to snap himself out of it. He still had a job to do, after all.

When he got there, the place was just like he'd left it; a bombed out hellhole that no sane person would ever choose to live in. He was still in a relatively good mood, so he decided to play a joke on his friends. He kicked open the door and shouted.

"Freeze! Radasanth police!"

Then had the good sense to dive out of the way as he was greeted by a hail of gunfire.

"Alright, alright! It's just me."

He walked into view slowly, careful to avoid getting shot by anyone still on edge. The gang was all there.

[Mage Hunter]

It had been three days, and she was still a day's journey from Eluriand. Once in her youth she had hoped to see the Elvin city, if only to burn it to ash. She had grown rather patriotic in her youth, and perhaps it was that single minded thinking that had seen her become a Mage Hunter. Still it was odd to be accomplishing on of her goals, if only for the exact opposite reason she had initially set it. It still shocked her to think of how much she had changed during this war. She had gone from a bigoted single minded woman, to a cunning and ruthless hunter in the span of half a year traveling with the Mercenary.

Lost in thought she had almost missed that there was a person in the center of the road. She had been galloping down the road full speed when she saw the young Elf. At a sort of crossroads that would take her either up to Salvar, or on her journey to Eluriand. Immediately Drusilia brought the horse from gallop to trot, and then to a mere steady walk. She reached down and grabbed her bow, still strung for the constant vigilance of being knee deep in the Necromancer's main territory. She was perhaps fifty feet from the woman, more than enough room to react should she attack. Nocking an arrow she aimed for the Elf, before she spoke firmly in common.

"If you are alive, and wish to remain so I would suggest telling me what you are doing so close to the Capital." The words held a coating of ice, the coldness of suspicion and betrayal that had hallmarked the Drow's life to this point. Even in Ettermire she had been trained in subversion and coercion, if only to protect her from the other scheming Mage Hunters. They were people who would certainly try to use her for their nefarious deeds, if not sacrifice her for their games. It was after all how Drow advanced in the Alerian Army. The weak were not permitted to live long, and a weakness of mind was as deadly as a weakness in body.

She remained still on the horse, making sure to keep the arrow pointed at the chest of the girl. Realizing just how stupid such a shot would be, she slowly traced the arrow higher before aiming right at the face of the woman. A faint wind rustled the nearby trees seeming to pull at the cloak Drusilia had been wearing, and using as a makeshift blanket for herself. Her eyes held a hint of Malice in them as she studied the girl, waiting for a reaction. If she was going to kill the girl, it would be in her best interest to do so in a way that would make her unfit for future reanimation, rather than merely pierce her heart.

It was then she made the ultimatum, "You have ten seconds. Ten..."

[Painkiller]

Kurze 's eyes lock onto that arrow as it's leveled at her skull, her mouth agape. Even with her many psychic powers, she didn't have a chance of dodgng that arrow if it was fired. Attempting to retain some semblance of poise, she raised her spear into a ready position, preparing to defend herself... then dropped it to the ground with her fumbling, inexperienced hands.

"I'm waiting for someone. 'Striker'. I'm supposed to help him," Kurze said quickly, her eyes locked on the archer's weapon.

An eyebrow rose at the mention of the name before she spat, "And who is this 'Striker'? How do you even know you'll meet him?"

"Godhand Striker. The one who carries the souls of Xem'zund's minions with him - I don't know that I'll meet him, but I was told to help him." Kurze explained, her hands trembling as she slowly raised them above her head. A sudden realization dawned on the mentalist. "Are you the drow who travels with him?"

"Vith," The word was muttered under her breath before she spoke, "If I were to say yes, what would that mean to you? Obviously I'm not with Godhand now."

"What would it mean to me? Look, I - I know you have no reason to trust me, but if you are the drow I've heard so much about, I must come with you. I will do whatever you ask for as long as I travel at your side."

"That's well and good Elf, but how can I be sure I can trust you? With me killing off members of the Necrosition, my head would probably be reaching a premium price. How do I know what side you're on?"

"So you are Drusila." Kurze nearly cracked a smile, but suddenly remembered that she had an arrow pointed at her skull. "You can't be sure. I could list the reasons why you should trust me, but why would you believe me if I said I didn't care about this war, or if I claimed I'm not after your bounty? I'm not asking you to trust me, though. Bind my hands. Take my weapons. Gag me, blind me, just take me with you," she pleads.

"I ride for Eluriand, what good are you in a fight? I'm riding into the midst of the Necromancer's very forces to take out one of the final members of his Necrosition. I need to know that if a fight breaks out, I'm not babysitting you."

"Honestly? Not good," Kurze admitted feebly. "I managed to take out a group of zombies a few hours ago - there were five, maybe six of them - but I don't know how I'd fare against a member of the Necrosition. I can keep myself alive, though, and I won't get in your way." She pauses for a long second. "If I'm killed, my blood is on my own hands, not yours."

A critical eye looked over the girl, and the spear on the ground. Finally a derisive snort and a muttering in drow left her lips, before she lowered the bow and put the arrow back in its quiver, "If you slow me down, I'll kill you myself. Lets go."

Kurze stooped to retrieve her weapon, cursing her previous blunder beneath her breath. Without another word, she scrambled onto the saddle behind Drusila and tentatively placed her hands on the drow's waist, holding on for dear life. She was riding into the middle of hell, and she knew it; the thing she didn't know was why she was doing it.

"Thanks."

[Godhand]

He didn't need to do much convincing. They were all good old boys that'd ridden with him before, and lucky for him, more than a couple of them were paranoid psychotics that didn't like being in one place for too long. They'd had about all they could handle of Radasanth, so when he came knocking with his request they took it well. It was a good thing, too. He was tough but tired and he didn't think he could ride the lightning all the way to the end without some serious assistance. Sure, he had the mage hunter but more and more that seemed like an apprenticeship rather than a real partnership. Her last assignment bore more than a passing similarity to a test. If she managed to take down Sunscar by herself then she was ready, whatever that meant.

With his instructions delivered and his boys on the move, Godhand found himself with a bit of time on his hands. He didn't relish the idea of plunging back into that hellhole so soon after escaping it, and so decided to treat himself to a bit of luxury before going back to the grind. The swordsman strolled comfortably through town and entered his favorite barbershop. The barber was relatively young, but he had good hair so the swordsman trusted him. Never trust a bald barber; he has no respect for your hair.

The man, who as far as Godhand knew was mute, cleared out a chair and, wasting no time, swept an apron over him.

"Just a little trim today, Bruno," The mercenary didn't actually know the barber's name; he just looked like a Bruno, "And a shave would be nice."

The haircut came first. That's just the way it worked there, and Godhand respected that. The scissors delicately snipped away and every once in a while Bruno would gently push his head in one direction so the mercenary knew which way to turn to give the barber a better vantage point. The man had a light touch. Pretty soon that was done, and Bruno placed a towel around the mercenary's neck and warmed up some lather. He spread it over Godhand's face, which now sported a rough and uneven beard from the only rudimentary shaving he was allowed to afford it during his travels.

Godhand shut his eyes and dreamed he was floating in a sea of warm milk as the barber began his work. A good barber was a luxury to Godhand, and Bruno was one of the best. He couldn't trust just anybody to shave him; a lot of people would have cut his throat the first time he exposed his jugular. Not Bruno, though. The man was a saint and a hermit as fas the mercenary knew; he'd never heard of him involved with anything shady.

Too soon, he'd finished. Godhand lucked at himself in the mirror, still drowsy from his earlier nap. He looked sharp and clean. Now he just needed some better clothes.

[Mage Hunter]

3 days later, the outskirts of Eluriand.

It had taken them vastly less time than she had expected. Had she been the one planning the siege of the capital of Raiarae she would have ensured no reserves or reinforcements could come by blocking every major road. Then, if they moved it would be reduced to a trickle where ambushes could destroy the forced, before they could mobilize in any useful fashion.

Of course, this also depending on being somewhat afraid of the prospect of new troops arriving to help the enemy.

It was quite a different story when the casualties of battle could be resurrected, to join the enemy in a dark tide seeking to smash against the entire culture of the so called "high elves" and wash them from the face of the earth. The fact that they had not done so was a testament to the surviving forces, but if a stop gap was not put into place what dwindling resistance remained would be destroyed.

She paused upon one of the parapets along a wall that surrounded the once grand city. Her eyes observing the carnage below, houses destroyed, with plumes of smoke and dust rising higher. While even more districts of the capital joined the growing funeral pyre of the once grand city of Eluriand. Her eyes narrowed observing the forces, before she hissed, "Vith."

She had taken to cursing in her own tongue, trying not to unnerve her elven companion, if only for the sake of the job. Drusilia didn't care what happened anymore to the elf, she had proven capable enough. The city in ruins, it would be a miracle if the High Elves could even rebuild after a second destruction of their once grand city. It had been a slap in the face to lose it not once, but twice to the enemy of the Undead.

The sound of a rock slowly falling next to her caused her to jerk, looking for the source of the sound. Sword was drawn, even as she heard a soft chuckle. Atop the parapet she had no cover, which annoyed her, further she was exposed to whatever cruelty her assailant could employ. Still the sounds of boots scuffing against stone could be heard as slowly, from the direction of the falling rock she saw him.

Each step of boot seemed eerily placed, as if the man was in a dance only he could imagine. The man wore leather pants, padded for extra protection, and a similar vest across his chest. A silken shirt, tattered and destroyed from obvious signs of battle adorned what was his arms, and at each hand sat fingerless gloves. Had the story ended there, perhaps he would have seemed a formidable warrior.

Still, he wore so much jewelry to make even a noble blush at the sheer vastness of it. Necklaces jingled as they beat a staccato tempo against his chest, even as his boots continued to click against the floor before it ended with a rapier being drawn, Drusilia hand not even managed to think before she had parried the blow with a bit of the expertise she had learned from hacking apart the zombies that had surrounded Anebrilith.

"Such beauty, I would ask your name, but the dead have ways of talking about here. How is it that one of the few exiled Mage Hunters of Ettermire has come here, to seek her death?" She found herself looking into faded blue eyes; to the point it seemed a milky haze had overcome them. The prolonged life of their owner gave him a ghastly pall of death.

"I seek death, but not my own," She hissed as she pushed back as hard as she could. The man leapt adroitly back, giving her some breathing room, even as she hefted the sword getting accustomed to its heft. Sparing only a sideways glance she spoke firmly, "Kurze, fall back, you aren't ready for a Necrosition member."

"Someone has gotten arrogant in her time with Godhand Striker. I suppose you think you can defeat me as easily as he defeated Edorad, with the help of Seth Dahlios, or perhaps as easily as Grimstone, who you had no hand in? I know all about it Drusilia, you've spent most of your battles combating the mana that saturates Raiarae. You are hardly fit to serve even as a trollop to the mercenary who has killed so many of my friends," The half elf's voice grated on her ears, even as he grinned devilishly.

The half elf thrusted forward, and Drusilia sidestepped bringing her sword up in a cleave sure to take the man's arm off. She was forced to watch him shift weight and bring a punch forward that sent Drusilia back a couple of steps. Capitalizing on the opening he began to thrust forward with the rapier in a swift flurry of attacks. While she attempted to defend against the blows it was clear who had the advantage as blood sang through the air from the dozens of minor wounds.

Falling to her knees she clutched at her chest, glad she had invested in the armor, had she not she would have been dead, as it was the arctic hide was in desperate need of repairs. Nialon meanwhile cooed above her, "Don't fight it, I counted myself hitting your chest several times. Since lightning hasn't struck yet, I'm betting your body is slowly shutting down, and with you disconnected so much from the winds of magic, you'll be dead in no time."

He moved past the Drow even as his laughter rained down from the parapets. A boot kicked Drusilia in her side before he raised his eyes to the elf, "Ah, now for the little friend, what ever should I do? Perhaps I should pierce your heart, and allow you to die upon my Rapier? That seems a fitting end for your kind, after all the blade singers lined up to dance with me. We all know how that ended."

Pain, Feel free to fight for a little bit, before bunnying Drusilia entering back into the fray. My post will explain what happened during that interim, so have some fun poking at Nialon. Keep in mind he’s roughly level 5

[Godhand]

He visited his tailor soon after. He was a short fellow with a pockmarked face by the name of Luis. Godhand held still as the little man darted to and fro, taking his measurements. It was only a formality at that point; Godhand never gained or lost much weight and this was his regular tailor, but the man had his quirks and the swordsman didn't see a problem with playing along. The only thing that really bothered him was that the man was a little too thorough when measuring the inseam; secretly, Godhand suspected Luis of being a homosexual but he never bothered to voice his concern. He was a good tailor, after all. He could be forgiven for being a bit handsy.

"Alright, all done. Now, what are you looking for today, Godhand? Are you finally going to let me dress you up?"

"I'm afraid not, Luis. I'm just looking for a simple, pinstriped suit. Black or dark blue; maybe a tie. What do you think?"

"What I thought last time you asked me for it; it's a perfectly serviceable suit, but don't expect it to turn any heads. Now, if you let me dress you, I'd go with a white-"

"No. None of that."

"Alright, alright. Well, at least let me pick the tie. I think a dark red one might really bring out your eyes."

"Thank you, Luis. That's a beautiful thing to say."

The short tailor was a whirlwind of motion as he searched the shop for the different pieces of the suit. He was going to give Godhand one he'd already made, which exacerbated the uselessness of taking his measurements, but that was alright. When he finally came back with all the different pieces, the mercenary stepped into a room and changed. When he emerged, Luis clapped his hands and laughed. He took a moment to study how it fit, then spoke.

"God, I truly am the best, aren't I?"

Godhand looked at himself in the mirror. Tall and lean; sharp and clean. He looked good. The suit fit just right and the tie actually did bring out his eyes. Some might have called him ridiculous for dressing up to go into a war zone, but the swordsman knew the end was at hand and wanted to look good for it; a little reward for all his hard work. He tightened the tie and checked his cuff links.

"Listen, my old clothes are in the back room. Do you mind having them cleaned for when I return?”

Luis looked positively insulted.

"Sir, I am an artist, not a maid! The very fact that you'd-"

"I'll let you pick out my clothes next time."

The tailor's eyes gleamed.

"Hrmm...Very well. But only because I want to find out for sure if pink or white would be a good color for you. Normally, I'd say you're too pale to pull it off, but with those eyes..."

"You're too kind. I'll see you later, Luis."

[Painkiller]

How had Kurze gotten herself into such a strange situation? Here she was in Eluriand, fighting with a stranger she knew little about for a cause she knew even less about - but why? Because some sort of dream-abomination told her to? No - there was more to it than that. The elven psychic had managed to deduce that somewhere, sometime, this land had probably been her home. In a way, she felt compelled to defend it, even though she remembered nothing of her time in Raeiera. More than that, though, she hoped - no, she knew - that somewhere in this war-torn land, she'd find the key that unlocked her sealed memories.

After mere minutes of combat, Drusila had fallen. Her wounds hadn't looked severe to Kurze, who stood at the base of the parapet than a hundred yards from the brawl, but she had collapsed from what looked like blood loss! Now, the opulent general had his gaze locked on Kurze, and the mentalist did not know how she would survive the day, let alone the next five minutes.

Uninterested in wasting any time responding to Nialon, Kurze turned tail and ran, diving behind a collapsed section of wall and momentarily concealing herself from the general.

Nialon laughed, turning his back on the groaning Drusila and slowly making his way down a nearby staircase. There was nowhere for his pointy-eared prey to run; the cover she hid behind was isolated, and there was no way she could slip away without attracting his notice. The swordsman slid his rapier into it's sheath as he walked and slip[ed his wands free from his belt, his jewelry clanking loudly with every languid step he took.

"You can't hide from me, wretch," he threatened in a lilting, tenor voice, his glacially cool eyes locked on her hiding spot. Abruptly, he raised a wand and thrust it towards Kurze's makeshift cover, sending forth a quick beam of light towards the pile of rock. It careens into the collapsed wall, sending small pebbles flying.

His attack has the intended effect; his frightened pray is sent running. Strangely enough, she did not dart forth from behind the pile of rocks he'd spied her ducking behind; instead, she had sprinted out from behind a nearby tree stump. How she'd managed to slip from the stones to the tree was a mystery to Nialon, but he's more interested in slaughtering his prey than in admiring her sneaking ability.

"Rat!" The general called out as his booted feet led him to the base of the stairs. He was less than forty feet from the retreating psychic, now. "Worm!" As he called out his insults, he fired more beams of energy from his wands, yet they always seemed to miss her; one landed just behind her, and the other passed right over her shoulder. "You want to play, maggot? I'm game," he growled as he spied her destination; the unarmed blonde psychic was making a beeline for the nearby armory. In search of a weapon, perhaps, or possibly a place to barricade herself in? Despite the lengthy siege, this large shed had received relatively little damage, especially considering how close it was to the walls. Nialon increased his pace as the two figures drew nearer to the shed; now, he was just thirty feet from his quarry. Twenty. Ten.

A roar tumbled forth from his inhuman lips as he slipped into the fortified armory just a few feet behind the girl. Pulses of energy flew forth from his wands and rings and toward her unarmored back. "Die," he growled as the purple lights slam into the girl... and pass right through her, slamming into a rack of swords and rendering it's blades into little more than rust. Nialon stiffened as the illusionary image vanished before his eyes, and the sunlight streaming through the door behind him is extinguished as a loud SLAM echoed through the small, weapon-filled shed.

The real Kurze slid a metal bar into place in front of the reinforced steel door, effectively barricading the general inside. Hurriedly, the mentalist rushed away from the trapped 'predator' and toward her injured companion, intent on dragging Drusila somewhere safe before Nialon burst through the door.

[Mage Hunter]

It hurt to say the least, being left for dead by an abomination. Her pride was hurt, and worse, her body was throbbing in pain. Whatever these marks that dotted her skin were, they were quite painful. Each beat of her heart throbbing in time to the rhythm with the pulses of pain. Had she been a weaker person, she would have curled up into a ball and passed out. She was more than certain this was what had killed so many people, the mere pain of enduring such an onslaught.

Drusilia Liadon, for all her failings, was not that weak person. Reaching into her pack she pulled forth the null stone, but held off on setting it off. Already the sheath was at work draining the mystical energies of the marks upon her flesh. Soon they were gone, and nothing showed on the Hunter's skin of their passing, other than the cuts and scrapes from where the rapier pierced her otherwise flawless skin.

Rising up she saw the elf woman running to her, a look of abject terror on her face. A smirk crossed the Drow's face as the Elf rushed up the stairs, only to find the Drow already reaching the bottom floor. Ignoring any cries her companion could set out she reached behind her, and slowly drew the sheath that marks the deaths of every Necrosition member to date.

The door exploded as the man walked off, his jewelry sloughing off as the gold and silver slowly deteriorated. Jewelry now wrecked beyond use for anything but a memento was now littering the ground in a trail of metallic corpses that seemed to mirror Nialon's life. Each trinket was merely another victory on the road, some hard fought, others falling into his lap.

It was a path of victory paved in bodies.

Drusilia however held onto the stone and sheath, even as Nialon looked with utter shock upon her slender frame. The rapier pointed at her before his mouth shot off, "How in the nine hells did you survive that? Where are my marks? What did you do Drow!?"

"Magic is for the weak, I merely took a child's toy from it," Drusilia said cryptically. There was no need to converse with the soon to be departed. Now that she had a feel for Nialon's dirty tactics, she could function well under it, even if the man would score countless hits. He growled out striking forth with the rapier only to be parried, even before the sheath went out in a wide arc aiming for the man's jaw.

Ducking under the blow he brought a ringed hand forward and punched Drusilia into her gut before moving them back. It was only a timely flexing of the muscles that prevented her from being completely winded, as the arctic hide took the brunt of the blow. Bringing the scabbard down Nialon danced to the side before he leered, "Do not think me a foolish prey! I am the Dominion Rapier, the chosen duelist of Lord Crowley himself-"

"And when I am done with your cowardly ass, I shall visit him as well," Drusilia continued as she moved, trying desperately to ignore the burning in her lungs from the forced exertion. She was tired from loss of air, but refused to let such trivial things stop her. Even as she began a flurry of motion bringing the sword about to box Nialon into an area the sheath could hit. The Rapier lived up to his name and reputation forcing Drusilia into a much tighter fight than she was comfortable with.

Still she pushed forward trying hard to get a solid blow with the scabbard. Each attempt saw him nick and cut away at her, until she could no longer afford such small things. Still Nialon was frustrated as he could not land a hit often enough to take advantage of the scabbard. Each time a mark was made, it was gone within a few seconds. Only a flurry of blows would allow him to capitalize on marks before they would fade and disappear.

It was a frustrating conundrum, he was technically winning, but the fight was dragging on much longer than he liked. Even as blood dripped off the Drow and flung into the air with each counter and riposte, Nialon had to admit the woman's determination was perhaps her only saving grace. Had anyone else been fighting him, he was certain that they would have died from giving up.

"I admit you have some skill, but you are far from the perfection I hold," Nialon pressed, before he shoved the woman back. Before she could even react he activate his pulsars once more, shattering even more trinkets as over a dozen beams of light sought to reduce the Drow into a pile of decaying matter. It wasn't until their flash subsided that he growled in rage, seeing not a single pulsar had left their jewelry, yet they had devoured it all the same.

Drusilia let off a wry grin before she rushed Nialon. The man stabbed forth with his Rapier, sure that the woman was going to dodge to the right as she had executing the maneuver before. She took one step forward, then another, and yet a third. Each step seemed determined and unwavering. Her eyes held a light within them that spoke of victory; still Nialon could not understand it.

What victory could she possibly hope to obtain by attacking head on?

He brought the Rapier forward in an attempt to impale her heart upon it. Preparing for the inevitable destruction of perhaps his trickiest dance partner, he let a cold smile cross his face before his eyes widened. It was not a sword that rose to attack him;

It was the sheath.

Before he could react, the sheath had struck his wrist, and he felt the magicks that animated his body jerked out. The arm immediately went limp under the sudden draining of magic. Even as she slowly felt his arm come to life again he knew it was far too late. Drusilia with a flick of her wrist brought the sheath about in an upward swing that caught the Dominion Rapier in the gut.

"By the power invested in me by the Aberration Hunters of Ettermire I have condemned you to death for your blatant disregard of natural order. There can be no salvation for the witch, the mutant, or the heretic, and it is with this fact that I condemn you. May the gods have mercy upon your soul," The words hung in the air as slowly Nialon felt the life flow out of his body and into the scabbard. A silent scream parted his lips as a green energy dried and caked his flesh, before it began to crumble into dust. The scabbard glowed with the green aura, before it pulsed once, twice, and then was still.

"That will teach you to underestimate a Drow," Drusilia managed before she stumbled forth a step. Falling to a knee she gasped deeply for breath, before she passed out, the adrenaline no longer able to keep up with her blood loss.

[Godhand]

Godhand headed for the final stop on his list, a butcher shop in the Radasanth slums. He walked in and right away he was nearly knocked on his ass by the smell of blood and raw meat that permeated every corner of the place. He pulled a handkerchief out of his coat pocket and held it up to his nose, surveying the modest shop. He'd been there before, right before leaving for Raiaera. The whole front room was dull and grey; metallic. There was something off about the place. Godhand knew what it was, obviously, but it must have been unsettling to everybody else. There was a brick wall and no window between the front and the back; who knew what the butcher was doing in there? Still, the price was right and that meant it was one of the more popular places in the slums.

A heavyset man emerged from the back. He carried a big knife and the front of his apron was sprayed with blood. Some of it was fresh. Some of it wasn't. Godhand was ready to patiently wait his turn at the back of the line, but the butcher spotted him and grunted. He pointed his finger at him, then jabbed his thumb at the door in the back room and with that, despite many complains from his customers, walked back in. The mercenary followed him and made sure to close the door behind him.

The whole place was as cold and stinking as a meat locker, and that was probably because it doubled as that. Naked bodies hung on hooks there; all of them seemed to have died of unnatural causes. There were slit throats, broken necks and more than a couple of bullet wounds. Godhand assumed the man pried out whatever lead was left in them before carving them up and serving them as undefined steak or just grinding them up and advertising as beef. This is why he didn't display the different cuts of meat outside; he needed time and privacy to cut them up into something that couldn't be discerned as human.

The man was a well known fixer for the Radasanthian mob. They brought in the bodies and he made them disappear, free of charge. He kept himself afloat by selling off any salvageable meat and certain other odd jobs that came his way. Godhand had brought one his way.

The man wiped his hands on his apron, opened a locker and gingerly pulled out a briefcase. He turned to the mercenary and undid the clasps, unlocking it for him. Godhand opened it. Everything appeared to be in order.

"Is it the kind I asked for? You know where it's going."

"Don't worry about it. It'll work fine."

"It better."

The butcher gave Godhand a dangerous look. The swordsman took a step back and held his hands up in deference.

"Oh Hell, you're a professional. I'm sure you know what you're doing."

The man snorted and closed the briefcase, locking it and handing it to Godhand.

"How much do I owe you?"

"Forget about it. Giacomazzi picked up the tab for this one."

"Well, it's been a pleasure doing business with you, sir."

"Yeah, right. Get lost. I got customers."

"Of course."

The mercenary walked out of the back room and straight out of the shop, handkerchief to his nose the entire time. When he got out, he turned left and walked into an alley. Once he was sure no one was watching him, he placed a hand against a wall to steady himself and tried to keep from vomiting.

He was mostly successful.

[Mage Hunter]

They had traveled for gods knew how long. At first they had stayed in the parapets of the once grand city, allowing Drusilia enough time to recover, so that she could ride. Once that had been accomplished, they had ridden off towards the port town of Anebrilith. It was the plan after all, and Drusilia was looking forward to seeing the crazy mercenary once more.

Perhaps that was a sign of the profound change this war had upon her.

No longer was she the Drow with a chip on her shoulder, she was now a veteran of battle. She had seen the enemy countless times, and been irrevocably changed for it. No longer could she hold onto the naive viewpoints that had cursed her when she had stepped into this land, with the childish dreams of killing a Blade Singer with the accolades she had striven to achieve.

It was all one elaborate lie.

The Mage Hunters were designed to allow Alerar to invade Raiarae. With the advent of Xem'zund's awakening, they saw no need of such frivolous projects. Valsharess' death compounded things as she became to sole proponent of the Mage Hunters. When she died, her successor had disbanded the group. Even if Drusilia became a hero to the people of Alerar, she would be seen as an oddity and possibly remained an outcast.

She wasn't even sure she wanted to go back anymore.

The Seige of Anebrilith had slowed to a crawl in the weeks after the death of the Dweller in the Dark, Killian Grimstone. His death had marked a decided victory for the besieged Elves. Without the undead dwarf’s tactical prowess, there was simply no one would could orchestrate such a grandiose scheme as to take Anebrilith down. Especially since the number of Necrosition members was down to one, could they sacrifice another member to take over the Seige? Was it truly so important?

Apparently, the answer was no. Now when they fled the capital it was becoming clear that the giant machine that was Xen'zund's army wasn't invincible, you merely had to ignore the casing, and go straight for the guts. When the common foot soldier was merely a zombie that was designed to overwhelm skilled warriors en mass, you had to target the officers. The necromancers, the wights, the ghouls, you had to attack these and hit fast. By destroying these links it took time to find replacements for them, and every second of time, was bringing another child to adulthood, to visit the grim horrors of War.

While the siege was still on, Drusilia knew she had to get inside the city. Mind tricks were useful in keeping the intelligent undead from noticing them, and she supposed she had to thank Kurze for those distractions. However, it was in getting past the grunts she drew a blank. Perhaps she could null stone and trample down the bodies if she was atop a warhorse, but this was a mere stable horse. There was no way she could convince it to charge down the undead.

Sitting at the edge of the forest she looked back over her shoulder at the Elf, before she sighed and said softly, "Got any ideas?"

[Godhand]

Godhand tried to center himself, straighten himself out. God, he was in such an ugly business. Some people got used to it. Amateur sadists; they didn't give it a second thought. He'd mostly gotten used to it himself but once in a while he still saw something that knocked him on his ass. He didn't think it made him less of a man if some degenerate human monster selling wiseguys as ground beef upset him. Nevertheless, the man did good work and he knew it. He could count on the package functioning as advertised. He put his handkerchief back in his coat pocket and turned to meet up with his contact at the docks, but instead met with a savage blow to the head from a big wooden sap.

He fell to his knees with a groan and immediately his hand went to the back of his head. The blood seeped between his fingers from a cut there. His brain felt like it was decompressing. He turned to see what animal had done it just in time to block another shot with his forearm. He was seeing stars from the pain and the thug wound up for another hit, but he still had enough presence of mind to speak up.

"Wait, wait! Just take the money!"

The man's death-grip on his bat slackened and right away he dove for Godhand, his hands rifling through his pockets and finding a fat wad of bills. Meanwhile the mercenary just tried to keep himself conscious, but between the blood seeping from his head and the unbelievable pain in his arm it was pretty rough. The mugger stuffed the money into his pants and made a beeline for the briefcase, and that was what managed to snap Godhand out of his daze.

"Hold it! That one...", he tried to stop his head from spinning. "That stays with me."

The thug smirked, the evil bastard, and picked up his bat again. The mercenary winced and held his hands in front of his face.

"Please, sir! Please don't hurt me! Don't hurt me!"

His hands grasped at the robber's waist and just as he was winding up to split Godhand's skull open, the swordsman's hand shot out and grabbed a nice fat piece of broken class from the floor and stabbed it into his attacker's belly, digging around with it like he was looking for his soul. The man doubled over and Godhand narrowly avoided the stream of vomit that volcanoed out of his mouth and nose. He seized up and all it took was a little push from the mercenary to send him tumbling to his side. Godhand crawled over to his briefcase and hoisted himself up to his feet, pulling out the handkerchief and holding it to the back of his head. His suit was ruined. He turned to kick the worthless punk but by then he was already dead. The mercenary leaned down and fished his money out of the man's pocket.

He wiped himself off and walked away.

[Mage Hunter]

An arrow sailed through the air, hitting deep into the wood of the post. The Elvin guards looked upon the oddly quivering pierce of equipment before they noticed a note was attached firmly to it. Pulling the piece of parchment from the shaft of the arrow yielded a single name, "Sergeant Verryna."

The one time Sergeant soon promoted to Lieutenant following the defeat of Killian Grimstone immediately was at the parapets overlooking the field of battle. The flank that the note had indicated was in fact as weak as told of in the note, and the scout had been rather thorough in describing what they had seen. Even now she could pick out the figures the note had told of being the necromancer's holding up the flank.

Suspicion reared its ugly head as the Lieutenant watched for the signal. Soon another arrow sailed into the air, flame upon it as it sunk deeply into one of the marked necromancers with an accuracy she had not seen since the death of the Dweller in the Dark. Eye's widening she called down the parapets, "Ready a rope! We have incoming reinforcements!"

The elves about her looked incredulous as she issued the order once more, going as far as to shove an elf towards the archery towers. Soon they returned with a rope which she immediately tied, placing a loop in it large enough to accommodate a boot. Soon there was a resurgence as more undead pounded against the walls. She cursed, before new orders flew out, "Fire upon the undead at the base of the wall, clear me a path from the edge!"

"Ma'am, at the zombies?"

"Did I stutter? Just do it! We need to clear a path quickly or we won't get our reinforcement," Verryna. Just where had that crazy bitch of a Drow run off to?

As the archers fired off into the zombie hordes slowly yet surely they had managed to peel the undead from battering at the walls, hoping to push them down and rush into the city's weakened inner workings. Soon Verryna saw it, the horse running down the path, even as she saw two figures atop the horse. She figured the girl was crazy for what she had asked for, but she'd give the woman one chance. It was the least she owed the Harpy.

A small smile crept across her face at the nickname she had given the Drow who had cursed her out both in the language of Ettermire and common. It fit the woman to a T, and she found amusement in such a branding. Still now was not the time for mockery that could wait until they had both managed to get on this side of the wall.

Flinging the rope out, she muttered a soft prayer to the Goddess of Luck and while a fickle mistress...

...she could think of no one better.


~*~

Drusilia clutched the null stone tightly within her clenched fist. She was hoping on more clearance form the undead, but this would have to do as her horse streaked along the walls of the city. Hoping that the undead would not press the attack at that moment she saw it, a rope flying through the air, and moved to adjust.

"Kurze, hang on tight, grab a buckle if you have to," She muttered, and felt the elf take the command seriously. Soon they were within feet of the dangling rope, and Drusilia was standing in the saddle, with the young elfling holding onto her for dear life.

Unhitching one foot from the saddle she slipped it in the loop before they went swinging on the lifeline, flailing about. Hitting the wall Drusilia almost felt Kurze let go before she hissed, "Shu shu shu shu shu!"

Really war brought out the filthiest mouth in her.

Grabbing the girl by her wrist they hung precariously above the zombies, swinging as a pendulum, at moments within the reach of the zombies, and at other times above their reach. Calling out for them to get raised she felt a jerk at the bottom of her boot in the loop before they slowly were brought higher and higher. Even as she spied necromancer's hurtling spells about them.

She was damn lucky Godhand had given her the sheath, without it, she'd have been toast.

Upon reaching the parapets she grunted and slowly pulled the elf higher, before a few of the normal members of the Raiaeran army grasped the girl and pulled her over the top. Even as Drusilia looked down she saw the horse had been mobbed by zombies, and even now they were feasting upon it. Shaking her head she sighed, "If it wasn't for that horse, I'd have never spent that week in Eluriand."

Being the next one pulled up over the wall she collapsed onto the stone ground, only to look up into the eyes of a rather confused Verryna. A smile lit up the Drow's face before she spoke, "I don't suppose Godhand has made it to port yet?"

"Mr. Striker is coming here again?"

"I'll take that as a no..."

[Godhand]

People knew to stay out of his way as he was making his way to the Radasanth docks. A scowl seemed terminally etched unto his face, but most people wouldn't be smiling either if their left arm was swelling like a balloon filled with blood. That punk had got him good. Oh well. He was dead and Godhand was crippled. Seemed about even. What really annoyed him though was the suit; I mean he'd just bought it. Now it's elbows, knees and sleeves were covered with either blood and bile or, and this was about as good as it got, general alleyway gunk.

Finally, he reached the docks. The mercenary knew there was only one ship there who's captain would ever sail to Raiaera under the current conditions. He was really dreading having to talk to the man; most people knew him colloquially as 'The Worst Human Being I've Ever Met'. Julian for short. Godhand spotted the man picking his nose on the prow of his ship and knew it was best to keep things curt.

"I want you to take me and a couple of my friends up to Raiaera."

"And I want my girlfriend to have an abortion. We don't always get what we want."

"I'll pay."

"No shit you'll pay, dumbass. Did you really think I was going to take you there out of the kindness of my heart?"

"I'll pay well."

"How well? My kids need to eat."

"I thought you were getting an abortion?"

"Just cuz I'm getting rid of one doesn't mean I don't have others. Anyway, fuck you. I'm on vacation."

He pulled a dull green booger with blood flecked on it and popped it into his mouth. It was almost big enough to chew.

"There's plenty of desperate elves. More than a couple of them would probably be willing to part with priceless family heirlooms in exchange for passage out of there."

"Oh, are they the ones paying for your trip? Buzz off, dickhead. Cash up front."

"Five thousand to take us there, five thousand to take us back."

"Seven thousand five hundred."

"I'd rather swim."

"Cheap fuck. Fine, get whatever shit you need together. We leave at noon."

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

There'd been a bit of trouble at first. Radasanth was cracking down on it's blooming drug trade and they suspected Godhand of guarding a load of ill-gotten gold on it's way to Dheathain in what they assumed was payment for the massive shipment of the continent's delectable jungle powders they'd seized at the docks only a few weeks prior. He still remembered a brief exchange with one of the custom officials.

"What is the purpose of this trip, sir? What is it you do for a living?"

"I rough up the narcs that ask too many questions."

That'd gotten that one to back off, but for every one that could be bullied there was another one that had to be bought. Godhand calculated that he'd ended up paying about the same amount in bribes that he had for the passage itself. Finally, they were underway.

Then they were attacked by pirates.

God knows why; it wasn't like Julian's dinky boat was some sort of fat merchant galleon. It later occurred to Godhand that it'd probably been retaliation for some horrible deed their captain had committed in the past; possibly stealing from them or ratting them out to the local port authorities for a reward at some point.

In any case, they managed to get away from that one okay.

And then, finally, they reached Anebrilith's port. The blood on Godhand's suit had hardened and yellowed in the fierce ocean sun, giving the extremities of his suit a dull rust color. The handkerchief in his front shirt pocket remained a dark red. He must have looked like the devil.

It was thus quite a surprise when he received a veritable hero's welcome as soon as the ship was docked. They damn near threw a parade. Apparently during his absence from the elves' homeland, tales of his victories had grown in the telling until now the more gullible of the elves thought him some kind of lesser God descended from heaven to deliver them from Xem'Zund. He didn't know how they'd recognized him in the first place, since most of the stories he'd heard depicted him as golden-haired, blue-eyed elf in white armor that carried a golden harp.

In any case, he was swarmed as soon as he got off the ship. All sorts of ragged-looking elves asked him to bless them or touch their baby. It was all his comrades could manage to slip away before the maelstrom began; they'd agreed to meet him in front of Willie the wimp's place in case they got separated. None of them really liked the limelight.

[Mage Hunter]

"When I find out who started this, they are getting thrown over the wall," The words held a bitter tone to them as the owner pushed through the crowds. A few commands were barked out in Elvin forcing some of the people towards the back to spread out, and allow her to part the sea of bodies. However, the closer to the scene she got, the less likely the crowd was to disperse, for they were closer to their hero.

It was all Drusilia could do not to laugh at Lieutenant Verryna trying to get them to the front.

In the time since she had climbed the wall with a lot of luck and little skill, Drusilia had taken to staying in the barracks. The girl Kurze had disappeared into the crowds, and Drusilia was actually glad to have some alone time. It allowed her to begin the process of putting herself back together after fighting Nialon. It had been a harrowing experience; one that she was more than certain would follow her for awhile.

Had it not been for that sheath, she would have died.

It took the edge off her self righteous anger. It shattered that Drow pride she had held onto as a child clings to their stuffed animal. Still when she looked around the town, she could see others going through the exact same difficulty. It wasn't that they were afraid; it was that they were trying to cope with the destruction of their impenetrable home. Their pride had been shattered just as succinctly.

Yet with the whispers of Godhand's return, it had resurfaced. Slowly at first, but with the inevitability of a storm on the horizon it grew. Finally it battered at the bastions of fear that Xem'zund had carefully constructed, relentlessly beating away as the walls began to crack. It finally shattered them with the arrival of their hero. That one man held so much hope boggled her mind, especially when she herself had traveled with the foul mouthed mercenary.

No longer dressed as the warrior she was in her linen shirt and leather pants. She had given her armor over to the tradesmen for repair, and Verryna had made sure her weapons were serviced and repaired, including the longsword that held the deep gash from where Godhand had struck the flat of the blade. Then, after Drusilia and Kurze had been taken care of had she demanded to know the Drow's reason for returning. Drusilia's confirmation to the rumors Nialon Sunscar had perished swept through the place, yet it wasn't her name that was mentioned, it was Godhand Striker's. Not that Drusilia minded much, it was his sheath that made it possible.

So when they finally broke through, Drusilia made a blatant effort of removing the empty sheath before she tossed it to Godhand, "Gave it to me with four, have it back with a fifth."

Godhand leaned to the side and caught the sheath with a surprising amount of fanfare from the barely contained crowd. He weighed it in his hand, and she figured he was trying to gauge whether or not it was a replica. But she knew he wasn't smart enough to tell whether or not it was a fake; if it was a replica, then it was close enough that he wouldn't be able to tell until he sunk it into Xem'Zund's final high general. He'd just have to trust her. "Good work. Did he give you any trouble?"

Other guards had begun to enter the small clearing Verryna had managed to create as the peasants began to redouble their efforts of reaching Godhand. While the new guards continued to hold back the people Drusilia gave a small shrug, "Nothing I couldn't handle. He's actually rather bad at fighting if you ask me, a one trick pony. Just happens to be one hell of a trick...."

"Well, then we're down to one. Listen, let's..." The crowd was getting louder and more unmanageable by the second. "Follow me."

Drusilia nodded as they made their way through the streets. Slowly they cut through alleyways, and avoided large crowds with deft maneuvering. While Drusilia had spent most of her time here being locked up for mouthing off to Verryna, she had never gotten to know the layout of the city as intimately as Godhand apparently had. Within moments they had reached a run down house in the poorer district of the city.

Godhand didn't even flinch as he walked forward and pushed the door open. Turning to her he smirked, "These are my friends. They're going to come along with us as a personal favor to me, so make sure not to give them any shit. You don't want what they got."

Drusilia looked upon them before she raised an eyebrow, recognizing more than a few of them before she spoke back, "Are we assassinating someone or going to war?"

[Godhand]

"You're being narrow minded. It could easily be both."

Godhand reached into his jacket and pulled out a small silver tin. Opening it, he delicately withdrew a cigarette and put it to his lips. He put the tin back in his pocket and pulled out a match, vainly struggling to light it against the worn sandpaper on the side of the box. Finally giving up, he walked over to one of his friends and quickly swiped the match against the rough stubble on his cheek. The match sparked to life and the swordsman finally managed to light his cigarette. He sucked on it like it was the only thing keeping him alive and then blew out a terrific stream of smoke.

"Boys, meet the drow. Drow, these are the boys."

The mercenary casually straightened his tie, then adjusted his cuffs.

"Right, now that all the introductions are done...Willie, did you manage to find us some transportation?"

"Just a big cart and some horses."

"Well I'm desperate. I'll take them."

"They're out the back."

Godhand pushed a wad of bills into Willie's hand.

"Nah, I can't-"

"Just take it. It's money."

The swordsman and his allies shuffled out of the house and without much ado climbed into the back of the wagon. It was bigger than the last one he'd had, this one had to be drawn by four horses instead of two, but space was still much tighter given that he had to make room for all his allies. Even though they tried to keep a low profile, it didn't end up helping much. Theirs was still the only carriage moving out of a city all the other elves were struggling to get into, so it was with a surprising amount of impromptu fanfare that they managed to leave the city through the main gates.

Once they'd managed to get far enough from the city that the sound of their celebration diminished to dull roar, Godhand clambered into the back of the cart and popped open the latches on the suitcase he'd carried all the way from that god forsaken butcher's shop in Radasanth. He carefully opened it up, making sure that none of his comrades could get a peek at what was inside. He wanted it to be a surprise. Meanwhile, he pulled out a rolled up parchment that he'd kept inside the case alongside it's main cargo. He closed the latches, unfurled the parchment and spread it out evenly on top of the suitcase. He pointed at rough sketch of a boat and cursive words written much too close together to be made out.

"This is Anebrilith."

Then he swept his hand his hand about a third of the parchment to the northeast, to a big red X within what appeared to be a hut.

"That's supposed to be a fortress. God, I hate whoever made this map. Anyway, that's where we're going. I know it looks like a pain in the ass but it's actually not as far as it looks. We should get there in about four days, if we really hustle. And believe me, we're going to hustle. I don't want to be here a second longer than I have to. There's a town about midway where we can switch the horses and maybe eat. Now I've had some bad experiences with the food in this place so if you can help it, avoid anything perishable. The last thing I need is for one of you to come down with food poisoning when we get to where we're going."

Godhand rolled up the map and put it into one of his jacket pockets. It stuck out awkwardly, but he didn't want to have to open and close the suitcase every time he needed to verify their path. As he climbed back unto the head of the wagon, he remembered that he'd brought something along to make the trip a little less dreary. He fished out a deck of cards from his pocket and tossed them to one of his boys.

"Enjoy."

[Mage Hunter]

"Food poisoning? That's a laugh," One of the mercenary's companions muttered. His voice was rather dry, even as he shifted a hat to cover his face. He seemed to lean his large frame against the back of the wagon, on the pretense of rest, but the others just ignored them as they took the deck of playing cards and began to deal in. When one of them asked the large man if he was in, a casual flick of his wrist made it clear he didn't want to play for now.

Drusilia didn't dare open her sight up to the winds of magic. She was afraid she'd go blind with the various auras that she could almost feel surrounding these men. Where before she had been an eager hunter, trying to destroy those who held onto magic, she knew she couldn't even get farther than halfway pulling one of her blades from its sheath before she would be dead. These were dangerous individuals, and while they joked, teased, and prodded each other, it was clear that they could have easily ground each other to dust.

And if that was the truth, what could they do to her?

It didn't take her long before she felt like an outsider, and so, grabbing her gear she moved to the front of the cart, sliding next to Godhand. At least she felt comfortable around the mercenary, even if he was rather crass. The view of the country side was nothing to talk about and so there wasn't much talking. Drusilia was merely observing her equipment, seeing how well the elves had done on it.

Like everything she had seen made by her technical cousins, the repairs were hardly noticeable. The only exception was the armor, which had been patched up, before matching leather spread anew over the chest. A soft sigh left her lips before she began to slide the armor on once more. When she snapped the last tie into place she felt a bit more protected, yet still exposed, still in danger.

"How do you deal with them?" Drusilia asked finally, before she unsheathed the long sword the mercenary had damaged. It was almost as if that incident had never happened, such was the work that went into repairing it.

"What do you mean?" Godhand's answer was a bit vexing, as she was sure he knew what she was asking.

"How do you deal with them?" She asked jerking a thumb in the back, "I've heard so many stories about them, and none of them even hint at being controllable, let alone friendly to anyone, well except for maybe one."

Godhand scratched his chin. Already there was stubble growing back. "Well, we all came up the hard way. We just understand each other, I guess."

She raised an eyebrow before she smirked, "Do I detect a hint of emotion there? Is the great Godhand Striker starting to crack that tough outer shell?"

"Is the great Godhand Striker going to have to smack a bitch?"

A bit of laughter escaped Drusilia's lips before she looked at the mercenary, "I won't lie, I missed this. It was torture moving through here alone. I can't help but think everything has this pervasive red haze about it, like the lands waiting to kill me. It’s a bit tough to deal with constantly, unless you have some kind of distraction..."

"See? I knew it. I grow on you. Like cancer."

She only shook her head before she said, "Well if that's the case, you'll kill me slowly, and I'd rather take a slow death than a quick one. Mind if I take a drag to calm my nerves?"

[Godhand]

Godhand sucked a mouthful of smoke out of the cigarette before plucking it from his lips, seeing how much of it was left and then handing it casually to his traveling companion.

"Wrap your pretty little lips around that."

Drusilia took the cigarette before taking a deep drag. Finally she exhaled before coughing slightly,

"Been far too long since I had a nice drag. Basic Training at least..."

"I didn't even know elves smoked. You know you people act all high and mighty but really you're no better than the rest of us. But maybe I'm confusing you with the high elves. I always get you guys mixed up."

"Oh no, I have my bouts of arrogance as well. They just got few and far between with the shitstorm I seem to have waded into."

"Well, at least you know. That automatically places you higher than those blissfully self-awareness impaired baboons. But then again, maybe I'm painting in unwisely broad strokes. That sergeant, sorry, lieutenant seemed alright. What do you think my chances are with her, anyway?"

"You could have had a quickie before we left Anebrilith if you weren't so gung-ho about the job..."

"Well, I am a professional, after all. Anyway, I got this vibe from her, you know? She was way too intense. Flings like are great when you're young but I just don't have that kind of energy anymore. I barely even have the presence of mind to beat off these days."

That last sentence hung in the air with neither really wanting to explore it any further.

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

The trip went more or less without a hitch. There was some trouble in the town from a stray zombie patrol but they didn't even need to get involved, the guards handled it just fine. The town itself was something of a non-issue when it came to the war; it was far enough away from Anebrilith that it had no real strategic value, but it was still close enough that it could be used as a resupply point. Nobody was really trying to exit Raiaera by land, though, so that meant it was beyond Xem'Zund's notice. Anybody trying to use it as a hub for refugees still had to deal with nearly an entire continent-span of undead before reaching anywhere beyond the Necromancer's grasp.

Even better, the town was far enough away from what really happened that the Godhand stories had become hilariously distorted. It was a real treat for him to hear himself described as simultaneously a celestial giant clad in gleaming white armor and a mysterious grey-robed figure wielding a sword made out of pure light. All good things must come to an end, however, and he still had a job to do. They managed to pick up some food and water and a couple cartons of bad cigarettes. His friends smoked like a goddamn chimney and the back of the wagon looked like a smokestack the entire trip. He didn't know how they managed to breathe that smog; it certainly wasn't like they were in the open air.

Finally after a couple more days of breathing in stale smoke and playing cards where, let's face it, everybody was cheating, things started getting interesting. The zombie patrols came more and more frequently until finally it averaged out that for every five feet they traveled they had to cut through at least one undead. That's when the fortress came into view; large and imposing, it truly was the black, pulsing heart of the Necromancer's war effort. Godhand fully expected to have to cut their path through a veritable army of undead, but to his surprise the hordes seemed to part for their little caravan. Finally, they reached the gates and who should he find waiting for him but the man himself. Lord Coldin Crowley: the final target. He dressed ostentatiously, with layer upon layer of rich purple and blue robes and a golden ram's headdress. He didn't seem surprised to see the mercenary.

"Well, well, well...What do we have here? If it isn't the thorn in my side. It's nice to finally have a face to go with the name. 'Godhand'. It's a powerful name; I like it. But good name or no, do you honestly think you can beat me, me, here? Here, of all places? My master's power courses through this place like blood through an ARTERY, and it fuels my own magics. Here, my power is second only to the dark lord himself!"

The man talked like the villain in a bad novel.

"Ahh, but I can see you think I'm boasting. After all, why should you fear me when you've managed to so handily dispatch my compatriots? ...But did you? Did you really? Witness my power!"

Lightning rained down from the sky and then, as if formed from magic itself, five figures materialized where the lightning had struck the ground. It was the Necrosition in all it's glory, their powers fueling and augmenting each other until each of them wielded nearly all the other's skills. This was the apex of Xem'Zund's war effort, the Necrosition's group phylactery, and it only made sense that if the generals could be resurrected at all, it would be here.

But Godhand had prepared for this. He let out a sharp whistle, and the back flaps of the wagon were pulled apart. And then, they appeared. Bleary-eyed and psychotic, with smoke in their lungs and hate in their hearts. They, in all their glory. Dan Lagh'ratham, Lillian Sesthal, Raelyse, Seth Dahlios and Jame Whitizard-Kaosi.

The New World Order.

[Mage Hunter]

Battle was immediately joined as she saw the two more physical members of the NWO rush the other martially inclined Necrosition members. Seth Dahlios, the Lavinian Demon took on Maxwell Anderson, the antitheist. Dan Lag'ratham took on Edorad Graves, and the battle was joined by equal parts cursing and rage filled war cries. Magic and raw physical power was on display as these specimens went at it.

Godhand seemed tied up with Killian Grimstone, eager to avenge his death at the hands of the mercenary less than a month ago. As they locked in for what looked like a brutal rematch, Drusilia was already drawing blades. Moving through the chaos she focused on the leader of the Necrosition, Coldin Crowley would bleed today at her hands.

Even as she moved she could hear Nialon's taunts grace the air, possibly attacking James Whitizard. She didn't know anymore as when she swung out in an arc, Coldin blocked with his staff, and her focus was now upon the horned leader of the Necrosition. He gave her a cruel smile, showing blackened death and weathered features that looked perfectly in place amidst this battle of the dead.

"Ahh yes, you must be the Mage Hunter. How could I forget the wench who managed to catch Nialon off guard? Make no mistake young Drow, you have only signed your death warrant by attacking me," He hissed even as he extracted his staff from combat with her. The swords continued to hammer into the staff, forcing the Mage on a back foot, even as his face never lost that smile.

"Do all liches talk this much?" Drusilia asked even as she brought the sword about in an upward cleave that nearly saw her draw first blood. The over extension was her mistake, as the opening she had tried to exploit was feigned. Immediately the staff ignited into a brilliant red, heating up to temperatures that could melt iron. The staff was brought about and hit her deeply in the side, causing her to cry out in pain.

"Before you begin your inane babble, perhaps you should strike first blood," Crowley crowed over her as he brought the staff in a wide arc forcing the Drow to retreat back. One sword stabbed deep into the ground as Drusilia focused on fighting with only one, she would need to fight cleanly. Already the damage to her side was hindering if only for the burn she could feel in her ribs. The pain was distracting, but it was a teacher in this case.

"First blood is not as important as last," Drusilia hissed even as she brought her sword about in a harsh blow that knocked Crowley's staff off balance. Even as the Necromancer sought to bring it about to a useful position, Drusilia twisted her wrist, and brought the sword into a stab that saw her enter the Liche's body. The cloth began to stain a pitch black as she grunted, and continued to bring the sword out through the side, even as the staff began it’s downward decent, still gleamed a hot red.

"Futile little one, for you cannot hope to-" His tirade stopped when the staff rebounded off her arctic hide armor, and he saw that the matte black of his Delyn staff was just that, missing the heat it once held. As she sank to a knee and grunted under the bludgeoning blow, it lacked the punch his first two blows would have delivered. Even as his staff recoiled off her armor she had brought her shoulder up into the other man's chest. Heaving with the exertion she stood there as the man was sent back off his feet.

"Shut up," She managed. Her eyes took on a hardened look even as she remained hunched, recovering from the pain in her back, and further her ribs. She was certain she would have to get her ribs treated for at least a blistering burn. She knew however, that it could have been worse, had she been lit aflame, the damage would have been immense indeed.

Crowley brought himself to a raised position before with a gesture, a wind picked up. The winds swirled about Drusilia as sand and dirt began to cut at her exposed skin, slowly stripping it until it bled. Her stamina was giving out under the pain she was experiencing, even as she slowly began to drain the magic in the area. Crowley growled lowly as he focused his concentration on bringing more mana into the mix, but as fast as he could fill the area, so was she absorbing it.

"Useless whore! You can't keep that up forever, and the winds of magic will punish you for taking upon yourself so much energy! You only buy yourself a moment's time," Crowley raged as he continued to fuel her draining of magic in the area. Drusilia was reduced to a knee, even as she continued to drain the magic of the area. A wry smile lit up her face infuriating the leader of the Necrosition more. Finally he called out, "Warsmith? Where are you? Finish off this wench!"

[Godhand]

Every member of the NWO seemed to have a preference when it came to which opponent they fought, and Godhand was far too busy to try and lead them into a cohesive force. Beyond that, he knew it would be useless. He was only really close enough to a few of them to coordinate any combined attacks which maximized their skills, and he also felt that they were strong enough that no member of the Necrosition could manage to take them down one on one.

It was thus unfortunate that they weren't fighting one on one, and more than a century of teamwork had rendered the Necrosition almost a preternaturally focused unit. Any time one started chanting a spell, another finished it if the caster was cut off mid-sentence. Not only that, but each of their individual strengths seemed to become universal to the group now that they were all together. Once reunited, Xem'Zund's Necrosition was far more than the sum of it's parts.

They still couldn't match the NWO, though.

Dan Lagh'ratham had the gravedigger in a headlock and was currently punching him in the face, meanwhile Lillian was easily managing to overpower Warsmith. What little power she had absorbed from Godhand still rendered her far superior to the Necrosition's schemer in physical combat. The mercenary didn't have the time to watch what happened next as suddenly an enormous boulder rose from the ground and began to roll towards him. It burst apart as Godhand greeted it with a huge right hand, but before the smoke could clear several large stones suddenly flew through the air towards him. He barely had time to bring his arms in front of his chest before they plowed into him with the size and power of granite cannonballs. He flew backwards and hit the ground but used the momentum of the rocks to help roll himself back to his feet. Immediately a hand shot into his trench coat and produced a steel tomahawk which he hurled at where he made out Grimstone's outline through the dust of crushed rock.

The dwarf instantly protected himself by summoning a column of stone from the ground to hide behind, the hatchet embedding itself in the stone thanks to Godhand's powerful throw. That was just the break the swordsman needed however and in the blink of an eye he was in front of the stone barricade, rearing back and then lunging forward with a chest kick that shattered the column like dynamite. Through the dust he made out the geomancer's silhouette and he drew his blade with one powerful stroke, cleanly slicing off his opponent's head.

When the dust cleared, however, he saw that it was only a stone dummy Grimstone had erected to distract the mercenary. He'd used the time to sharpen a spike, now a veritable lance, of rock that he'd summoned from the ground in the meantime. Suddenly he threw it at the swordsman, and it was all Godhand could do to throw himself into a mid-air spin to avoid getting impaled. He narrowly avoided the attack and heard an agonized scream behind him. He could only hope that it was one of the member's of the Necrosition that'd gotten run through by the attack the dwarf had intended for him.

"Godhand!"

The mercenary whipped his head back to see who had called out for him. Dan Lagh'ratham, the slayer of the rot (Godhand considered that his moniker had perhaps never been more appropriate) had just managed to lift up Edorad by the legs just a short distance away. As he was falling back down, the mercenary understood just what the zombie-hunter wanted. He ran towards him and then leapt up into the air to catch the gravedigger's head as he was falling, snapping his weight down at the last minute and breaking his opponent's neck with a tandem strike.

Before they could celebrate their victory, however, the gravedigger hoisted himself right back up, broken neck at all. It was no good; as long as the Necrosition's necromancers were still active, any victory would only be a temporary one. They needed to single out the re-animators among their foes and vanquish them if they were to have any chance of putting Xem'Zund's death lords down for good.

[Mage Hunter]

Still the mana continued to drain through the area, even as Drusilia reached behind her, trying to find what she needed to end the drain upon her vitality. Crowley continued to force more mana at her, even as the winds continued scratching her across her skin, but unable to do more than annoy the young Mage Hunter. Finally she felt contact with the porous rock as the grin became predatory.

Let's see you fight without your parlor tricks...

A white flash spread out over the area, and every member of the Necrosition was hit full force. Crowley who had been the lynchpin of their strategy, and the one helping to coordinate them, was suddenly cut off from them. A few in a position to do so checked to see if the Necromancer even lived, and were reassured that this was in fact the truth. The problem was, Crowley had been erased from the winds of magic, as had the pool of mana Drusilia had managed to collect.

In one moment, Drusilia had turned what would have been a deadly amount of mana, into a harmless pool of nothing. Releasing her grip upon magic in the area, her sword began to swing about again. The staff was slower, the age of the decrepit bag of bones calling itself Coldin Crowley showing as he lost the preternatural agility and speed afforded through his rites and magic.

As she beat a staccato tempo against his staff she began to nick and cut at the Necromancer. With each slash that clanged off the delyn staff she began a litany of fury, her voice clear and in her accented common, "Magic is for the weak!"

"Shut up!" Crowley growled as he brought it about in a wide swing, that Drusilia ducked before slashing deeply into the Liche. After the deep blow she reversed her grip on the blade and brought it up in a block that saw his staff bounce off her sword.

Clang!

"It corrodes the body, and withers the spirit!"

"Useless whore!" Crowley was sent into a back peddle as magic slowly returned to the area. He could feel a tenuous grip with the flow of mana in the area, and yet he was unable to fully grab it, such was her vigilance. No longer could he even begin to cast a spell, let alone complete it. Her sword rebounded off his staff twice while he tried to do something useful with it.

Clang! Clang!

"It drains the courage and befouls the air!"

No longer could Crowley continue his defensive strategy. Slowly, she was beginning to chip away at the delyn material of the staff. Lowly steel swords, reinforced by the best elven weapon smiths had become his undoing, as she pounded relentlessly upon the same spot, over and over again. It forced the Liche to a knee as he struggled against her.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

"It gives the weak false hope, and the pathetic false wisdom!"

Soon Crowley realized what was going on, as her blows buckled the staff. She had been reciting litanies of hate against her foe, and Crowley couldn't understand why until now. The rhythm she had been fighting upon was in time to the words. Each blow was more powerful than the last. Her sword was chipped with the sheer force of hitting his staff, but her strength, and reliance upon that strength had come through, as the staff began to bow and bend in response to the repeated efforts. Always the same spot was struck.

Always the loud clanging that rang out upon the battle field…

Clang! Clang! Clang! SNAP!

"Magic is for the weak, only nature is strong," The Drow finished as her chest heaved. Pain ran through her arms from the repeated blows. Further, her ribs continued to rail against her mind, and for a second she was certain her chest had rebelled against the rest of her body and torn itself away, in a secession that would leave her crippled by the pain. As she fell to a knee the sword was dropped, before her hand rested on the hilt of her other blade, left standing solitary in the dirt, and a vile grin crossed her face.

Crowley, was left holding the two halves of his staff before he stared at the Drow wide eyed and managed, "How can you still smile?"

"Second verse, same as the first..."

[Godhand]

Godhand stared down the newly resurrected gravedigger and ran his tongue across his teeth. The air was pierced with lightning and explosions and then sudden bouts of near-total silence that only served to heighten the roar of magic once it resumed, like a gunshot in the dead of night. Slowly, careful to watch out for any sudden movements by the mercenary, the gravedigger picked his trademark alloy coffin from the ground. Godhand was surprised that it seemed to be in perfect condition; when he'd fought Edorad before, he'd made sure to smash closed the lid so that it's powers could never be used again. He didn't know why he'd done it; something about the magic just seemed wrong on some base, instinctual level. Like cannibalism or necrophilia, something about the item simply stimulated some forgotten part of Godhand's primitive, reptilian brain. All he knew was Edorad had to be defeated and his weapon destroyed.

He thus charged at the ghoul full speed, intent on savaging him with a clothesline and then battering the coffin into an inoperable state with his thuggish fists. The swordsman saw Edorad adjust his shoulder, and knew he was going to swing the massive box him as soon as he was in range. But Godhand didn't worry: he'd taken worse hits from better people. He had a skull like a fire hydrant, and he'd be damned if some emaciated holdover from an age best forgotten was going to intimidate him. He lowered his head, intent on goring the gravedigger like an animal, but was unprepared for what happened next.

Instead of swinging coffin at him, Edorad unclasped all the locks in what seemed like the blink of an eye, threw the doors open and then braced the thing with his back. He'd moved impossibly fast, and it was all Godhand could do to throw his arms out and catch the edges of the coffin to prevent himself from plunging headlong into that portal to the abyss. Just because he'd managed to prevent himself from falling in, however, didn't mean that he hadn't entered it. Godhand's head had gone through the plane-gate, and what he saw on the other end was so horrifying it was nearly indescribable.

Godhand wasn't a squeamish man. He didn't fear God or Hell, and wasn't terribly scared of dying. With all that said, he was but a man. What he saw on the other end of that coffin was a confused, non-euclidean pastiche of all mankind's horrors and regrets. A thousand disembodied rectums shitting into the smiling maws of skinless deviants, the sounds of children laughing. Women forced into dark chambers, raped and subsequently forced to bear children for tentacled, amorphous horrors three times a day, then getting violated by those same children and so on until the whole plane was bursting with these monstrosities, the entire dimension straining to pour out like sewage into the real world. And the smell. Dear god, the smell.

He finally managed to pull his head back from the strange gravity exerted by that hellplane, and he could feel blood seeping out of his ears, nose, mouth and tear ducts. Every single cell in his body seemed to ignite from his brief stay in hell, and he used his anger. He easily smacked aside the coffin from where the gravedigger had planted it, already lesser abominations creeping out of it's open doors, and easily caught the punch Edorad threw his way. With his free hand he grabbed the man's forearm and crushed it. But the death lord didn't scream; he didn't even flinch. Godhand subsequently grabbed him by the cuff and then threw him towards the coffin, walking up and dragging him the rest of the way until he managed to lay the man's swollen neck against the lid of the coffin. He then held him down with one arm and lifted the lid on the other, before shutting it as hard as he could against his face. He punctuated each one of his words with a violent slam of the door.

"NEVER!"slam"EVER!"slam"IN MY LIFE!"slam"HAS ANYONE DONE!"slam"SUCH A HORRIBLE THING!"slam"TO ME!",slam"AS YOU DID, YOU PIECE OF SHIT!"

He then lifted the gravedigger up by his legs and tossed him into his own hellgate, shutting the door and then sealing it shut with such a finality that he knew no magic would ever open it again. He heard a roar from behind him, and instantly knew another member of the Necrosition was going to try to avenge his friend. Taking a chance, he grabbed the coffin by it's leather clasps and swung it blindly with all his strength behind him. He couldn't see who it was, but he felt the reassuring thunk their body made against the metal before they were fired into the woods like a rocket.

[Mage Hunter]

She raised the sword in her hand as he approached the Magus. Her boot kicked the hilt of her nearly destroyed blade, sending it spinning off, and out of immediate sight. Still as Crowley rose holding the two halves of his delyn staff, his eyes burned with a loathing she thought impossible to reproduce.

Little did she know, it was in her eyes as well.

The two once again began combat, as Crowley dropped both halves of the shattered staff before beginning the next incantation. Immediately Drusilia was off slashing at the man, only to grow frustrated when she realized one of Crowley's spells was going to be completed by another minion. Still she continued to push at the man, giving him no room to dodge, forcing him to defend. Her blade arced through the air as she continued to nick and cut away at the liche's long dead flesh.

Looking upon the necromancer her hair flew about her, the tie within it long since having been lost in battle. Her blade was swung with a ferocity unmatched by any of the Necrosition, and that was because of its primal nature. Death, while having the ultimate hold over life, could not pierce the determination within her heart. Her blade swung upwards, cleaving deep into the flesh of Crowley's face before his horned helmet was caught by the tip of her blade, and knocked from off its perch.

The hair was only faint wisps, unlike his beard. White and smoky in color, it barely registered within her mind. It was almost as if death had begun reclaiming the liche, and here in the Sepulcher of the Necrosition, she could think of no better place to do so. A grin crossed her face as she twirled, stabbing backwards upon following up with her strike, and punctured a rotted lung.

Crowley's body shuddered, but there was not gasp, no wheeze as a living opponent would have made. If anything underlined the fact that the Mage Hunter was fighting a member of the undead plaguing this forgotten country, it was the fact that she heard nothing when Crowley was punctured. Instead, his hands wrapped tightly about her throat.

"I got you! You insipid meddling Drow!" The words rang out across the area as Drusilia realized her folly. The blow was meant to stun and set up a decapitation, only to find that she had never truly gotten the experience she had been expecting against the undead. Of course Crowely wasn't stunned by the blow, he had no need of the lungs, and they never functioned in the first place.

Now she would pay.

Her vision began to slowly shrink away from the real world, slowly yet surely. At first she lost the edges of her vision, as he feeling of being tired overcame her mind. She struggled, clutching at the hands about her throat desperately, and in the process dropping the steel swords she had carried. Her mind railed against the situation, as she cursed herself for being so stupid. Had she truly thought that she could defeat the leader of the Necrosition so easily?

Blinking, fear overtook her mind as she saw nothing anymore. She was fading, and her eyes had lost focus to the rest of the world. Still she struggled, if only a token resistance, and it was then she heard the whispering voice in her ear, the last words she might ever hear before that too would fade, "You cost us much Drow. We are the creeping death that shall consume this world, even as you fought, and struggled against us, you only tightened the noose about your own neck."

She struggled, trying desperately to figure out what to do. It was then, as the Liche continued his melodramatic speech that a sound like an over ripe fruit splattering upon a wall was heard. Something wet trickled down the back of Drusilia's neck, and before she could even consider what had happened the world came back slowly into focus. Her breathing came in deep gasps, and with the sudden ability to breath, she passed out.

She had fought, and fought valiantly, but ultimately the victory was not hers.

Spoils:

Drusilia Liadon has finally grasped the Litanies of Hate and their purpose, used int he timing of blows in a rhythm designed to create a crescendo of violence.

Litanies of Hate - Upon beginning the Litanies of Hate, Drusilia may begin a tempo of blows that increases with each line of the litanies. If she should do so her speed will increase and the strength of each blow will increase as well, until they end at double her most powerful output, and at double the speed. The downside of this maneuver is that it requires her target to hold still and be held under the rain of blows, meaning that if she misses at any time during the litany she will find her energy wasted. She must repeat the initial strike again and again, only being able to move forward at a slow pace, as she continues to swing the blade.

[Godhand]

Godhand, ascertaining that he was in no immediate danger, took a moment to survey the battlefield. Nialon Sunscar was valiantly striving to strike Raelyse with his many pulsars, but the Myrusian was easily able to negate the necromantic beams by crossing them with supercharged bolts of electricity. The crossing of the elemental and unholy energies lit up the night sky, but even through all the glare the mercenary could see that Sunscar was on the defensive. Seth Dahlios was exchanging blows with the paladin, Maxwell. Even though the unbeliever's very gaze was enough to dissipate most magical creatures, the NWO's enforcer was still managing to push Maxwell back. Even though his abilities were halved thanks to the man's tapturn shutdown, fifty percent of his power was still more than enough to crush almost anybody. Jame was soaring through the air above him in his dragon form, occasionally making his presence known whenever a large number of zombies tried to force their way into the melee. A single breath from the powerful halfbreed reduced every intruding undead to ash, freeing up the rest of the New World Order to focus on the Necrosition itself. Killian was easily overwhelmed by Dan Lagh'ratham, and Lillian must have killed the dark apothecary nearly ten times by now only for him to be raised.

Godhand was tired, and frustrated, and nearly half a year of resentment for this land and it's people was threatening to spill out at any moment. He limited himself to gritting his teeth and shouting,

"Alright, people! Let's wrap it up!"

And with those simple words, it was almost like a switch had been flicked for the entire New World Order. Their attacks tripled in intensity and strength, showing that up until that point they'd only been toying with and feeling out their individual opponents. Godhand ignored the anguished screams of his enemies as he climbed unto the back of the wagon. Emerging with the suitcase clasped nonchalantly in one of his hands, he calmly walked towards the Necrosition's fortress.

"Striker!"

The mercenary turned just in time to see Seth Dahlios whip the paladin towards him. As Maxwell flew through the air, Godhand greeted him with a savage forearm smash to his head. It nearly detonated on impact and the swordsman winced as some brain matter sprayed unto his shirt. He resumed his steady gait, only for another shout to pierce through the chaos.

"Godhand!"

From his peripheral vision he could see that Dan had fallen to his knees and was holding himself up by his hands just in front of Grimstone. He was the member the mercenary had known the longest, so he instantly knew what it was he wanted. Godhand ran up to the slayer, braced his foot on the man's back, leaped into the air and broke the bewildered dwarf's neck by hitting him with a flying kick to the head. He immediately chastised himself for it, however, knowing how delicate and temperamental the package he was carrying was. He kept on walking, speeding up a bit when he witnessed Lord Coldin Crowley attempting to squeeze the life out of his new friend. He didn't think he'd be able to manage it with his weak, decrepit limbs, though. He was a mage after all.

Finally reaching the Necrosition's otherwise preoccupied leader, Godhand lifted the suitcase into the air, let go of the handle, drew his blade and severed the ghoul's head in the same fluid stroke, stabbed the sheath into his belly and caught the suitcase by the handle before it could hit the ground again. The mercenary didn't pay attention to the necromancer's impotent floundering; he'd seen the sheath drink enough souls that the gruesome spectacle no longer interested him. The enormous double-doors to the Necrosition's keep were shut, but all it took was a stout kick from Godhand to send them flying open. Godhand knew their phylacteries were in there somewhere, but he had neither the time, energy or patience to search an entire castle for a room that would doubtlessly be well guarded and well hidden. Instead, he took a few steps into the main hall, gently laid the briefcase down in front of him and opened it. He flipped a switch and then turned a knob, then walked out of the keep and closed the doors he'd kicked open.

He emerged just in time to see the necromancer's last errant twitches as his sheath devoured whatever remained of his magically-fueled soul. Removing the sheath with an audible snap of the leathery flesh, he sheathed his Muramasa and helped the newly awakened drow to her feet. No doubt her head felt like it was splitting open thanks to her brain being denied air; he felt sympathy for her, as he'd been nearly choked to death enough times to know that it was never fun. The rest of New World Order had easily dispatched their generals once he'd given the command, and had already helped themselves back into the wagon. He took a moment to address his mage hunter companion as they were walking back to their vehicle.

"Now, how do you think I beat them?"

"You were...Smarter than they were."

“Not at all. Most of those people were smarter than I could ever hope to be. I beat them…", he paused for effect, "Because I had superior intelligence. That is to say, I knew more about them than they knew about me. See, I knew the necromancer’s friends. He didn’t know mine. I knew his abilities; he didn’t know mine. So, I planned ahead. In the end that’s all that really matters. No matter how badly someone outclasses you, if you have the right intel then they’re just as easy to take down as anybody else. It’s all about putting them in a situation that maximizes their weaknesses and maximizes your strengths. And my strength?” He paused and took a moment to point out the NWO, “Lies in the company that I keep.”

He hefted himself back unto the driver's seat and took a moment to fish out a pair of ear plugs that he'd purchased back in Radasanth. He popped them into his hears and then pulled out a cigarette and his lighter from his coat.

"Oh, and you might want to cover your ears."

He flicked open the lighter and leaned into the flame just right. Instantly a deafening explosion was heard from behind him as the timer on the bomb he'd set ran out. The horses drawing the carriage panicked and began to pull the wagon back towards the last town at an enormous speed.

Behind them, the keep of the Necrosition crumbled. Their members were obliterated. Their emblem burned.

Godhand just enjoyed his cigarette.

Necrosition series COMPLETE. Godhand's sheath absorbs the soul of Lord Coldin Crowley, last member of the Necrosition. Their phylacteries are destroyed and they can never be resurrected. Their keep is in ruins. The zombies they controlled are now in disarray.

Spoils: By consuming the last soul of the Necrosition, Godhand's sheath has acquired a minor divinity unto itself. As a result, it cannot be unenchanted by any means or it's powers deactivated. (Please keep in mind that I've been building up to this ability for six quests.)

Also, it occurs to me that since the NWO played a critical part in this quest, I might be eligible for the HQ reward that means I get an extra fifty percent experience bonus. I'll let you guys figure it out, though.

[Amaril Torrun]

Necrosition: Brink of Extinction

Let me start off by apologizing for the absurd wait you guys had to go through. Most of my commentary will be focused on Mage Hunter’s and Godhand’s posts, as Painkiller only had a small role in the story.

STORY

Continuity ~ 5 As the ending to a long series, you guys should have told more about the story of killing off the Necrosition as a whole. There were a few hints to past pieces of the story, but not nearly enough. Even in a series, each thread needs to be able to stand on its own, and good back story is a key part of that.

Setting ~ 3 This was your weakest point. With so many locations involved in this thread, the lack of any real detail of the surrounding areas made the whole story seem much too rushed. Drusilia’s battle with Nialon was a bit more fleshed out than the rest of the story, with some attention paid to the grim fate of Eluriand, but there was still a feeling that the events were taking place in an empty space. After mentioning that they were arriving at a great fortress, the climatic battle took place in a complete void. With such a preoccupation with the fighting, the surroundings simply didn’t exist.

Pacing ~ 4 As I mentioned, this story was a bit too rushed, more so on Godhand’s side. There was simply a lot going too quickly and not all of it seemed necessary. The stops at the restaurant and tailor allowed for some insights to Godhand’s character, but took a lot of steam out of the Necrosition story. The mugging incident and the nonchalant mentioning of a pirate attack on the trip back to Anebrilith, did the same thing. Random occurrences like those, as realistic as they may be, can be momentum killers in the grand scheme of things when writing fiction. That was the case here. I don’t suggest completely changing this style of writing, because I do like the realistic approach. Just be careful not to let it overshadow the real story.


CHARACTER

Dialogue ~ 7 I loved Godhand’s dialogue and his character shined through his words. Drusilia’s speech is a bit plain, though the added drow cursing really helps add some flavor.

Action ~ 7 Godhand’s weeping over the meal was a bit unusual. It looks like you wanted to add another dimension to who he is, but it didn’t really fit in well. On the flip side, his queasiness after meeting up with the butcher was a written well, showing that even the toughest men can’t always be made of stone. Drusilia’s actions stick to her character, but she is somewhat predictable. This is a good thing, though a curve ball or two every now and again can help solidify who she is.

Persona ~ 6 Drusilia is a guarded individual when it comes to her emotions, but there is still room to build on who she is. Telling what she is feeling throughout the story, most of the time being anger during her battles, only scratches at her surface. Questioning herself on whether she might have feelings for Godhand helped. Continue building on who she is by describing rather than telling your readers how she reacts to her surroundings. I have a pretty clear image of Godhand, and I can tell that you have a firm grasp of how to present him. By touching on his softer side, you did wonders to bring him to life.


WRITING STYLE

Technique ~ 6 A lot of the writing seemed mechanical and rigid, though phrases such as “… it tasted like pure glory…” helped. Godhand’s writing was more comfortable and relaxed, though still lacked a stylistic use of the English language for the most part.


Mechanics ~ 6 There were some mistakes throughout, but the most glaring was around the middle of the story where there were some tense and point of view changes.

Clarity ~ 6


MISCELLANEOUS

Wild Card ~ 7 Congratulations on finishing such a great achievement by killing off the Necrosition… twice!


TOTAL ~ 57

Godhand earns 6696 experience (after doubling) and 500 gold.

Mage Hunter earns 3091 experience (after doubling) and 500 gold.

Painkiller earns 573 experience (after doubling) and 200 gold.

Drusilia’s Litanies of Hate is approved until her next update, where it may need some minor tweaking at the discretion of the RoG.

Godhand’s sheath can not be disenchanted nor have its powers deactivated, subject to further approval at your next RoG update.




If you guys have any questions about anything, feel free to catch me via PM or AIM: loligagerrofl12

[Taskmienster]

Exp and GP added.

Mage Hunter levels up to 3!