Scarlet Brigade We Are Not

[Breaker]

Closed to Requiem of Insanity. For the purposes of Cronen's storyline this thread takes place days after the conclusion of The Nomad Process. (http://althanas.com/world/showthread.php?t=19188)

The moon shone her silver blessing on the slums of Radasanth, bathing a depleted and forsaken warehouse. Its front, with illegible signs falling down and boarded up doorways, bordered on a dirt road. The rear looked down on a side street that was half the width of the main road and contained twice the litter.

The tall man trudged down the deserted back alley, hands buried in the pockets of his trenchcoat. He reeked of alcohol but walked in a straight line with his head up and eyes roving. He breathed raggedly but his footsteps made no sound. The broad shoulders and clandestine demeanour covered by his foul stench would bring any observer to the conclusion that he was a soldier turned alcoholic.

But no living creature watched him as he paused to take a swig from a flask. It vanished into his hip pocket.

The tall man scrubbed a callused thumb through the thick stubble on his upper lip. He looked up and the moon lit his tan Akashiman face. Tired eyes tracked from the warehouse on his right to the row of shabby low-income houses on his left. Which would he like to sleep in tonight? The vermin had chased out most of the residents. His liquor-fogged eyes suddenly became sharp as a hawk's.

The Wraith appeared from the folds of the shadows. A breeze tugged at the trash but did not touch its long black cloak. It hung straight and seamless, as silent as the sinuous steps. It did not seem to breathe but still the tall man sensed It and turned around slowly. There was nothing drunk about his eyes or his gesture as he clutched at his chest. Black lungs gasped for air that seemed strangely scarce. He sank to one knee.

“Teod Goshawk.”

The Wraith’s voice was as dry as dead leaves and patient as time.

Goshawk seemed to control his ailment from the semi-fetal position. He put his hands back in his pockets then covered his mouth. Puffed the lit cigarette and tossed the match away. His breathing returned to its haggard metronome as smoke whirled in the moonlight.

“I thought we had no names in the Brigade,” he muttered from the corner of his mouth. Two thick fingers removed the cigarette. It was half gone from the speed at which he smoked.

“I dunno’ why they call it that anymore. By the Crystal Spire, you’re just a pack of ghouls.”

The Wraith waited almost politely as he finished the smoke; a farewell favour for a former comrade.

“By the way,” the tall man said as he reached down to snub his cigarette. Like lightning he tossed a handful of gravel with one hand. The other threw a knife drawn from the sole of his boot.

The gravel showered the warehouse wall as the Wraith slithered past it. A black gloved hand caught the pinwheeling blade as easily as a lob. It returned the throw even as it flowed forwards. With a yell Teod Goshawk deflected his own knife. The iron bracer beneath his sleeve rang a hollow sombre sound in the empty street.

The Wraith attacked like an enraged panther. Its black gloves became molten metal. Claws that singed flesh as they slashed through it. Goshawk defended rapidly but found that every time he blocked a blow smoking lacerations opened his forearms. He gasped in agony but realized the overwhelming speed of the attack. He spun in to his enemy with the skill of a master judoka and stooped for a shoulder throw.

The Wraith leapt onto his back. It clutched at his clothing and constricted around his abdomen like a python. Clawed hands seared the skin around his neck. A blob of thick blood gushed from his arteries as the Wraith tore his head off. It backed away from the draining body and tossed the head into a pile of wooden scraps. The blood pool on the ground glowed black by the moonlight. Not a drop stained the creature’s still cloak. It turned and vanished in two serpentine steps, melted into the shadows of the night.

~~~

Leonard Silverton looked up from the smudged pages of the Radasanthian Reader. It lay on his messy desk, open to the obituaries page. Powerful hands gripped the arms of his wheelchair as tears blurred his view of the ornate oaken door, the artwork on his office walls. Those coloured oil masterpieces came to life in the sunlight that poured through the window. He focused on the depictions of battles from the Age of Darkness, hardy dwarves defending their stronghold against demon invaders, until his eyes cleared. Think about anything, he told himself, anything other than the name in the newspaper.

Teod Goshawk. A name he never should have known, but the man had been his closest friend for a long time. They had battled dark elves and orcs, saved each others’ lives a thousand times in the field. But that was years ago, and bygone memories had no place in his schedule.

Silverton’s muscles rippled beneath his grey sifan cloth shirt as he wheeled out from behind the desk. His short silver hair shone in the sunlight around his small reflective bald patch. He handled the awkward chair deftly, ignoring its squeaking as he reached the door. With one hand braced on the left wheel, he heaved the heavy door open and said a few words to his receptionist, then rolled across the room to fix himself a drink.

“He’ll see you now,” The receptionist said to the only person in the cozy leather-furnished waiting room.

Joshua Cronen rose wordlessly and gave her a grin of gratitude, but his eyes remained as sombre as if he shared the old man’s pain.

[Requiem of Insanity]

The moon. The silent sentinel of the darkness. A light of silvery hope for the denizens of the shadows, a beacon of monsters and ghouls, ghosts and undead. The source of power for many, the call of the hunt for others. It shone down uncontested to the sheltered roadway, the forest lining the road like watchmen. Should one be bold or stupid enough, they could walk into the forest, and be swallowed by the darkness.

This was the darkest lover of Cassandra Remi, the twisted woman with the dark ambitions to torture her targets of her twisted hunts. Tirelessly she worked, like a dutiful lover; a slave to her own twisted ambitions and the moon's calling. Thousands of times she would throw up her hands into the air in supplication, her eyes wanting as she sang to the moon, her words crying out in passion a sweet Requiem of Insanity.

Those nights scared the living hell out of Kane Kucan.

Yet those nights were long gone now. It had been nearly a month since Kane had witnessed the most terrible moment of his life. Cassandra, his mistress, had been killed before his very eyes. It was like a surreal dream, a one time moment of complete confusion. For a moment she stood healthy and strong. The next she was lying no more than a bloody pile of goo.

Serenity Dahlios had cast upon her a powerful Hex spell by the name Sin Harvest and like a heavy wheat scythe Cassandra was cut and lacerated until every sin she had committed was atoned for. However, Cassandra's body gave out long before her crimes were avenged.

Now these days Kane walked the earth lonely and afraid. He wasn't used to being a free person. Cassandra had tortured him mind and soul to the point of near extinction. He teetered on the verge of suicide and madness all to the whims of Cassandra. One would think he would be happier without her, but instead he felt an emptiness inside himself he didn't expect. Without her he felt he had nothing. That was until he met a certain stranger he had always known, but never met.

"You lost it again, didn't you?" Kane sighed as he listened to the darkness within him, a darkness he never had until Cassandra had passed.

"I didn't lose the beast," Kane spoke to himself, feeling a bit silly as he did so. "I'm just giving it space." Kane felt his heart wrench as if a fist held it in the palm, and he cringed balling up dropping to one knee.

"You'll never be as good a liar as she is, fool. You lost the creature, admit it! Kane nodded weakly, grasping for air as he clutched his chest using a tree for support.

"Ok, I admit it," Kane replied weakly, his mouth building up spit. He released it out into the bushes and stood back up to a vertical base. He took a few more breaths and felt his heart pound less and less. "It's not like I don't know where it went. This town is the only town for miles, and he took an entire day just to reach it. If it wasn't his goal he would have rested far sooner than he did."

The darkness within Kane seemed to slither like a snake around his body, before a primal chuckle hissed in the back of his mind. "See, now was that so hard?" Kane felt his anger rise as he heard the taunting of the Cassandra's twisted dark companion.

The night Cassandra died Kane had walked upon the road of Lavinya, trying to get to the town of Ontaria so he could leave the place forever. But as he walked he felt the shadows surround him and without so much as a word Cassandra's dark companion infiltrated into his body, and resides within him. Being older than time itself, the darkness within him had found a way to bring Cassandra back to him, full mind and full body. To do so would require three ancient artifacts of immense power, and a ritual that was nearly forgotten to the ages. It all seemed silly and far fetched, but whenever Kane voiced this he would feel the hate and scorn of his dark passenger.

Currently the two had been trying to follow a particular dark presence, an unearthly creature who had ties to one of the artifacts. He had been tailing the fiend for two full days, and his body ached and was soar from all the walking, but in the end it didn't matter, because he had lost his prey.

"I'm not like her, you know!" Kane said bitterly, walking forward on the bumpy dirt road. His feet scraped the bottom of the gravel, moving it and making a crunching kind of sound as dirt swirled at his feet.

"Obviously, or this simple task would have been done by now. Kane growled as the darkness laughed, and the slave decided to let it go for now. The sooner he rescued Cassandra, the better.

With the happy thought of the reunion in mind, he hastened his steps seeing the silhouette of a clock tower of the city before him just over the peak of the trees.

[Breaker]

Joshua Cronen entered the spacious office and accepted the glass of single malt whisky which Silverton pressed upon him. With the sun not yet at its apex it seemed a little early to be drinking, but the quality of the booze and the company altered his decision. He sampled the expensive liquor, swirling its aged flavor across his palate as he sat in the room's only chair. Its back was straight, leather padded, and it swiveled on well oiled hinges. While Silverton established himself behind the desk and appeared to read or at least stare at the newspaper, Josh took a moment to enjoy the warmth of the sunlight.

He had only visited Silverton's office on three previous occasions, but had fallen in love with the old man's base of operations after the first. The fine glass windows seemed to turn morning sunlight to golden vapor, and when the depleted rays touched him his skin tingled and his heart gladdened. On either side of the door through which he had entered hung two large masterpiece paintings, the complexity of their colors matching the subtlety of the artist's brushstrokes. Josh had familiarized himself with Coronian history. He recognized on the left the Battle for Teria, during which demon forces had occupied the Dwarven stronghold in a single day. On the right he observed dwarves, elves and men led by a figure in shining armor. The well defined features were intimate to him, for he had seen the statue of Radasanth the Savior in the city’s center many times.

Josh found it curious that Silverton chose to hang the paintings on his front wall, while the paneled wood behind him was a mural of medals and awards. Silverton had been a successful soldier in Corone’s Armed Forces for many years. He had spent decades abroad in dangerous lands such as Salvar and Alerar, working undercover often as not with very little reinforcement. The third time they met, the friends had drank long into the night while the older man related stories of his adventures. The tales had covered much of his career, detailing everything from a fiery love affair with a drow princess to the cannonball which had destroyed his legs. In Silverton Josh found a kindred spirit, a man he’d like to emulate one day if he lived long enough. In Josh the one time warrior found an unparalleled agent, not to mention a younger version of himself he could live vicariously through.

Silverton still seemed possessed by whatever he saw in the paper, so Josh finished his whisky and grabbed his friend’s empty glass as he stood. The fiery liquor had lent him unnatural warmth which spread from his cheeks all the way down to his toes. The black enchanted boots he wore made no noise as he strode to the dry bar in the corner of the room.

Unlike the old man’s desk, his bar was spotless and orderly. Rows of polished glasses were stacked behind military columns of minted bottles. Josh uncorked several which were not sealed, sampling their luxurious scents. He found the right bottle by smell and poured them each a generous measure, then reorganized the bar to its regimental neatness. He returned and replaced Silverton’s glass, then settled into his chair and sipped from his own.

“There are many things I’ve kept secret from you, Josh.” The old man finally broke his silence. Josh looked up but could not meet his eyes, for the other stared at the shimmering liquid in his glass as he swirled it around. “Not because I didn’t trust you, understand, but for our mutual safety. Because I was afraid, I suppose, and I didn’t want to complicate your life any more than I already had.” Silverton took a deep breath and tossed back two fingers of whisky, stared out the window resolutely.

When Josh refilled his friend’s glass he had noticed that the old man was glaring at the obituaries as if to set them on fire by magic. He felt curious, and saddened by his friend’s emotional agony. He did not want to rush the respectable fellow though, so he swirled his drink patiently.

He was unsurprised that the crippled soldier had kept secrets from him; it seemed perfectly natural that some facts from his history of violence would go with him to the grave. What Josh didn’t understand was how a name in the obituaries could inspire Silverton to bring him closer in his circle of confidence.

“It’s imperative now though, it’s necessary. Heed me well my friend,” The old man slammed his glass down on the desk and scratched at his shoulder where an old scar still tormented him. “Please Josh, think before you answer what I’m about to ask you. I have a mission, perhaps the most vital undertaking this civil war has seen. You’re the best man for the job, but it will put you under the scrutiny of the Coalition, and the most dangerous assassins in Corone. I’ll gladly find someone else to do it if you say no.” Silverton stopped himself from scratching just shy of putting a hole in his shirt. He reached for his glass but found it empty, and so snatched up a gold fountain pen and tapped a military tattoo on the arm of his chair.

Josh’s immediately opened his mouth to agree, but paused. Out of respect for his friend’s request, he reflected briefly on it.

Silverton had indeed complicated his life a great deal. Months prior, after leaving Scara Brae and the Dajas Pagoda behind, Josh had travelled to Radasanth to accept a long-standing job offer at a club called The Flesh Failures. He had been happy there, running the popular establishment’s security by night and teaching martial arts in the basement by day. For a time his life was peaceful and simple, but then a twisted series of events had brought him into Leonard Silverton’s circle. Combining the old man’s wisdom and social contacts with Joshua’s relentless pursuit of justice, the two had thwarted a plot of the Coalition’s creation which would have sent the civil war into a crisis ending with the defeat of the Rangers.

For Josh, there had only ever been one side to the civil war. The very name of the Freedom Fighters spoke of his life’s work, although he hadn’t joined them until personally invited by Leonard. He had fought willingly for the salvation of the oppressed people, and it was less than a week since he and his allies had averted the Coalition’s Nomad Process. His life had almost returned to normal. Could he knowingly sacrifice his peace amidst the chaos, his sanctuary, to follow a path which might very well banish him from Corone?

“Stop trying to dissuade me Leon, if you say I’m the man for the job then I want it. I want this country to be free again as much as you do.” As if to seal an oath, Josh downed the last of his whisky and placed the glass on Leonard’s desk. The old man relaxed visibly, dropped the pen on a pile of papers and stopped fidgeting. The worry left his shadowed hazel eyes, replaced by a grim determination.

“I know you looked over my awards,” he said, waving one hand in a careless gesture at the wall behind him. “But one of my… well, perhaps my greatest accomplishment, is not among them.” He leaned forward candidly, and Josh mirrored the action, intrigued. Irrepressible pride swelled in the old warrior’s chest, and a red glint appeared in his eyes.

“I am, or so I believe, the only man to have received an honorable discharge from the Scarlet Brigade.”

[Requiem of Insanity]

The night continued to throw a chill air, Kane's breath steaming int the air like a dragon about to erupt flames. As he wandered down the road he saw the welcoming torch lights of the city, and an overwhelming sense of relief washed over him. As Kane had approached the town in question he began instantly assimilating everything he saw. One area carried a warehouse and directly across it was a run down home district. A bit farther north was the main street bazaar area, local bandstands, and soap boxes for the latest news. He was uncertain of the current religion of the town, or what landmark he was even at, but it didn't matter in the long run he figured.

"You're kidding me, right?" The darkness spoke to him, chilling his bones and causing him to shiver. Kane was in mid motion to sit upon a stack of boxes near the warehouse, and he froze paralyzed by the intent in the tone of the dark passenger.

"I did just walk for nearly a full day. I think I deserve a rest." Kane felt the presence within him start to coil, and he felt his breaths getting shorter and shorter. "Crushing my lungs.... won't help you... get her back..." Kane breathed out as he gripped his chest again.

"You are such a useless puppet. I wonder why Cassandra kept you around." It mused as it released it's grip upon Cassandra. Kane felt his choler rise as he took in a deep breath.

"Now see here you...you...parasite!" Kane's mind fumbled for a suitable insult, and he felt his anger pulse when the darkness chuckled at his label.

"Ouu, big words there, fleshy." It teased. Kane had enough as he stood up, dropping the bag he carried with him and he looked down at his chest. His eyes flashed with hatred as he spoke, making sure he got the message across loud and clear.

"You can push me, insult me, and harm me, but if you break me or kill me you'll lose Cassandra forever. I know you can only hurt me, but you can't afford to kill me, so knock it off or I will stop cooperating!" The dark passenger laughed wildly, as it slowly let go of his ribs, until Kane couldn't feel anything inside him.

"Very well then, you can play king. So where is the fiend, great king?" Kane scratched his head dumbly, his mind not able to think fast enough. The question was solid and he hated the fact he didn't have an answer.

"Well, uh..." Kane felt the darkness slowly begin to coil back around his heart. "That is to say, that, um..." Tighter and tighter it pulled, and Kane felt his chest starting to heave. "I, I don't really know, ok? There I said it, you happy?"

"At this rate you miserable cretin I would be better off without you anyway. You're so hopelessly useless I fear that even if you were alive we wouldn't be able to save my precious dutiful, dark, deluded darling. The darkness was full of sass and wit, as it gently let go of its hold on Kane.

"But I am all you have," Kane countered. "Like it or not, we have to find a way to cohabit." The darkness scoffed at him, remaining silent. "Well do you have any ideas then?" Kane snapped, yelling at his chest. The darkness began to swirl inside his chest again, tightening around his muscles in his neck forcing the thief to turn his head to a pile of wood.

"It reeks of death and dismay. Something died with regret over there and it most likely has something to do with our prey." Kane felt a twinge of fear in his spine as he picked up the bag walking towards the pile of wood. His nostrils sniffed the air, but he found no smell of blood or gore upon the winds. He looked for the carnage of a fight but found nothing of the signs of struggle. "Are you sure?" Kane asked aloud.

The darkness chuckled, a primal laugh of excitement and Kane felt his blood rise in anticipation with the amusement of the dark passenger. "Positive, puppet. Kane stumbled around, looking for the signs of struggle, but he still couldn't see anything. He dropped the bag he was holding to the ground, his mind racing for ideas of where the fight could have taken place. He couldn't see anything until at last he found something, though minor, but still something.

Kane approached a small cigarette butt. He bent down, touching the end, and it was still slightly moist. The ashes offered nothing but the faintest trace of heat, and he could see fresh boot marks in the dirt. "Whatever happened, it went down in this area." Kane said looking for the struggle.

"Not all fights are even and fair. Look at the footprints closer, puppet. it hissed into his ear like a fine honey, and Kane noticed that the boots made one small indentation that slid forward half a foot. The back foot, the bracing foot, never seemed to leave. He looked around and found no other foot prints.

"Then, he lost without much a fight." Kane looked over and saw a stack of wood, all disarrayed. Something inside glimmered with the moonlight, and like an ill omen he walked over, moving the wood on top off to the side with a bit of effort.

"Found you." He said looking down at the severed head of a male human.

[Breaker]

Josh blinked, his sharp mind doing its best to process the new information.

Leonard Silverton, it seemed, was made from more layers than an onion.

To Radasanth at large, he hid behind the guise of a semi-bitter, partially senile war hero. He seldom left his mansion estates on the north edge of Radasanth, appearing in public only to give short speeches at military ceremonies or donate at charity events. Rumors circulated throughout the city that he was close to death and paranoid, that he re-wrote his will each day and slept in a different room each night, always with guards on the other side of the door. Silverton had started these rumors himself, to justify his reclusiveness to the public domain and because he only enjoyed the company of a choice few people. Remembering the way Leon had grinned and tapped his nose when he shared this particular tidbit, Josh suspected that the old man enjoyed deception.

Now like a quick change artist he had thrown off yet another costume; that of the ex-military tactician. Josh’s eyes flashed and one eyebrow arched as he realized how closely attached Silverton was to clandestine affairs in Radasanth.

Kill this old war memorial. Take his head and his information to the Coalition and they’ll put a statue of us outside the Citadel.

Josh’s face turned to stone as he compartmentalized Breaker’s voice. The ranting of his repressed persona only broke through when something truly startled him. Most of the time, he had Breaker sealed off somewhere in a sound proof room in the back of his head.

“Josh… do you know what the Scarlet Brigade is?” Silverton looked almost crestfallen until Cronen responded.
“I know they’re an elite group of warriors shrouded in secrecy. But I also know what that means.” The two men met each other’s gaze. A lesser individual standing in between them might have been fried to a crisp, but the intensity was one of trust between comrades strengthening.

“Assassins.” Josh finished.

Silverton nodded and abruptly wheeled himself out from behind the desk. He collected both glasses and squeaked to the bar. Josh stood up and stretched like a tiger, flexing his back. He strode two steps to the window and looked out. A private hemp plantation stretched for an acre around the house in every direction, deep green bushes taller than a man. Every so often a branch would sway against the gentle breeze, and Josh wondered what was hidden beneath the leafy camouflage. Most likely an equal number of guards and traps, given what I just learned. The east-facing window was wide enough that he could observe both north and southern horizons. To the north beyond the stone wall which surrounded Silverton’s estates rose the mountains. Josh knew that a district of warehouses and a long pier lay between the two impassive stone shapes, but he could not see them due to the height and proximity of the wall. To the south over the same cordon construction he caught a glimpse of the Citadel’s awe-inspiring tower.

The squeaking of the wheelchair subsided, and Josh turned to find Silverton back behind his desk, the glasses back on it, each one a quarter full of the amber liquid. Leon stared at the eddying ripples in his cup until they subsided, until the surface stood still and glassy.

“Some of us were assassins,” the old man admitted. “Not me though. I was always the anchor, the base man. My skills with weapons never quite paralleled my-” a ghoulish grin crinkled his face, adding years to his apparent age- “communications efficiency.” As he continued the story he pushed his glass around the desktop in tiny increments, like a general moving markers of troops across a map.

“The stories I told you were all true, I just left out some key elements. It was Teod Goshawk and another man who carried me out of the harbor in Alerar, holding my guts in with their bare hands. But that is ancient history.” Silverton leaned forward and sniffed the whisky, as if its vintage scent could bring him back to his healthy youth.

“More recently,” he continued, reclining anew and lacing his fingers, “The Brigade became something else entirely. I don’t know all the details, but…”

As words failed him he spun the newspaper across the desk, knocking several less important bits of parchment askew in the process. Josh sat and picked up the obituaries page. For an instant he sensed the dry suppleness of the newsprint and the ink sinking into his skin. Then the adjacent headline hoarded his full attention.


Demon Hellcat Strikes Again!

Found in a back alley of our unsafe city’s northern warehouse district were the separated body and head of one Teod Goshawk. Formerly a Major in the Corone Armed Forces, Goshawk was dishonorably discharged for skimming funds and good from supply trains under his supervision. His whereabouts were unknown until this morning when a CAF patrol found his remains. Based on the claw marks which cover his body in burned flesh, the investigating officers determined Goshawk to have been the eighth known victim of the Hellcat, a man-beast who roams the nighttime streets on a murderous rampage.

Wading through the stiff passive prose, Josh smelled bullshit as surely as if he’d stepped in it. He had made it an intentional habit to not keep up with the news, and as such hadn’t heard of the Hellcat before.

“Why don’t they just toss the bodies in the sea, or burn them?” He asked as casually as if he were critiquing the quality of writing. “Why use this idiotic yet elaborate ruse?”

The knuckles of Silverton’s laced fingers turned a ghostly white in the bright sunlight. His face seemed to take on a reddish tinge.

“Fear,” he said. “That story has run the day after each victim’s death. Each week, they add something new. The Hellcat only preys on individuals alone at night, between the hours of one and four. It prefers the blood of the damned, so the virtuous are safe. Virtuous in this sense meaning those who obey the Empire.” He snorted like a stallion with a spike in its hoof.

“Exactly what happened to the Brigade, I cannot determine. But something caused a schism, and while some of my old comrades deserted, the majority remained. And they’ve become more powerful since then.” He leaned forward, expelling a breath as he tapped the section of the page which specified how the “Demon Hellcat” tore Goshawk’s head off. “None of the men I knew in my day were capable of that. Are you?”

Josh did not respond, hoping the question was rhetorical. He had never tried to rip a man’s head off, but he could break an unsuspecting guard’s neck one-handed. Uncomfortable by the stirred memories of his own violent past, he rose and paced to the window, to the bar, and back again. He felt like a caged animal; he wanted to get out of the office’s calm environment and beat the streets, start the operation Silverton had yet to outline for him. The older man noticed his friend’s restlessness and hastened towards the end.

“It is of no consequence. I need you to find the surviving members of the former Brigade. They are my oldest friends, and they are being picked off one by one. What’s more, their experience will be invaluable to our cause. I need you to find them,” his voice nearly broke with sorrow as he finished, “before the Coalition’s new pet killers.”

Josh nodded a simple symbol of understanding. He strode to the desk and stooped forward, reaching out as if to shake Silverton’s hand. The two clasped arms instead, a soldier’s greeting and farewell. Then Leon opened one of his desk drawers and pulled out a slim leather folder.

“All the intelligence I have is in these documents. It isn’t very much, but it’s a place to start. If you need anything…”

Josh was already halfway out the door, but he turned and met the older man’s gaze with an equally solemn look.

“Don’t worry, I know the right people to ask.”

The door swept shut, and Leonard Silverton bowed his head in prayer.

[Requiem of Insanity]

It was getting steadily harder and harder for Kane to keep his eyes opened as one foot dragged, skidding across the ground kicking up dirt as the foot stopped before him, the other foot repeating the process. He felt like a shambling zombie, and his stomach made a squealing noise. His hand instinctively moved to his belly, rubbing the area where it gurgled as if the gesture would help him.

“If you can’t even move Kane, you might as well rest.” the inner darkness taunted. “It’s not as if hellish nightmares beyond the mortal imagination wait for you.” The parasite’s casual demeanor belied the intended threat, and as Kane’s lips parted to groan the dark companion laughed in sadistic glee, making Kane roll his eyes in defeat.

In truth, Kane hadn’t been able to have a decent night’s rest the day the two became one. Each night he would have a simple dream, a woman or man who always kept changing were tied naked to a table, and a set of polished silver knives were stacked neatly on the table to the right. Each night Kane would feel himself drifting closer and closer, and after a week’s worth of dreams he reached the knives, grabbing them and picking them up. When he turned to the victims he found himself upon the table, looking up at him with powerful eyes of sorrow and remorse.

These night’s the dreams was him actually cutting into himself in the same manner that Cassandra would cut into her victims; his own body trying to reason with him. Kane at first thought they were simple nightmares, tricks of the twisted beast within him, but then he began to realize that the dreams were more than a mere dream, but a simple warning. Each night he failed to bring Cassandra back, another piece of his sanity would be torn from him, cut away like a prized meat. Until he could save her, bring her back and lose this dark passenger, he would eventually lose himself completely.

Kane looked around as the people starred at him like he were some freak. A woman stopped in her tracks, her lips opening in awe as she hurriedly adjusted her course to make a wide berth for him to move by with. He figured he looked like hell from all the rigorous traveling, but when he saw himself in the reflection of a building window he was able to take stock of just how far he was falling.

His hair was more than unkempt, it was standing straight out on end as if he had seen a ghost, his eyes were sunken and full of sleepless wrinkles and he was as shaggy as a dog with the beard he had yet to cut in over a week. His skin was growing paler, as if he was sick and he noticed he had lost a considerable amount of weight. “What are you doing to me?” Kane whispered in wonder. The parasite's only reply was a chuckle.

Kane hurried his steps forward, finding the nearest hostel and ripping the doors open with both hands making a dramatic entrance as his feet pounded upon the red carpet. He didn’t bother to look at the glossed red cherry wood walls covered in art of battles of Radansath the great and his nameless knights as they fought. He turned a corner sharply, his face getting peppered with green leaves from a baby palm tree, and he grabbed the tree by the stalk and tossed it aside out of his way, causing the dirt in the pot to litter the floor like a swarm of ants. He stumbled forward, dropping to one knee before his chest heaved as he hit the counter.

“Excuse me, sir!” The counter clerk said in a startled manner. Kane looked to the man with pleading eyes.

“Please, I’ll pay anything you want, but I need a room right this second with a warm bath drawn up and a razor blade for shaving set up.” Kane’s voice cracked in stress, and he fumbled trying to find his coin bag. The clerk eyed him with suspicion, and he shook his head in pity as he looked at his list.

“You can’t honestly expect after the scene you just made that a fine establishment such as the Badger’s Hall would grant-” Kane found the bag pulling out a handful of his gold coins he inherited off Cassandra’s bag of tricks.

“I’ll pay for the damage to the damned plant!” He cursed cutting off the clerk, his choler rising, eyes narrowing in pleading. “Please, just give me a room!” He said slamming the coins on the counter, making a few skid off to the side and off the black marbled top. The man jumped back in alarm at the sudden display of irritation, and he folded up his papers ready to leave. But as he took one last look into Kane’s eyes he felt an overwhelming rush of guilt fall upon his head.

“Very well, sir.” He said pulling up a room contract as he grabbed a set of keys. Kane sighed in relief as he slumped down, his head resting on the counter top.

What’s happening to me? Kane thought miserably. Why am I so startled and afraid? Cassandra’s dark companion only laughed at his predicament, his wails of mirth echoing his ears as the transaction completed. Kane took the key and went to his room without a word as he tried his best to push the image of his own reflection out of his mind.

But the more he tried to push it away, the more the dark passenger pushed to keep it at the fore of his mind.

[Breaker]

The darkness hung heavy with the scent of mildew, pressing in from all sides. Cronen strode down the long tunnel which he had entered through Silverton’s subbasement. Engineers had carved the passage deep into the bedrock so that it snaked beneath Radasanth’s sewer systems. The walls perspired like the skin of a clay golem, glistening in the light of torches affixed to sturdy supports at each corner. Keeping his keen eyes fixed on that next dancing light, he felt like a horse wearing blinders. The lack of external stimuli allowed the turmoil within to run rampant. In the darkness beneath the surface, he could not quell Breaker’s demonic voice.

With Silverton out of the way the Rangers won’t stand a chance. We’ll make his manor our headquarters, and from there we’ll be untouchable. The defenses he’s built up over the years, this tunnel, that list of high ranking nobles who are traitors to the state… fuck democracy, fuck the Viceroys, fuck the Coalition! We’ll give them just enough play then tie them in knots with the cord. Joshua Breaker Cronen, first King of Corone. Imagine having the Armed Forces at our disposal! The things we could do…

Josh tried to empty his mind, but Breaker filled the resulting void. His steps echoed on the dense stone floor as he lost the focus to silence them. He could feel Breaker’s claw-like hands groping at his mind, fighting for control over the body they shared. The sociopath scrabbled like a feral cat trying to scratch through a wall of rock. But each time he grabbed Josh felt a pang of pain like the beginnings of a migraine. In his mind he slid down a slippery slope towards an unseen abyss below. No matter how he rolled and turned, hammered at the ground with hands and elbows, or reached for something to grasp, his speed always increased. He could not stop, could not slow the descent. The abyss was his mind, and if he fell into it he would be trapped while Breaker controlled his body. The bastard would ruin every righteous thing he had worked to achieve.

Move your thoughts away from his madness… think about the job, focus on the job!

Josh had taken the time to scan the contents of the thin folder then returned it to Silverton’s receptionist, having committed it to memory. The few facts drew themselves a list in his mind’s eye, and as he analyzed each one in turn, Breaker gave up with a vengeful growl and receded to the recesses of his subconscious, disgusted by the linear thinking.

Silverton only had the names of three men he knew for certain had defected from the Scarlet Brigade. Terr Bellfounder, Dwight Smith, and Corbin Tanner had all escaped the Coalition’s clutches together. Tanner had visited Silverton soon afterwards, sharing what little he knew and accepting a tidy sum of gold to go into hiding. He had left nothing but the name of a tavern where the details of his whereabouts might be gathered. In a case of dire emergency only, he had specified. Josh ran a hand along the slick tunnel wall as he rounded a corner. He felt the heat of the torch on his cheek, the sickly warm sweat from the wall on his palm. He did not know or care if the present circumstances qualified as an emergency by Tanner’s standards. He had a name and a location, and little else to go on. And an insatiable need to move forward, to race towards the goal, to never find himself sliding down that slippery slope again.

Swill from the Sloop. The formless tavern which was nothing but a name became his destination. There, he could find clues to the next step in a staircase which climbed towards freeing Corone. As his breathing regulated and his steps became silent once more, the tunnel turned gradually uphill. Swill from the Sloop stood in a ghetto on Radasanth’s south side, and the exit at the end would let him out in the basement of an abandoned factory building just two blocks away.

[Requiem of Insanity]

Kane watched as the water in the tub filled, silently amazed at the engineering in the works to get running water from a faucet like this. Most hotels have baths filled and checked every hour so long as someone pays the tab. He gently moved his hand over to the running water, feeling the warmth against his skin and letting that tingling feeling wash over him. He stripped down and poked a few cautionary toes into the water before he immersed himself into the water, dunking his head and leaving it under for a few moments before gasping thrashing his hair back and letting it slap against his back.

He began to bathe himself as he thought about the mission at hand, calculating and discerning possible locations for the beast to go. He had no choice but go back out after his bath, because time was too precious to squander. He looked to his left and pulled the dolly of shaving supplies over, taking the brush and whisk lathering up his beard. He looked into the mirror, focusing his attention only on his beard, too afraid to look at the horror he was slowly becoming.

He reached over and felt his hand upon the razor, slowly picking it up taking a cautionary look at it. Back when Cassandra was alive he would cut himself when ever a social experience was too much for him handle. His eyes looked upon his wrists and saw the scars of his hated existence with her. Yet he also felt an overwhelming desire to take that razor and cut himself deeply, to calm his nerves and lower his heart rate. Blood was calming, soothing to him. It was easy to cut away the pain.

He violently shook his head away from the negative train of thoughts. He lifted the razor, and carefully began to shave himself, making sure not to nick himself. It took a while to finish the whole beard, leaving only a goatee that pointed on his chin. He took the blade and wrapped the length of his hair up, before he chopped it so his hair was shorter again. It would be less likely to stick straight up anymore. Just to be sure he decided upon buying some gel later and using that to hold it in place.

His eyes looked at the wrinkled mess before him, and he shuddered in fear as he saw what was slowly happening to him. With a heavy sigh he got out of the tub, grateful that during the entire time the twisted ambition's of Cassandra remained quiet. He wiped his face with the towel extra long, enjoying the feeling of the threaded cotton. After he was done he dressed into fresh clothes. A simple black long sleeved vlince top with black denim pants. It was a perfect outfit for somebody going out on a date, or in his case to hunt.

He walked towards the bed, seeing the inviting warmth it offered, and he was about to run a testing hand over the surface when suddenly something uncoiled around his heart and flooded his body with a feeling of dread. His mind flashed images of the nightmares he had been having, and he pulled his hand back in terror. He retreated back to the bathroom, looking into the mirror and seeing the top of his hairs start to rise on end. The flesh on his arms started to raise and he slammed a fist upon the marble surface, cursing to himself.

"You trash!" He seethed, slamming another fist into the counter top. "You parasite! What are you doing to me!" The darkness within him only laughed, mocking him as it came to the fore of his mind.

"Whatever do you mean, Kane?" it mused, causing Kane to growl his frustrations as he glared at his chest.

"Knock off the crap! What are these dreams, and why do I look like I just had the shit scared out of me every time you surface?" The twisted lover of Cassandra stirred within his body, as if contemplating its answer before it stopped around his heart, constricting it gently.

"Those dreams are just my way of letting you know that you are running out of time. The creatures of the shadows like myself feed off the fear and terror of those around us. The screams and wails of terror amuse us and we grow from those pitiful cries. But our fill isn't sated for long, and we grow hungry." Kane remained quiet, absorbing this information.

"Cassandra's urges...it's been you the whole time?" He asked curiously. The darkness chuckled in response.

"She's far more talented than to have me point her in the right direction. Her urges are her own volition. I never have wanted for anything when I was with her. No, those dark desires are hers and hers alone. But the meals I get from the victims she tortures...Manufyk!" It pursed out the sound of a kiss before laughing wildly, making him shiver in dread.

"So then, what's happening here?" Kane asked looking at his hair and seeing the gray patches.

"In order to get the nourishment I need I'll make the host I share with suffer, making him feel terror and dread as I suck away his own sanity. This is why we stalk in the darkness, waiting to find someone with similar tendencies or a weak enough mind to corrupt. For those who don't have it in them they suffer the effects of insanity. It's like as if a monster lurked within, and you can't ever escape it until you feed us. One way or another." It laughed again, making Kane cringe as he turned away, grabbing his satchel of things and walking out the door locking it.

He thought about the signs in his dream, and he realized if he didn't find the way to bring Cassandra back soon, he'll lose his sanity forever. That information was more unsettling the brooding chuckles and twisted laughter that pounded his ears as he walked, and scared him far more than the demented dreams he was afflicted with.

[Rayleigh]

Thread: Scarlet Brigade We Are Not (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?19220-Scarlet-Brigade-We-Are-Not)
Participants: Requiem of Insanity & Breaker
Type: No Judgment

Congratulations!

Requiem of Insanity receives:
580 EXP
50 GP

Breaker receives:
800 EXP
50 GP

[Rayleigh]

All EXP and GP have been added!

Congratulations on level 9, Requiem!