In the wake of the Blood Rites revisited (open battle)

[Chelsi]

Because I posted with the wrong account, without further adeux, Maxwell Faust ladies and gentlement!

[Maxwell Faust]

One-hundred years ago, Elder Jandolla Faust strode into the open plains and waited there for three days before being set upon by a small, but confident tribe of bandits. He attacked them on sight, not a single thought of worry in his confident mind. Several minutes later, each one of the brigands lay dead... or dying.

Fifty years ago, Vionel Faust, armed only with the Faust family rapier, descended from Avantasia and walked North for two days, then stopped and retraced his steps. A peasant would later tell a tale of the road North of Avantasia, completely bereft of life. Men, elves, and orcs alike, all bled out their final minutes in Vionel's path of destruction.

Both men returned to their manor when the bloodlust had come to an end, completely sated, and there they waited, content to watch, and wait for the next heir, Maxwell, go forth and blaze his own trail of destruction that would mark him as the new heir to the Faust Manor.

Neither man lived to see that day.

But that day came regardless. Maxwell Faust, armed with the sword of his father, and father before him, strode North, with a purposeful step. It was as if nature itself knew of Maxwell's venture, and no creature stirred, no merchant walked the road to Avantasia.

Smiling, Maxwell considered how much anticipation for blood would cause his adrenaline to flow through his veins when he saw his objective on the horizon. He had even left his horse in the stables that day, planning on reveling in the kill alone, no living creature to be found for miles.

The nature of the Faust blood-rite was to isolate ones self until exhaustion took over. There would be no sleeping, no resting. Not until the blood-rite was completed.

Maxwell was the heir to Faust manor by default, after his father and grandfather passed. But that wasn't enough. It had to be set in stone. He had to complete the rite of passage.

Maxwell Faust stalked North, waiting for the first victim to be taken in the wake of the Faust bloodlust.

[Molotov]

“I bloody love this place,” Molotov muttered. He didn’t know if he believed it, but he said it none the less. Not withstanding the apparent contradiction of his statement, the mutant sat on a rock, rather despondently, as he looked on towards the road towards Avantasia. The mutant had been journeying there for the past few days, not for any particular reason, but because he was genuinely bored. He’d heard a few things about the kingdom, least of which to mention was their inbred line of succession, and while the mutant didn’t doubt that most of the stories were untrue, he couldn’t help but imagine the place being a bit entertaining.

Molotov heard someone coming. He snickered out loud. “On this road?” he thought. “At this time?” It was late afternoon, the kind of time when most people would be eating their dinners in this part of the world. Plus, Molotov hadn’t seen even a single merchant heading towards Avantasia all day. Now, the first person he heard from seemed to be heading the other way.

“Maybe I should take that as a sign…” Molotov joked dryly to himself. He was truly just looking for entertainment. He and his asperi had been flying around the world lately, shiftlessly as they bided their time to the Cell. Soon enough, Molotov would go to the Citadel for a training battle and then head to one of Althanas’ goriest tournaments. Until that point, the mutant had no idea as to what he should be doing. Avantasia had represented something unique. It was a place where the flamboyant dresser had let to leave a mark.

Cocktail, the black asperi, whinnied. The horse hated other people, particularly ones who were unknowns. Perhaps that was why the steed and the mutant got along so well. Their misanthropic tendencies and love for solitude meshed well with each other. However, every time they heard the sound of a threat, they were immediately on the same page again.

“Follow me,” Molotov instructed the steed. The mutant made no effort to reach for one of his weapons, be it the tungsten rod or the flaming adze, but it was clear that Molotov expected a challenge. His muscles were taut and his hands were kept loosely by his side, as if he expected that he might need to do something quickly.

Fact of the matter was, Molotov almost wanted it to be some kind of troublemaker or a thief. While he had given up on his murderous ways, the mutant certainly still enjoyed a bit of violence in situations where it was merited. Given the monotony of traveling to Avantasia, the idea of a fight seemed particularly appealing.

However, once Molotov caught a glimpse of the man coming down the road towards him, he sighed disappointedly. Cocktail flared his nostrils as well.

“It’s just some bloody ponce,” Molotov muttered. “No one worth fighting…”