Exertus Contemno MMVI - Incipio Trucido Aeternus

[Damion Shargath]

[Closed.]

A rope lassoed over unto a dock stilt, squeaking as it tightened. The water silently plashed against the stilts of the neglected dock, gently rocking a small wooden boat parked at its side. Seagulls screamed through the hazy evening air, twirling, spinning, and flipping playfully. The fiery orange light of the setting sun dramatically cast the western face of the humongous fortress city ablaze. Another hard day’s work had just ended for the occupants of the cloistral fortress up ahead. Here and there boulders protruded like ulcers from lush green spots of grass, likewise beige as the actual cloister itself. At the elevation’s peak stood that gigantic cloister, at its foot a small city bustling with evening activity. A true masterpiece of gothic architecture, it stood atop a mountain protruding from the midst of the sea, reaching skywards. This was a location truly divine, if one were to not find better words. There was not a single sin committed within its walls, not a single impurity gracing its streets beyond. Everything seemed in order, almost too perfect. The reason why was more than obvious, in Damion Shargath’s opinion that is. Like the sword of Damocles the colossal cloister hovered above the small city with its many inns and pubs, forcing them to submit to the religious dictatorship such a massive building radiated – threatening any behavior related obliquity to be punished with the most inhumane of methods.



Greetings dear Comrade’s in Darkness,

You who receive this letter have been chosen to partake in one of this world’s greatest beginnings. Each of you has been observed over a fair amount of time, maybe some of you never noticed whilst others possibly knew all along. I speak to you, not as a higher entity, not as a superior, but as a comrade. All of you that receive this letter share either an alliance or a common interest with me, Damion Shargath.

With this invitation I give you the chance to partake in the so called “Exertus Contemno MMVI”. You are, so to say, the finest blades of the lot – but in order to reveal a blade’s true quality it must undergo a test. The quest I have arranged for us to venture could prove us to be the most powerful and determined that walk these lands, or it could prove that we have wasted our time be it that we are struck down by the blade of the holy. Yes, Holy. That very word must strike a few of you directly in the heart, of that I am more than certain. Yet, I herewith give you the chance to prove yourself as one of the best, the chance to fight what you hate.

Now to the details…

On the fifth day latter to receiving of this letter we shall meet at the northern Corone docks. From there on we will be taking a ship to the Abbaye Sea at the border between Tular and Alerar. Before entering the shallow canal’s of the rivers though, we shall continue with a smaller boat to the center of the sea. In the center of that very water body is a rather large mountain. To our luck, a massive fortress has been built upon it. The fortress walls encircle the entire island, and at its peak stands erect a most impressive cloister. Our mission is to eliminate every living soul upon that very island, our mission is to taint the very hallowed halls atop, our mission is to make the fortress ours.

I hope to see you all there.

Travel in Darkness Friends,
Damion Shargath


“I can offer ye beds within the Hag Draggles Inn, there are still plenty of rooms vacant there…” A fat, short, bold man wearing but a brown robe and sandals suggested as he observed a group of five rather suspicious silhouettes stepping unto the dock boards.

The foremost snickered and started towards what seemed to be a monk, “I have a better idea…”

Short seconds later a spine chilling sound of tearing flesh shot through the air. The stout man peered down at his throat with wide eyes. He seemingly tried to scream, but all that emitted his throat was the gurgling noise of blood which had gathered in the back of his mouth. With a likewise gruesome noise the halberdier retracted his halberd with a forceful tug. Bloodied shards of skin and veins hung from the serrated blade of his weapon, half a tongue from the foremost spike on the blunt side of its blade. With an acknowledging sigh the halberdier concluded that he had probably struck one of his victim’s main arteries. The ragged monk fell to his knees and clutched his throat, in vain. At first the blood began to seethe slowly through the abbot’s fingers, though only shortly before it began to spray profusely into all directions. Moments later the murderer stood richly speckled with crimson from head to toe.

Sadly, I can’t waste my time with you…more than anything I’d love to tear you limb from limb, believe me. Slowly, agonizingly, painfully, one string of flesh after the other…skin you alive…strangle you with your own guts…and just before you die, in the last moment of your very life I would grab the excrements that will have gathered in your trousers and shove them into your face…but, I sadly don’t possess the luxury of time…, Damion muttered below his breath, probably not even audible, in his mind though the words danced so lively as if being screamed.

The man cringed together, whimpering, his lips stammering some sort of soundless prayer. What followed was a forceful kick to the cowering monk’s head. With a bone crushing thud Damion tore the man from his floor-bound position and lifted him into the air. A line of blood followed the poor man almost artistically through the air before he plunged into the water.
With a widening grin the sickeningly violent man shook the organic matter from his murder tool. The severed bits of the monk flew into the reddened water beside the dock with a plop, drops of blood still following through the air.

Like the first daubs of color on a white canvas, the illustration of chaos was beginning to take shape.

Silhouettes, a group of five now stood elbow to elbow upon the wooden floorboards of a lone dock. In the middle stood the murderous figure with soiled armor, around him four at least equally dangerous supplements to the group. To his right stood a human slightly taller than himself, his long black hair swaying in the breeze. To Damion’s left was a flamboyantly dressed individual with a rather original hairstyle, an ally he had won recently throughout a tournament dubbed “The Cell”. To the left most extremity of the group stood a cloaked figure, the wind tugging and whirling it’s concealment about. Then finally to mention, a figure with flowing long hair stood tall to the far right. An aura of darkness and power alike radiated from the silver haired one’s filigree body.

“We’ll have the whole place if you don’t mind…” Damion maniacally laughed, “…come to think of it I don’t think there’s much that you can do about it!”

Slowly an armored boot stepped forth from the group, crimson streaks running downwards to the ground glinting in the sunlight. It had begun.

[Witchblade]

It cannot be seen but there’s blood on the green
Only God knows I’m innocent
Take me, take me home
A dark seed reigns in me like the storm rules over the sea
I challenge thee, do not cross this bridge alone*



Sadly, I can’t waste my time with you…more than anything I’d love to tear you limb from limb, believe me. Slowly, agonizingly, painfully, one string of flesh after the other…skin you alive…strangle you with your own guts…and just before you die, in the last moment of your very life I would grab the excrements that will have gathered in your trousers and shove them into your face…but, I sadly don’t possess the luxury of time…, Damion muttered below his breath.

Sensitive hearing came in handy and a slow smile spread over Witch’s lips as she listened to the words of her new leader. She didn’t know what to make of the man yet, he was after all human, even if he had just slain another of his own kind in front of her face in a rather gruesome and horribly satisfying way. He was still just a human and that part of her mind wanted him dead as much as he wanted the monk before them dead.

Fortunately, she was better at controlling her impulses than her new leader, if not, he might resemble the pathetic human lying in a pool of his own blood. She was not as poetic as he was in the way of killing people though. Never would she even dream of touching the filthy excrements of some human even for the satisfaction of shoving them in the human’s face. She would rather slowly gut the person and watch vital organs and blood slowly ooze out of a long incision in the stomach.

Still, he seemed capable, he seemed strong…and he seemed slightly insane. All good things to have in a leader. But could she actually fall complacently into line behind this human and take orders issued from his mouth without wanting to rip his lips off and shove them down his throat before ripping that open with her claws? Well, that she’d just have to wait and see. Only time would tell.

The others in the group did little to interest her, human, human, human, mutant and one elf. Oh, yes she was in great company to keep the annoying little voice in her head at bay, just wonderful company. Why the hell had she even agreed to come on little outing to take over a freaking cloister of monks? It’s not like she needed a cloister anyway, what was she going to do with it, decorate it? At the time it had seemed like a good idea and she’d had nothing better do. Plus, she was curious as to how this human had been watching her actions without her even knowing. She was not one to be easily spied upon but she had recently been involved in a tournament. The Cell, he could have seen her fight there, not that she’d been able to show off her true potential. Those of the Cages had been good battles.

It was interesting to think that he had picked her and a handful of others for this undertaking. She didn’t know what was so special within herself and the others that lined this dock that made them appropriate accomplices for this little bit of carnage. She didn’t even know what would motivate a person to want to take over such a place.

Stepping away from the group and through the glistening puddle of blood, leaving a trail of footprints as she walked a few paces away from the others looking at the cloister ahead of them. One down, a few more hundred to go. At least she would finally get the chance to use her blade the way it was meant to be used. It had been so long since she’d fought for the sake of fighting and since she’d killed for the sake of killing.

Oh, yes, this was definitely going to be fun.

“You’re teaming up with filthy humans again.”

Witch sighed as that ever persistent voice of hers came to the forefront of her thoughts.

“Oh, no…I have teamed up with a few dreaded humans, a mutant and an elf to completely destroy a freaking cloister of monks.” She mocked it.

For once the voice of The Malice within her did not respond to that.

“Just keeping your f*cking comments to yourself.”

The halfling could feel The Malice retreating to the corners of her mind, where it would sit and wait for the next opportunity to try and take her over. Right now it was done talking, one less noise to worry about, one less annoyance. All she had to do now was keep The Malice in check while she ran around destroying an entire village, which was not going to be easy. That thing fed off blood and destruction and this was only going to add fuel to its fire.

A slight rustling noise started coming from within the halfling’s rucksack. The sides of it visibly moving as something within it began to awaken. After a few seconds, the top of the rucksack flopped down and the head of a baby dragon with blinking, huge black eyes popped out and yawned. Shaking himself, the little white dragon placed two claws paws on the halfling’s shoulder and hoisted himself up, looking around at his new surroundings and then down at the pool of blood now behind Witchblade.

He eyes also traveled from each individual standing on the docks and Witch swore she could see a smile light his face when he perceived her new ‘leader’ all decked out in shiny armor, the front of which was dripping the monk’s blood.

“Good morning, Daegun.”

It was well into the afternoon.

The little dragon gave out a cute little cry before stretching out his wings and then jumping down from her shoulder and through the puddle of blood, leaving a trail of footprints on his way to Damion. Turning back around, the halfling watched from the shadows of her hood as Daegun raced over on all fours to Damion and sat by his legs, his thick tail wagging back and forth like a dog. When Damion did nothing at first, Daegun let out a small cry and placed his front paws on his legs, claws sliding against the armor creating bloodied paw smudges and making him fall back on all fours again. He only pushed against his leg again.

Witch watched as a smirk cracked over the face of the human, “Nice pet…”

Eyes narrowing, the halfling wasn’t sure if that was sarcasm or if he actually meant it. Her little dragon was going to have to stop being attracted to shiny, pretty things some time soon. Especially when those shiny, pretty things rested on someone who would probably kill him without a second’s thought.

“Daegun, come back.”

The little dragon looked from her to Damion, gave a small cry then raced back over her. Kneeling down, Witch let Daegun climb back up onto her shoulder. She wasn’t sure if she wanted her dragon here for all the carnage that was about to begin, but what else could she do with him? She didn’t want to leave him in Corone by himself, who knows what kind of trouble he would get into and it’s not like she knew of any dragons she could leave him with. Her only option had been to take him with her and hope the little fellow didn’t get himself killed in the process.

She’d really miss him if he died.

(*Blind Guardian – Battlefield)

[Storm Veritas]

Will they be any better than any other group? Why should they stay together where the Brothers failed, or the Bandits fell? Why would you believe that some would come for you, some would stand by you, and believe in you? Why would they have you, but to use your skills and your money?

The questions raced through his brain as he peered out over the ocean, the boat aside them the vessel of choice. The group was quite the hodgepodge of people, all powerful but none terribly known. Aside from him, of course. The scourge of Radasanth was a long way from being able to return, as he had long since gotten sick of dodging crossbow bolts and slaying somewhat innocent cops. Besides, there was no pay for him in Corone, let alone Radasanth. The well had dried, and it was time for him to move on.

To the bigger and better, I suppose. Lord help me.

The water crashed hard into the dock at this, a sort of mocking laughter. Whatever god, God, or Gods there were upon Althanas would have nothing to do with the likes of Storm Veritas. The sun which set painted his face a haze of orange and reds and yellows, as if exposing the façade of a man it irradiated. He was, after all, a hollow being, diplomatic and chivalrous on a surface that masked a sinister and selfish core. While he justified his actions as merely the best possible means to his well intentioned end, the lie had long since lost steam even as he told it to himself.

He stood now, hair pulled back and suit cropped perfectly. A small handbag with a second suit and some gold, as well as a few miscellaneous travel items remained on the ship behind them. Razor, toothbrush, comb, soap. Vanity had no friends amongst the sea-faring, and Storm acknowledged that he was glad to no longer have to hunker down to the same pedestrian shirt and pant getup that the plebe-class wore upon the ship.

The same clothes as those 3-coin a day retards. Might as well hand me a goddamned banjo and ask me to scrub the deck. F*ck sailing.

The invitation was still in his hand, crumpled and withered but legible. This Damion fellow had balls, recruiting a man such as himself to an endeavor upon the sea. Sword-ready or not, Storm wouldn’t hesitate to pop the boat into flames, a few quick flickers away from his fingertips and the entire crew would be at his mercy. He’d make a terrible enemy, but a powerful ally. Should this group really wish to entrust him with their lives, they were gaining a man who would do nearly anything to promote the cause.

He closed his fist around the letter, knuckles popping and forearm muscles twining. Leaning forward at the group, eying the woman from the Cell and her bizarre little lizard thing, he smiled at Damion and gestured to the land, that far too perfect little city. Devoid of sin and disturbance, it was a lamb before the wolves. He was a beast, and he was ready.

It was time for the dogs of war to feast.

[Elrundir]

The island was so beautiful, such a paragon of holiness. The rays of sun that shone through the clouds were nothing less than the fingers of a god brushing against his beloved children. It was a euphoric sight, enough to instill courage in the fearful and love in the heartless. It makes me sick, the elf thought, grimacing. The monastery to which the monks belonged crowned the island like the mighty Excalibur, its peak reaching toward the sky as if trying to touch that loving god back. All around him Elrundir could feel the forces of life permeating the air. He was painfully aware of the monks in their little homes, pubs, and inns, all blissfully unaware of the fate that would soon befall them.

The plan was simple and chaotic, and Elrundir liked that. He didn’t know how he had been tracked down, but when he read the note, he was impressed. Our mission is to eliminate every living soul upon that very island, the human had said. It was enough to pique the interest of the taint within Elrundir, which had infected him so many moons ago in the blood-red forest of Raiaera during a purification-gone-wrong. Ah, but his next words rang so much truer: Our mission is to taint the very hallowed halls atop. The promise was better than any money or treasure that could have been provided in its stead. Nothing could convince the taint better than the chance to spread.

You mustn’t do this, the voice within him demanded. The taint merely scoffed inwardly. The real Elrundir was an arrogant, superior ass, but he was in no way prepared to carry out a deed as heinous as this. The taint had no intention of listening to his warning anyway. They were the desperate words of a prisoner who sought redemption and freedom – gifts that the taint handed out sparingly. Watch me, came the response. Its voice was darker altogether, for it belonged to a creature whose purpose was to strike fear in the fearless and hate in those who loved.

Elrundir stood silently aside and examined their leader, as he called himself. He was such a young human, barely an infant by elven standards, and several millennia younger than Elrundir at least. Even so, there was such a glimmer of darkness within that young heart. A brilliant, surrounding blackness that may have just been enough to suffocate the light of this temple and its patrons. Elrundir could feel the malice coursing through him. There was greed and arrogance and cruelty all wrapped into one human package – it was breathtaking.

And those that Damion had assembled before him were of no lesser ilk. The elf could feel it pulsing through them as well. He closed his eyes and let it wash over him. It was refreshing, like a wave of cool air on a warm day. Oh, how each of them wished to feast! His black heart quivered at the very thought of it. So many lives would be lost today, so many threads cut. Their hungers would indeed be sated.

Elrundir’s eyes opened again as he heard the blood-curdling gargle of one whose throat had been severed. The poor innkeeper was spraying his innards all over Damion, filling the air with a fine red mist. The elf adored the sight of blood – and yet, of course, he blocked any that strayed his way with his mind. Blood was such a terrible thing to have to wash out of one’s clothes, after all.

A cute, piercing chirp resounded through the air, directing Elrundir’s attention skyward. Another grin came to his lips, and he lifted his right hand delicately to allow the source of the sound to land. A blood-red cardinal alighted on his forefinger, which the elf drew closer to his face; she made as if preening his cheek for a moment before he lifted her away again.

“Ah, you thirst for blood, my sweet,” he spoke quietly. His voice was practiced and refined, like that of an elven bard, but it was laced with and masked a rasping darkness that belonged to the taint within. The cardinal chirped cheerfully in response. “Don’t we all, Rouge, don’t we all?”

Red wings fluttered and carried the small bird off his hand and onto his shoulder. Elrundir lowered his arm and faced forward, glancing only sidelong at their leader while the rest of his attention was focused on the island that stretched out before them. They needed only one command now and their rage would descend upon the unsuspecting monks. The group assembled was a maelstrom, and soon the tranquility of the abbey would be thrown to their winds.

[Molotov]

Molotov looked at the rest of the group and at once felt like he didn’t belong. The mutant had at times even found his alliance with Damion Shargath strained, and the rest of these people seemed to agree with the Salvarian when it came to killing. Molotov would kill, he had killed in the past and had every intention of killing in the future. However, Molotov no longer murdered. There would be a good number of civilians that would be involved in this battle, and Molotov truly feared for them.

However, Molotov remained silent and smoked. He was dressed less flamboyantly than usual, though it was out of necessity. Any adventure involving pillage often lead to villages in flames. Though he loved his spiked trench coat, the dragon scale cloak provided considerably more protection for this occasion.

“This is going to be bloody,” Molotov said. His voice seemed completely empty. The mutant looked down at the monk, and wasn’t sure what to think. With the exception of the holy men of Shanleh, Molotov had grown to hate practically every group of clergy in existence. He would shed no tears for this dead, but the brutality that Damion had used was far too excessive in Molotov’s opinion. Even during his days as a murderer, even when Molotov had reveled in his kills, he had always shown some sense of humanity. He wondered if this was true with Damion.

Molotov may have been the only one in the group with an ulterior motive. Unlike the others who were going for kills and conquests, whatever their reasons were for desiring those, Molotov had a secondary role that would likely take primary significance. Though there were just six people in Damion’s party, they were all particularly powerful. Molotov knew that for sure, for they wouldn’t have been invited otherwise. Damion Shargath was hardly the kind of man who invited a warrior into his party merely out of charity.

Thus, Molotov knew that whatever battles there were, they were going to be particularly facile. A former finalist in the Gisela, Molotov could already imagine the way a strategic leader would prepare this battle. First, people like Molotov would rain down their spells, causing enough havoc that no one would have their wits about them for defense. Then, it would be time to swoop down on the warriors, and end the battle quickly. That would be when Molotov’s work was just beginning. He would swoop down into the village and escort out refugees while killing was left up to the rest. It was a small deed of goodness, but Molotov was only mortal and perhaps not capable of all that much better.

Molotov exhaled. He had unwittingly taken a particularly generous drag of his cigarette, and now it burned on the exhale. However, the mutant shuddered to think of what was happening to him. Mara Jade had infected him with one of his most life altering mutations yet. It was the Tesla mutation, the power of electricity with a particularly more deadly price than the lightning serum that had killed Jennie Stormer. This mutation could corrupt the soul, and having only recently cleansed himself, Molotov felt like he couldn’t afford to let himself go any farther. With those somber thoughts, he sighed and glanced towards his left hand. There was a thin gold vein running down it, the sign of the mutation he had received from Mara Jade. He wished he had thought to bring some kind of a glove, but if the mutation took hold of him it would be practically pointless. It could infect him like ivy and change the color of his whole body if he gave it half the chance. Merely being around this much death was a risk. It almost felt like the gold vein was tingling already merely at the sight of what Damion had done.

None the less, there he was, standing on a dock with the future in his hands. Though he wasn’t normally prone to fancy, Molotov couldn’t help but wonder about the first settlers who had landed where he now stood. They had probably come to the place when it was pristine, their souls so full of hope. It had all been tainted, far before Molotov had set foot on the dock. The settlers themselves had sullied it, taken nature’s bounty and turned it into all kinds of convoluted social institutions.

It was a crime worthy of death, sure enough. However, Molotov had his doubts over whether he was the fitting executioner. A world with him in charge would have likely been little better. Of all people, Molotov should know. The former Gisela finalist had once promised an army world domination. He knew the kind of disutopia he had planned. Perhaps as a result of this carnage, someone would start anew and build something better, perhaps not. If they didn’t, it would just be another cycle. Someone builds, someone tears down.

Molotov sighed. “Bloody hell,” he thought. “Just thinking about this is turning me into a sodded poet…”

He tried to smile, but was largely unwilling. At this point, Molotov hoped that he wouldn’t feel as vacant as he did now by the end of the battle. His cigarette was over, the fate was about to take its course.

In the background, Molotov’s asperi whinnied. “Shut up,” Molotov demanded. He liked the silence. The dogs of war best feasted upon emptiness.

[Damion Shargath]

“Onwards.” Damion replied after commenting on the small dragon creature at his legs in a tone rather indefinable.

“To answer questions that might arise with time…” Damion began as the group passed through the city gates, “Anyone with half a mind would suggest we casually walk into the cloister and surprise attack from within. There is, though, a large problem with that strategy – and as I don’t want to waste your precious brain power I will explain directly. Given the fact that we know not if there are armed forces in the fortress city, we run the high risk of being cornered from all sides within the bat of an eyelash.”

Damion stopped and began to hand out blueprints and maps of the cloistral fortress to his allies. The blood on his cheeks had begun to crumble from his skin as he spoke. Crimson streaks running down his armor had become immobile decorations, dried by the evening sun.

“Molotov, you are to take the eastern flank of the city. I suppose working alone under such circumstances will suit you best…” Damion remarked with a witting smile, “Simply follow the red line marked on your map, you will then most likely meet up with Witchblade and myself. Elrundir, I ask you to accompany Storm as you cleanse the western section of the city of all life – following the red line on your map will take you directly to the rest of us soon enough. Witchblade and I will clean out the middle of the city, now…let us begin, may hatred give you the strength to prevail. Let damnation rain upon these fools, and their blood upon this very floor! We are to be their Armageddon!”

An elderly, slender monk, tall of build walked towards them tugging uneasily at his robe, “Is there anything I may help you with? Oh, I see you have already prepared for a tour through our wonderful city…well then, I wish you a lot of fun. I will have you accompanied by a brother incase any questions arise concerning this wonderful place. Surely brother Illiden should return from the…by the gods!”

The monk seemed to have spotted the rather familiar flotsam in the water behind Damion. His eyes growing wider by the second he began forward, trying to push himself past the halberdier. Faster than he knew he had been grabbed by the collar and pulled face to face with the Salvic. The startled monk began to shiver spastically as he observed a grin drawing itself across the armored man’s face. Slowly the lips of the bloodied warrior began to move.

“I don’t think it would be wise of you to make a big fuss of out this…” Damion paused for a second, recalling that his strategy incorporated chaos. With a snide chuckle he continued, “Then again.”

The halberdier jolted the man back, then towards him once more. Forcefully he smashed his forehead into the face of the slightly taller man. With a grunt the bewildered abbot flew backwards, a trail of blood following his flight. His body thudded onto the cobblestone street, his bald head lashing back against the ground with loud smacks. Fingers twitching the man tried to push himself up, just to find himself thrashed down by an osmium boot to his frail chest. Seemingly bereft of any oxygen the man’s mouth opened wide, trying to gasp for some air. The taste of his own blood and snot sifting into his gaping jaw forced the monk to gag, an expression of pain in his churning face. In a sadistic manner, laughing all the while, Damion forced his boot down harder and harder.

“No god to help you now, is there? Not a single prayer from your feeble book of lies can save you now, worm!” With that said the wicked minded halberdier ended the man’s suffering.

With a vigorous thrust Damion plunged the blade of his weapon into the man’s face, blood oozing its way through the gaps between the cobblestones. A woman nearby screamed at the horrid scene, clutching onto her rather sizeable husband’s arm.

“You sick bastard! What do you think you’re doing!?” The ogre-like man bellowed, pulling his wife behind himself.

“What do…what do I…what am I doing?” Damion muttered in a horrified tone, his left hand clutching his face. An expression of confusion and fright alike formed on Damion’s face as he backed away from the corpse. Suddenly the halberdier ended his theatric display and shot a crazed glance at the man, “What on earth does it look like I’m doing you brainless fool!? I killed the worthless maggot, and now it’s your turn!”

Everyone watching would soon become a witness of the Salvic man’s entire cruelty. Regardless of what they thought of him until now, regardless if friend or foe, everyone would now see what horrid things Damion was capable of doing without batting an eyelash. The following course of actions would reveal something new even to those who thought they might have already calculated the reaches of his sickened mind.

Everything would fall into it's righteous place, chaos upon order, taint unto the pure, blood upon ground, victims into Damion's hands.

[Witchblade]

Don’t dare me now
The threatening shadows will pass by
They’re getting closer now

Open your eyes
Wake up my dear young friend
And hate shall fade away*

Looking at the map Damion had handed to her, Witch snorted lightly and passed it over to Daegun. Her little dragon took a hold of it, studied it for a few moments as if he could understand what was written on it then tucked it into her rucksack. She couldn’t believe that for the entirety of this mission she was going to teamed up with him. She couldn’t stand humans and she was already growing to dislike this one. She would have preferred to luck out like Molotov did and received a solo mission. This halfling worked better alone, when she didn’t have to worry about someone slowing her down. She supposed there was nothing she could do abut it, he was after all their leader, but leader or not she was going to have a hard time listening to his orders.

Coming to small clearing in the buildings, most likely some kind of square. The halfling watched as another monk emerged from wherever they kept coming from and once again offered to help them, until he noticed a certain body floating in the water. It had taken him almost to the end of his little speech before he noticed which almost made her laugh. He too was dispatched of by Damion in another rather gruesome manner that didn’t even make her bat an eyelash, just sigh irritably. She was going to end up babysitting this human, she could tell, he was too easily distracted by enforcing pain on others.

With the death of the second monk came one very stupid couple, who instead of warning people what was going on decided to ask what Damion thought he was doing. Yep, the intelligence in that question was just outstanding. After all, he’d only just thrust his blade into the man’s face. If the deliberate aiming and strength it took to crash through the bones didn’t give away his intentions, maybe the words spoken before hand should of, but nope.

Sighing, Witch folder her arms under her chest and waited for Damion to finish off the couple. She didn’t want to fight these maggots, they couldn’t even hold a weapon and would pose no great threat, she wanted a challenge. He could deal with the two worms. And he did, in that sick and twisted way of his. The two men charged at each other, what great surprise of surprises and the human tried to take Damion’s weapon from him. Once again, oh the intelligence. Witch watched as Damion relinquished the weapon and punched the human in the face with an armored fist.

“That must have hurt, Daegun.”

The little dragon nodded his head.

“I wouldn’t have guessed you as stupid as you look. Also, I must remark that you look as if your mother was raped by a bull twice her size….” Damion said to the man with a sneer.

He needed to work on his mocks.

But his finishing move was nice, he went to stab the blade of his halberd right into the stomach of the man, but instead shoved it through the woman who had jumped in to protect her husband. She gave a rather choked sound as her hands wrapped around the shaft of the weapon and tried to free it from her. The front of her shirt was slowly being bathed in the deep crimson of her own blood. The halfling watched the grinning face of Damion as he thrust his halberd through the woman, breaking her spine and slicing open the stomach of the man behind her. Things she would rather not think about began to cover the cobbled stones of the street.

With that, he pulled his weapon from both the corpses and let them fall to the street with a wet thud.

“Amazing…” He muttered, “how damned stupid some people can be, sacrificing themselves for someone who will die nonetheless.” He then turned to her, “What exactly are you wa—”

She raised a hand to silence him and was surprised by his compliance. Dropping her hand back down to her side, Witch shrugged her shoulders and let her rucksack fall to the ground. Daegun jumped down and landed beside it and with a click flick of her fingers, her cloak followed suit. Long strands of black hair with streaks of what looked like metal plaiting in gold, silver and bronze flew around her face as the wind picked up. Pale skin met the light of the sun, red eyes locked on the face of Damion for just a moment before a smirk spread over a mouth sown shut.

The dragon at her feet began shoving her cloak into her rucksack as fast as he could with his clawed paws as Witch raised a hand and snapped her fingers, exciting the ions in the air around her hand and setting them alight. A blue flames broke out her hand and traveled up to her elbow, then raising her other hand she did the same thing.

The fire, baby, and everything in it.

Walking forward, Witch cracked her neck from side to side then extended each of out her arms out and towards the buildings around her. The flames shooting off from the tips of her fingers and catching along the roofs, walls and well, basically anything that was flammable. Chuckling, the halfling shot off two large balls of fire into the sky to land wherever they pleased and burn whatever they pleased. Then waited as she heard the shouts and screams from those inside the buildings beginning to burn. Oh, if Damion wanted chaos he was going to get it.

Soon the citizens of this place would crowd the streets, occupied with the fact that their homes were burning down, they’d never suspect the slaughter that was going to befall them. It was much easier to slaughter the confused and ignorant than those hiding in their homes and right now she didn’t feel like chasing the mice through the streets.

[Storm Veritas]

The powerful lightning mage had killed almost countless in his career, but there was always some justification. Some angle, some sort of mental rationalization that his killing would be the means to a greater end, and that the deeds he engaged in were for a greater good. In the course of events that explained the progression of his Althanian career, Storm Veritas was, in the eyes of many, true evil. It was falsehood; he saw in Damion an evil like which he had never before witnessed. The powerful young leader was savage, unyielding, and killed a monk outside the town with the savagery that was unlike anything Veritas had seen before. Until today, Storm had operated between full black and full white – a darker shade of gray, perhaps merely shifted on that morality scale that drives people to combat.

Today wasn’t a day for any shade of gray. Today would be lifeless, merciless black.

The bustling town wasn’t ready for them. What was once a powerful keep was left unattended, and Damion, Storm, and a host of assorted horribles walked through the gates, ready to lay siege. Chaos was the order of the day. Death. Destruction. Anarchy.

He broke quickly from them, hearing the thunder crack of fire as the horrible woman began launching flames, seeing them hurtle and crash into thatch-rooved houses. The screams began as Storm drew daggers, feeling them flip effortlessly into place within his fingers. The first section of people by the group from the left flank surrounded a small weapon shop. Large, tough guy types huddled over a cart, looking and smiling at swords they had no intention of buying.

I guess you’re the closest thing to “guilty” I’ll be taking down today. Gotta start somewhere.

His hands burst into a furious sizzle of electric energy, the men distracted by the flames from town’s center. Their faces never turned to the approaching death, never acknowledged Storm for the assassin that he was. Perhaps this was for the better. He was at sixty feet when he unleashed hell.

He skipped ahead, planting his feet as he fired his hands before him. The momentum stopped, but an outrageous discharge of electrical ferocity raged forward towards the cart. The explosion it hit with was magnified by a black powder drum that was foolishly left by the side, and a flash of active, horrible orange preceded the sound, a terrible loud sickening pop. Metal from the cart was made ballistic, flying projectiles serving as convenient grenade shrapnel. The men were all but vaporized, their bodies no match for the tremendous shockwaves. Two of five lingered, one reaching for what looked like a pistol by his belt. It was futile.

Not your day, son, not your day.

The blast had fatigued the devilish Veritas considerably, but there was a certain elf who was more than capable. A chance to breath after the initial salvo would be needed, and there was no better, more sinister partner to pass the baton to. With a sickening half smile, Storm turned, hands on his knees and breathing heavy, with only one simple request.

“Clean ‘em up. Let’s have some f*cking fun.”

In the wreckage of the explosion, the cinders of wood and cloth continued to burn. A large, billowing pillar of terrible grey smoke began pouring into the sky, painting high for as far as the eyes could see. The town was falling. Hell had arrived in the sleeping fortress, and it came with a devastating potency.

[Molotov]

As the group split up, Molotov watched the others leave before he made his move. He needed to maintain his composure, remember what mattered, and look down at the strange gold vein that pulsed in his hand. “I should really get a glove for that,” he thought irritably. “It is going to become a bloody distraction soon enough.” Molotov knew he was going to have to move out soon. Damion Shargath had already launched his attack, as had the woman with sewn lips and a mercenary that the mutant believed was Serenti Champion Storm Veritas. Blue flames had begun to engulf the city, or at least the portion closest to the enchantress with the dragon.

Molotov took one last look out on the land of Mount Saint Michel with one last sigh before he tossed his cigarette away. “So much for regrets,” he muttered sardonically, as if to dismiss an entire civilization’s woes with one wave of his hand. Molotov sighed. He didn’t know what was going to come next, but one last shiver went down his spine out of a sense of foreboding doom. Cocktail whinnied again as Molotov climbed up onto the asperi’s flank.

“Shut up you stupid bugger…” Molotov muttered. He was a bit curious about this strategy that Damion had chosen. Knowing his place, the former general said nothing to contradict the battle hardened Salvarian, but Molotov truly doubted that this was the best course of action. It put too much faith in the abilities of the group as individuals. They wouldn’t be combining strengths now, but giving the enemy an important tactical advantage by splitting up their already small numbers. Even in Guerilla warfare, a group of five was hardly cumbersome, and Molotov knew that they had little advantage to fighting that kind of a war. The people they would be fighting knew the territory better and with a brutal man like Damion in charge, there would be little opportunity for Molotov to engage the locals. At best, Molotov could save a few of the innocent civilians.

For a moment before he set off, Molotov took one last moment to marvel at the term. “Innocent civilians,” he mused, as if the term was somehow ridiculous. He never understood how the people who fueled the machines of war could really consider themselves innocent. The mutant understood jus in bello and the need to limit damage, but he still hated the term. It implied that these people were somehow better when soldiers were the products of their nations.

“Then whose bloody product am I?” the mutant wondered. He truly had no country. There had been favors he’d done for numerous people, fists had been shaken at numerous kings. However, none of them had ever been his. Molotov had a birthplace, but he could never go back home. He had a place of victory, but it had turned into defeat. He had moments where he’d felt at home, but the ties that bound were frayed. The irony of his actions didn’t escape Molotov. He was destroying something that he had long craved for himself.

The mutant sighed. By now he had begun to move down the pathways of the town, past small clumps of huts, past the meek people who lived on the edge of their civilization. They shrunk away from Molotov, and he in turn paid them no mind. However, one young woman seemed to be particularly defiant. She looked up at Molotov, and locked her eyes on his. The mutant tried not to notice her, but her eyes were so defiant that Molotov had no choice but to slow down his steed and address her.

“You’d best leave,” the mutant warned. “It’s starting again.”

The woman looked on defiantly. “Then let it start…”

Molotov stood silent for a moment. He had never seen someone so weak so willing to stand up against him. It seemed as if the woman had no fear at all. She was a seemingly frail woman, dressed in mostly dull grey garb but with startlingly fierce green eyes. “Who are you?” Molotov asked.

“Your conscience,” she said.

Suddenly, she disappeared. Molotov was standing alone. All around him, people were looking out of their homes confusedly, as if they didn’t know what to make of the strange cloaked man who was about to destroy their city. Molotov sighed. “I’m just too bloody stupid…” the mutant thought. With that, he flicked Cocktail’s reigns and brought the asperi up into the air. As he looked down, the mutant could see the blue flames spreading onto the huts near him, their straw roofs particularly sensitive to the ion charged fire.

That fire, baby, it was going to burn them all.

[Elrundir]

Elrundir followed behind his designated partner, cautiously eyeing the man as they began their assault. He wanted to determine just how ruthless this “Storm” could be, for indeed he was skeptical. It was not a slight upon the man himself, but simply a natural byproduct of the taint within Elrundir’s mind, permeating his consciousness – as a creature of pure and unabashed evil, it has always been wary of just what lengths mere humans are capable of in the pursuit of hatred and suffering. And admittedly, to a shadow born of hatred itself, any mortal being must seem like a do-gooder by comparison.

But in this instance, Elrundir was pleased to find that such a suspicion was unnecessary. Storm was a powerful man, and he demonstrated his abilities by unleashing a crackling array of electrical energy against a cart several men were huddled around. The explosion was awe-inspiring, lighting up Elrundir’s eyes like a child gazing at the presents beneath a Christmas tree. His hair and robes fluttered in the wake of the explosion, and Rouge was unable to keep herself balanced on his shoulder; she took to the sky and fluttered her wings frantically to hold her position. Impressive, the elf thought to himself with a grin as he examined the aftermath of Storm’s handiwork. Very impressive indeed.

The explosion had not completely eliminated their prey, however. Storm had turned towards Elrundir now, and was giving him an invitation to finish the work that he had started. The elf merely inclined his head with a dark grin and stepped forward to face the remaining threat.

One of the men was drawing a pistol from his belt, and Elrundir’s eyes trained themselves upon that instrument immediately. His eyes narrowed and his lips curled into a sneer, although that didn’t stop the man from drawing the weapon still. “Guns,” he spat. “They’re so pathetic.” Elrundir’s eyes flickered to the side, and suddenly the pistol loosed itself from its wielder’s grasp. The bulky man merely looked on in shock as his turncoat-weapon hovered in the air several feet away from him, controlled now by the powers of Elrundir’s mind. “They require no finesse.” His eyes slid to the left, rotating the gun around its new target. “Just a pull of the trigger.”

And that’s just what happened. For Elrundir, it was easy; the mental exhaustion was the equivalent of actually pulling the trigger with your finger. Several bullets poured forth from the barrel of the gun, all while he maneuvered it around the man who had been wielding it just seconds ago. Within moments his body was riddled with bullet holes from all directions, including one directly in the center of his forehead, all of them seeping blood at various rates. Elrundir relinquished control on the smoking weapon and let it fall to the floor before his eyes fell upon the one remaining victim. Malice was displayed in Elrundir’s black orbs; fear, instead, in the eyes of those upon whom he gazed.

But that fear was ill-placed, for Elrundir had no plans to harm this man at all. This kill belonged to Rouge. The cardinal was already descending upon her prey at a breakneck speed from the sky above, and to any onlooker she would appear able to do no more harm than a field mouse. Something spectacular happened at that moment, however: Rouge’s body pulsed and glowed brightly, and then a bright stream of blue flame erupted directly in front of her. As she turned her nose upwards to swoop back into the sky, the flames engulfed the man’s body, not only singing his flesh but burning into his very soul, for that was the very nature of her power.

As the tiny bird landed back on her master’s right shoulder, Elrundir glanced over at Storm with a placid smile. “You’re right,” he began. “That was fun.”

[Damion Shargath]

With bopping and vibrant steps the halberdier moved forward, his stride turning everything around him into a blurry motion. The man roared as he then too charged forward, reaching towards the shaft of his attacker’s halberd. Hoping that his assured expression would not fail to disguise his uncertainty as to how he would disarm the armored combatant. To his surprise the halberdier handed off his weapon with ease. Perplexed the peasant had ignored the fact that Damion’s armored fist was rushing towards his head. With a loud, thudding clank the man was sent staggering backwards, dropping the halberd back into the Salvic’s hands.

“I wouldn’t have guessed you as stupid as you look. Also, I must remark that you look as if your mother was raped by a bull twice her size….” With a chuckle Damion then steered the blade of his weapon to the chest of the man.

Unexpectedly his halberd came to an early slow. The man’s wife had thrown herself in front of her husband, with a guttural sigh she tried to pry Damion’s weapon from her stomach. Moments later her white blouse had become drenched in crimson, the blood oozed from her body so profusely it even began to plash unto the cobblestone street. With a snide grin Damion gazed into the horrified eyes of the woman, slowly angling the halberd upwards. Then with a push he forced his weapon through the woman’s entire body and into her husband who stood behind. With a flesh tearing sound the man’s stomach had been cut open, his guts plopping unto the street. Blood spattered into all directions, against the wall behind them, the floor beneath them, and unto their murderer. Having severed the woman’s spine by driving his weapon through her, the corpse of the young lady now hung limply upon Damion’s weapon, slowly gliding downwards.

“Amazing…” Damion muttered as he stemmed a foot against her upper body, “…how damned stupid some people can be, sacrificing themselves for someone who will die nonetheless.”

With a kick and a pull Damion freed his halberd from the couple’s corpses. Their bodies slammed against one another and slid lifelessly to the ground, using the man’s guts as seating cushions. The halberdier had already turned from his kills to Witchblade though, who still stood concealed beneath her hood.

“What exactly are you wa-” His words cut short continued within his head as Witchblade reacted before even hearing them out completely, “Are you simply going to stand there and wait until it’s over, or are you going to join in on the fun?”

Chuckling she unleashed a set of fireballs upon the small city, saturating the air not only with sources of heat but with the vain cries of dozens and dozens of civilians. The fire befallen homes drove them screaming unto the street, too preoccupied with gathering their most important possession to notice what awaited them outside. They would run into the arms of their demise, inevitably, whilst chocking on the smoke that would fill the air only moments later would have been a so much more humane way to die…

With a grin and a fitting sarcastic motion Damion concluded his opinion on Witchblade’s actions, “You’re beginning to prove yourself, brilliant thinking…just remember that we want to use this as our home once it has been, how should I put this...cleaned…so don’t burn all of it down if possible.”

Now, with a city lit asunder, it would take all but long for the cloister’s armed forces to realize what was going on below. Less time even it would take them to dispatch part of their force to the cloisters archer walls, and another into the city as a recon force. Yet, if things were to go as Damion had them planned, the group will have already finished with the civilians once they would encounter the paladins of sorts. With those thoughts Damion backed away from the two fresh corpses by his side, and began to jog forth. Witchblade and the Salvic would follow their mutant comrade a fair account of feet to the east until reaching a narrow fleet of stairs up which they would take.

In his go Damion lashed his halberd from left to right, bringing down at least one person with each swing of his weapon. Limbs flew, leaving behind bodies that slowly bled to death in pain. Heads rolled, dropping lifeless rests to the floor. Innards flew from their fleshly containers with cries of anguish, letting a life pass before their holder’s eyes one last time.

“This is the holy noise…” Damion muttered as he slammed the butt of his halberd into a fleeing peasants face.

With a crack, a short gargle, and a last twitch of his limbs the defaced individual flew from the stairs Damion aimed to take. A small boy screamed for what seemed to have been his father, his mother tugging him into the other direction, urging the rest of her children to run for their dear lives. Suddenly a deafening explosion sounded from the east of the city, from the corner of his eye Damion caught a glimpse of a rising cloud of smoke. Its charcoal black, fluffy matter posed to be more than just a nice contrast to the evening sky. It was beautiful. It was chaos not only carried out, but visualized.

With a wicked grin drawing across his lowered face, the armored halberdier began to laugh. The spiteful rejoicing rang up the stairs and into the ears of the woman that pushed her family away, her eyes wide with terror as she glanced upon the lifeless body of her husband.

“Don’t you worry, you’ll see daddy soon!” With that said Damion lunged himself up the stairs, ready to bring down as many as it would take to clean what he deemed his new home. With effort the Salvic managed to suppress his basic instincts for a fair amount of time, enough to send words as clear as crystal to his head, clear enough for his psychic ally to read.

Don’t you feel it too? The urge to kill? The will to take the lives of those unworthy of it? The lives of those who chose to believe in something so trivial to dictate their thoughts? The very lives of those that dare judge us? I know you do…deep within…I have my own reasons why I choose to kill this inferior breed, you will find yours soon enough – spill and taste their blood, it will supply answers as your face reflects in pools of it.

He was vaguely enough informed about her history to know of her vacant bloodlust, moreover he believed he knew how to bring it back to life. Like vultures the group had swooped down unto the unsuspecting town, like rabid beasts they would defile the sacred. What may have seemed vague to some, like some disorderly plan, was an actual test Damion had prepared. Thinning their numbers as they took the town would prove to the Salvic if the individual was worth his time.

Molotov would be the first to meet up with Damion and Witchblade. The mutant’s flank of the city was the smallest to cover and thus he went alone, although Damion had done this for several reasons. The halberdier knew that Molotov was a reliable companion, but not as ruthless and bloodthirsty as himself. Had Damion chosen to accompany his brother in tobacco bad blood between the two would have been predestined. All the while Storm Veritas and Elrundir would have a larger field to cleanse, and those that fled them would inevitably run into Damion’s arms. There would be no survivors, not between the center and the eastern half of the city. Additionally the group would congregate one last time before unleashing their assault upon the cloister and its actually armed forces. During that time it would be proven how well the members were ready to work for, and with one another.

[Storm Veritas]

The havoc had escalated further, with the slick and smooth Elrundir making his presence felt immediately. This thin, elven man was fast- perhaps faster than Storm himself – and diced through men like a carving knife. It was smooth, and too easy, and Veritas at once found himself fast fatiguing in the midst of battle. All this was a lot to soak in.

Damn… I’ve seen some bad shit before, but this is way out of hand. Not what I thought I was signing up for…

At this point, it was evident that he was amidst monsters, and that to avoid being singled out he would have to continue the façade of cold-heartedness. To stand against these animals at this point would be his best chance, but it was a poor one at that, and one that would likely end in his own demise. Overtaking them all was impossible, even with the help of the defiant yet underpowered citizens. He would have to stand by them, fight with them, act as one of them.

Could I be the only one? Is there anyone else that would bring an end to this?

His face was long, his falsified smile likely transparent. He thought of friends – Damon Kaosi, who would be horrored by him now, and know his thoughts despite the brave front. Letho Ravenheart, who he was fast proving right, and his assessment of Storm as sub-human. It wasn’t right; he could stand to kill a man, but not many, and not the purely innocent. Killing never gets easy for a normal man, and while the lithe mage was far from normal, the sight of severed limbs and those dull, staring dead eyes would never leave him.

Yet there was no choice. In order for him to live, he would need to fight, and kill, and win. He would have no other option. Picking his blades to his sides, he cricked his neck, hearing the satisfying pop, and looked on as a farmer ran at him. The man was big, strong enough, but carrying a pitchfork, running barefoot. Wild eyed, foolish strong and crazy brave, the farmer had no chance. The big straw-tosser was predictable, and Veritas quickly sidestepped him, driving his dagger down behind the collarbone. This death would be quick, nearly bloodless, and came with a single thought, a passive whisper.

”I’m sorry, my friend. Go peacefully.”

He looked down on the body as it fell, a brief hesitation all that was needed. Still quite tired from his electrical outburst, he was a scratch to slow, and never heard the knife thrown behind him.

When the blade came in behind him, it dug deep through his ribs. Pain and possible death took a firm hold around his throat as more of them approached.

[Molotov]

Blue flames were spreading quickly over all the thatched roofs. It wouldn’t be too difficult for Molotov to stoke the flames a little and move on, but that wouldn’t be enough. “Damn, that bird did half of my job for me without even needing to lift a finger…” the mutant thought, impressed by the powers of the vampire with the lips sewn shut. He now hovered above the mess of people, watching as they panicked. “They all run so helplessly,” Molotov thought. He began to manipulate some of the flames around him. Not enough that the people would realize they were being granted some kind of mercy, but enough so that the casualties were limited. In vast droves, they all headed for the docks and even farther beyond, some of them even diving into the sea to escape the flames.

“Dreams die tonight,” Molotov muttered. He wondered if any of the people would realize what he was doing for them. They would probably never even entertain such a notion, especially when he was supposed to be their enemy. Instead, they would attribute their lucky fate to providence, that their fates were signs of divine benevolence. It was a bit depressing, the only worthwhile thing that his group was doing would be as anonymous as the ephemeral forces that controlled the world.

The smoke began to grow thicker, to the point where Molotov could see little more. A blue glow had begun to surround a greater area, shining through the smoke in a disturbingly perverse way. It was a beautiful, eerie calm now that the mutant could no longer see all the people running desperately for sanctuary. Sighing, Molotov thought about reaching for another cigarette, but he refrained. His job was not yet done, and it would be likely that he couldn’t move through Mount Saint Michael without any actual show of force. While many of the villagers had fled, soldiers were collecting in a garrison less than fifty feet from him. It would only be a matter of time before they attacked him.

“And to think they wouldn’t go after flame girl…” Molotov thought as the first arrow flew through the air. It hit the mutant’s cloak, only to be extinguished by the fire resistant powers that the dragon’s scale possessed. Molotov turned and looked off in the distance. It was an impressive fortress, complete with trebuchet. It seemed as if the city had expected that its enemies would have come with large armies, the fortress seemed completely inappropriate for a battle against five warriors. Then again, the idea that five people could put a city in flames like this was something that they had likely never imagined possible.

Molotov thought for a minute about how he would approach the fortress. He could just as soon leave it alone. The trebuchet was too unwieldy for the defenders’ purposes, and their archers could have just as easily hidden in the charred remains of houses as they could within the fortress. It was clear the building was geared for defense. “It might be a place to hold refugees,” Molotov mused. “Or use to turn on Damion if necessary…”

It was perhaps a function of how surreal the entire situation was that Molotov could feel so calm and calculating staring at a fortress that was firing on him. Perhaps it was the fact that he had just witnessed so many other people so more helpless than him. It was a heady feeling, almost like he was a god of sorts. The golden vein on his hand began to throb. Molotov itched at it. He looked at the fortress. They were readying the trebuchet.

“Bloody hell,” Molotov thought. Cocktail would be able to dodge the boulder rather easily. It was going to be the houses that were going to be destroyed. Taking a deep breath, he realized he was going to have to destroy the trebuchet. It was probably for the better anyways, if for no other reason that Molotov figured it was best to keep a barbaric weapon like that out of the hands of Damion. With that, he flicked Cocktail’s reigns. The asperi whinnied, as if looking forward to this moment for a while. Molotov was silent.

They rose up into the air, just as the trebuchet fired its first boulder. The projectile flew harmlessly off in the distance, the weapon was difficult to aim and even more difficult to fight with. It was the archers that Molotov would have to worry about. As he grew closer, he knew that it could be particularly perilous. The mutant’s mind thought back to Vainta, to his pyrrhic run at a catapult there. He had gone with a group of demons, and only he had come back alive. There was only one difference now, the flaming arrows. And they, Molotov knew, made all the difference. As the archers loaded their bows, Molotov merely raised his hand. Suddenly, every archer and bow caught fire, as the flames on the arrow tips magnified. Molotov didn’t smile, he merely pressed on.

Cocktail swooped down towards the roof. Five men were waiting there, each of them armed with swords, Molotov sent a pair of ice spikes down towards the ground, just to give him enough of a landing space. At the very least, he was going to have to keep all five of them guessing. When it came to elemental abilities, he was their superior, but the mutant doubted they would let him get close enough to the trebuchet for him to destroy it with an ice spike. He was going to have to do it the hard way, and thus he fired a third ice spike, leapt off his asperi, and rolled out onto the ground.

All five men looked at each other eagerly, as if they’d suddenly been gifted with a grand prize. At once, they all launched into an attack. Molotov merely countered with a fiery tornado. It hovered around his body, scalding anyone who tried to get even close. Then, the mutant merely watched as Cocktail kicked each and every one of the soldiers in the back of the head.

“Too easy,” he said. Molotov said it not to chide, for there was no one there for him to make fun of even if he had wanted. All five men had been knocked unconscious. Instead, the mutant was speaking for himself and the imaginary audience he was beginning to feel he had. Regardless of what his conscience had told him, the mutant could help but enjoy the feeling of just being so completely powerful. Power had been something that had eluded him since Gisela, and even that was only the illusion of power. Now he was standing up above everyone, on the roof of a fortress having vanquished all opponents. All that was left was to set fire to the trebuchet, a task accomplished by another mere wave of the hand.

Molotov laughed hollowly as he looked down on his dominion. The golden vein on his hand began to throb vigorously. Being this arrogant had never felt so good.

[Witchblade]

“I will not move yet
I’ll stand still instead

There on the battlefield he stands
Down on the battlefield he’s lost
And on the battlefield it ends

The arrogant human bastard was getting on her nerves. Don’t burn the village down; we want to live in it. God, she wanted to wrap her hands around his throat and just strangle the life out of him. Things could be rebuilt, houses were just houses and they could be repaired. It was only a little fire and she was only having a little fun. But he just had to go and say it, ugh; she really wanted to kill this guy! He was like a child in a grownups body the way he was acting though, prancing around like a fairy and just killing anything that got in his way. Technically she should be joining in the killing and having fun too but he was ruining her good mood, especially when she caught the words she spoke next, in his mind, knowing she’d be able to catch them.

Her eyes narrowed and she pushed The Malice further into the back of her head feeling it coming to the forefront not only with his words but at the sight of all the slaughter. It was why she had to be a little on the careful side but he seemed to be enticing it out on purpose as if he knew about it. Was he mad? Now she really didn’t like him.

Running up the stairs after him, the halfling withdrew her daggers from theirs sheathes on the small of her back. The fire was still covering her hands and she quickly let it spread to encompass the blades. Some random civilian came running out of some house trying to get away from the spreading fire, took one look at them and tried to run away. Feeling the rush and the animalistic instinct in her to attack anything that came across her path and ran away, Witch didn’t suppress it this time. Instead she embraced it and leapt at the man who gave a strangle cry and tried to run faster. It didn’t take much for Witch to catch up to him and with a quick movement she embedded her blade into his spine, severing nerves and cracking bone. The man fell limb to the ground, he wasn’t dead, he’d died rather slowly and painfully.

Turning back from him, Witch had to quickly duck to avoid a blow from a pitchfork-wielding idiot. In a crouched position, she quickly kicked out the human’s leg then thrust her flaming blade into his chest, piercing his heart. No blood welled up from the wound, the flames cauterized it immediately, but his heart was no longer beating.

Removing her blade from the corpse, Witch joined back up with the human who had gleefully just finished killing an entire family, children included. Pissed at the fact that he had tried to summon The Malice from within her, the halfling shot off a small fireball at him. It hit his armored, leaving a small black taint upon the metal. She heard him curse and spin around with his halberd at the ready to cleave her head right off. She calmly brought her arm up, the blade connecting with the Titanium plating on her forearm and going no further. Though she did have to admit he had a massive amount of strength behind him, her muscles ringing under the impact.

He looked at her surprised while she just narrowed, cold, deadly eyes on him, “Never, ever insight The Malice again. I don’t know how you found out about it and I really don’t care. But don’t delude yourself thinking it would nicely follow behind you, you’re still human after all, you’d just be another person on the end of its blade.”

The words were spoken none too nicely within the confines of the humans head. She had to get her point across; if he ever tried to do something like that again she’d stab him in the back when he wasn’t looking. The Malice was not a toy to be played with and it was not a person, you could not negotiate with it or trust it.

Shoving his halberd away from her, Witch took the lead ahead of them. Malice or not she was having urges of her own to kill Damion.

[Damion Shargath]

As Damion spun the blood that hung from his body flew into various directions. The moment his weapon collided with Witchblade’s arm a perplex expression formed on his face, he hadn’t expected her to execute such means of warning. Her words entered his head as he lowered his weapon in correlation with his ally’s arm. The Salvic youngster now came to knew that his psychic obverse wanted all but, what she called, The Malice to surface. Behind the façade of his puzzled grimace lingered a menacing grin that didn’t dare show itself under the eyes of the current situation. It was growing more difficult to suppress as Damion’s eyes wandered over the fallen bodies to Witchblade’s side though.

“So be it, I’ll stop trying to feed that flame then.” Satisfied, Damion took a deep drag from the cigarette he had fingered from his pocket.

At this moment the young Salvic’s strong “mind-shield” was of great importance as his words trailed his impression of Witchblade. His tongue licked insults, but his lips kept sealed. The lone fact that she thought he would be so easy to dispose of irritated him greatly. Shaking off the agitation he exhaled the smoke that had gathered in his lungs before he began to walk. It was that moment of distraction that would have almost ended his conquest. With a quivering thwack an arrow dashed beside his face and penetrated the wooden door behind him.

“You take the left side of this lot, if you see Molotov anywhere a little report on his actions would be nice once we meet up a couple of yards later again!” Damion shouted as he ducked Witchblade down with one of his hands, shielding them both from an incoming barrage of arrows, “Seems like they’ve finally taken notice of us. We’ll need to pick up pace a little and not let any trivial disputes slow us down. It’s important that we rendezvous with the others before encountering the actually armed forces of the cloister. Worthy enemies…this should get quite entertaining. Watch the arrows on your way, from what I’ve seen they’re being shot from both the first and second floor of the cloister, which should make it easier to duck for cover when you know where to look.”

“Do you want the archers taken care of?” Witchblade questioned, a smug grin cracking across her sewn mouth.

“Brilliant idea, it seems like nothing too difficult for you.” Damion replied, with an equally malicious expression, “Following, a nice burst of flames would be quite nice into the crowd probably gathered on the other side of this building. It would save quite some time.”

The sorcerous woman chuckled, "You just like watching me burn things."

“It’s not an ugly sight...” The Salvic youngster admitted.

After having rushed them to the nearest wall Damion turned and followed towards the east. The fact that they were few would make it harder for the cloistral forces to spot them, and although they were greatly outnumbered they had enough advantages on their side to be successful. Superior strength of the individual, superior tactics followed by a plan, and the benefit of surprise attack were just three of them. Towards him ran a group of men, knives pulled, a pitchfork raised, and a wooden plan swung.

“Impotent bastards, stick to your petty field work!” Damion bloated as he struck the foremost down with thrust.

Returning his the blade of his halberd behind, spreading the innards of the one he impaled across the street. Seconds later its butt rushed into the face of the next nearest and downed him with a spine chilling crack. The pitchfork wielders weapon flew forward as were drained of all life. It took the Salvic an immediate and massive account of skill to survive the assault of the wielder-less weapon, as ironic as it seemed. Just barely he managed to sidestep and before the farming tool would have taken his manhood with a gnarly gash. Instead, the rusted weapon tore part of Damion’s burgundy trousers and grazed his thigh. Additionally the knifer was now almost upon him, his tiny weapon lunged towards the armored psychopath’s open neck.

Luckily the youngster was not one to flinch at the aforementioned pain, and brushed his attackers arm by side. Immediately following Damion rushed the shaft of his weapon into the man’s face vertically. The knifer’s nose crushed under the pressure, spewing blood and snot downwards. Quickly Damion ranked his weapon against the man’s throat and shoved him against the wall. Knife dropped, the civilian desperately tried to wring himself free from his opposer’s makeshift chokehold. In vain, as with a forceful, diagonal twitch Damion broke the man’s neck. Before wasting anymore time on an individual, Damion flipped his halberd around, blade pointed down the alleyway. Limply his last victim’s body dropped to the floor, his head cricked to the side in an anomalous position.

Cries of anguish sounded, among so many others, throughout the alleyway as he continued. Bodies dropped one after the other to the side, blood painting the walls around them. It was a truly gruesome sight.

“This is sick…so wonderfully sick…” The armored halberdier muttered, granted a moment of rest to pull on his cigarette.

Due to his unusually high pain tolerance, the slight gash on his thigh needed no tending to yet. As he looked up at the sky, he noticed the symbolic changes that had come. No longer did the setting sun illuminate the sky in fierce orange, there was no warm color that could define such bloodshed. Instead it seemed that all divinity had fled the cloistral fortress of Mont Saint Michel. The skies had shut their eyes to the fearful onslaught beneath with a thick sheet of darkened grey. It even seemed that the heavens wept for the countless deceased as the first droplets of rain fell upon the earth below.

“How pathetic...” Damion mused, “So this is how you decide to help? By sending them…such…despicable weather? Do you plan to douse the fires that will not go out, is that your godly salving plan!?”

Having fueled his own rage with his limitless god-hate Damion exited the alleyway, leaving nothing but death in his wake. Through another alleyway ahead, he could catch a glimpse of further explosions, Elrundir and Storm hadn’t failed to amuse him yet with their powers. As he then took north, up a slight slope that would ultimately lead him to Witchblade once more the killing continued.


Come, gather... Congregate!
Let us storm with rage the Pearly Gates
Tear down, demolish, precipitate
Now join the hordes, devastate!

[Witchblade]

“War and anger shall reign
The clash of iron can be heard
By violence you’re driven insane
I’m lost in anguish and grief
Sorrow will reign till you die
A shattered body deeply hurt
And darkness will cover the light
It's gone forever more.”

The halfling grinned as Damion ran off to the east and left the west to her. Oh she was going to have fun with this. Two rows of archers and any way her twisted her little mind could come up with dispose of them, without getting herself killed of course. The flames of war were being enticed tonight and the clouds of the heavens, no matter what they rained down on them could not stop it. This little cloister was doomed and the Gods these people worshipped cared not to save them.

How deliciously lovely.

“Daegun, where are you?”

The mental image of the square where she’d left him immediately came into her thoughts. “Head back to the boat and stay there until I tell you otherwise or I come get you.”

Knowing the little guy would listen to her and that she would not have to worry about his safety she could really start unleashing Hell upon this place. Turning, the halfling raced up the stairs to her left. There were still plenty of civilians around to feed her bloodlust but it didn’t seem like they wanted to go down easily. With the archers to worry about until she took care of them, Witch kept one eye on the murdering and one eye on the cloister walls where she could make out the figures of the archers. The vampiric night vision always came in handy.

As some random human advanced on her, the halfling easily spun out of reach of his pathetic short sword, half wondering where he’d gotten that from and what rusty wall decoration it had been before. Bringing a still flaming dagger out around her, Witch sliced open the man’s stomach, watching for a brief moment as organs tumbled to the soaking stone step below him. Laughing, Witch turned to the three other men on the stairs around her and leapt at them before they got a chance to do anything. Short melee weapons brought her up close and personal with them as they each died under her blade, some mercifully and some not so much.

Continuing up the stairs, the halfling cut down anything that got in her way. Man, woman, children, it didn’t really matter to her. They were all humans anyway.

Coming to the top of the stairs, Witch realized this was where she needed to take care of the humans shooting those blasted arrows. The rain and the darkening sky was going to make it harder for any of them to see anything and thus it was going to be a lot more fun for her to take them out. Taking a deep breath she called forth her wings. The black appendages ripping through the flesh on her shoulder blades, cracking bone and growing new bone instantaneously as they emerged, blue blood soaked and ready for action. The pain of sprouting them was nothing she wasn’t used to but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt every time she did it, however it was something she could ignore.

Shaking them out, the halfling took off into the sky, the rain flying in all directions as she beat her wings picking up more and more speed. As a nice psychological effect on the archers, Witch flew right into front of their faces and their strung bows. Some of them cursed, some of them released arrows too late as she had already gone but she could hear their murmured response if she strained her ears.

“Did you see that?”

“What was it? It looked like some kind of flying demon! I’ve never seen anything like that before.”

“Where did it go?”

“Into the sky, look, you can see the flames of its weapons.”

Witch looked down at her daggers and realized they were still flaming blue, but oh well; they wouldn’t be able to hit her this high up. Still, it would be no fun if they could see her coming. With a quick thought the flames extinguished themselves leaving her hands still feeling the warmth of the fire that had been there moments ago. Her blades were also still extremely hot, not even she would dare touch them right now.

Flapping her wings, the halfling plummeted back down to the cloister walls. She flew passed them first, seeming like nothing more than a gust of wind. Then she quickly turned herself around and flew back up with her weapons at the ready and as she flew passed this time she drove her dagger through the underside of one archer’s jaw and into the neck of the other. Pulling the weapons out, she kicked the closest archer to her in the face, hearing the sound of breaking bones. Just as the others strung their bows, she let herself fell back, but not before a few of them got off some lucky shots. One of them grazed her arm, the other tore through the thin membrane of flesh on one of her wings. It wouldn’t impede her from flying but it was a thorn in her side that angered her.

More arrows were let loose on her, but the archers were at a disadvantage. She blended into the darkness and the rain was blurring their vision. Their arrows whizzed passed her at best, most not even coming close. Coming back around for a second assault, Witch came at them from the side where they wouldn’t expect it. Touching down on the cloister wall where they were all standing, Witch cut down the human closest to her just as he turned in her direction. Hearing the sound of him crying out in death the others turned, bows strung and at the ready. Just as they let fire Witch grabbed one of the humans by the throat and held him in front of her, using him as a human shield. All of their arrows embedding themselves in his body, not even touching her.

See, the bad thing about archers was that they had to reload. Throwing the corpse into the crowd of archers and knocking some of them down, the halfling tensed her legs and took off towards them. Her daggers cutting through flesh and digging into bone. Someone else got off a lucky shot that buried itself into her side but she ignored it, too much adrenaline, too much bloodlust, she barely noted it other than the slight burning sensation it left in her body.

Within no more than two minutes all the archers on the first landing of the cloister wall were taken care of. Their bodies bloody lumps laying in the rain and the ones still breathing wouldn’t be doing so for very much longer.

“Report.”

“What is it?” Though Damion was not psychic, all he had to do was form words in his own head and she could pick up on them.

“The first wall of archers has been…taken care of. Also, I spotted Molotov taking care of some humans and then setting fire to a trebuchet.”

“Aright,” Damion hesitated for a moment, “Soldiers I’m suspecting, and I wouldn’t expect him to dispose of common people. Although we could have possibly used the trebuchet, it can be rebuilt or replaced by a superior one. Well done and thank you for the information, I’ll see you around the bend…”

Closing off the link with him, Witch took off into the skies again; ready to take out the second line of archers.

[Molotov]

Molotov was of two minds. He could either clear out the fort now, or move on through the city. If he moved quickly, he might be able to save a few more people, but by securing the fortress he might be able to provide one last place of asylum in Mount Saint Michel. They were both noble goals, and choosing between them could have certainly been humbling. Instead, Molotov took it as a sign that it was he who decided who lived and died that day.

After a few seconds of deliberation, Molotov’s decision was made for him. A group of soldiers began to storm the roof, perhaps because they had just discovered that Molotov had landed. Cocktail whinnied, alerting Molotov, and then the mutant smiled. “Guess like I’ll have to comb through after all,” he declared. He made no motion for a weapon, but instead shot off a giant ice spike towards the group of soldiers.

Within a few seconds, two of them were impaled as another two fell down with serious wounds. Molotov looked on at the other four, sensing that their panic level had risen. “You thought this’d be easy?” the mutant teased the soldiers. “That you’d bloody come up here and kill the guy all your friends couldn’t kill. Look around you at all the dead bodies. Do you wankers really think you’re more powerful than them.”

There was a definite sense of panic among the remaining soldiers. They weren’t particularly well equipped, carrying nothing more than throwing spears and daggers. They were used to little more than basic drills, occasional defense against some of the more unsavory tribes that wandered across the Tular Plains. They had never had to face an enemy like Molotov before. The mutant sensed all this. He laughed arrogantly, especially as he realized their collective realization that they could not defeat him no matter how they tried. It would have been particularly easy for him to just kill them all with another pair of ice spikes, but somehow that felt insufficient.

“You could all run…” Molotov said. The mutant didn’t really care to offer much clemency, it was more that he wanted to see what would happen. “I’m going to be moving through the fortress soon, so I’d bloody get the hell out of here if I were you…”

As if they were a single entity, all the soldiers bolted and ran. For a brief moment, Molotov contemplated chasing after them, but then his conscience got the better of them. “Now that they’re all running, they’re no different than civilians,” Molotov thought. If he ever saw them again, then he would kill them. At that moment though, their deaths were hardly necessary.

The mutant let them all run away as he gathered all the weapons that had fallen. There was the start to what could be an imposing arsenal, and Molotov planned to make use of it. He would keep his hidden arsenal on the rooftop a secret, a necessary precaution because he didn’t know anyone in his group other than Damion. With weapons stored away, Molotov knew he would be able to arm some of the town’s people if necessary.

With the weapons locked away in a small shed on the roof, Molotov headed down the flight of stairs. The soldiers had been too frightened to create any kind of ambush, and that hardly surprised the mutant. With the way adrenaline had been surging through their bodies, he would have been able to have picked up on their heat signatures had they still been around. A quick survey of the top floor suggested that there was no one there. All the windows held the charred remains of archers, and any soldiers in the garrison had likely either fled or were now dead up on the roof. Molotov lit himself a cigarette and looked around, finding that there really wasn’t much of interest. There were a few quivers of arrows and a few cartons of throwing spears, but neither of those weapons held all that much interest to Molotov. The mutant set them all on fire. He had enough spears and arrows were terrible in a riot.

However, Molotov did find one thing of interest there on the top floor, for there was an undamaged spyglass on the utility belt of one of the archers. Molotov needed to clean the soot off the lens with his shirt, but now he was granted an advantage that none of the other members of his group would have. No matter where they were throughout Mount Saint Michel, he would be able to see them. They, however, would not be provided with the same courtesy.

Eagerly, Molotov put the spyglass to his eye and began to look out on the carnage. He soon found Damion and the woman with sewn lips preparing to attack the cloister. “They’re going to want me there for that,” Molotov muttered. “Pity I already destroyed the trebuchet, would have really made an impression otherwise…”

Molotov took a quick glance around to see what had become of the rest of the group, but didn’t find anyone else around the cloister just yet. That was a good sign, it meant that he wasn’t late, but it still meant that he needed to head over their quickly. The mutant afforded himself one last quick glance of his surroundings, only to be shocked by what he saw. The moment he’d turned back into the room, the same green eyed blonde that the mutant had seen before down in the town.

“You’re not real!” Molotov said.

“But you still can’t escape me,” the woman replied. Her eyes seemed just as icy, but her grey clothes seemed as if they were growing darker. Before, they were a dull grey, light and the color of ash. Now, they were closer in color to the grey stone that the fortress was made of.

Molotov just shuddered. “What are you really?” he asked.

The woman disappeared with her voice lingering with an answer. “You already know, echoed throughout the walls of the fortress third floor.

The mutant tried to ignore it. He was going to have to head towards the cloister if he had any hope of limiting the dammage to the people of the city.

[Damion Shargath]

Damion’s gloved hand grabbed a child by the skull and tossed it forcefully to the side. With a piercing snap the young boy’s head hit the floor, the blood oozing from the wound thinning in the downpour. The armored brute dignified the lifeless body of the child not with a single glance, instead plummeted the butt of his halberd into its mother’s face. Rain droplets as tears mixed with blood as they catapulted through the air, tossed from their actual positions by collision force. The woman’s rags swirled around her as her body twirled to the ground spastically. Not long and her body would give up the desperate struggle to sustain her life without a functioning brain. After all, what was there to sustain? The fillings of her skull laid sprawled across the cobblestones, drifting apart in the ceaseless heavier growing storm.

“Equally worthless…” Damion reflected as he struck he glanced into the scattering crowd before him.

“How can you even dare kill children!? You heartless bastard!” A man cried as he barged out of a nearby house, the light wooden door catapulting from its frame at his raging force.

“Heartless, that I am.” Damion replied with clenched teeth, his gaze turning upon the daredevil, “Why don’t you ask your gods why, and how I became so sickeningly gruesome? Right, I nearly forgot – they don’t care.”

“You dare judge a god!?” The leather studded man cried in disbelief, flashing an oversized cleaver.

“Not only that, I deem you as equally worthless!” The osmium clad heretic bellowed as he sidestepped and pounced forward, “Now die you inferior maggot! You have wasted enough of my precious time!”

The man had aimed his butcher weapon at his opponents already injured leg. Foolishly and seemingly untrained in any form of battle the man had expected to run his makeshift weapon into Damion’s flesh. Unimpressed the Salvic brought his halberd upwards as he rushed past the man’s side. Like a hot knife cutting through butter his weapon severed the troublemaker’s cleaver in two. Clattering it fell to the floor, accompanied by a leg which the halberdier had detached from the man after flailing his halberd out behind himself. With wide eyes proving of disbelief the harshly injured civilian fell to the floor, only to find himself under the assault of Damion’s mockery.

“What, honestly tell me! What made you think you stood a chance!? Are you blind? Did you not see the dozens of dead that cluster my pa-” The halberdier found himself cut short by an enraged cry of his latest victim, with a malicious grin he gave into the struggled words.

“Go to hell! You pitif-” Ironically, the man’s sentence now found itself subdued by a bone quivering roar of thunder.

“I was planning to give you a quick but gruesome end, but that fact that you dare insult me so greatly now prizes you with the opportunity to watch me slaughter everyone standing around. It gives you the opportunity to watch as your house slowly burns down to its foundations, all the while you will slowly and painfully bleed to death.” Grinning, Damion turned and continued up the slope.

The walking cruelty of a man spun gracefully, equally imposing did he lash his weapon about. Blood slid from its finely polished shaft only to be substituted by that of another seconds later. Damion’s wet hair hopped lively from one side to the other as his feet carried him onwards through crowds of the damned. The Salvic combatant swayed to the macabre tune of damnation, one that consisted of vain cries, thunder, rain, and ongoing explosions – underlined by the quiet crackling of burning homes.

With a gruesome sound the osmium halberd of Damion Shargath brought down a woman with her child abreast. The sickeningly gruesome scene fueled the cries of those still standing as they ran eastwards, though some stood petrified unable to comprehend the horror that was raining down upon them. A grown man who had stood in near proximity to the woman was one of those to perplex to move. His entire face had been spattered with blood, his eyes torn wide open, his jaw hanging limply in the air.

Only as his eyes began to race about it was clear that he was growing accustomed to the situation. Though horrified, and pre-occupied with the only thought of running his body would not move. Uncertainly the man’s fingers began to twitch as the horror that was Damion came closer. Then, with a guttural snarl he dropped to his knees, a serrated blade of both osmium and diamond plummeted in the middle of his chest. With a kick its wielder pried him from the weapon, strings of flesh and innards hanging like morbid garments from all the jagged protrusions of the blade.

Unwilling to waste much more time on any individuals, the armored combatant simply completed one full spin. During this spin he had outstretched his halberd and taken care of any man, woman, or child left standing. The noises sounding as one body dropped after the other became an indifferent part of the rain, it seemed as if though the blasphemous killing had bereft their beings of even a last noise. Rapidly he took around the next corner, up a street still slightly sloped, one that would lead him back to his makeshift teammate, Witchblade. Not long and the Salvic youngster was certain of being on the right track. Horrid cries and the noise of bursting flames sounded from around the next corner.

Unexpectedly a man with burning clothing stumbled around the corner and into Damion’s arms. With a grunt of disgust the halberdier rammed a fist into the man’s face. Although having landed in a stack of hay that cushioned his fall, it was questionable if that very incident was something to be happy about. Almost immediately the lower, still bone dry layers of the stack caught fire. With a horrid cry of anguish the man cringed and twitched, engulfed by the flames all about him. His gargling roars would soon subdue, he would become unconscious to the pain and silently battle the flames in vain. Knowing this, and that there was not much more suffering to bring upon that creature, Damion turned around the corner.

At this very moment Witchblade descended from the sky, her black wings creating a strong wind as she landed. With a grin Damion walked to her side and outstretched a hand. A perplex expression formed on the woman’s face, one that emitted her will to kill would the armored male dare touch her body. Then, a puzzled expression followed as she only heard a dull crack. Not hesitating, the Salvic walked past her and pulled the rest of the arrow from Witchblade’s side.

“Almost as bad as myself...” Damion concluded with a sarcastic tone in his voice. Knowing he would receive a reply soon enough, he began to jog further upwards, his eyes affixed on the next group of civilians already.


Putting faith in your God is not of any use
We couldn't be further from the truce!

[Witchblade]

“The fields been left in sorrow
The father and the son they’re gone
The sun shines bright and anger rises
Lorn and lonely torn apart
Don’t you think it’s time to stop now
We were charmed and fooled by the old serpents kiss”

Witch looked down at the wound in her side where the arrow had been. She’d forgotten about it but now remembered that one of the archers on the first cloister wall had gotten off a lucky shot. The adrenaline must have numbed the pain at the time but she’d certainly felt Damion take the damn thing out of her not that she was going to show it in her face. Bastard could have warned her or said something to her, she was about ready to cut his hand off thinking he was about to touch her. No one touched her.

The wound was not serious, there was blood of course but it was not bleeding badly, meaning it hadn’t hit any important organ and as long as she kept the adrenaline rush up she’d probably barely feel the damn thing. Plus, pain was a constant in her life and this was a trivial wound compared to some of the other shit she’d been through. That didn’t mean it wasn’t going to be an irritant though. It would heal, within an hour or two, maybe more.

Following after the human, the halfling said nothing about his comment to her, whatever it had meant. He was already heading towards a group of civilians and she was fast catching up to him. They panicked as they saw them drawing nearer and some of them started to flee thinking they could actually get away. Chuckling to herself the halfling quickly excited the ions around her hands into flames again and shot off a fireball towards a few crates. The flames burst through the wood and into the contents within which exploded, sending a shockwave and flames barreling into the surrounding area. When the smoke cleared a few of the civilians who had been running away were now either dead or soon going to be and the others ones were disorientated from the blast. Her ears were ringing from it though, her hearing being so sensitive and her eyes were filled with spots. Suddenly flashes of light could at times blind her sensitive eyes; right now it was nothing more than a nuisance.

The disoriented humans were easy to cut down, not that they had put up much of a fight even when they’d had all of their senses in tact. This was starting to grow old fast, she wanted a real fight not the easy slaughter of these sheep. There was no challenge here and as much as she loved spilling blood she loved a challenge better. The thought that that battle might be her last, the move that might end her life, she loved that feeling as death breathed down her neck. Here, there was none of that, she was the bringer of death and it was starting to get a little stale. However, that being said there was probably some kind of challenge waiting for them in the cloister.

Letting the flames spread down to her blades again, the halfling cut through the mass of humans before her like a hot knife through butter. She didn’t bother taking her time, she just slaughtered, slicing through flesh and into organs, instant deaths where she could and more painful ones if the situation presented itself. Damion was pretty much doing the same, the blade of his halberd cutting through the humans as if they were nothing more than target practice. To think, that a small group of warriors could take over an entire cloister it was…preposterous but it was happening.

As the last of the human fell to her blade, Witch took a deep breath and let the rain wash away some of the blood from her body. Then she nodded her head to Damion and started racing for the stairs leading up to the cloister. If she hadn’t taken care of those archers this would be a hard, almost near impossible task. They would have been sitting ducks here with no cover whatsoever. Now the only thing they had to worry about was what was at the top of this damn long ass staircase.

[Elrundir]

The plan was proceeding perfectly. Elrundir glanced at their map in his mind’s eye and reminded himself that soon he and Storm would deviate somewhat, with Storm traversing along the very eastern edge of the island, while Elrundir took a slightly more inside track. This would allow them to cover twice as much ground before meeting up again near the cloister at the top of the island. And, of course, covering twice as much ground meant twice as much killing. The thought sent shivers down the elf’s spine. His skin was all a-tingle at the mere thought of all the blood that would be spilled. So many fools, rushing to their deaths, surrounded by miles and miles of water with nowhere to run!

Elrundir was about to glance at Storm and verify the plan when he heard something. His elven ears twitched slightly in response to the faint, but present noise. It was the sound of metal through flesh, but no… Storm was not attacking anyone. Elrundir turned slowly, approaching as if nothing was wrong, and as he passed Storm’s body his gaze turned down to look at the dagger in his back. One eyebrow arched, and Elrundir turned again. The man who had thrown the knife was standing there, approaching with three allies. All of them had various manners of weapons drawn. The elf’s eyes narrowed dangerously, and he took another step forward, placing himself between Storm and the advancing threat.

“Do not move.” It was not concern, but an order. His voice was harsh and cold, and yet just the same he did not want Storm to do anything that would bring about his own death. The next words that passed Elrundir’s lips were not simply words, but the lyrics of a song. Sung in the ancient tongue of the elves, it brought a chill to those who heard it – and indeed, the temperature of the area around him was decreasing as he sang. The elf waved his hand before him and a wall of sharp spears of ice materialized, aimed at the group of four men, which faltered slightly at the sight.

The song reached its crescendo and the volley of ice lurched forward. There was no mercy in the attack. Blue ice mixed with red blood as it tore into the men who never had a chance to defend. All of them were impaled directly through the stomach, heart, or lungs, with more superficial wounds on the more exterior parts of their bodies. Most of them were thrown back, not even able to fall completely on their backs because of the huge shards of ice sticking through their torsos. But they were dead. And Elrundir was grinning.

Suddenly he whipped around, tossing his black robes as he did, and he faced Storm’s back. The command came again. “Be still.” Elrundir’s free hand reached for the knife in his back, and instead of pulling it out directly, the elf paused. He took a long moment to concentrate, to gather his energies, to restore his own power and alertness after the last attack, by calling upon his own mental focus. And then, slowly, the knife came out, and it was replaced with healing energy flowing from Elrundir’s body. Although unable to heal the wound completely, Elrundir was able to stitch back together the skin, and return Storm to a state free from fear of death.

The elf tossed the blade aside without another thought, and proceeded to step past Storm almost without looking at him. He knew the spell had worked, he knew the boy’s life was saved. “We near the path of divergence,” he explained as he passed by. “Do watch yourself this time.”

Rouge tittered quietly, either from amusement or excitement, and Elrundir just continued walking. Just ahead was the fork in the road where Storm would turn right and Elrundir left; for some time they would be separated, just barely able to see each other across the expanse, before meeting up again at the balcony which would lead them into the cloister. Whatever Storm’s condition, Elrundir was pleased to have the chance to act on his own. There would be no cloud to rain on his parade.

[Storm Veritas]

The healing powers of the mighty elf were incredible. Storm felt a warm, soothing glow through the wound, feeling his insides slowly sour and numb. He fell to a knee, catching his torso with an extended hand, and took a deep breath. His lungs filled with air, and he felt alive. His back still burned and wrenched with some pain, but it felt like no more than a mighty punch to the ribs. Standing slowly, he breathed towards the incredible warrior elf.

“Thank you, friend.”

Perhaps he had an ally, perhaps he just had a man that didn’t want to be bogged down by the slower, mortality-riddled human. In either event, there was a sense of either compassion or teamwork, and it was something he could move with, some promising hope to continue along with. Maybe they weren’t all like the horrible human leader Damion. Maybe there was some semblance of gray amidst the black souls that dominated the group.

Or maybe you should shut the f*ck up and get to your part of town.

The keep was ruined now, with smoke and flames about the small fortress. The screams of man and beast rung through the air as horrible, ghastly veil of disorder. The air tasted of soot and smoke, and the ground was littered with blood and felled humans. From one man, a thin line of blood traveled slowly down a cobbled path, weaving in and around the stones, the mortar creating some morbid irrigation to a central point at the shoulder of the road. Broken windows throughout the city spilled broken glass, likely taken out in one of the many explosions.

Move. Don’t look down at the dead, look ahead at the living. Become one. Infiltrate.

He took a hard right down a road, nabbing the leathery coat of a commoner killed in combat and donning it. Releasing his hair from its tight pull, he allowed his mane to lay tousled over his face. Dirty, bloodied, and wide-eyed, he looked every part the commoner. He even sheathed his knives in favor of a pitchfork, taking the makeshift trident from the hand of another downed man. He jogged ahead slowly, head on a swivel, looking for the humans.

A flock of men, walking with torches and knives, turned the corner to him. The face he returned was a fine piece of craftsmanship, showing not fear but relief. Friends! his face cried, as if relieved to see the rioters. He could fall in line here, for as one totally disorderly human, he had no semblance of the killer he had become.

“Heading up the right path to chapel?” one of the scruffy-faced plebians asked. “Come, with us you’re safe. They can’t take our city alive!”

It was then that he saw it, strapped to a smallish man in the center of the pack. A vest, riddled with knives and forks and marbles and assorted pieces of small metal. The pockets bulged widely, and to his stomach a rope tied down a thick packet of black powder. Eager, the short, bearded man looked back at Storm with a five-toothed grin.

“They can’t never take our town! We’re gonna meet them in the middle, and say hello to my little friend here!”

He nodded, swallowing hard. There was no chance to stop them all yet, but he could travel with. If the small man safely reached the center of town, OR if he got close to the pack of wolves that Veritas rode in with, no degree of toughness or resolve would steel them. The man was a walking explosive, something the wizened mage had never even considered.

[Elrundir]

Elrundir nodded slightly at Storm’s words of thanks, although the taint within him was disgusted simply by the mere sentiment of it. It was necessary, though. Storm could not have been allowed to die. The group was outnumbered already, powerful though they were, and one loss could not be afforded at this early juncture. It was a dangerous move, though; a moment of compassion, a brief glimpse at a softer heart, a crack in the armour that the real Elrundir could exploit. Would he? Was he strong enough? It was too early to say, but at this point he knew he would take any opportunity afforded to him.

As the two men parted ways, Elrundir moved smoothly and swiftly up the path, barely even glancing at the destruction all around him. The fire that the woman had started was spreading rapidly, causing a panic among the citizens who wished to escape with their lives. But there was nowhere to run. Elrundir and the rest of the group were cutting off the path to the docks, and anyone who saw them immediately knew their purpose. Elrundir was moving slowly, calmly, almost happily – there was no mistaking his intentions here. Anyone who saw him, anyone who wasn’t willing to fight for their home, immediately turned in the other direction and fled. To where do you run? he couldn’t help wondering with an amused smirk. Like rats fleeing the sinking ship… but when you reach the top of the mast, where will you fly next? Slowly Elrundir’s gaze fixed upon the cloister atop the island, and he grinned.

By this point there were few people along Elrundir’s path who had the courage to stand up against the wave of destruction that was bearing down upon them. Annoyed by this lack of bravery, he turned his wrath upon the innocent, and even the buildings themselves, setting one aflame and freezing the next. Rouge did damage of her own, using the fire of her very soul to enhance the flames that were tearing through the solitary village. When he was not casting his magic, Elrundir was concentrating and focusing his mind to regain his energy and increase his longevity. Neither of them met any resistance for quite some time. Those who dared wield a weapon in their direction were struck down as quickly as the thought of fighting back entered their minds. But suddenly, roughly half-way towards his destination, one stepped up who would be different.

There was a flash of light, causing Elrundir to turn away and cover his eyes. When he looked back, a sigla of energy had appeared on the ground, painted with brilliant golden energy along the cobblestone pathway, and out of that sigla rose a person. Elrundir immediately grinned. The bald head, the plain robes, the hands folded reverently before his stomach. One of the monks had come to defend his home, and it was about time; only their magic would prove any match for Elrundir’s own. The elf glanced over at his shoulder and Rouge immediately took to the sky to watch from a safe vantage point and join in where necessary. The elf looked back across the short distance at the monk, and turned his head away slightly, still fixing his dark eyes upon him. He said nothing for the time being.

“You and your kind will never succeed here,” the monk stated defiantly, pulling his hands apart and resting them at his side as the light faded. “Your darkness has no place in this palace of light.” Elrundir smirked.

“Then a place shall be made for it.” Shadows began to draw themselves towards Elrundir’s position, swirling around his feet like a maelstrom, symbolic of the chaos that was tearing this city apart already. He commanded them with his mind and his words, as easily as he controlled the elements of fire or ice. Suddenly, with a clear note of song, Elrundir sent a wave of shadows forth towards their target, who deflected them by raising his hand and producing a barrier of pure light. Elrundir’s smile twisted, for he loved a challenge.

“So you won’t make this easy?” The shadows faded, returning to their places within the brightly-burning buildings. “Then allow me to test your worth!” Elrundir lunged forward, extending his free hand and sending a bright flare of electricity across the distance between them. Rouge circled overhead, screeching defiantly. At last a real battle had begun, and Elrundir intended to enjoy the challenge.

[Molotov]

By the time Molotov had returned to the roof, he was no longer alone. There was a new stranger on it, one who seemed to be particularly upset about the plight of the people of Mount Saint Michel.

“You’ve come here and ruined our town,” the man said. His eyes were full of emotion, and very hands were shaking as he spoke.

Molotov said nothing. He didn’t want to respond, because the charge that had just been uttered was one that he couldn’t so easily deny. Thus, he only watched, gathering up an impression about the stranger as the man talked. Already, it was easily apparent that Molotov was dealing with a warrior far more powerful than any he’d met in the city so far. This stranger was quite muscular, and he wore a full suit of armor.

“The forces of good work in mysterious ways, but they do always win,” the stranger continued. “You will soon find out that despite every last bit of innocent blood that has been spilled on the ground, that any victory you achieve will certainly be hollow.”

This was another claim Molotov didn’t care to refute. He already knew that there wasn’t going to be any particular honor or achievement in routing though a city of civilians. Even now, as the mutant looked at this angelic creature, he was already looking past this new threat and regretting the destruction that had been caused. Billows of smoke still festered up into the air in the place of what had been charred ruins, and the entire city looked like a patchwork of varied elemental powers. It was truly tragic.

Finally, Molotov spoke. “If you’re looking for a bit of moral superiority, I assure you- you’ve already won.” His voice was even, yet cold and sardonic, as if he couldn’t be bothered to talk with this stranger all that much longer. He knew people in suits of armor were often knights, and knights were often long winded.

That wasn’t enough to satisfy this knight. “I haven’t come to debate,” he said. “I have come for vengeance.” A large osmium sword that carried the words “Thorn, the Vengeful” was withdrawn from its sheath. “I am Thorn,” he said. “I am the law around here.”

Molotov bit his lip, that phrase made him think of a recent adventure in Oaktown where he had aided Letho Ravenheart, the state Marshall, and had met a very attractive woman. He wondered what she would have thought of any of this. “She’d still want me home,” Molotov figured quickly, knowing that he couldn’t afford to dwell on anything more. “Whatever else I did, I’m going to have to survive.” All his heady feelings of arrogance had withered away since his second sighting of the girl with green eyes. She had just seemed so incredibly morose that Molotov had been completely and utterly humbled. Now, in the face of this new threat, he knew he was going to have to fight just too survive.

Then, Molotov reached for his adze. The knight’s blade was made of osmium, so the mutant knew the only advantage he might have would be in weight. Undoubtedly, the muscular Thorn would be able to move his blade quickly, so that left Molotov with no advantages should they be drawn into a melee battle. The mutant’s only hope would be to use his spells. With that, Molotov launched the first attack, just as Thorn had begun another soliloquy, this one about how much he sought to bring a villain like Molotov to justice.

Even then, Molotov’s quickness offered no advantage. Thorn smashed the icicle to the ground with a lofty blow from his sword. The mutant cringed. With that kind of power, Molotov knew he would have no chance in any kind of a duel. His only chance, if any was to outsmart a man like this. Spells were also unlikely, but at the moment, they were Molotov’s greatest chance. He followed the spike with a fiery tornado, but this suffered from even less success. Undeterred by this attack, Thorn held up his hand, absorbing the fire. The knight barely looked inconvenienced by the counter attack.

“Now even his magic is better than mine,” Molotov cursed. “For all the bloody chances, I’ve run through this sodding city, dealing with people who ran away like mice, and now I’ve got to go after this stupid wanker.” The mutant was going to have to find a way to outsmart this enemy of his, that would be the only way that he’d survive. There were few other advantages he had. The roof was relatively flat, there were only the remains of the smoldered trebuchet with which to use for cover. Cocktail was there as well, but Molotov didn’t know how handy the steed would come. Thorn didn’t seem much like the kind of person who would be so easily deterred.

Molotov sighed. “Maybe if I ask for mercy that might confuse him,” the mutant thought. It wasn’t that great of an idea, but it was the best he could come up with. He knew that Thorn wouldn’t remain on the defensive for long. Molotov shuddered. He was going to have to take a risk beyond what he would normally want. He was a good judge of character, but this angel seemed far too enigmatic and had already surprised the mutant twice. “It might just let me get a first blow in…” Molotov figured. “At this moment, I suppose that’s all I can ask for… even the score down a little.”

“Now that you see my might do you have any regrets?” Thorn asked, interrupting Molotov’s thoughts. “Wish you’d done something different.”

“Everything,” Molotov replied, doing his best not to make the reply sound sarcastic. It was a bit easier to sound sincere now than most of the times he'd spoke, for a part of him was speaking the truth. None the less, a pantomime began as Molotov kneeled, as if so regretful he could no longer stand. This little battle was a sudden and bitter fall for a mutant who less than ten minutes ago had thought he’d ruled the world.

Thorn nodded. “Then you will have an honorable execution,” the knight declared. “Drop your weapon.”

Molotov obeyed meekly. “Some solace,” he thought.

Thorn made his way over towards the mutant, sword aloft. Cocktail whinnied and kicked the ground. Neither of the men involved in the execution paid any particular notice. Thorn raised his sword above his head and muttered a quiet prayer. Molotov hoped that the eager smile on his face wasn’t too readily apparent as he looked up and blew ice into the face of his executioner. Cocktail soon followed from above, kicking the powerful angel in the head. Molotov moved quickly after that, the kick did little more than to faze Thorn, but the ice was having a bit more of an effect. Immediately, Molotov went for the shins, trying to bring the knight down. Torn wasn’t deterred. His sword fell away from him, but the angel was not deterred. Once Molotov had stepped over Thorn, the unsuccessful executioner grabbed at Molotov’s ankle and began to twist, letting the mutant’s body hit the ground with a hard thud.

Thorn pulled hard, but it was with a measured motion. Molotov writhed in pain. “Bloody….” The mutant cursed loudly. Cocktail could only watch helplessly from the air. Molotov was writhing in pain, right near the corpse of one of the men that he had killed earlier. Perhaps it was poetic justice that he would meet his match that way, but at that moment, the mutant was in no mind for justice.

“You thought you could outwit me!” Thorn boomed. “You have this much cheek!”

Molotov had to move quickly. He reached down around him and grabbed the first thing in his position, a dagger that was sheathed with the corpse. Thorn’s self righteous arrogance played into Molotov’s hands now, for the angel had not noticed Molotov’s actions until the knife had sliced right into the jugular vein.

It was a disturbing sight. Thorn tried to say something but just gurgled. The ankle was released. A few seconds later, Thorn collapsed to the ground. Molotov just looked on bug eyed. He hadn’t spilled that much blood since Haidia. Even when he’d killed since then, there had been no bloodshed. Ice and fire sealed wounds, and otherwise Molotov always used blunt instruments.

“Lets get out of here…” he said, leaping onto Cocktail as he made plans to meet up with Damion Shargath. “I don't wanna stay...I’m just too bloody freaked out on fear!”

(Damion/Witch feel free to bunny Molotov coming closer towards you)

[Damion Shargath]

Something wicked had befallen the desolate cloister fortress, growing like a cancer, a putrid ulcer, from the very pure surface of it. There was no syringe divine to puncture the cyst, no sponge to soak the blood that was being spilled, no godly bandages to still the bleeding of the innocent. The sickness though, which plagued that very place, was knowledgeable though, and knew that it had only corrupted the surface. It knew all too well that beneath the surface always laid a strong core, one that would struggle until the last organ fails, one that struggles for dire survival whatever the cost. And be it that the sickness reaches the heart, a ferocious toil both the body and the sickness shall undergo. For there will be only one survivor, only one of two that will prevail, there would be no mutual understanding in this case.


----

Damion and his strange group of allies had obviously managed to destruct the first line of defense, could one even call it that. The seemingly ceaseless butchering of civilians, the so called innocent, was simply a mean to fire the bloodlust within the war monger’s who assaulted. Damion paused for a moment and turned. The vain cries of men, women, and children had grown quieter, only few still struggled for survival whilst a larger number had given in to their fate. Prominently through the air travelled the sounds of slowly extinguishing fire, the isolated bursting of wood as houses collapsed, the pattering rain which ceaselessly tried to wash away the horror, and roaring clouds above whose dark grey matter became one with the rising smoke pillars of the once comfortable little town. Bakeries roasted whatever was left within them, food or human, edible or not, this was indifferent to the fire. Soon bars and pubs, possibly entire rows of houses, ones that looked ever so humble and inviting, would collapse and spew upwards billows of dust.

“Collateral damage…” Damion mused as he fingered a second cigarette from his pocket, his last had been wiped from his mouth by the human torch, “Sad actually, the houses were the only things worthwhile down here…”

Although he knew they could be rebuilt, he grieved slightly for the medieval homes. Contrasting his violent thoughts and his malevolent visions now rose the artistic side within Damion. The many white houses and the thwarting wooden pillars, bars, and frames that supported them, they were truly wonderful. To any artist, in almost any lighting, at almost any time of the year this forlorn, yet idyllic venue would have been an inspiration. Endless cobblestone streets, humdrum and sedate houses side by side with public creations, warm colors of facades flowing into the darker cobblestone which posed the strong and resistant part of the scene. In summers the island would flourish in lush green, pairing with the bright beige rock towards the peak of the elevation. In autumns the island would divulge into a colorful countless display of various brown and oranges. In winters, everything would become coated in a pure sheet of snow, one that sheeted every impurity beneath and with it posed a peaceful and brilliant scene unmatched.

Damion decided it to be rebuilt, and if it was only to satisfy his intellectual cravings. Sadly, this was all the time he could afford to spend on his other “self”. Taking a deep drag from his cigarette, he threw the igniting matchstick into a nearby puddle. Turning, he wrenched his halberd from a man still struggling to shove his organs back into himself. With a final twitch the weapon pulled free of the man’s torso, revealing a gaping hole his hands could never seal. With a desperate sigh the blooded figure rolled onto its back and gave into the individual darkness enclosing. What the man felt was irrelevant, but his murderer tried to imagine nonetheless. Was the last image before his inner eye a childhood memory of happier days? Possibly his family? Or was it a vision of the child he lay beside, as it still lived? Was it his home, by obvious chance in more gleeful days? With a small chance, was that man looking at the rumored light at the end of the tunnel? Lastly Damion came to a conclusion; it truly didn’t matter at all, not to him.

The Salvic’s thoughts now came back to the matter at hand, up the stairs and through the next gate. They would enter the main building of Mont Saint Michel, a structure of massive walls and towering height. Alleyways wound upwards through the structure, open air passages between two walls, so it stood upon the plan Damion had seen. Here and there one side of an enclosing wall would connect to the other via roofed bridges, of which were several to find. The halberdier wasn’t sure, yet, if he would split in two separate groups to raze the building, he was yet to see the condition of his fellow butchers. All the damage he had taken thus far was a cut, a little deeper one, to the thigh. Truly, it was nothing that would keep him from steering onwards but he wasn’t privy to any injuries his comrades may have taken on the way. He would simply have to see if they were to take the endless hallways that waited as one large group, or as two slightly smaller ones. Soon the group would gather once again, leave behind the burning wreckage once a town and wield forth their weapons at what lay beyond.

The remaining blood, not washed away by the rain, jerked from his sleek armor as he went. Falling, it became an almost indifferent droplet of liquid that was the rain. On impact, it spread and vanished within seconds. The noise went unheard by all, leaving not a trace behind. Every man upon this island would be forgotten, it was their fate. There was no afterlife for those not remembered, let alone salvation for those known by none. There would be no survivors. None would face the warriors and survive, less they prevail in battle, and those that managed to flee to the surrounding waters were bound to drown in the storm.
Suddenly Damion halted and threw another glance over his blood smeared shoulder. Molotov had seemingly made it through well, at least physically.

The Salvic knew that his mutant comrade was not one to senselessly butcher the innocent for amusement, and thus he expected those who fled to either drown or fall victim to the eastern situated murderers. To say the least, the makeshift leader of the group could have cared less, for he had other plans for Molotov. For all the halberdier could estimate, Molotov was a reliable ally, and it is what he needed within this group. For some reason, Damion would have felt compelled to put his life on the line if the man had been in danger. Whilst then again he wouldn’t have been able to explain why, in the most complex go of things. Possibly Molotov wouldn’t have batted an eyelash at the demise of Damion Shargath, although that didn’t matter much to the Salvic as his feelings of comradeship surpassed any sort of logic. Additionally the time for Molotov to show his worth in battle was nearing with every step. For with every step they made, they neared something the mutant detested with every fiber of his body.

[Elrundir]

Elrundir’s burst of electricity met with another energy shield, although this time he was certain his attack had a stronger effect. The monk’s barrier of light was quite adept at absorbing shadow, but when faced with a similar form of energy its abilities were noticeably degraded. Besides, Elrundir knew that his opponent could not play defensive forever. Although fairly well-matched, the elf would undoubtedly wear the monk out like that.

At the same time, Elrundir knew that he could not drag the fight on forever. There was much yet to be done in the victimized island-city, and he could not exhaust all his efforts on this pathetic human. There had to be a way to end this battle with a minimal loss of energy on his part. The wheels of the taint’s consciousness began to spin. A direct show of strength would only end up wasting precious time. Elrundir would need to be much more subtle, and he knew exactly how.

When the brilliant flare of light from the two connecting energies finally dissipated, Elrundir stood placidly across the cobbled path from his opponent. His dark eyes were wary, though the monk continued to look at him with that pathetic expression of sacred condescension. It was as though the taint’s opponent was so prepared, and so naively thought himself capable of punishing him. Did he really think the power of this fallen palace would any longer withstand the assailing forces of darkness? I will unearth his grave error for him.

Another moment of silence passed between the warriors. This, Elrundir knew, was typical – magical battles between two practiced wizards were often quiet, filled with careful thought and calculation. Like a game of chess each side was determined to be two steps ahead of the other. Elrundir knew he was. The monk finally outstretched his fingers and thrust forth his palm, unleashing a concentrated beam of white light in the elf’s direction.

The tainted one did not step aside, and neither did he make any visible attempt to block the oncoming attack. But as he stood there, as still as the stone beneath his feet, Elrundir’s body began to change. It blackened, and its solid form wavered as if becoming gelatinous; within seconds, a mere silhouette remained. The light connected firmly, tearing through the center of the elf’s shadowy form. Where it would otherwise have burned through flesh and muscle, the attack now had a completely unforeseen effect: the rays of light dispersed the shadow, casting it to the many corners of the landscape like leaves scattered by a strong wind.

For a long moment it looked and felt as though Elrundir’s body had, in its shadow state, exploded from the force of the blast. The monk could no longer feel his presence, and this brought a solemn, grateful smile to his wrinkling lips. The power of light had dispelled the darkness and destroyed it forever.

But then a voice bubbled up from the darkness, whispering like a cold winter’s wind against the back of the old human’s neck and ear. “You understand nothing.” The monk spun and then lurched backwards, surprised to see Elrundir’s lithe form towering over him from directly behind. That arrogant, cruel malice was still in the elf’s dark eyes, only now it was bolstered by the addition of victory. Elrundir lifted his hand and called out a quick verse of song even as he dropped it; a blade of ice formed in the air, threatening to cleave his opponent in two.

The monk was adept, however; he hopped back, raised his own arm, and erected another quick burst-shield of energy to deflect the attack. The two magics crackled against each other, but unlike the old man, Elrundir didn’t show even the slightest hint of surprise. His grin even widened slightly, and his black eyes flickered over the monk’s shoulder, alighting on something behind him.

The elf’s opponent could only turn his head enough to see the most bizarre and otherwordly thing he had yet experienced: the visage of a ghostly maiden, standing proudly in her flowing, ethereal gown. Transparent hair flowed down her shoulder in long locks. She was entirely monochrome – a slightly violet hue permeated throughout, but otherwise no colours could be distinguished. The woman curtseyed politely to the man, who was still struggling against Elrundir’s attack, smiled, and said, “I pray that your death is an enjoyable one.”

The ghostly woman extended her arm, palm facing out and fingers towards the ground, as if holding out her hand to invite the monk towards her. His face was stricken with fear, however, as a ball of pure energy, the same colour as she was, began to swirl in the palm of her hand. He was unable to do anything to defend himself: moving would surely mean being cleaved in half by Elrundir’s ice blade. It did not matter either way – he was trapped. The ball of energy launched forward without so much as another gesture from the woman, and tore into the monk’s backside, easily shearing through flesh and bone. The monk stumbled and lost his focus, releasing his shield purely by accident – and at that moment, the tainted elf’s ice blade fell the rest of the way and tore into his skull.

The frozen weapon dissipated moments after connection, with blood spurting from the cavernous skull occasionally and dribbling onto the floor, forming a blackening pool. Elrundir stepped plainly past the corpse without so much as another glance, towards the ghastly woman, to whom he extended his hand gently. Her form wavered, swirled like a vortex, and then burst, revealing the red cardinal Elrundir called his own. “Dazzling work, my pet,” he crooned, beckoning her onto his waiting finger. She chirped her thanks while one of her beady eyes glanced at her handiwork; her head bobbed this way and that as though she was completely enjoying herself. And why shouldn’t she? Elrundir thought. This is ever so much fun.

Taking a brief moment to adjust his posture, Elrundir once again stepped forward, moving gracefully; the metallic staff in his left hand clanked against the cobblestone pathway, and the quiet noise was like a death knell to all who heard it. Soon, though, Elrundir would be reaching a large clearing near the cloister itself, close to where he and Storm would reunite. He would save his wrath for the grandest display yet, and anyone unlucky enough to find themselves in that clearing would all be immortalized on his canvas.

[Witchblade]

((I apologize for taking so long; I haven’t been able to focus lately.))


Let’s pray that’s Heaven’s on our side
Through violence and horror shall honor arise
Let’s pray and blessed shall be our leader
We follow the noble and bright

So the little murdering psychopath before her had more than just a cruel side. She’d picked off a few of his thoughts as he wondered to himself about rebuilding this place, about making it beautiful once again. But what did that matter to her? So what if he liked architecture, she didn’t, she hated pretty much everything human and all that was built here was made from humans and therefore she hated it. The only thing humans had ever done she didn’t dislike was create weapons and therefore create war. Their finest accomplishment. The elves created magic and most lived in harmony with nature, the demons created…well, she didn’t know what they’d created, but the humans, they created weapons and things like war. They hated and despised each other and were never completely satisfied with what they had therefore they fought and killed to get more and then the next strongest person opposed them and took what they had fought to gain. It was a vicious circle that she had seen much of over the years and never tired of. After all, who didn’t like watching humans rip themselves apart over something so trivial as money?

Was what they were doing any different? They were here destroying an entire village of people just because Damion wanted what they possessed and didn’t care who got in his way to get a hold of it. He was after all human, could she expect any more or any less of him, except to do what is natural to his species and destroy?

As Damion stopped in front of her, Witch did so as well. Turning her head to see the mutant Molotov approaching them on his little asperi. She didn’t trust the mutant yet, she knew Damion did but that meant nothing to her as she didn’t trust him either and barely liked the guy, actually scratch that, she pretty much hated him. He got on her nerves and his childish behavior annoyed her. In fact, she didn’t trust any one she was working with. Then again, when was the last time she’d ever trusted somebody? Izvilvin, that was the last and only person she couldn’t ever really remember trusting and she hadn’t seen her little Drow since The Cell. But now was not the time or the place to contemplate her feelings for him.

Dowsing the flames spread across her hands and blades, Witch ran a free finger over the arrow wound in her side. It was annoying her. Every time she moved she could feel it as if the arrow were still there and still digging into her flesh. The adrenaline rush was still pumping through her blood and numbing most of the pain but it didn’t make her completely numb or oblivious. The bleeding was slowing down but the wound had yet to close itself which meant that if she moved in the wrong direction she’d open it back up again. It was such a nuisance, if she hadn’t already chilled that stupid archer she’d be torturing him slowly and making him beg for death for even thinking about shooting her with an arrow.

“Now is not the time to focus on how pretty the scenery is human. Perhaps your mind should be focusing on the task at hand and what lies beyond these doors.”

[Storm Veritas]

He couldn’t stop them. At least, not easily. One flash from his fingertips would combust the human explosive, and it was not a risk he was willing to undertake. Besides, there may have been a way to get closer, to get it done quickly, with a knife or something. A big strike of the pitch-fork, perhaps. He had killed many of them, and it was hanging heavy, but many more would die if this lunatic made it to town square.

But how in the blue hell do I get to the middle of that pack without getting stabbed in the process? Without getting a few more blades in the side for my troubles?

They were moving, too, and that made it worse. The revelers were crazed, cold eyes and steely glares fixated on the center of the town. All the roads met at one point, and at the central hub the keep was a bazaar, the place for all the merchants and travelers to meet. There was already smoke there, and some flickers from thatched rooftops.

It was about to get much, much worse.

Although he strode with an ardent zeal, Storm was still largely fatigued and wounded from his earlier battle. Without the incredibly fleet-footed elf by his side, he was incredibly vulnerable. Attacking this posse was out of the question, but stopping their kamikaze ringleader was mission critical. Say what you will about his horrendous leader Damion, Storm thought, but this answer would cost many more their lives.

Gotta make the move. Got no time left.

They had covered two blocks in very short time, the growth of their collective song becoming wilder and more obscene. Swears and deathcries were ushered forth with an incredible frequency, and he knew that their moment was fleeting. He had to strike, and he did, with great speed. He thumped one man hard on the right shoulder, tapping and darting to the left as the man turned to investigate. Sliding up from behind the target, he rifled past two more men, whose protests fell on deaf ears. He lowered the pitchfork in his hands, careful not to stab anyone in the process, and to keep the thing as inconspicuous as possible. This would be tough.

Back of the head, brainstem. Gotta turn out the lights completely. One chance.

He lunged once forward, the arms raising and thrusting his trident forward hard and wildly. The crowd turned their attention and gasped as the newcomer attacked their cause. They were too late. Storm was swift and clean, driving the middle prong right through the spine at the neck. The blade quickly passed through rugged flesh and tore back, a singular strike that was at once horrible and yet necessary.

Retribution came fast and heavily. The tallest of the mob, one who stood directly to the left of the bomb-carrier, was outraged. He turned and drew a large silver pistol, took aim at Storm and fired. He had no comprehension of the black powder carried in his friend’s coat, however, and didn’t know the effects of a high ordinance explosion so close to the magic black dust.

The explosion was savage, and the lights went out yet again for Storm, who was thankfully covered partially by another man, a meat shield who was riddled with thin, metal projectiles. The thunderous roar of the explosion could be heard for miles around, and it was unlikely any who were around the blast could possibly survive. A thick black column of ash and dust was pushed to town’s center by a westerly wind. A pile of assorted body parts, flesh, blood, bone and general gore lay savagely at the base of the bomb.

Covered by men, Storm hung on in thin, shallow breaths. They had not reached town’s center, but damage was done. Long fingernails scratched at cobblestones as he was elated at the pain in his ribs, legs, and head.

It meant he was alive under all of it, which was a damned fine proposition indeed.

[Witchblade]

Don’t you hear my crying, crying
Come take me away
I hallow thy name

There on the battlefield he stands
Down on the battlefield he’s lost
And on the battlefield it ends.

Witch heard the blast echoing through the city and biting into her eardrums. Her head whipped around and she watched as the large billowing cloud of smoke rose through the village and towards the night sky. Bright colours of orange and yellow pierced through the darkened cloud. It was a beautiful fight to behold; one that had taken many lives with it. Her first thought was simply that more of the gunpowder cases had exploded when they’d been touched by flames, but then the majority of the fires had been put out by the rain. Then she sensed the presence of one of the humans that Damion had brought with him. His fading sense of energy gave her the impression that he had not let off the explosion; instead he had been a casualty of it. He was not dead yet, but he couldn’t be in very good condition all considering. Still as much as she would love for him to perish out there, this task was hard enough with the numbers they already had, one less of them and it was going to get much harder.

Shaking out the wings folded around her body, the halfling took off to the skies again. She didn’t bother to look to her leader for any kind of guidance on this matter, he’d probably just go tell her to grab the bastard anyway and then she’d be inclined not to only because he ordered it so.

The location was easy to find as smoke was still pouring into the sky from whatever debris was left burning. The ground was littered with the body parts of those who had been too close to the blasts center. Blood was quickly pooling out of wounds and mixing in with the rain, but there was so much of it that the entire square looked like the sight of a slaughter.

Landing on the ground, Witch kicked some of the human remains out of her way. Looking through all the carnage she was amazed that anyone could survive something like this but reaching out with her senses she knew it was possible. Stepping over the corpses, Witch kicked a few limbs and a torso out of her way before she found the wounded body of one Storm Veritas, just barely clinging to his conscious state. Shaking her head, Witch reached down and grabbed the human by the arms, then hefted him up onto her shoulder. He weighed quite a bit and it was all dead weight too, but she’d carried more. Taking off into the skies again, Witch headed back towards Damion and Molotov.

[Witchblade]

Due to inactivity this quest is being moved to The Unresolveds. If you would like it re-opened, feel free to PM me anytime.