Developing an Investment

[Storm Veritas]

((solo.))

He was never meant to be a cowboy, and didn’t fancy himself one, but trying to take hold of his new purchase required a wrangler’s skill. He leaned over the fence, smoking feverishly on the last cigarette in his case. He’d have to go back and roll several more before the task was done, or he’d probably lose his mind. This was going to be a terrible undertaking.

The beautiful day belied his terrible disposition, and the sun poured a hard hail of heat and radiance on the wannabe in black. Leaning over the shoddy wood railing, he felt his loose cotton shirt and slightly-too-dark pants seem very uncomfortable. They didn’t fit him, didn’t make sense on him, not any more than the thick leather boots and spurs. They came free with that awful beast, but were at the present time as useless as tits on a bull to him. Not much could be done with a mustang.

Three times thus far today he had tried to tame him, the net result being three quick trips to his ass and a black ensemble caked in a thin layer of dust and silt. The few travelers that had stopped to watch were shooed off post-haste with looks that were as close to lethal as anyone had seen. Defeated, Storm was venting.

You big, black bitch. This time, you’re gonna listen. This time, you’re gonna sit upright and let me mount and ride and take care of you.

Attila was laughing at him, or so it seemed. Majestic, tall, and smooth ebony, the horse was hot and distempered in the summer. The dirt and hay about his feet were scattered, the large ring his new master had rented use of no real prison. One mighty bound, and the horse would be free, but not protected. Somehow, in the thick head and little brain, Attila knew better. The horse could play here, could fight and kick and scratch, and would whinny and neigh as its protector would fall behind him. On top of this, the stunning thoroughbred was important, and knowing as much would not be abandoned by its new owner.

A few had come to the stable, sauntering up and offering words of advice. They weren’t taken well. Storm was operating under an alias today, the ever crafty mage going by “Mort Saversit”. Mort couldn’t get in trouble, and sure as hell couldn’t draw too much attention. Not here in Radasanth, where Storm was a wanted man. He would cut through the masses again if he had to, but would vastly prefer to not see the horse hurt. There was no love there, but it was an investment, a traveling option.

You foul whore. I should sell you to the Alerarians… they’d make a fine steak from you!

He flicked away the burnt paper, all that was left of the cigarette, merely moments before it would burn his fingers. His muddy, gauntleted hands gripped the wood, and he hopped back over the fence into the ring with Attila. He would tame him, and hopefully do so without electrocuting the vile thing into hamburg.

[Storm Veritas]

A horse’s ass never looked so repulsive.

The black beast lingered, kind of slowly walking, a very deliberate pace as though to tease Storm. I’m not waiting for you. Jump on up! He couldn’t simply step in the stirrup and stride tall, gripping at the horn cap and pulling up like in so many practices of the horse-riding adept. This would not be as elegant, it would not be as gentle. The wise mage was vexed, looking at the horse like some elaborate puzzle. How could he defeat him?

I can run up, step up, and stride over. I’m strong enough to do that, and fast enough.

I can just jump on the f*cker. Course, how I do that without smashing my nuts on the welt or falling off that big bitch when it rears is beyond me. Mystery of motherf*cking science.

I could also just bolt the shit out of him, freeze him up. Nineteen hundred coins is a lot of goddamned money, though. I’ll be damned if I’m gonna just watch my purchase die in the hay like that.

They strode in a circle apart from each other, the mighty Attila and its so-called master Storm Veritas. Gunslingers, eye to eye, one trying to tame the other. The horse, none-too-keen on being mastered, was uncomfortable enough with a saddle. Allowing people to put that backstrap on him was enough, but at least it brought him some entertainment. Being dominated, on the other hand, was another story.

Storm moved first, breaking into a dash at the gallant steed. He made a path in front of the horse, and forced Attila to stop in its path. The obsidian-skinned beauty stopped, pulled back, and flashed a flurry of front hooves at the neophyte. Veritas was largely outmatched. Darting off his right foot, he strode once more, popping his left foot in the stirrup and jumping hard over the back of the brilliant mustang.

“YEEARRR!”

It worked! He popped up hard on the horse, feeling the horn cap smash him hard in the sternum. He held hard on the cap with both hands, digging jangling spurs hard into the ribs of the colossus. This, in retrospect, was a very stupid move.

The entire system – Storm, his horse, and the saddle, were rocketed into the air at the strike of the steel spurs. They all kicked high as the horse shook in disbelief, knocking free the rider. Before Storm managed to hit the ground, a steel-shod hoof struck him square in the back, sending him six feet further and to a dusty touchdown. Veritas rose quickly to avoid some stampede, but his ride simply strode away again as a few onlookers chuckled.

Attila – 4
Storm – 0.

God damn it.

[Storm Veritas]

He kicked his feet back until he could lean hard against the wooden fencepost, none too amused with the state of affairs. His back was in absolute agony, the hoof leaving a semicircular brand on his back and a shattering pain. Storm envisioned his shoulder blade cracked into fragments, and neurotically feared moving his arm for the possibility of the bone chips falling throughout his insides. Biology was never a strong suit of the mage.

He rose slowly, favoring his right arm, and slowly rolled and moved the left arm. He was not wounded seriously, although the quiet about the ring of well trodden grass spoke to suspicions otherwise. They knew from the look of him that he was at least emotionally worn, and it was never wise to corner the wounded cat. One tall, rangy farmer leaned over the rail, his brown rag overalls stretching for days. Beneath them, a thick, well tanned torso intimidated most. Not Storm.

“How about you saddle up gentle, sweet talk your horse. You’ve got to develop trust, son.” The words were firm but relatively kind, and Veritas would have none of it.

“How about you eat a dick and let me train my goddamned horse?” Storm’s reply was met with shock, but a man that walks about with multiple knives is not often questioned. The large man was visibly angered, but was withheld by two cohorts who saw the weapon and whispered something to the effect of “not this one. Not him.”

There were grumbles as he rose again, people starting to whisper amongst themselves more boldly. The blundering fool in the ring was also a jerk, something noteworthy to add on to his already unimpressive resume. Brushing dust from his sinewy frame, he looked on at Attila. The horse merely cantered gently, bobbing its head and sneering. The king of this rodeo was clear, and short of hurting his very prized possession, there wasn’t a damned thing Storm could do about it.

Another thought arose to the now-desperate Veritas. Maybe better honey than vinegar.

OK, asshole. You’d better appreciate this.

He walked to the horse, smiling and hands raised, empty. The approach was slow, the horse a granite statue. The weary cowboy spoke slowly in soft tones, approaching with an even demeanor his recent acquisition.

“Very well, old boy. Good enough. Now relax, we can do this gently too. Don’t want to hurt you. Just want a ride, that’s all…”

He approached his muscular stallion, moving his hand high to softly stroke the snout. Another in a string of foolish moves. Attila reared and at once came down, smashing its head into the hat-covered cranium of the subservient master. Down went Storm with a thunderous clap.

….ungh..

He wasn’t out for more than a second or two, but awoke to the crowd cheering and a horse’s ass parked straight over his chest.

Oh, shit!

[Storm Veritas]

It all happened so quickly, he would thank the Gods for the presence of mind to move, and move quickly.

The horse’s ass bobbed down and then up, a subtle movement, and then came hellfire. Veritas wasn’t ready, but still had the reflexes and wherewithal to move. He rolled hard over his shoulder to dodge the oncoming disaster, a barrel roll when nothing else was available. A hay-laden mixture of awful crashed down to the dirt beside him, his long and now-slivered hair catching a few fragments of the intestinal stew. It wasn’t much, but the smell would linger, and it would be hours before Storm knew it was there at all.

And it wasn’t much – not enough to stop the crowd from groaning. The chance to see a once-in-a-lifetime humiliation had passed by without much consequence.

You f*cking pig!

There was no way around the battle now. He was positively enraged that this horse – HIS horse – could be so clever, intelligent, and yet altogether conniving and stupid. Did Attila not know who he was messing with? Had he not gotten the message? What was it going to take?

At that point, the crowd watched on (many cackling out loud at this point) as Storm approached the beautiful ebony creature. The crowd had grown to nearly two dozen now, and all were aghast at what they saw.

With a curled ball of iron for a fist, Storm Veritas punched his horse Attila in the face.

It was a simple hook, a mighty right cross, and he hit the beast squarely in the side of the snout. Attila was largely unfazed as the crowd shrieked in horror, but still reared and flashed another flurry of front hooves at the face of its purchaser. A rustle all around as the action flared, people moving and shaking and jumping and protesting. Attila stood strong, clapping down with nostrils flaring as it pressed a hard snort and stared at Storm directly in the face. He glared on, the silly staredown not lasting long.

Go ahead, handsome. What you gonna do now? What you got left?

At this point, the rustling from behind him became an event. The long, rangy farmer had seen enough, and blindsided Storm with a mighty left hand of his own, swiping it clean across the face in a punch that felt not too distant from a horse’s hoof. The two men who had withheld him before were now long gone, there whereabouts unknown.

Storm fell, and as he did so, he caught the sight of the man turning heel, pulling one back in preparation for a kick.

The large, noble farmer had just made a terribly shortsighted mistake.

[Storm Veritas]

They had burst from that corral quickly, having seen enough. Steven and Jeremy Graham were good enough men, and knew that their larger friend William could more than handle himself. When first the treacherous, vile young imposter swore at their companion, they held him back, trying not to force the issue. That man, Steven knew, was not worth the effort. Some bumbling fool, carrying knives at the hilt, surefire sign that the slender savage couldn’t stand man to man with his fists.

They pumped their feet, flying towards the major bazaar area. It was only a few hundred yards, and many citizens gathered there around the tables and booths and stands. Legs pistoning, the hard sun made a short run difficult, but the sight of two grown men leading headlong into town was noteworthy. Generally, men that age didn’t run unless they were being chased, or the situation was urgent.

Urgency was relative here, and the two men were having a bit of fun. Left to his own devices, William could kill the rogue. They heard the loud clacking sound of the first punch, and it was rare that their boy didn’t end fights with the first punch. Hopefully he would stop there, but fights tended to spiral out of control. Best to race over and take care of things right away.

“Hoo…. Jeremy… got me! Ok, hold up.”

They huffed and wheezed, laughing a bit at the chance to play tattle-tale. Steven had lost the race, as he normally would, being huskier, older, slightly less athletic. Together, the two of them were impressive physically, both nearly six feet and thick with the ripe farm strength that grew with early mornings and heavy loads to carry. When they started chuckling a bit, the bazaar relaxed, put off by the sophomoric behavior of the manchildren.

“Oh, ok, ok… I am the Champion!” Ever graceful in victory, Jeremy smiled as he raised his arms. The constable that was approaching their sprint had now turned, returning to the tables to watch for shoplifters.

“Excuse me, sir…” Steven spoke with only a slight wheeze. He hadn’t sprinted in weeks. “Back by the corral, there is a fight. Real bad guy, William was going in to take care of him. Probably over now, but you guys ask us to report all fights, so here we are…”

The cop smiled, rolling his eyes with a “Boys will be boys” demeanor. William was well known for vigilante justice, and it was frankly a pain in the ass to constantly brush his misgivings under the carpet. He spoke curtly, as there were far more pressing things in Radasanth to deal with. This was a detail assignment, essentially a day off.

“Well, son, what precisely do you mean by ‘Real Bad Guy’? We have this taken care of? How does a fight start by a corral?”

Jeremy piped in, with the speed of an arrow and half the wit of one. “I dunno, just an overall jerk. Even looked like one. Long black hair, tall, thin, dressed in black. Carried knives at his hips. Kinda pale, too…”

“Thank you boys…” the cop began, smiling and handing them five coins a piece. The city-wide bribe for civilian action was cheap and effective, as the farmers without a pot to piss in would sing at the drop of a hat. This could be worse, the constable imagined, turning and thinking. His eyes were widened a bit at the description, but he didn’t want to draw attention to it. Couldn’t be the same guy, not in this hick town outpost. No way.

Could it?

[Storm Veritas]

The foot of the mighty farmer tough William Hayworth never had a chance. Storm caught it out of the corner of his eye, and moved with all of the speed and precision that a trained killer is wont to do. His actions were quick, time and energy efficient, decisive. The right foot came through as he rolled to his back, and both hands fired up to catch the mighty boot as it came back down to the ground. Twisting the heel forcefully, the lumbering brute came down in a crash.

Sorry son of a bitch. You’re gonna hang a man, you’d better hang em’ high…

As William fell to the earth, the crowd began to intervene, a terrible scene forming within the corral. They were far too slow to save him. Storm rolled hard up the outstretched leg of the massive hulk, drawing his blade and hitting with a quick, subtle slash. Hayworth barely felt the titanium stiletto cleave its way through his inner thigh, and his initial panic that his genitals were mutilated was soon relieved. His balls were, in fact, intact, but there was much worse business brewing shortly south.

Veritas leapt to his feet as the first man came over the fence, heading straight at him in a stupid, brainless charge. The man was relatively small, wiry, athletic looking, with tanned skin that started from the top of a perfectly bald scalp. Thin slits of blue peered unto the villain of the stables as the man approached, cocking his right hand and rearing to fire. A feign, a bob, and the punch sailed clean by Storm, who took the opportunity to clean up the wide-open adversary with a swift punch under the nose. Concise and sharp, the heel of his palm shattered cartilage, and the man fell as though hit with a bullet. Blood poured from his face.

Yet it was William Hayworth who was in real trouble, and people rushed to him quickly. Storm wiped clean the blade on the shirt of the bald would-be sniper, sheathing it and scanning for another attacker. There would be none. William sat up briefly, his leg quickly bleeding, a scarlet patch spreading. He was bold, brave, and foolish all at once.

“Tried to cut mah balls, but you missed, coward! Now’s your time!”

Hayworth sat up, and made it to a knee before his face ran sheet-white. The motion had further spread the opening. The damage was done. Although no one in the corral (Storm included) could identify the femoral artery from a carriage highway to Radasanth, the largely loathed scoundrel knew he had cut the main line. It was time, now.

“You shouldn’t have jumped in…” was all he would offer, his face quivering slightly as a few horrified farmhands looked up from their dying friend. Hayworth fell, his consciousness slipping with each second. The attack was reflexory, almost warranted, for chrissakes, and Storm had done too much damage to heal. Fear gripped him, the paralyzing realization that he would be found out.

So much for incognito. They’re going to get the police, and then it’s all over. I can get away, but not with the horse. Why did I buy this f*cking horse!?

Death was a part of life, and as it approached Hayworth, Storm couldn’t feel complete solace for the man. Veritas was attacked after he was downed, and he was blindsided to begin with. Should a man not be prepared to face the consequences for his actions, acting in the first place was his own mistake. Althanas was not the place for the weak-hearted.

Interests aside, there was the matter of evacuation. He peered at the horse, the large and strangely serene Attila who appeared to understand the situation. How could he get the horse out without the people stopping him? How could he approach the horse without being attacked himself by the mighty stallion?

As the sound of women crying began to grow around a now-dead William Hayworth, Storm saw the rising of a crowd. There were at least ten men, tall and strong, all looking vengeance driven and not in the mood for negotiations. He would need to produce answers fast, or prepare himself for an almost unthinkable battle.

[Storm Veritas]

There had to be a decision made, and it appeared that they would have to take action. Pulling on the long whiskers of a thin beard, the commissioned officer thought hard before jumping into things. After all, if it was the man he feared it may be, it would be leading pigeons to the cat. Veritas had apparently killed five or six police with ease in Radasanth, blood traveling down the mortar filled segments between cobblestones like some perverse maze race. It was awful, he had heard, something that no man should ever see.

Yet there’s no one that deserves to die more or less than me. I took the job, time to be the hero.

It was the damned-fool logic that forced Officer Albright onto his horse, a mangy old thing with a good heart and cumbersome gait. He would go in with guns drawn, and make the best of a very, very bad situation. He would have to take down this man through intimidation, and very few would likely stand away from a group of men. With his posse, he should be just fine.

“Thank you, boys.” He began, rushing one foot into the stirrup and kicking his second leg up high over the back of his horse. With a smooth, even, effortless mount, he smiled at the young men. “I think we’ll handle it from here.”

Smiling again, his steady eyes belied the fear that hid behind them. He was very likely going to stare down death himself. Some solace would come with company. A shrill whistle which normally nestled on his dusty navy tunic cheered loudly, a high pitched call to arms.

Easy, Eddie. You’ll be fine. You’re the man; just take him in nice and peaceful like. But keep the guns pointed steady, and be the command. Don’t let your guard down. Don’t show a lack of confidence. Be the man.

The voice in his head wouldn’t have to wait long. Within a few scarce moments the gallop of three more rounded about from the corners of the bazaar, rhythmic hoofbeats pounding sandy earth. Three men. Good men, without guns. Rookies. All taller and faster and stronger than he, but all just as green. They got sent here to start out, to learn the ropes on petty criminals. They weren’t ready for big time.

They weren’t ready for the monster, but they’d have to learn fast.

“Gentlemen, we’ve got a potential sighting of Charlie Foxtrot. We are going to pursue with ultimate aggression – don’t let him think he’s got a thing on you. You are bigger and stronger. If we keep the strong hand, this won’t lead to any more violence. Let’s make this just another common fight.

“Go time.”

Of course, in his head he knew better. He knew that the precinct of Radasanth nicknamed Veritas “Charlie-Foxtrot” after what dealing with him always became – a complete cluster-f*. He wouldn’t let this get out of hand. He wouldn’t let any more die.

He was going to bring him down, and save the day. The charge would be short and steady, maybe 3 minutes to reach the corral, and then it would be over quickly.

Or so he hoped.

[Storm Veritas]

“It was an accident” he began, knowing full well that he had meant precisely what he had done. “I didn’t want to kill him, just back him off… I’m sorry…”

The plea fell on deaf ears, of course, as a large and looming circle of men closed on him. Backing, his shoulder blades clacked hard against the wooden rail. He stepped forward again, not wanting to be jumped from behind. His eyes widened as the cloister of men paused some fifteen feet from him. There were six of them now, eight that hadn’t tended to their fallen friend. Eight that were long and tall and that sort of dusty-tough that is always accompanied by a tight-packed jaw of tobacco and massive, bludgeoning fists. About seven more than he felt comfortable with, his powers aside.

Their whispers were quiet yet unmistakable. They spoke to each other with a certain degree of animosity centered around the newcomer. Storm glanced up at his horse, now cantering about wildly, confused and shook by the situation. A single massive electric blast in this area would kill Attila, the mage assumed, but it may be all he could do at this point. One mighty burst to slow them, and give him a chance on foot.

Of course, if you’re on foot and the cops come on horse, you’re screwed, and you know it. Fast as you may be, you ain’t outrunning a horse.

The fingertips began to hum almost of their own accord. He certainly hadn’t intentionally called for it. This had become all too reflexory for him – react with violence, kill those that stood against him. That soft smell of ozone was starting to hit him – he recognized it immediately. Could the others smell it over the horrible scents of the corral?

The soft grumblings and cries of women were not loud enough, fortunately, to completely drown out the beating of hooves. From the horizon, the hot afternoon had skewed the vision of several horsemen approaching, shouting loudly and yelling. The cops had been informed, and there would be little escape.

Play it smooth. Be the victim. Get away from the bigger crowd.

Still braying about the corral, Attila was wild. Angry and disturbed, the horse snorted continuously, his agitation clearly evident. These people were not welcome. Not near him.

The crowd of eight turned their eyes to the approaching constables. They had to defer to the law, as much as they wished to tear the scrawny outsider to ribbons. Doing something in front of the law would be too brazen. They weren’t in Salvar or some other horrible place. This was just outside Radasanth. They were humans; they were civilized.

“Lucky day, slim…” one of the taller men offered. “Looks like you just get a welcome wagon ride back to the poke.”

“Not that we don’t have friends there. Not that William didn’t have friends there.”

A few laughs came, but Storm paid them no heed. The implication was clear enough, but he didn’t fear the prison at all. Were he taken in, he’d be identified, and the killer of Radasanth’s finest would be hung before the town. As the words of the approaching police came closer and more clear, the lump in his throat grew substantially. The time to move was now – he’d have to do something and make it quick.

[Storm Veritas]

They came upon the stable in a cloud of dust, the biblical legend of the four horsemen of the Apocalypse not far removed from Storm’s memory. Though tall and strong looking, there would be no death, no pestilence, no famine, no war. These were merely men, mortal and true, coming to catch a runaway and bring justice to the sleepy outskirt town. They were oft unchallenged, the constables here, because horses were expensive (as Storm had found out the hard way), and although six-shooters were inaccurate, their sidearms packed a stronger punch than any fist would wallop.

Four of them, and eight or so here. Too many. Too many.

His fingers wrapped tight around the cheaply made wooden fencepost behind him, eyes on Attila, focused and strong. The mustang was scared, breathing hard and looking upon Storm, almost as though it knew what he was feeling. Tension, a disturbing quiet, a thunderous gallop that outpaced the whispering winds. They grew very close, the dustclouds about them seeming more tangible, their silhouettes beginning to carry with them color.

Storm moved quickly, a sudden and drastic thing that seemed at once crazed and wholly sensible. Turning his back to the crowd he leapt, clearing the five-foot fence with a mighty bound, his left hand pressing hard on the post-top to catapult him over easily. His mind raced to his beautiful horse, his prized possession, but he knew that he must leave Attila and run. The fence was only a detour, the crowd would clear it a step later and follow him tightly. The horsemen would not be far behind.

His feet hit hard-packed dirt and he rolled forward, rising to the sounds of a terrific clamor. Inside the corral he glanced quickly to see them coming, the vigilante lots angered beyond belief at how easily he cleared the fence and (temporarily) escaped their grasp. The groans and yells and clomps of heavy feet were close, and he did not hesitate to run hard and fast from the stable. He would easily outpace any human on foot.

Attila, hang tight you miserable bitch. I’ll clear the house and take you back tonight.

His thoughts were simple; should he clear the press of the constables, he could easily hide out for the night. There was no sense in harming the mighty mare, who should be taken by the police for their own use. He could sneak into their stables tonight, kill the single guard who would stand watch, and be off.

Attila had other plans. The ebony coated beast leapt over the corral fence with another single bound, an incredible jump that would amaze any around. Galloping hard, he came upon his master, his own footfalls fast, furious, and well gathered. The single leather strap which hung low from the bridle enticed the wiry, tired mage. Storm clasped it hard and jumped, his leg slinging over the top of the mighty animal. Two beats later, and they were pounding dirt hard, racing across the plains towards nowhere, a cheetah hunting some invisible prey.

“Bitch of a time for you to warm up to me!” Storm shouted at the brilliant mount.

Behind him, close, he could hear the hoofbeats coming. The villagers were left distant, but the horsemen were not. Some warbled words struggled to meet him, unclear and indiscernible. They gave chase hard, unrelenting. Then it all came down; the single thunderclap and retort, a bullet rocketing off a segment of rocky earth far too close.

Their shooting at us!? Can we run, or do we fight?

The horse charged hard, a thick growth of forest ahead. Attila couldn’t survive a hard run through dense treeline. The choice had seemingly been made for them.

[Storm Veritas]

From a few hundred yards, the green ahead of him stood like a plateau, a flat-topped haircut that cut the plain in half. It stretched for miles, testing the peripheral vision of all and bisecting the countryside. So ardently it stood out from the plains, in fact, that Storm questioned how it could come to pass that it even existed. Not much the time for philosophy, he just kicked hard, riding as low and smooth as he could manage.

The forest came up fast, but it felt like he drove at a snail’s pace as he approached it. A few cracks of pistol fire rang out around him, but he dare not look back as Attila charged ahead with the power and speed that had brought top dollar for him. Each step was fast, rhythmic, and powerfully placed, a symphony of fear and beauty. Not to be denied, the horse would bring its master to safety, where it almost seemed to know where to go. The sprint was no longer than two or three minutes, but the hearts of both Attila and Storm Veritas were beating with hummingbird frenzy when the two halted at the edge of the forest. A quick dismount, and Storm was off, running to safety inside. He glared back; four patrollers came up from some distance now. Attila had bought him at least thirty seconds. The speed of the beast was impossible.

Worth every penny, you beautiful bastard.

The thick growth of elm and oak trees was staggering, and dense brush kept the trees dark in perpetuity. He jumped headlong into the wood, the rustle of each leaf and crinkle of every pine needle outrageously loud in the disturbing quiet of the trees. The tradeoff of distance versus quiet was made quickly. He would err on the side of the quiet.

His agility came in handy yet again. He was able to jump high into the branches of the first pine he saw. Two quick hops, and it hurt his hands to grasp the thorny trunk of the evergreen. A third hop was a rustle, but he landed quietly in the thick cover of a maple tree. It was all quick, a simple pop-pop-pop maneuver, with very little noise created in the sequence. Suspended fifteen feet in the air, he prayed that his precarious perch would be sufficient.

Too loud. Way too goddamned loud. They’re here. They’ll find you. You messed up.

The heat of the humid, crazy place was overbearing, but it wouldn’t sink in for minutes more. Adrenaline carried him now. It wasn’t more than five or six seconds before heavy hoof-falls brought company to his newfound doorstep. They all dismounted feet from his horse, and their little whispers came without subtlety or control. They were coming to him.

Like mice to the cheese, they came to him.

[Storm Veritas]

He waited in the trees, poised and pressed and scary quiet, as they rambled underneath. They pushed their way into the brush, stooped over their bellies, squinting through the little amounts of light that trickled through the treetops where he had found a home. Sure as anything else in the world, he knew that they didn’t see him.

Too easy to take the first, but what of the other three?

They hunched and walked slowly, forming a staggered search party as they walked. Three with pistols, one with a long, drawn rifle. All of them wore large, round-brimmed caps that made them conveniently faceless. Killing was something he was good at, but it never got truly easy, as taking a man’s life was a sin you couldn’t wipe clean. Not having to see his face made him arbitrary, anonymous, just part of the job.

He figured it out as the first one ambled directly beneath him. He could jump and crush them man with sheer weight, and fire his bolts of magical payback at the two closest. The fourth man, the one with the rifle – he wouldn’t stand a chance. He’d have one shot through the bramble, bushes and upswept dirt from forty yards. No chance. Those things reloaded slower than hell, too – they were the powder packed type deals that required a barrel cleaning and ball pack between shots. Storm could walk up, cook the man dinner and then serve it with a side of his enemy’s eyes in that time.

His legs tensed, muscles prepared and hunched and ready. It was the strangest voice he’d ever heard between his ears, the logical outcry of his own being that he simply could not recognize.

Don’t do it. No more killing. Not today.

And that was that. He wandered slowly in soft steps across the thickest of branches at his height, and nimbly leapt from the treeline down to the soft earth in a whisper. Attila was waiting, and he greeted the mighty beast with a fast, smooth mount. This time, his tender horse took him, let him ride high in the saddle, let him kick his feet into the stirrups. He made two quick passes next. The first ran before the horses of his pursuers, cutting the ropes that bound the steeds to trees. The second delivered a swift series of boots to their respective asses, sending them scurrying about, driving away in rampant directions from the tree line.

”Run, Attlia. Run! Kick those feet, motherf*cker! Kick!”

The horse did as he said this time. With the four other stallions rampaging about the treeline, he was two hundred yards before the chasers even reached where they expected their own mounts to be waiting. With a brief chase and settling of each horse needed, none would have the time to catch and mount fast enough to give the swift-slinging Storm Veritas a scare.

And so, he pounded across the plain, his chest taut to the neck of mighty Attila. The wind whipped through his hair like the mane of his wonderful black beast. This charge would lessen in time as his great new companion would feel the slack of the law, as they had outrun trouble. Rubbing his hand on the neck of the gallant male, Storm whispered softly into the ear of a new friend.

Good boy.

[AdventWings]

And thus is your judgment.

Story

Continuity - 3

I'm very sorry to score you so low in this category, but I have to admit I have no idea where this story ties into the big picture of your character's life story. A bit of linkage to where he came from before or at least where he bought Atilla would be nice.

Even though this seemed to be a simple quest to establish continuity on how you received your knowledge in horse-riding, there is a bit of problem with continuity itself. There are also interesting developments that could very well be exploited later on as well, so knowing where this took place in your storyline can add a nice touch to his story.

Setting - 7

Not much that can be criticized or exhalted. You kept descriptions and interaction quite consistent, though, which lends a nice feeling of knowing where you were and what you were doing.

Pacing - 8

Good pacing, setting up tensions and keeping each posts interesting through the entire story.

Character

Dialogue - 8

The impression I received from Storm is that he is irritable and hostile - Not exactly what you had in your profile, but adding on from what I saw during your other quests and battles. There were a few choiced ones that were very well thought and well placed, though some others around were a bit out of its place. I couldn't exactly put my finger on what gave me that impression, but the overall feel is good.

Action - 8

Quite good overall with not as many quirks that I would criticize on.

Persona - 8

Storm is starting to turn into a very interesting person for me, as if he was not interesting already. I can understand that he didnot want to waste his money by electrocuting the masses and risk killing Atilla in the process, though the little "Don't do it" in the forest was a nice twist in personality.

Writing Style

Mechanics - 7

For the most parts, you followed much of the Standard English Grammar and that is a blessing for us judges. I did manage to find a few jarring tense confusion during the middle of the story, though, and I had to do a double-take to make sure it was not just my dyslexia acting up. Also...


There were six of them now, eight that hadn't tended to their fallen friend.

That can be a bit confusing. Perhaps you dropped a "more" somewhere while you were writing and simply missed it. It is little errors like these that can disrupt the flow of an otherwise seamless read.

Technique - 7

Good uses of literary devices for the most part of the story. However, be careful about how you organize your sentences in the posts as well as linking them together. They can also make or break a good story.

Clarity - 7

The overall flow of story and ease of read is what you did well. Each post is easy to follow and flow into each other pretty good. Some of the sentence placement became disjointed at certain parts, though, so you should look out for those unless you want the jarring effects to set in. THis suggestion can go under Technique I guess, but I think I should bring it up here.

Miscellaneous

Wild Card - 9

Props for the hilarity and humility Storm went through. That and how another depth to your character has developed and will certainly be an aspect worthy of exploring.

Oh, yes. And a final note before I finish.

I see a reference made by Storm Veritas about "The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse" and how you played on the idea. It would be completely fine had it been the writer narrating it. However, it was the character Storm Veritas who made the reference. Remember that there are certain things in Althanas - Religion being one of them - that is not the same for us on Earth. The curreny known as Dollar is also another thing, though it was not in this quest I felt like I should mention it.

Total - 72!

Storm receives 3000 EXP

Have fun adventuring with Atilla. :D

[Cyrus the virus]

EXP added!