View Full Version : A Fake Empire Falling (Closed)
A Fake Empire Falling (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_FKk7dtgSVw)
2558
Warning; May Contain Content Unsuitable For The Faint Of Heart.
Blitzkrieg fires the static ream,
Like a dagger in the dark,
I cascade upon your soul,
With a feral raging bark.
I aim to end your every breath,
I strike with reptile air,
I come to end your worthless life,
With assailing so unfair.
I kill and kill and only kill,
To fulfil my life’s release,
I lubricate my life with ichors,
Slip time like lightning greased.
Cydney Oliver.
Rouge and Leper were a strange duo.
They were strange at least by Arden’s already strenuous definitions.
They are twins in friendship alone yet someone carved of the same ilk. They were bound in some inexplicable, unexplained manner beyond all detection, beyond all the senses known to mortals and immortals alike. No amount of uncovering, no sleuth Grande or questions ask had ever shed light on their origins, and Arden knew that nothing ever would.
For many years Arden had looked upon them as a brother and sister, even though the use of the words between them were endearing, familiarising, as opposed to cold, hard fact. He respected them for their familiarity and their ties, yet with that respect, there came a deep seated fear of their talents. Whilst the silent swordsman’s name had become a powerful tool in the dark streets of the city, the light of her lantern and the crushed cobbles beneath his piston driven leaps and bounds had swiftly become more infamous. A flash of steel and a silent whisper had once been his foray, now they were their tools – his opus defeated, his legacy lost.
Whenever they passed one another by chance in the streets, they all nodded curiously, as one might expect from well to do citizens of fair nations. It would do them all no good if connections were made by observant enemies, so they remained friends and acquaintances only in the sanctuary of the Scourge’s golden halls, where no fell winds blew, where no prying eyes scanned vigilantly. Elsewhere, he was their commander, their leader, their tyrant and king. Though Arden was a warm soul about the Tantalum; he did not take fondly to many people, even those who the Master himself had trained in the art of subterfuge, theft and assassination. Such a bond was not viewed to be so weak by the sister and brother, who looked upon Arden as an uncle beloved and a guiding force in their turbulent lives despite their cold, calculating independence, even amongst the Scourge’s fringe assets.
They waited in a tight group in the dark of an old, long abandoned residence in the poorer part of the Docklands. It had been left to the influx of disease ridden rats and stowaways long ago, when the Innari had last launched an ocean raid and carved a deep groove through the red brick and slate tiled landscape. Money was being spent elsewhere, be it the war effort or the reconstruction of the catacombs and surrounding farmland in the wake of the Wizard that did its petulant meddling. There was no resource left to be spent on the lives of the unfortunate.
It was dank, fetid and smelt of the morning dew clinging to fungus in the darkest reaches of the oldest wood. Rotten furniture or what had once appeared to serve a similar function seemed to fall apart around their feet. Tendrils of sodden cloth flapped slowly over the cracked window frames, which had once, Arden assumed, been sealed with the finest imported Nirakkal glass from Fallien.
“Are we going to leave soon?” Rouge pulled back her hood, the glass circles of her goggles flashing briefly in the torch light as she adjusted her ponytail.
“Not just yet,” Arden replied without so much as a moment’s hesitation.
“I ache to run beneath the stars, to fly over rooftops, to sing of ru-” the strange top hat adorned figure that towered over assassin and swordsman alike raised a hand, and they all fell into silence.
“Too eager,” Leper whispered hoarsely, his breathing apparatus, a device stolen from Alerar long ago just for his maw clanked and groaned; sucking away the breath to recycling it through the half steam driven body that it belonged to.
The silent swordsman chuckled. “Leper is right, Rouge. If we go about this in the wrong way the results will be catastrophic.” They were potentially going to cause a war. As such, the results of their actions would be catastrophic not just for the Scourge – but for all of the city and its many groups, guilds and gatherings of like-minded individuals. There were darker repercussions to consider, the likes of which Arden still struggled to understand.
“I can’t see it going sourly, especially after what you’ve been doing to the Thieves’ Guild.” She picked up the steel frame lantern between her armoured knee high boots and tested the tensile strength of the chain that it was suspended from. The sound of chain links tinkling in the shadows broke the tension. If she was ready, then Arden saw no reason to doubt her ability. The dim light in the lantern flickered as it swung back and forth under her testing movements. Arden watched it, enticed as their opponent’s would be when it’s true light was unleashed like a guiding flame.
“True enough. I would hesitate to add though, whilst Guild is in stasis, and though I have placed a puppet Van at the head of the Council…it would be wise to take every precaution available to us,” Arden cocked his head, hoping to catch her gaze as she readied the ensorcelled light source and checked her single edged daggers against the sandstone corner of the abandoned residence. Little trails of dirt, not wet enough to remain clinging to the timber frame of the house collapsed away and bounced in a clatter on the floorboards.
“It is the Master’s will Arden, not mine.” Her words ended the conversation, leaving Arden fuming and Leper with his back turned to them both.
He remained as still as a statue, suspending his thoughts in an aura of contemplation that was as silent as a ghost’s advance through the abyssal night. In the twilight cast by the flickering torch light held aloft in rusted iron brackets, the silent swordsman shook his head at the tall assassin.
“You are disciplines, not slaves.” There was a certain truth to that, a truth Arden held no reservation about wielding as a weapon if the need arose. “If you want to act in another way, or see light to be shed on another course of action you’ve only to speak your mind.”
He started to tighten the straps that held his bracers in place, tethering them firmly to the half gauntlets with careful, well thought out movements. At the tip of each of the segmented finger plates he had purchased and designed tiger like claws – razor sharp, ever deadly. They flashed with an inner light as he made fists and punched them into the hard leather palms of the opposite hand.
“No rebellion,” Leper cut in before Rouge could form the words from her mind into audible whispers of contempt. His breathing device whirled and hissed and wove two spirals of steam.
Rouge snarled at her brother, “Very well.”
Arden did not understand them enough to hazard a guess at what was eating away at their composure. He knew that Rouge, like Ruby of the Tantalum, was both quick to anger and quick to rise to a challenge. She was the quintessential fiery bright spark. Whatever went on between them, Leper would no doubt be feeling as if she overreacted tremendously.
A feeling men the world over were far too familiar with, like a constant pressure on the sinew and tendons in the wrists – pressured and cut by rusty razors over and over.
Then again, Arden rolled his eyes, you couldn’t read a man’s face if it was hidden behind a mask. There was blame to be levied at the pair, but Arden dropped the thought and attempt at levying it. It was a futile guessing game that had distracted his thoughts for long enough.
“Then we shall continue with the assigned course of action. A course of action sanctioned and indeed devised by The Master himself.” He nodded to the half-machine, who hissed with steam appropriately. “We are to attack the tavern front of the Marie Rose without caution or reservation.” He pulled the last strap tight, and then did his usual tussle and series of quick foot work to make sure he felt alive and lithe enough to begin their journey. The fatigue of doing nothing was peeking around the dark corners, threatening to steal away his reflexes if he did not act on them before too long.
“What then, Rouge, what are we to do in the chaos?” His words echoed about the small, sparsely furnished living room, clattering against the rusted iron pipes and broken window frames as if they were ready to spring to life and smite them all for daring to disturb its long slumber and decline into oblivion and ruin.
With a calm movement, the assassin adjusted her goggles and folded up the hood she used to keep off the drizzle from her impeccably washed hair. Arden caught a draft of jasmine and lavender bath oils. She too had prepared her body with the uppermost care, not only mentally and physically, but spiritually too. He had bathed in blood, Leper in steam, Rouge in silk. Each of them had performed rituals for the paeans of the Scara Scourge. It had remained dormant too long, without purpose for a great many years – after tonight, no more.
She did not say anything at first, until she cleared her throat after several minutes and softly whispered her objective. “We are to fire the Master’s pistol at the Knight Provost who commands the inner city garrison of the Knights of Scara Brae…”
Like a thunderclap, the instruction ricocheted about the chamber. Though Arden had seen the genius in the action, and taken the pistol that was tucked into the red folds of cloth that kept his torso warm and covered in between the mithril half plates; it felt like a terrible burden, a smouldering reminder of the immensity of the demands made on them. They were going to re-write the course of history tonight, or be written from it altogether.
Her nerves slipped through the cracks in her typically succour persona. Arden smiled, knowing all too well what she could do when backed into a corner. Their mission was a grave and bold move on the part of the Scourge, but it was a long time coming and he felt equally excited at the prospects as he did mortified.
“Leper, lead the way,” he said, there business and pledges done in silence between their discussion. He knew now that she was ready, and he did not ever have to question Leper’s allegiances or nerves. He doubted the man had any beneath his immaculate top hat.
The tall, lithe gentlemen ducked as he pounced towards the door and clasped the rickety handle. It turned, clicked, and the wood fell outwards and away. The moon lit alley beyond was bitterly cold on the well wrapped body of Rouge, yet Arden could only think of ice and snow to impress the sense of being chilled on his well-covered torso. The flames of the oni spirit that coiled tighter around his heart as he drew on its comfort and warmth burnt brighter, spurring him in front of Leper and out into the first of many open, winding, derelict streets that separated the trio from their quarry. Just beyond the horizon, just around another corner - the born again glory of the Scourge awaited their arrival.
“A white hand for life,” Arden spoke softly, loud enough for his accomplices to hear but not so bold to let unseen ears catch a slither of their malefic intent. It had been many months since anyone in Scara Brae, except drunks, vagabonds and madmen had dared to utter the phrase. Many more since it had been uttered with conviction.
Leper bounded ahead with a sudden spurt of energy, or perhaps a surge of zeal. Arden’s words kicked him off. The silent swordsman watched his friend disappear into the shadows with a series of clunks before he turned to smile at Rouge as she stepped into his field of vision. Her silent movements, a blur of tight leather and red demi-cloak were graceful enough to swell pride in Arden’s stomach. In the very pit of his being, he felt admiration and respect for his pupil.
“A red hand, or so they say, means death.” Reciting the motto of the Scourge somehow calmed her, and for that, Arden was grateful. Together they moved with quickened pace, turning left and right and left again until directions became meaningless and instincts guided them through the residential district.
They made quick time towards the tavern lined street known as Hang Man’s Mile.
The Hang Man’s Mile was quite literally a mile long stretch of curbed road which extended through the heart of the poorest part of Scara Brae’s rich, sprawling tapestry of culture and experience. It served the many wasting parts of society with the finest and foulest of ales and wins. It gave the people purpose, and gave the people both a reason to live and a reason to die. In its many darkened rooms daggers were drawn hastily, its many establishments becoming a blood carnarium to the dark offerings proffered by its patrons. The Thayne long ago abandoned touching its cobbles, they stopped gracing its presence for fear of the blades drawn far too readily and eagerly.
It was the heart of all criminality in the city. It was without a doubt the very fabric of crime, the very essence of evil, a scar of damnation in a perfect vigil to the prosperity of a people. Scara Brae mourned this place, even though it tolerated its existence.
It was a source of eternal bewilderment to Arden. This place stood as a shrine against everything the law abiding people of the city hated. Despite it all it remained and remained unchallenged. Despite its corruption and its putrid atmosphere of piss and bile, despite the constant bar fights and high murder rate, the Knights of Scara Brae were often seen drinking here. The very people who pledged to protect the city were often seen indulging in their darker pleasures. Such pleasures were offered in the establishments above the taverns and below the trendy, or rather, once trendy wine bars. As much as it had become a haven for criminals, it had also become a haven from the usual order of life, the run of the mill eventuality, the trappings of responsibility and tradition.
This place was escapism and hedonism personified.
“Which tavern is he supposed to be in, exactly?” Leper levelled the question from the shadows, re-appearing at Rouge and Arden’s side with the guile of a leopard.
Arden didn’t jump, but Rouge threw daggers at her brother.
“Don’t do that dimwit; you know I’m prone to throwing things. I am prone to throwing sharp things.” True to form, her dagger had appeared in a reverse grip, poised to twirl through the air and to hit its target without fail.
“He could be anywhere along the strip, by this time of the day, he’s likely to be in the middle where the rum gets fiery and the women get…” Arden considered his words carefully, deep umbra eyes staring at the dagger with caution. “Adventurous I think is the best way to put it.”
Hang Man’s Mile was a legendary place to drinkers in the city. It was customary to start at the southern end, in the Landlord’s Legs, and then proceed, drink after drink after dyke after duel north. If you did not die, start a bar fight or pass out before hand, you would eventually arrive at a small courtyard. It was a regal, untouched remnant of Scara Brae’s past nestled between two tall church towers. There were sandstone carvings and a dozen or so benches, resting in between trimmed grass verges and well planted rockeries.
“Let’s start at Macy’s Day Charade and proceed from there,” Leper whispered an educated guess at the man’s whereabouts before he disappeared into the shadows again. He worked alone often enough to remain hidden from the group.
Arden nodded, and they stepped out onto the southern end of the mile together, red resplendent and ready.
Many a man, woman and often youth had woken up on one of the benches in that legendary courtyard. Chances were, they could not remember who they were what they were doing there or why every bone, muscle and tendon in their body refused to do what it was told. Quite often, if you survived the ordeal you seldom wanted to do anything else but relive the mile and piece together the memories of the night before. It was one of the few places in the city where there were famous people on one street alone.
Arden himself had only managed to make it to the courtyard the once. It was a careful skill, pacing your drink through the thirty establishments. Ruby had been waiting for him, to drag him from the bench by the ear, despite him being twenty years her senior. He had, suffice to say, not attempted to reach the end of Hang Man’s Mile again
Macy’s Day Charade was the fifth tavern on the right side of the street, sat opposite a bakery for the reckless and feckless to stock up on warm carbohydrates and stomach lining baps, loaves and for the more adventurous souls, cherry buns that could sink battleships. The curious smell of raisins and cinnamon drifted across the cobbled street to fuse with the odour of body sweat, rancour and something Rouge would have described as ‘feminine destitution.’
She was, as Arden was reminded as they entered through the saloon doors, referring to the many prostitutes who lined the walls, benches and alcoves of one Macy’s male entertainment premises.
“I do not wish to remain here longer than is required,” Rouge mumbled, hanging her head so as not to catch the attention of any of the ra ra skirted patrons or the slum drunks and brave young soldiers who all cheers and sung in hopes of getting off with any one of Macy’s fine women.
Macy herself, as Arden noted, was stood behind the bar talking to a well-polished breastplate and its male occupant. His heart, not often alive enough for him to notice skipped a beat. For a brief moment he thought they’d struck gold and come across their target at the first guess. It was the right uniform, but not the right man.
“You’ll have to excuse me,” Macy said, patting the general, from the look of his plumage on the shoulder affectionately as she walked away. She ducked under the exit and walked over to Arden and his companion with warmth in her smile and her arms held wide open in greeting.
“Blank, ya rap scallion you, why didn’t you tell me you were coming to pay Auntie Macy a visit?” Her bust squeezed the life out of the swordsman with the same force he applied to crush a target’s skull in dark alleys. She smelt of lavender, bourbon and as ever, tobacco.
“I am afraid I am not here,” he paused to look gingerly at Rouge to check her mood, “to…pursue guilty endeavours,” Macy followed his gaze and chuckled.
“Worry not lass, Arden, unlike some of these wastrels,” she waved her large, pie handling fingers around the columns and velveteen piles of cushions “is an upstanding gentleman.” In the escort business, this simply meant he looked, didn’t touch unless offered and paid on time.
“A compliment I appreciate Macy, but I am looking for someone who perhaps doesn’t take as kindly to tradition.”
The larger than life woman looked about inquisitively, as if she was going to find someone perfectly suited to fit the bill. Arden realised she was mocking him
“I am looking for Knight Provost Hildegard.”
The name seemed to jar her composure, so much so she turned her back on them and walked back to the bar.
“You’d best have a drink, you won’t like this,” her enthusiasm drained from her jowls quicker than she could pour three large tankards, bespeckled with quart and emblazoned with her tri-elephant etched heraldry. She slid them apart, one before one of three empty plush stools.
Arden had always meant to ask her how she knew Leper was close by.
“Do we have a choice?” He shrugged at Rouge, who hated drinking; never mind whilst on an assignment.
“I guess not.” They walked side by side and took their places, eager to hear what Macy; Momma Charade had to say for herself. If anyone in Scara Brae knew where to find a man, it was her.
“I’m used to you asking me strange questions Arden, but now you’re telling me you’re looking for dead men?”
Dead was perhaps a bit of a misnomer, but the man they were looking for had once been dead. Arden had seen to that himself, many moons ago when he was still entrenched in the war between the Thieves’ Guild and the then wounded and distraught Scourge. They were dark times full of dark memories about darker deeds. It seemed Macy was more surprised to hear the man’s name than he had been.
“I wish when people were assassinated in this city they stayed that way, but alas yes, I am looking for Hildegard. Dead,” he tipped his glass to the matriarch, “or half-dead.”
“I’ve not seen any zombies come along the mile tonight…” she puckered her lips.
“He’s not a zombie.”
Rouge interrupted, sipping her own drink with a new found strength. Leper took his opportunity lightly, and slipped in from the shadows. Arden half expected a woman just out of sight to be swooning in his absence. A trill cry and a puff of steam confirmed the swordsman’s suspicions. Here he was expecting him to be out of sight to act as a spy and guardian.
“Rouge is correct, though I guess a zombie is the easiest way to describe him.” He looked over his shoulder, scanning the many happy faces and sour, menstrual women. “He looks like he does, at least in clothing – silver armour, white cloak, official sigil and a blade of pure amber bound dehlar.” It was a magical blade that held sorcerous properties the likes of which Arden could not fathom.
Long ago, the Knights of Scara Brae had forged six blades in the wake of the war with the Sorcerer Molyneux. Though the great magical terror had cursed the island for all eternity, rendering it into chaos every five centuries and afflicting the then noble Innari with the curse of madness, from his fall rose the Six.
“A blade my master wishes to acquire.”
It was the only lie Arden had ever told, but it was the right thing to do. Macy nodded slowly as he listed to the pair; it came as confirmation that she knew exactly who they meant.
“Drink up the three of you, that’s Honey Wine, mead from the steppes of Salvar.”
Arden knew that it was not. It was Pasty Pete’s home brew, from the steps below the tavern that lead to the cellar. It did have a morsel’s worth of honey in it, but it still tasted like sewer water to three sober adventurers. He supposed if he’d started on the mile and made it this far, water would taste like wine and wine like ambrosia. He tipped the tankard in their host’s name and downed the last of it.
Rouge coughed as she finished hers, unused to the salty after taste. It was a testament to the girl’s dedication that she went the extra mile to smack her lips before wiping her chin dry with the hem of her tunic. Leper made no noise as he sipped his slowly. Arden was curious to see what would happen if the gentlemen overloaded his machinations with the alcohol, but made a mental note to find out another day.
“A fine brews too,” he rose.
“He is in the Alabaster Lizard, according to my friend there,” Arden followed Macy’s finger, fondly remembering the last time he had seen it glisten so.
“Him?”
Macy nodded.
“He’s a Knight Provost too…dissent in the ranks?”
“You could say, it would appear that the Knights of Scara Brae are not as unified or up to the salvation of the city as we commoners might be lead to believe.”
“What did he say?” Rouge enquired eagerly, looking back and forth between slum drunk warrior, strewn over a table in a pile of his own red vomit and the tall, imposing matriarch.
“He was spouting some shit about his superior officer being a light weight, and that he would make it to the end of the mile before any silver spooned toff ever did.” Macy slipped out with grace from behind the bar and made her way over to the man in question’s table. She pulled his head up from the mahogany table, which would take days to dry and be polished back to it’s veneer.
“A challenge he did not live up to I take it…”
“Celia will have a fit when she sees what she has to deal with when we close…”
Arden chuckled, “Macy, we both know you never close.”
She smiled.
“What will you do with him?” Rouge stepped up behind Arden. She and the swordsman, and Leper too were all odd at ease in the lavender scented and vermillion decoded establishment. They all felt immensely uncomfortable, for entirely different reasons.
“Why, the same thing we do with all men who manhandle themselves or my girls.” She let his head slam onto the wood, and he jolted awake, vomit on his chin and eyes blood shot. “Take him for every penny he has on him and then kick him out into the street.” She said it with about as much conviction as Arden needed to remember never to be late paying his tab.
“You’ve been, as ever, immaculately hospitable Macy.” He bowed a traditional Akashiman curtsy with a light roll of the right palm as was customary in Scara Brae noble circles. Macy appreciated the show, but waved them towards the door with a chuckle.
“Any time buttercup, come back anytime.”
Arden smacked Rouge over the back of the head the moment she showed signs of mirth, “Don’t you even dare,” he snarled, and pushed her towards the door. They all trailed out in single file, leaving the hedonism of Macy’s lounge behind as they stepped back out into the cold.
Out on the street, the cold brought reality crashing down over the trio like a comet of vomit from an over excited maw. Carrots, swede chunks and the scent of cauliflower long rotten drifted up the mile as if it were an everyday occurrence to be so drunk you couldn’t see. Arden guessed, in his lack lustre wisdom that the inhabitants of this peculiar part of the city thought that it was indeed quite normal to be paralytic.
“I’m concerned Arden,” Rouge turned on a heel.
From beneath his red cowl the swordsman raised an eyebrow. It said ‘oh?’
“Macy seemed like she knew what we were here for, not just in her demeanour, but what she said…dead men.”
Arden considered Rouge’s observations for a few moments as they walked north at a slow and steady rate. The footfalls of their boots on the sick and blood stained cobbles broke the monotony of the silence that swaddled them in a gown of menacing malefic and darkly whispered promises. The city smelt scared, Arden could not work out if it was scared of them, or something more sinister. Ruby would have chided him for thinking of himself so highly.
“There have been rumours of late,” Leper said non-chalant, as if a multitude of zombies roaming streets and alleyways was an everyday occurrence.
“No Leper, I don’t think rumours will suffice tonight…Rouge is right, and I am loathe to admit I missed something so important, something so potentially crucial to our success on this fucking road to nowhere…” They walked in silence for several hundred yards, uncertain about how to advance the discussion in the face of seeing their supposed leader self-flagellating and self-loathing as he was.
“My father’s hatred for his own son has reared its ugly head again.”
When Arden had been informed that Van Hildegard, the leader of the Guild of Knights of Scara Brae had defied his own blade’s swing and lived through an assassination, his heart had sunk. There had been no doubt when he had left the man’s corpse – there was no way he could have survived. Blood Magic however was a verdant creator of life where no life could exist. His father had resurrected Hildegard as his puppet, and placed him on a false throne at the head of a small legion of knights in the southern quarter of the city.
“I think I know what she meant now…” he pursed his lips. When they came to the door of their destination, he could only look at it’s warped from with the sort of indignation a scorned housewife might her drunken, wayward, groping husband.
“At this point I’m assuming it’s futile to ask for you to enlighten us?” Rouge rolled her eyes. She had asked the very same question enough times to know that Arden only ever told them what they needed to know, and what he thought they needed to know at that.
He shook his head.
“I thought not…”
They stopped in a half-circle about the door, gingerly egging each other on to take the first step towards the handle. Arden considered the options even as he broke the silence and turned the cold copper coil of iron bound mechanics that barred their advance. “When the time is right I will reveal my hand, I am not too certain of its worth at present.”
He pushed the door open, and felt the warmth of the tavern’s interior wash over his well wrapped torso. A dim torch light illuminated his mithril breastplate, bringing the ornate etchings to life.
They all jumped back as a crowd of revellers spilled out in the wake of Arden pushing the door inwards. They laughed, crowed and cackled in a bundle of sprawling arms and purses and overly sparkly dresses. Somebody in Scara Brae was getting married, if the multitude of bosoms and trails of white ribbon tied to hair was an indicator. The three assassins melted out of the hen party’s way almost as if their lives depended on it.
Having met one or two distraught heels in his time, Arden knew that it sort of did…
They entered the lively atmosphere of the tavern in a little procession, a carnal carnival preceding the horrors that they would unleash on the occupants within. Without anyone to prevent their advance, they fanned out into a group that suggested to the occupants that they meant business. Rouge stayed to Arden’s right, with Leper on the far left, his tall imposing height and menacingly blank stare burrowing onto the barkeep’s form.
“No mistakes gentlemen, ladies,” the bar keep acknowledged Rouge, whilst continuing to polish the tankard in his hands as if the ritual of tending to the cleanliness of his business was paramount over the potential for violence.
Arden knew this man well, having made it this far along the mile enough times sober to have been afforded the luck of remembering. Many, from the huddling half vomit stained shapes on the fringes of the tavern’s width had not.
“We are here in search of someone Olli Vender; we will find him then be on our way.”
The stern way in which the barkeep stared at Arden told Rouge and Leper all they needed to know about the history between the two men. Neither of them dared to consider the possibility that the gentlemen would be forth coming. Then again, from the Master’s instructions, they were given free run to terrorise and run rampant – manners were to be left firmly at the door.
“I respect you Blank, by all means. When it comes to my customers now, we have another matter altogether. You can’t hurt them on this ground, no sir – the Scourge ain’t gonna get one up on me.” He said it with every dedication and ounce of loyalty to the strange code and practice that bound all innkeepers in common unity.
“Worry not Mr Vender; I have no interest in killing on your territory.”
“That’s alright then, now be ‘avin yourself a drink, your friends too, and let’s say no-” there was a loud crash from behind an upturned table, which Arden had mistakenly presumed to be the remnants of an early round of brawling.
Rouge approached the splintered planks tentatively, daggers twirling as if they had been in her hands all along.
“Come out; come out, whoever you are.”
The sense of tension in the inn grew exponentially the nearer the red clad rogue came to the table and its mysterious occupant. The customers on the adjacent benches and seats picked up their drinks and moved away very slowly, but with more speed than they might otherwise vacate their evening situ. Arden could smell their fear, even from his viewpoint near the door. The sound of laughter, all along the mile, simply vanished.
“I…I won’t let you get away with this!” The shaky voice held about itself a haughty, noble indignation. It sounded as if it belonged to a man whose nose was permanently upturned.
“Come out Mr Hildegard, we have been acquainted long enough to dispense with the pleasantries. You know who I am, and that I will not flinch to kill you yet again.”
“Now you look here!” Mr Vander ducked under the hatch of his mahogany bar, a cudgel in one hand and a threateningly twirled tea towel in the other. “You promised you wouldn’t kill anyone!”
“Incorrect Mr Vander,” Arden did not look at the barkeep, he instead approached the table and bent over it, fishing in the shadows beyond for a head, limb or piece of clothing to grab. “I did not make any promises.” He pulled with a sharp intake of breath, and the heavy armour of the once dead, once Van Hildegard rose from the shadows and fell through the air in an arc.
Everyone in the tavern, Arden included flinched as the half drunk, gibbering coward slammed into the grimy floorboards. He bounced, just once, before the beer and sweat on the panels of the wood started to soak into his long, lavish cloak and stick him in place.
“I have every intention of killing this man, even if it is again.” He stepped over the knight provost. He could smell the bourbon on the man’s breath, and he batted away his shaking hands as they tried to scrabble against his ornate armour to find an anchor to pull him over. “Don’t, bother,” he said sharply, leaning forwards whilst keeping his knees perfectly straight. He could see the fear in the man’s eyes, the red veins of misfortune building in their wide eyed pupils.
Mr Vander walked across to the gaggle, only to find Leper and Rouge standing side by side between his customer and his weapon.
“I will use this,” he said sternly, but with a shaking tremor on his lips.
Leper smiled, and Rouge smiled, and they both stepped into the barkeep’s guard, daggers rising, sharp clawed hands raking.
Terror returned to the streets of Scara Brae.
Mr Vander lost an eye quicker than his cudgel could remove the perfect curve from Rouge’s ribs. She ducked his blow, retreated from his wild flail and twirled her bloodied weapon with a flourish of grace before her target could even scream out in rage and agony. Leper descended on the poor man a second later, his heavy pounce spurned to greater speed and strength and force of blunt impact by the mechanic crampons that he wore. With a crunch, his claws dug into the man’s chest over the upper region of his lungs.
They collapsed with a rush of air as the men fell backwards, mounted by a wild, rapid, steam hissing dog.
“Leper!” Arden roared, his voice commanding the creature that was once a gentlemen to stop atop his target. The body hissed warmly as it died. Leper’s head turned a full rotation and its cold eyes settled onto Arden’s.
“I promised to not kill on Mr Vander’s territory, and I am a man of my word.”
The softer tone eased the patrons of the tavern, who had screamed and wet themselves and from the smell and warm curls of moisture rising from several chins, thrown up openly and without reservation. Most were too drunk or scared to run for their lives.
“He’s dead,” Rouge said abjectly, turning on a sultry heel to lean against the bar and help her to a drink that had been set out for them when they first entered. Its warmth kindled her soul, and she licked the edge of her knife clean to add iron to the heady foam of the bitter.
“Not for long, now get off him,” Arden nodded to the bar and Leper dismounted. He clunked, spider like to Rouge’s side, blood pouring from his fingertips and steam still pouring from the cracks in the iron carapace beneath his coat and tails. The calm serenity that befell them, so soon after killing an innocent man out to protect his livelihood did not so much offend Arden’s senses, as disappoint them.
He looked down at Hildegard, clearing his throat as if to make a point of normality resuming.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this man is a knight provost of the Scara Brae Swans – a barrack of the Knights of Brae, title holder of the white sigil and holder of one of the six amber blades that slew the sorcerer Molyneux over five centuries ago.” Arden was almost certain the vast majority of the twenty of so revellers were not listening to a word he was saying, but he had an objective to meet, so he continued to speak regardless.
“He is to be sacrificed to the altar of safety, his death will be a warning to the Knights of Brae that the Scourge is here for the good of the citizens of this island, and that the red hand is no longer an ill omen for all.”
“If anyone so swears that this act is unlawful, or that they cannot bear witness to it truthfully, so say them now.” Rouge continued the speech, pushing away from the bar as she set her empty tankard down onto the counter with a forceful slam.
She wiped her lips clean with the hem of her attire, and waited. The silence permeated from every orifice, in a torrent of burping, sweating and pissing. Like a direful youth or a spewing baby, the inn oozed continuance, without actually changing. She smiled weakly, her desire to flex her blade arm unfulfilled.
Nobody spoke.
“Then by the power invested in me by the Van of the Scourge, the Master Lamar, I condemn this man to death.” Arden stood upright, his weight shifting from the cowering man as if a great burden were being lifted. Normally, he would have drawn his blade, the blood thirsty Degalion and skewered the pitiful excuse for a warrior through his chest plate; its steel shine would have offered little in the way of protection against the ensorcelled weapon. Today, however, there was a prescribed way to kill.
“A death he will not suffer here,” the swordsman smiled weakly, bending over with a snap to take the man by the lapels. He pulled him upright with the same inhuman strength he had sprung him over the capsized table and set him standing. “Get outside to meet your charge, now.” Spatters of energy crackled from Arden’s lips, fire lashing with malefic from the heart of the oni that coiled tightly around his lungs, threatening to crush his spine and end the man’s strength if he did not take of blood before too long. His thirst was growing, and with it, his composure.
The cloaked man scampered to the door, with Rouge and Leper hot on his tail.
As Arden followed with gentle footsteps, he produced a white barrelled gun from the folds of his crimson robes and pulled his hood up over his auburn hair.
Enigmatic Immortal
02-24-12, 10:35 AM
Duff man, a few comments on starting. Once again, you wrote a riveting, engaging story with characters and scenery so vivid I was there, next to them, waiting for the orders to kill. I had a clear description of each scene, of each patron of the bar, and the NPC’s you used to find the information you seek. All in all, this was a fantastic read, and makes me all the more excited to read your works in the future.
Yet I would be remiss in my duties should I not give you my honest, unobjective perception of your writing, and help you take what amazing talent you have and grow it. So please remember any commentary is meant to improve your skills and bring you to the next level. There were some flaws to your masterpiece, and I’d like to take this opportunity to enlighten you to them.
As I described before, we have the Where which is setting, the When, which is continuity, and Why, the plot itself in motion and the reasoning for said actions. Moving this right along, we shall hit each Category. These three things you should always strive to make the top picks for your scores.
Plot:
Setting (8): Duffy, as always, I have little difficulty imagining the scenery of your works. I can smell, feel, and see the descriptions you give me, which are what we all as writer’s must strive for. The only thing I can offer you is to make sure that towards the end of the threads you do not give out on it. It’s something I have been seeing as a trend in your works. The scenery begins to lose its vibrancy and turns to just a backdrop with a few images to fill in blanks.
Story (6): Okay Duffy, let’s sit and have that talk. You have a plot line that stretches from London all the way to San Francisco USA the LONG way. I found myself tucked into this story and was agitated when I had to put it down. I loved the character’s, I loved the drama unfolding, and the tension…but Duffy. What…what in the HELL is going on? I don’t know WHY these people are killing the Zombie Bones of Knight Provost! Who was he? Why did Arden kill him before? Why is his father using his undeath as a puppet? I have no better way to describe this than in this manner…
Duffy, whenever a reader is in the story, and something happens that confuses them, the first thought that goes to their head is “Well why did the characters do that?” It’s natural, because the WHY is the default thought process. Once a why is established, a reader can fall back to that safety zone to keep them engaged without getting side tracked wondering what is going on. Why were Leper and Rouge even there? What was the symbolism of the three working together? How is this changing the world of Scara Brae. I only got a few questions answered, and many more left unanswered. Mastering this Duffy, it’s all you have left to grow into. You hit this, and every work is a JC.
Strategy (7): The clever use of Rouge in the story to balance off Arden’s gruffer demeanor was well played, and Leper’s character brought in an outside element that always captivated my attention. You poised all three carefully, giving them each distinctive traits to sink a reader deeper into your story. The uniqueness of your setting also played well as the lore behind Hangman’s Row drew me in even further. You introduced the pistol at the beginning, and when Arden didn’t snap the knight’s neck at the end I was feeling very confused, until you marched him out and then it clicked perfectly. Excellently done hooks, Duff man. Keep this up, polish the edges, and you’ll be hitting high marks every time.
Characterization:
Continuity (6): Oi, here’s another little problem that goes hand in hand with story. You did well to establish Arden, where he was, and not only utilize the lore of Scara Brae, but also enriched it. These traits helped boost this score greatly. But that final bit of the equation you let lag behind. As I said in story, your plot is very long, and weaved through many accounts or not even touching any of them at all. But when I read your writing, I have no real clue when this happens in that timeline. I understand basics of when this happened, but honestly, I am not sure if I’m close, or way off mark. Find a way to tie the knot and this will help with the Why I keep bugging you about.
Interaction (7): Rouge, Leper, Arden, oh yes, they all interacted very well. And the setting they did so with just as flawlessly. In the beginning, you did well to interact with the Escorts, but towards the end, when they found their target, something slipped. The action was vivid and great, but there was a lot of people all looking like wall flowers. You got this skill nearly perfect, you just need to keep it up all the way through your threads.
Character (8): PERFECT…ish. You got a solid foundation of characters you introduce, giving me descriptions and personalities that click and work. So why an eight and not a ten? Because you almost, almost had each and every character down. Leper, Rouge, and Arden each played off each other well, and the owners of each establishment came out with a life all their own that never made me feel like generic tavern owner number five. However…for a dude you killed before, there was so little description and action from him, that I, well…I was rather disappointed. I mean, I called this guy dude. The Knight Provost was a dude in my head. He should have been a vivid man in my mind considering the work you put into him earlier. Seeing his scar where Arden cut him before, the rot of his teeth from the last encounter, where was it? To have all these details, personalities, and actions for each one vivid and strong, to then drop on a dime and collapse on the most important man in the story was crushing. If there is a theme you are noticing in this judgment, Duffy, it’s that you need to finish stronger than you began.
Writing Style:
Creativity (7): To say this wasn’t creative would be a slap in the face. You took great pain to make this story believable, while working in line with the canon of Scara Brae. The state of Scara Brae, the guilds, and how the Scourge is working in relations to that was well done, but the way you introduced those elements was done so in a manner that never made me feel like you looked the information up in a textbook. The play with the gun at the start was an excellent foreshadow of the ending, one that I again, should had seen coming, but didn't until you brought it out. You did well here, and I can only say more writing, more experience will make this category shine brighter.
Mechanincs (8): A few hiccups here and there. Nothing new to report.
Clarity (7): The clarity in this was for the most part rather well done. The action scenes were the only ones I needed a double check on to see where everyone was placed in my mind. A good rule of thumb, which I don’t know if you do or not, is to type it, and then after a day go back and read the action out loud. If you trip over your thoughts, go back and edit.
Wildcard (7): Another great story Duffy. Solid, quick, and a really fun read. I loved Leper and Rouge, and often pondered what Duffy and Jensen would do for trouble in Hangman’s Row. When a reader can envision their character in your setting, doing some of the things they are reading but imagining how they would do it, you are invoking a reaction. Reactions, be they good or bad, is what writing is all about. If I hated someone you wrote, you did a good job. If you wrote someone I loved, you did a good job. But if you wrote someone I was rather uncaring for, you need work. In this case Duffy, you wrote in a manner I adored. Jensen wants to fight Leper, fyi.
Total Score: 71/100
Blank Earns: 1100 EXP, and 160 Gold!
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