Steppe It Up

[Storm Veritas]

((Also known as "Kill Some Spy Dickhead" - closed to Ebivoulya.))

“Talk to me. Tell me about him. Anything you know that can help is good, and don’t waste time.”

“Ze farkhingdechild cametous and nonshow! Sree daysisweek he missing. Where police then?

The little old man before him was almost completely useless. Grumbling as he spoke, violent theatrics with body language and a horrendous accent that forced all his words to flow as one, a short dark elf struggled to communicate. Dressed in leather coveralls and workman’s gloves, he certainly hadn’t expected to arrive at work with such high drama. He spoke quickly and continuously, spouting out details to the man with the scratch-pad, a tall and dapper gentleman who appeared far too composed, far too calm. What type of policeman was this? And why was he human?

Storm Veritas was very matter of fact about the information gathering process. He had spoken to the arms designer, and gotten a physical description of the spy in question. Another Dark Elf, short, around five-foot-five, and thin. Long, grayed face, and white hair in a small shock about his head. No major visible scars or tattoos. Traveling alone.

An elf in Alerar is a needle in a goddamned haystack. I’ll need to do better.

His hand was hurting as he scratched the pencil across his notepad, and he was frustrated by the lack of precision with which his instrument hurt. Pencils were cheap and plentiful, but they dulled fast and lost their utility after a few minutes. The paper itself seemed a bit wax-heavy, meant for carrying ink and not lead. A scrambled mess of notes sat in bulletpoint after the description of the elf-boy.


Traveling by himself, NE. Not near the mountains (block) Probably lightly armed… knife? Left last night – this morning Went by Kal-ruuk to Ettermire.

Cutting off the patently enraged older man in mid sentence, Storm smiled as he asked a few more questions. In the rambling diatribes, he was able to get a few answers, but the animated smith was drawing attention. People were circling around the small stone armory, and lots of large eyes were settling in on him. Many saw what the betrayed elf failed to see.

This was no cop.

He flipped his notebook closed, pressing the pencil into his satchel, tucked comfortably under his left shoulder. The notebook went in after it, and a few agile fingers deftly closed the sack again. It wasn’t a lot of information, but it may be enough to start with. Many people started to come closer, eying him closely. Humans were still rare, and for one to be well dressed and authoritarian was blasphemous.

Take a picture, people, I’m the last superstar you’ll see come through this shithole for a while.

Perhaps his fame from Serenti or Lornius or even The Cell had given away his identity, but he suspected they did not. The tournaments were held ages away, lifetimes away. To them, he was a no one, and that was just fine.

He backed away from the smith now, smiling and shaking the bewildered old man. A quick thank you was given for his time. It was time to move, as the spy would be on the run, and had a hell of a head start. Fortunately, Storm thought, he was also on foot.

“Attila, here!”

The charging steed came to him from a few steps away with aplomb, its gentle canter both graceful and majestic. He stuck one foot in the stirrup and kicked high over the saddle, allowing himself a quick rise. With a gentle, sturdy rub to the neck of his proud, ebony stallion, he ushered forth with a fast, firm kick, clearing a path of elves who parted before they knew what they had seen.

Storm Veritas was hunting.

[Ebivoulya]

Writers block has been slain with an unforgiving fury. Let’s do this shiz.

The prairie winds of Alerar blew with such force the duller of its people lived constantly in fear of the coming wrath of furious Gods far above. Warm ocean gusts brought with them the occasional salty rain, quenching both the thirst of the land, and its people. Blissfully ignorant of the trials of men, stretching seas of grass flowed to and fro in an endless waltz. Occasional respite from assaulting winds was rare and well welcomed. Many a fugitive could flee nearly unseen through these endless fields, undetectable in the swaying grass to any but the sharpest of eyes and keenest of ears; senses easy to find in Alerar, for the right price.

Shuffling through the shifting grass, a pair of mud worn boots stepped carefully and quickly in hot pursuit of the elusive prospect of a warm bed and hot food for their wearer that evening. His larger than average form moved as stealthily as one of his barbaric lineage could, and he occasionally popped his ebony-tipped dome up from the safety of the grass’ embrace to assess the fruitfulness of his chase. He continued his distanced pursuit, hunched almost as if in fear of discovery. Fear was an emotion well known to the bastardized race of the half-breeds. Humans and Elves alike shunned and hated them with a passion, but the benefit of such a taboo joining was two-fold: strength and size to defend one’s honor, and keen senses to avoid danger. They were skills often used, and never taken for granted.

Popping up once more from the safety of the grass, a pair of tired, wary eyes scanned the shifting horizon. With precision, they homed in on their target. A single, darkened figure darted through the grass, roughly four hundred paces ahead of its pursuer. His dirty, gloved hand shuffled through a pocket filled with useless trinkets, eventually coming to grip the crinkled treasure for which it searched. Unfolding itself in the wind, those same sunken eyes spared a downward glance to assess the facts. There were few to speak of, but they were all he had to go on, and the one he followed seem to fit the bill. After a few seconds of deliberation, his mind rested assured that this was his meal ticket. He replaced the sacred document, the loss of which would be detrimental to his continued health; especially if he ever ran into him again empty-handed.

Their meeting had been brief. For days, he had sat along a well-known wall in Ettermire, where skills of all kinds waited only for an employer to put them to use. An average human man, quite the rarity in those parts, trotted along that wall with a message of intent. He wished for a scout, someone with sharp eyes, keen ears, and if need be, strength of blade. His displeased eyes fell upon many a scrawny and lithe form, mouth curling into a frown of annoyance. Hearing his plea, the tallest of the disgruntled group stepped forth. It would seem to a passing onlooker that the only two humans in Ettermire had managed to find each other, but a closer look could easily reveal the half-bred nature of the taller one.

A quick discourse, the exchange of a parchment covered in a few scribbled notes, and a parting handshake was all it took to secure his already weary mind the prospect of a job. Weakened from hunger, he had quickly spent the small advance he was granted on a hot meal and some supplies for the road. He had a description, he had a direction, and he knew what to do. His new-found partner had decided to stay back and secure any extra information he could find before following. Though average of stature, something in his eyes spoke of a calculating mind, a wealth of experience, and something deeper, almost intangible; something downright scary.

Eyes snapping upward as a gust of wind brought several loosened strands of his ebony mane to dance about his vision, the half-elf quickly looked back in the direction of the fugitive he hunted. He had gained about an extra hundred paces, and would gain even more if his still invisible pursuer wasted any more time. Quickly drawing the blade from his cloaked back, he swung it about him in circles, clearing the grass for several feet in every direction. T’was a job better suited to a scythe, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. Hurriedly stabbing the blade into the soft, fertile soil, he dug with fervor, sweat dripping down his face and into his eyes. About two minutes later, he had created a suitable fire pit. He began to pile grass into it, spreading the extra dirt around the pit, hopefully to protect the surrounding plains from a brush fire.

His face looked grim as he worked, set like stone in an endless grimace. He knew full well the winds would most likely catch the surrounding grass on fire, but quite frankly, he had not the time or the will to waste on preparing his fire pit any better. Almost as an afterthought, a clarification of values, he cleared the grass around it for a few more feet, remembering how much he enjoyed chasing his brother through the plains surrounding their childhood home. His heart would hang too heavily knowing he deprived future children of the privileges of the soil.

Sheathing his blade, he knelt down and began scraping his flint as close to the bunched grass as he could. After another few minutes of trying, he eventually had to wrap his cloak about him to protect his would-be fire from the assaulting wind. Finally, smoke began to rise, twirling in the breeze. He spared only a few more moments of his time to ensure his signal would not blow out before turning to face his goal. There was no turning back now. His prey need only spare a backward glance to know that he was hunted.

Leaping into the tall grass, his legs pumped rhythmically, mind freed from pain and exertion by the thrill flowing through his veins. The rolling hills had hidden the object off his hunt, but he would not let his mind fall into the pit of discouragement. He thought of the warm bed, the filling meal that would soon be his. All he had to do was feed the soil that traitor’s blood. After all, it would be just one more death on his conscience; one more in a long line of men waiting with open arms on the far bank of the river Styx. Their revenge would be had when he, too, fell to the blade of his better; fell to feed the hungry soil, and rest forever in silent defeat.

[Storm Veritas]

The first sign came shortly after noon, a singular pillar of thin, wispy white smoke which erupted into the sky like a paltry little beacon. The first of the fires marked general location, the second marked direction. The line was to be made with the two to show where to go, but often he thought that one may be enough. Smiling sinisterly at the work of his scout, Storm rubbed the mane of mighty Attila and glared eagerly.

No matter where that little bastard is, he sees that flame kick high and he’s gonna either run to it, or run from it. My scout keeps an eye, and he’ll tell me where the next step is. Once the second fire bursts, he’ll definitely bee-line away, and at that point we just stroll in and clean house.

It was a perfect plan at the surface. The scout, by himself, could likely kill the apprentice spy, so inspection of the site by the evacuee would be an awful mistake. For him to run would send the scout sprinting, and the smoke would be distanced greatly from the previous fire. Should something go wrong, wet leaves atop the pyre would leave a black trail of smoke.

So we’ve got position, speed, and demeanor of the enemy. And he’s been spotted. Fish in a f*cking barrel.

Attila was saddled, and mighty. The large, black beast of a horse was tall and proud, and Storm still would be amiss to call him the master of such a wonderful stallion. He had a working relationship of sorts, but when the mighty mare kicked ahead, his speed and precision was unmatched. Together, they could be the perfect hunting party, but today the picky horse was a bit occupied.

“Get over here, you stupid ass!” Veritas commanded, beckoning the sitting, sleepy-eyed horse with a carrot that didn’t interest him. “We’ve got to go! I’ve got carrots! And sugar!”

Not much worked with his horse, and it infuriated him. The mighty warrior, the powerful mage, and the renowned diplomat simply could not tell Attila what to do. A whinny, a neigh, or a powerful kick came to any sort of prodding, and physical force had little to do with any type of motivation. Push him, and the beautiful obsidian behemoth would simply back away and seat again. Attila moved when Attila wanted to move.

Unbe-f*cking-lievable. OK, shit, you win.

Beckoning the stable hand worked. The lovely, doe eyed blonde was quite easy with the horse, and Attila paid her back in spades with compliance. Donna had little good to say about Storm, but at least he paid well. Reaching the front of the corral stall with open hands, bright white teeth and a slightly overweight body tucked forcefully into overalls, she coolly called Attila, and the horse stood and walked to her.

“More flies with honey…” she began, once again chastising Storm for his forceful ways. She knew his patience and temper were short, and there was little he would do to maintain an even front.

“Thank you,” he replied, smiling. Cow. He opened the gate and led Attila out by the reigns, kicking his foot in a stirrup and swinging his body up. “Good boy” he offered as a consolation, ready to kick a metal spur into the ribs should his horse act up again.

The gate to the barn was opened, and out he went towards the smoke. He’d reach it in less than three hours at a moderate gait, and with a pack of food and canteen filled, he figured to be home, collecting his keep by morning.

[Ebivoulya]

Thunderclaps rolled through the plains, messengers of a far off light show. The horizon to the East was dark. Foreboding though it was, it did not deter him. The assaulting strands of grass were but an afterthought. His rhythmically pumping legs carried him ever forward, fleeing from the past at the speed of time. He caught a glimpse of his prey as it disappeared just over the horizon. The sight only made him run that much harder. There was a lot of ground to make up.

Just over the eastern horizon, nestled in the tall grass, a party of dark elves talked amongst themselves of the one they were to protect. Their lithe forms were huddled together around their supplies, hushed words between them falling on the deafened ears of the wind. Finally, their scout returned. Relaying the news, the scout referred to the leader, and the six of them split up into teams of two, dividing their provisions and weapons accordingly: two to protect the spy, two to deter the half-elf, and two to ambush his friend. They would not let their plan crumble to ashes.

The very half-elf they pursued was gaining on his prey. His strain was little compared to the lure of a warm bed and hot food. The blade on his back grew heavier with each step, but so his resolve grew stronger still. Weeks of malnourishment were catching up with him when he needed his body most. He reached an arm down to his waist, catching his canteen as it bounced up from his thigh. He fumbled with the strap for a moment, and then pulled it to his mouth. He unscrewed the cap, letting it drop in between the canteen and his hand so that he wouldn’t lose it. Turning the metal container upside down, his lips closed as his mouth filled with water, and he tossed it to his other hand, catching the now freed cap before it could elude his grasp. He screwed it back on, not wasting a drop, and returned it to his waist to keep his dagger company.

The time he spent drinking had broken his rhythm, and now he started to lose his breath. Rather than stop and catch it, he merely inhaled that much harder to make up for it, eventually resulting in an almost dizzying head rush. Colors flashed before his eyes where they normally would not be, and for but a moment his heart froze in terrifying nostalgia. Scenes from his reawakening came back to him, bringing with them the emotional baggage of an eternity spent writhing in agony. His normally mortal senses were overcome with familiar tastes and smells as his mind recoiled in horrifying lakes of memory. Without thinking, or even breaking his stride, he reached to his belt and produced his favored dagger. Raising his other arm to his chest, he placed the cool, smooth blade on his skin and jerked. The rush of pain startled, then calmed him, and brought him back to his senses. His fear now began to subside, and he licked the blood off his arm, reveling in the deep, metallic taste he knew so well.

Too close…

Crimson streams dribbled down his arm, following the path of similar scars. Some were recent, others old, but they were all self-inflicted. Pain was the only thing that made him feel alive anymore. Even now, running through the plains, he could very well just be watching a dream. Nothing seemed real anymore, not even himself. He was normal once. Those days were gone, though, and nothing but death could bring them back.

[Storm Veritas]

He was riding high relatively quickly, the wind pushing back his hair and heels down hard in the saddle. It was one of the few things that he knew about horsemanship, that with his back straight and heels pressed firm downward, even mighty Attila would struggle to throw him. It was good, too, for when he rode forward with his chest low against the nape of his mighty steed’s neck, he knew that the power that his horse employed was truly awesome.

You are a bad bitch, baby. Just keep pressing towards the pile. We’ll round this up and get you home by sundown.

The sun wasn’t extraordinarily high when he came across the first pyre – the smoldering ashes and sticks and leaves were now all but exhausted. It wasn’t a very long ride, but the high winds on the steppes of Alerar were devastating to the fire. Thin, wispy strands of tall grass glowed a hot orange, and Veritas wondered if the plains themselves might have exploded in flame on a dryer day.

The sun was lower than midday, and shadows were growing long. He had kicked hard ahead, and saw something moving some four hundred yards ahead.

Move. Kick!

Two spurs nudged Atilla with some force, and he was charging. The horse brayed once but didn’t buckle, a stallion unleashed and happy to run. The oscillation of height made the figure ahead seem to rock and sway in the amber light, his motion a limping stride. Unhealthy. Familiar. Storm didn’t need to look down when he had approached the young elf, because he knew what he was getting. The half elf was unmistakable – huge for an elf but also often awkward. From this distance, it was vague, a black cut against the sun before him, yet more familiar perhaps than the very grass in front of him.

Smooth, boy. Ease in. Don't frighten him.

Atilla charged ahead with an even canter, not closing quickly but still narrowing the gap. The elf before him was the scout, and Veritas aimed to see what was wrong. The scout likely couldn't see him from a few hundred yards with his low position, and at the speed he was running, it was unlikely the hoofprints outmoded the wind rustling across his ears. He seemed vulnerable, weak, far too easily tracked himself.

What are you doing?

[Ebivoulya]

Memories of another life, before the endless dark came flaring up, and for a moment the swordsman couldn't resist the feel of them. His nostalgic thoughts distracted the inner hunter, however, and as soon as he noticed the proximity of the threat he had been keeping tabs on, two dark elves were upon him like tigers. The first jumped, curling his legs around the half-elf’s torso, and raised his blade to strike. The victim’s balance was lost, and before his back even hit the ground, he wrapped his leather-ensconced fingers around the skinny little thing’s throat. His right hand fit perfectly around the leathery neck of his new-found friend, whose sword fell silently, finding first a firm layer of grass, then dirt, before finally tasting flesh.

He gritted his teeth as the steel long sword bit into his right shoulder, narrowly missing his neck. His grip weakened for a moment, but in that moment, he threw his other fist at the bastard’s face. The edges of his glove's steel knuckles cut into his own, despite the layers of leather. The comparatively weaker dark elf loosened his grip on his weapon, and it was then the swordsman lifted his frail frame above his own with another hand to his chest, and edged his steel toes into the dark little abdomen of the idiot who tried to kill him.

Blood gushed from the earthbound blade’s intrusion into his shoulder, and he only made it worse whilst kicking the scrawny little bastard that stabbed him in the first place off into the grass behind him. A quiet yelp burst from his lips, but he bared his fangs, for no sooner would he die than show any amount of weakness around anyone or anything that thirsted for his blood. He reached up to his head, pushing himself away from the vengeful blade, and the ground with it, while kicking his legs up to raise his body from the enveloping grasp of mother earth. It felt as though he were still lying there, so numb was he now to the effort. The adrenaline was pumping now.

The other mercenary swung his sword as the half-elf spun in mid-air, but it missed by hardly a finger’s breadth. The young son of a blacksmith landed with his feet far apart, and his stance wide open. His arm, however, was above his head, his gloved hand retrieving his Greatsword. He drew it with one hand, and the elf tried to take another swing at him. He instinctively brought his other hand up to catch the hilt of his blade, and then swung it down to meet the long sword of his foe. Their egos clashed, if only briefly, and he redirected his heavy blade to meet the next attack, somehow keeping pace with the obviously lighter dark elf. He feinted a strike, and then rushed his belittled foe, who was soon on his toes, barely staying upright, and hardly in the fight. The barbarian by blood relished in the excitement, sweat beginning to tread down his features.

It was at this, so inopportune a moment, the other dark elf decided to rejoin the party. A sword encroached from the outnumbered swordsman's right flank, and he had nigh time to even blink before it slashed through his scabbard, which barely kept the blade from tearing apart his spine. He immediately spun to his left, and redirected his Greatsword towards this new threat. He managed to catch him with his blade airborne, and a sick grin crept up the half-elf’s face.

He gleefully swung his blade through leather, flesh, muscle and bone, and finally back into the fresh, open air. A glorious rain of crimson spewed from the six-inch deep gash, which cut through the conniving little shits ribcage. Though he longed to behold his masterpiece for a little while longer, more pressing matters bubbled up from his sub-conscious, and his hunger was evident in his eye. They devoured the scene before them ravenously.

He lifted one leg from the bloodied grass, and stretched his arms up to the sky, continuing his swing. Though he lost momentum in redirecting his heavy weapon, he had strength to spare and kept his grip on the eight-pound blade. He had one good arm left, luckily, and made it a point to train with the blade exclusively one-handed. He pivoted on one foot, bringing the great weight above him down to bear on the hastily exposed weapon of a less than imposing dark elf.

Like that’ll actually stop this…

It was knocked away easily, but redirected just as easily. His opponent, expecting the over-drawn attack, pivoted to the side of his swing. The half-elf found himself at the end of his proverbial rope, with his blade too far away and too heavy to get there in time.

…shit…

His only option was to roll with the punches, and roll he did, down to the ground and through about four feet of grass. It was awkward, and very painful, but it got him out of what might have been his last close encounter. His bisected sheath bent with the ground, allowing him a little more maneuverability.

He leaped to his feet and swung around to see a charging dark elf in front of him, and some black speck offset in the dark beige distance. With little time to think, he immediately brought his guard up and noticed the position of his foe’s blade. It was then he remembered that great-swords are typically longer than long swords. He began his dash forward, barely thinking it through as always, but he did not have to tread far. He kept his blade below and to the left of him as he ran, his lungs pumping in rhythm with his legs. Nearing the dark elf, he watched his horizontal leftward swipe in quiet contemplation. Disregarding the attack, he brought his sword up point forward, extending his arms toward his prey in a last second stab.

His foe's blade skittered off his, and was all of the sudden prominent and imposing as it slowly filled his ever-widening eyes. He did not feel the fear, he didn’t even think about it. He just felt that will to keep moving, keep surviving, to stay alive and correct his mistakes. It culminated in a surprising wave of fresh, rich pain as his head effortlessly shot to the side, his eyes locked on the sword as it tore through his flesh. The blade finally left him, a thin trail of crimson tracing back through the air to his cheek as it flew. It left a three-inch gash down his left cheek, and a widening grin on his face.

The sickening snap of a spinal cord heralded the geyser of magenta from the blade protruding out of the back of the dark elf's neck. He could smell it; so much blood had been spilled today. His foe's arms immediately went limp, dropping the bloodied weapon, and the half-elf held the body suspended on his blade for a while longer, before it began to slide down toward him. Not wanting to get his clothes any bloodier, he angled the blade earthward and let the shell of his once-living enemy slump to the ground.

His breaths heavy, and fresh blood still flowing from his shoulder, he took to one knee before the still blinking corpse and closed his eyes. Placing one hand palm earthward, he steadied his breath and began to focus on the pain in his shoulder, disregarding the cut on his cheek. An ethereal blue light emanated from the wound, and the flesh slowly reformed, the blood finally trickling off. After a few more deep breaths, he stood and turned his attention back to the speck he saw in the distance while wiping the blood off his blade on the pant legs of one of the dead dark elves.

[Storm Veritas]

It all hit so fast, there was no warning, no way to get there in time. His eyes were fixed on the little elf, fixated as the world unfolded around him. A few others came and attacked, striking fast and furious from the weeds. Storm kicked hard, driving a heel firmly into the ribs of Attila, pleading with her to charge.

Go, girl! Move, you bitch! We can’t lose the scout, can’t lose the trace…

The gallop was strong but far from fast enough. Even with the heavy, periodic hoofbeats, Veritas peered in vain as the ambushing party rolled about the ground with his little elven comrade. The low sun cast black silhouettes about the action, unsure of what he witnessed. The action was frenetic, the blades fast and furious, the injuries sustained no doubt fatal. At the end, only one stood, and Storm slowed his approach. It was the scout; he was nearly sure of it.

Got to get together. We have to sit and take shelter by nightfall. With dark elves in the plains I’ll be a sitting duck come sundown. Those beady little eyes… meant for that shit.

Nightfall was the least of his worries. A singular echoing cackle reverberated from his right flank, the high pitched chirp of some little terrible that had approached his trot from the tall grass. A spear whistled by his face, the soft fift sound inches from his ear. Attila brayed and kicked his legs high, tossing Storm from his back as he charged away from battle. Two or three were on him, and on him fast.

No…

They were scary quick, and as fast as they were small. He felt the first blade drag across his back, a second small one drive hard into a rib, stopped and briefly withdrawn. The laughter cackle was high pitched and manic, and he paid no heed to time nor mercy. He turned fast, manifesting his full energy into a burst of sizzling white hate that hit the first little awful squarely in the face.

Off, motherf*cker!

A terrible, high pitched squeal, and a sizzling blackened corpse of flame leapt back from his mighty magic. His left hand moved to his waist, and he drew forth the twisted kriss dagger that had served him so well. It was incredibly dark here, and his heart leapt with fear as he could barely make out the elves from their shadows. Had it grown darker quickly, or was he dying? In either event, he would fight without yield. The blade was held before him as he waved it wildly.

No matter how many times he fought and faced death, it never got easy and it never made sense. He could never break down the events as quickly as some skilled swordsman may. There was no strategy to his combat aside from “stab him” and “don’t get killed”. With wide, wild eyes and lips pursed tight in an emotionless gaze, he prayed that the elves didn’t share the same skill that his bounty-hunting companion did.

For once, his prayers were answered. The first came at him with a short sword, a predictable righthanded swing that would come down at his neck. He stepped left, then off his right and felt his own dagger drive hard into the crevice that joined the neck from the shoulder. Blood fountained up, a sickening, confidence building event. Coated with that burgundy oil, he watched as the second turned tail to run.

No chance.

Onlookers would later describe this execution in more sordid terms, but it was simpler that it appeared. Another blast of electricity, this one not so strong. A simple slash across the throat, and a disemboweling. The legs came off, too, because the superstitious Veritas wouldn’t want the somehow alive thing to walk back to him in his sleep. The legs came off all of the three little ambushers in time, with enough slashing, enough cutting. It took time and energy, and left him covered in bile and blood and gore. It also filled him with a sickening satisfaction and security blanket. If the dogs came at night, there would be food for them without dealing with the living travelers.

He eventually would move towards the scout. Attila was waiting for him by the fire ahead with the recruited half-elf, and neither of them looked terribly pleased at the approach of the horrendous looking mage.

[Ebivoulya]

With his troublesome trackers disposed of, and his weapon re-sheathed, the half-bred barbarian turned once more to view the speck he saw before, only this time there were more than one. Judging from the formation of them, he assumed the one being surrounded was the same man who hired him, and began a sprint towards him, but his paces slowed to a stunned halt as he became witness to the carnage his employer wrought. With envious eyes, he beheld the beast bear its gruesome fangs, and though he was of noticeable physical handicap compared to his hired blade, the ruthlessness and voraciousness with which his partner fought made the half-elf’s spine tingle. His lustful eyes devoured the scene in all its morbidity, and were hardly drawn from its grasp as the charcoal beast which accompanied his mast-

Feh…

His mind was unwilling dragged into childhood memories illuminated a deep rouge, and though he could not cast them away, he long ago resolved to live at least until he could find his brother, and exact his revenge. The grip of both hands tightened amidst leather folds, and his eyes shot to the ground as he spat in disgust. A wrinkled, grinning face covered in scars bubbled up behind his eyelids, and his anger swelled to a searing boil.

The neighing of his partner’s horse redirected his thoughts, and his sight back to the massacre in the distance. It seemed to be boiling down, and from the earlier display, he had no doubt his employer would be joining them soon enough. Raising his gaze to the west, he stared at the undulating blanket of tangerine and pink beauty. Steeds and dragons rose from the clouds, battling in a fervent fury the likes of which only Gods have witnessed.

Reaching up to retrieve his blade, which was still dulled with streaks of dry blood like many times before, the still stunned swordsman slowly moved a few paces from the ebony mane which surrounded eyes just as ferocious as their owner’s. He set to clearing some of the prairie grass, and dug another pit, wider than the last, but equivalently more shallow. Stomping the mostly dry grass into the makeshift fire pit, the half-elf wrapped his dirty black cloak around him as he retrieved his flint and lit the pile of grass into a small sliver of light that eventually grew into a respectable fire. He then set to piling extra grass near the fire, but far enough to avoid the wind, and looked once more toward the battleground.

He could see his human associate approaching, and he couldn’t help but stare at the crimson-stained mage. He almost felt jealous of the power his employer wielded, but surmised experience was the difference between them. Remembering his purpose in this endeavor, the scout turned towards the direction their prey fled, and drew his blade. Taking a few steps into the grass, the half-elf carved a ragged path ten or so paces past their fire to mark his direction. Sliding the steel back into its leather-ensconced sheath, the swordsman sat down before the fire in repose as his human partner approached.

“I’ve marked his direction…”

The seated sword for hire motioned to the hastily cut path behind him, still unable to tear his gaze from the blood soaked man before him. There were still some small scraps of ligament and flesh dotting his attire. The mere sight was alluring, and the smell was delectable. An ancient hunger rose up within him, and though he showed no immediate sign, his palms began to sweat. As he gazed up lazily toward his employer, he remained in a sense of awe and respect due a beast bearing such baleful fangs.

[Storm Veritas]

He smiled at the little monster as he walked up. The hired hand was a skilled one, even if he wasn’t precisely sane. The way that the sickly abomination cackled and laughed internally, Storm was taken aback. He generally worked alone, and it was for no reason outside of his lack of trust.

This little goblin thing… He rides in front. I don’t turn my back to this crazy little prick.

His own level of excitement was falling fast, and he was returning to the scraps of humanity he clung to. These clothes wouldn’t do, he thought, and he pulled them off methodically, cinching Attila to his hand as he did so. His shirt stuck to his skin as he removed it, a sleek, sliding thing that was slowed by the cold clasp of his assailants’ blood. Disgusted, he threw the rags on the blaze, and watched the fire suffocate slightly and then envelop the shirt. His pants would follow.

“Ugh… shit!”

The smell of the blood burning over flames was nauseating. It wasn’t the burnt flesh that scorched his nostrils in the old Haidian lands, but it was awful nonetheless. Were the trap-setters not already dead, he reckoned they would have found his position quite easily. He pulled a pair of fresh clothes from the sack tied at Attila’s hip as he spoke to the diminutive elf-thing.

“We need to follow straight on, keep up the pressure on the target. He obviously expected us to chase him, although I’m not sure why he set a trap like that. He must have some very valuable information, and have been well backed. If the information was this valuable, perhaps the small bounty on the head of the spy was less than he could earn by extorting the original gamesmaster. After all, someone had to pay for a half dozen poorly trained assassins to attempt a takedown on the bounty hunters.

“When we catch him, don’t kill him. I don’t know the full details of the information he’s taken. Could be paperwork, could be word of mouth. I’ve got plenty of ways to make him talk.”

Storm tossed a small roll of bread to the elf as he polished off his own, and withdrew a second bite along with some water. He watched the “companion” over the back of his horse as he urinated behind it, and he cleaned up quickly once more, pulling his hair back tight to his head. Attila no longer whinnied, brayed, or kicked, but rather stood strong as Veritas waited by him.

“Can you keep a trace on that little prick if we set camp for the night? Do we need to keep pressure to avoid losing him?”

He wasn’t sure the full capacity of his hitman, but he prayed that they could continue. Any excess time with this miscreant little monster was time poorly spent. He certainly didn't want to follow him through the darkness, but he could ill afford to let him slip through his fingers under cover of night.

Besides, after much deliberation he decided that bunking up a few steps from the insane little demon thing sounded even less appetizing than riding Attila by moonlight.

[Ebivoulya]

The waning light of dusk accentuated the thunderclouds to the East, an imposing backdrop for the comparatively insignificant pair sitting around a fire. Their trajectory would be skirting that storm, and chances are it would reach their position some time after dark if they camped. Staying put for the night would be counter-productive, though he knew not if his mage partner needed rest after his earlier show; most magic users were frail, though that didn’t really seem the case. He could estimate how far their mark would most likely travel, and losing anymore time would extend the chase for at least another day.

The half-elf turned his gaze to the blaze as his companion disposed of his blood-soaked clothes, throwing them into the flame. It was a familiar sight; blood, and fire. A shiver crept up his spine, his eyes fixating upon the smoke of his last fire, which was slowly dwindling in the far distance. The noxious fumes wafting in his direction repulsed his sensitive nose, and he very well might’ve gagged had his stomach not been so painfully empty. His hunger came roaring back, though he did his best to ignore it, and he was soon distracted by a vaguely familiar voice.

His employer’s long-winded analysis matched closely with his own, and while a slight twinge of disappointment arose at his mention of the possible value of their target’s life, he nodded in understanding. The swordsman almost smirked as his partner bragged about his interrogation skills, and several examples fluttered through his excited mind, all of them stained a glorious red.

A flying dinner roll caught the half-breed’s attention, and he narrowly saved it from the bug-covered grasses. Without question or thanks he shoved the bread into his mouth, voraciously finishing it in a few bites. Immediately his canteen was at his lips, washing down his ‘meal,’ and as it parted from them with a sigh of refreshment, the scout glanced up to see his employer on the other side of his horse, accompanied by the sound of pouring water.

“It’s possible he’s got some personal guards, too, and they probably won’t be so easily dispatched.”

He took another swig from his canteen, noting in dismay that he didn’t have much left for the return trip. His employer questioned his ability to keep track of their mark at this distance, which happened to bring up the very same topic he was pondering himself. Glancing back towards the much cleaner looking bounty hunter, he slid his canteen back into place at his waist.

“Keeping track of him isn’t the problem; there are only so many logical paths he would take. If we stay here for the night, though, it could add an extra day to the hunt, if not more.”

He stood slowly, patting his blood-matted clothes in the off chance that it might make them less hideous, and turned to face his employer, whose expression spoke of disbelief, and even slight distrust. Whether he doubted his chosen scout’s abilities, or motives, he did not know, but at least one of those could be proven. He always paid close attention to his stores of magical energy, and with his next feat, he’d be left with only one more invocation of his special abilities, barring the off chance that they manage to take more than a day to find their mark.

“A storm is coming our way. We can probably avoid it if we keep moving, but if we stay here it’ll be upon us soon.”

The novice mage took to one knee after a thoughtful pause, closing his eyes for a moment. Though he imagined his actions must be perplexing to his employer, it wouldn’t be long before his questions were answered. Releasing half of his remaining reserves, the half-elf pumped the same azure energy that healed his wound earlier throughout his muscles and organs. On the outside his muscular arms seemed to shrink slightly, becoming even more defined as his they were compressed to achieve the greatest strength for their size. After another moment he stood, appearing as though he’d lost a good fifteen pounds in a matter of seconds.

“I’ll be good for about half a day at a brisk pace, longer if we take it slow. Given his distance, and the time we’ve spent here, we'll enter the Steppes in the middle of the night, and there’s a good chance we’ll reach him before daybreak.”

His employer would have to trust his half-elven mercenary. Attempting to traverse the Steppes at night made loss of direction certain unless one of the elvenkind was present. Also, should they encounter another party of assassins, the earlier display of magic his companion showed would be reduced literally to random shots in the dark without the half-breed's cooperation. Surely, he could simply mislead the man at his side, or withdraw into the night should they get attacked again, but this was his best chance to acquire something to live off of for longer than one day at a time. The streets were rough, and if it meant he could get off them at least long enough to find some more gold, or employ, working with this human was worth it.

[Storm Veritas]

Storm breathed deep at the words of his hired hand. He didn’t like a single fleeting second of what the abomination was saying, but knew instinctively his traveling partner was right. The horizon behind them was a silver-tipped sheet, slowly being pulled across a canvas of speckled light grays. His senses were sharpening too, indicative of a pattern that carried with it high electric energy. He wondered quickly what it would be to be hit by lightning, if his already freakish abilities would harness the power. More than likely, he’d be burnt crispy like everything else.

Screw it. I don’t wanna know.

“We move then. Press the path and lead the way. We can move slow, rest up, heal up, and we’ll see if we don’t hit the Steppes by midnight. I need to stretch my legs, so you can rest upon Attila if he lets you.”

It was true – his groin was tight and beaten, his balls plenty sore. Stretching out his legs for a few miles would help, and his mighty black beast could use the lighter load of this awful elf thing. Even though he was thick looking, Storm had heard (and seen) these elves move far too nimbly to be of heavy weight. Of course, it was disquieting to consider such a horrendous character strapped atop mighty Attila. His eyes narrowed at the thought, and yet he motioned for the saddle.

“Keep ten or fifteen paces ahead, and hold the torch high. You’ll look like you’re alone. Don’t exceed twenty five paces. If you hit thirty, I don’t think I need to tell you I’ll have to consider you’re stealing my precious mount. Don’t make me do anything… regrettable.”

His offer was fairly kind, one of goodwill, but his lack of faith cut a certain swath of hostility in the road between them. There was a long path before they reached the rocky plateaus known as the “Steppes”, however, and he trusted the chance to rest his legs would be taken eagerly by the despicable goblin.

[Ebivoulya]

A stubborn neigh flashed from the nostrils of his employer’s steed, its eyes emblazoned with a deep, persevering will. The gaze of such a beast ran deep and violent, lashing out against the half-breed’s pride. He responded with an unheard snarl, which was backed with eyes just as deep and tempestuous, and for a moment the two locked eyes in an uncompromising evaluation of one another.

A gesture led his distant gaze back to his partner, and once more to the mighty steed. His employer set clear his restrictions, and the hired blade wouldn’t dishonor him by refusing. Reserving as much energy for the final fight seemed a sound idea, and he slowly strode towards the horse, neither rushing nor hesitating in his approach. It neighed at his proximity, but settled down soon afterward. He risked a brush of the beast’s mane, at which it snorted in disgust. Falling back on the few memories he had of his mother, the swordsman began to talk to the beast.

”Maeri pyrn…”

It settled some, hearing the elven tongue, and the bounty hunter risked a glance back towards his employer. He continued to pet the stallion, maintaining a firm yet gentle stroke. The creature stood a good seven-foot high, and its eyes bore tales of battle. He looked deep into those eyes again, finding an underlying malice that matched its owner. They were a pair, those two, but he needed mother earth and her minions to accept him on this night.

“Jhaer iar vodi.”

The steed seemed to understand, stilling itself long enough for the now lithe half-elf to crawl up and onto the saddle. A torch was tentatively handed to him by his employer, who had elected to remain a few paces behind. He nodded once more at the man, and kicked the horse in the right direction. The trio took off into the hills, heading for the ever-so-ominous Steppes, white flashes painting the sky anew with each thunderous strike.

Though he kept a sole arm aloft to light his way, the mostly mortal half-elf bent his focus inwards, timing his breaths with the beat of the stallion’s hooves. It took all of himself that could be spared to keep his enhanced body from eating away at itself out of anticipation. Though his eyes remained closed in the flickering light the torch cast upon him, through the thundering hooves of Attila, he could hear the excessive, noisy steps of his human counterpart, always right behind.

The whipping winds brought the smell of fresh rain, and he cast his gaze to the east. The pressure around him was already dropping. Though he couldn’t estimate how long they had been traveling like this, he still could not spy the Steppes through the blackened horizon. The stars above them were slowly being swallowed up by the inky curtain of a thunderstorm, as was his partial night vision.

It'll be on us shortly after we reach the Steppes...

[Storm Veritas]

Sometimes, his own bravado got the best of him. Storm wasn’t sure why he had offered his mount to the beastly companion, especially when he had seemingly just tamed the damned mare himself. Perhaps it was good nature, or perhaps it was simple, quantifiable strategy. It did make sense, after all, to invest in the faith of such a mischievous partner. Whatever this thing had in mind for their future in this little foray, Storm was certain only in that he did not know what to think of this strange bedfellow, and that erring on the side of caution was indeed very wise.

That said, his tactics seemed miles from brilliant when his feet began to hurt, and the time that composed the night became downright liquid. The voyage seemed to have start ages back, and the same grand ambitions he had to sweep up the transient were far behind him in the wake of a hostile ambush and constant care.

The guard must never come down. Never. Stay alert.

Indeed, each step was a careful one, each breath coming slowly through the nose and out the mouth. He was a damned fool to be ambushed once, but being duped twice in the same night would simply not happen. In the wake of the horse and the goblin man, he stepped slowly, carefully. The moonlight cast a smooth silhouette about them, and Attila followed a hoof beat that was instinctive and natural. The horse would never step in crack or crag, never trip. The blisters festering on his feet would be soothed some time tomorrow, and he would keep pressing his weight across the balls of his feet, rolling ahead with a tempered pace in spite of the pain that cried from his many wounds.

After a time that seemed impossibly long Veritas eyed the mighty Steppes. They were a rocky outgrowth, a series of plateaus that stretched far and wide. They enveloped each other in a twisted embrace, each amoebic shaped plateau of some sixty feet creating its own twisted channel aside the next. Each alley was its own rocky trap, but with as many plateaus as existed, he expected that they formed the rocky equivalent of a giant hedge maze.

As they came closer, the Steppes became clearer. The valleys that ran narrowly between the massive plateaus were outrageously black, as no moonlight could traverse such a narrow path down between. So devoid of life was the area that Storm noted the startling resemblance to what he once fantasized the great moon would resemble. Nowhere in sight was that dark elf. He was out of visible line, and Veritas wondered if they would ever find the target again.

Oh… sonofabitch!!!

He jogged up ahead to his traveling companion, taking note of how his feet wretched for rest. His grimace foretold discomfort, betraying his intent of showing strength.

“If we run ahead, we can hit the top of any plateau. You’ll see further, but I’d be damned if we can get down from there. If you can spot the target from the ledges, I can… eliminate it.”

His fingers buzzed nervously, as if they were aware of their master’s foolish boast. This was perhaps not the wisest of claims, as the power of his blasts seemed to dissipate considerably with distance. In addition, he was no sniper with his electric talents, and wasn’t sure how accurate the bolts could be from such a range.

“Of course…” he continued, his breath ever so slightly labored, “If you still have a bead on this little elven prick, I’ll happily follow you to him.”
Suspicion lingered. He could not leave the air so dead.

“But I’m starting to wonder if you have lost the track. If he’s lost you, and reached those mountainous hallways, I think we’re six shades of screwed. Forget about catching our thief, you couldn’t catch the plague drinking shit milkshakes in there.”

Diplomacy was far from his strength.

[Ebivoulya]

Several long hours of steady-beating hooves and feet announced their arrival at the Steppes, and in viewing their goal he recalled the fortune that had befallen the scout just as he was beginning to wonder if his prey had possibly diverted course. A few hundred paces off their path his half-elven eyes had spied through the grass a cleared patch of land, and a fire pit at the center. He had begun veering towards it, staying at the agreed distance so as not to incite an unpleasant response from the lightning wielder that followed him.

In galloping closer to the site, however, he had spotted obvious tracks leading off in one particular direction, and brought his own path to merge with it, staying as hot on the trail of his prey as he could. With the muggy wind blowing in from the East, the grass that had been bent underfoot as the mouse who evaded the cat stayed down, leaving a shaky trail through the plains. He continued to follow it as devoutly as if he were alone in these plains and tracking his only meal for miles.

With time he had spied the figure pop up and disappear over endless hills, each interlude between disappearances growing longer as they caught up to the fleeing spy. Though the indistinguishable speck was probably non-existent in the eyes of his employer, each little glance could tell him many things. The spy was definitely growing tired, and in his weary state, he was most likely to take the straightest path through the Steppes. Any amount of wasted energy could mean the failure of his mission at this point, and it was that desperate attitude the mercenary preyed upon, grinning maliciously as the little squirt dipped below the horizon once more.

He needed to get closer to the spy, and with all the extra energy he was preserving, he could manage a long-distance sprint much faster than his partner’s steed could gallop. With perfect timing, the mage came up beside him, for they were nearing the Steppes, and the target had just entered one of the narrow valleys in his escape. His companion looked disheveled and exhausted, which was not surprising considering he was both just a human, and a magic-user. His partner offered a mediocre strategy, which involved him eliminating the spy from a distance, but the half-elf was sure they could get more money for the information the spy’s mouth would spew after enough ‘convincing.’

“I’ve been on his trail for the last hour, and this horse is too slow.”

The hired blade leaned in closer to the ears of the galloping steed, and a streak of lightning briefly illuminated every detail. Timing his balance with the rhythm of the thunderous hooves, he spoke to the beast once more; his voice a pebble tossed aside by a tsunami as the epic crack of thunder left in the wake of a mighty lightning strike mere miles away tore mercilessly through the air.

“Pyl’s shi masaer. Ai’t kyl ol eindaer.”

The scout raised one leg from the stirrup of galloping Attila, and placed his armored boot on the saddle as he leaned towards his jogging employer. With as little a kick-off as possible, the mercenary jumped to the ground and began running, falling behind the human and his steed briefly as he brought himself up to pace, and to the side of his mage partner. He handed the torch to the man as he spoke.

“Take the steed for now; I need to get closer to him so I don’t lose his trail. I will leave you signs that will be written in blood. Mine or his is the question.”

Leaving the task of mounting a horse in full gallop to his employer, the hired hand released a quarter of the energy he had been storing up while riding Attila. His gait immediately grew faster and longer, and the scout quickly took the lead. It felt good to be back on his own legs again, running through the fields like he did with his brother. He had been given a chance to start his life, and even if he found out his brother had died, he still would exact revenge for him, and their family.

He ran through the barrier of his past, that guilt which hindered him, shattering it as his life might be shattered one day. Through twisted corridors he ran, smelling, hearing, tasting his quarry. The animal was only a few steps ahead of its foe, and there was no sign of his personal guard. Surely, such stranded prey didn’t expect to outrun the hunter. There must be a method to such madness.

[Storm Veritas]

The beastly thing left Attila, and Storm was relieved. He had been running for far too long, and the horse would tire quickly at such a pace. The beastly thing had barely noticed that Storm was keeping pace with a horse at full charge, and the tall, athletic mage noted nothing about the event. He was fast, but he was also tired, and his lungs burned savagely with each footfall. Soon he would collapse to the floor, too exhausted to continue.

Attila…

He breathed hard as the tracker raced into the crevices between two particularly grey and lifeless plateaus. The horse stopped upon dismount of its foreign rider, and slowly, inexplicably sauntered back in a slow, trotting loop to its new master. Storm held the round, muscular jaw of Attila in his hand, admiring the beautiful creature for just a second. His feet would no longer carry him, and he knew that the horse was far from exhausted.

“Soon, you rest. Soon enough my friend. We must continue. Come on.”

He pressed his right toe into the stirrup and clasped the saddlehorn, whipping his leg over the top of the mount like an experienced pro. Was this really the same animal that had kicked him from its back only earlier this voyage? He softly stroked the side of the neck and pressed his heel firmly into the side of his ride, taking care not to kick or whip or abuse. Attila, for the time being, was far too valuable.

The tracker had driven himself deep into the cliff-face, just as Veritas had warned him not to do an hour or so earlier. Headstrong, stubborn, and more than marginally insane, the prickly-skinned abomination seemed to know better, and plunged into the darkness like a fish to water.

Storm was smoother, slower, holding his right hand out front and pocketing the glove that would cover it. Here, deeply nestled in a small walkway located in the midst of this chasm, the moonlight would not plunge. His hand sparked up a dim light, which was enough to paint the porous wall of the cliff face (which looked more to Storm like cement than stone, as he had no knowledge of “limestone”), and offer a bit of illumination ahead. The warbling, chirping sounds of his companion flickered off into the darkness, leaving Storm and Attila to fend for themselves.

Oh, you stupid little prick. Head off, get trapped, and be isolated. I’ll be damned if I’m going to walk into the lion’s den without so much as a long look first. What the hell were you thinking?

His resignation for the beastly thing stopped, and he moved ahead at a steady pace. It was not slow enough for his liking, anyway. At the same time that he didn’t want to lose his tracker, he also feared that perhaps he had put too much faith in that… that thing. Was Storm actually the mark here? Had he figured out the potential betrayal a scratch late?

[Ebivoulya]

Steep and craggy walls lined each wayward corridor, dead vines twisting throughout ancient cracks like withered fingers. An ominous warning flashed through the blackened clouds, yet on the rocky cavern floor a hunter pursued without fear, even emblazoned by the thunderous presence engulfing what little starlight could reach him. He lay at the very bottom of the twisting crevices that served as his trap to corner the mouse and while the electrical storm that would soon be upon them might boost the already impressive strength of his employer, their difference in speed left no room for error. He would have to catch the spy, and hold him long enough for the cavalry to arrive. His only method of leaving a trail relied on his own blood; though he couldn't deny the intoxicating rush every time a blade pierced his flesh, he was still disgusted. Death would not leave his side. Even in making a living, he couldn't escape the inky black chill of his own mortality.

Reaching the first of what would be many forks in the path, the hired bounty hunter slowed his impressive pace, drawing the serrated dagger from his waist. Still it reflected a dull red, the color seen most in both his dreams, and memories; those that still held clarity. His teeth found the glove of his right hand, and pulled it from the scarred flesh. Delving the knife into his palm, the half-elf slapped the rocky stone wall as he took off down the corridor his prey had most likely used, judging from the upturned gravel of his desperate gait. The morbid sign the scout had left his employer was a bloody hand-print, smeared in the direction he should follow. Considering their first meeting after they had left Ettermire, the half-elf thought it only appropriate to rely on his employer's probably twisted impression of his hired hand to communicate.

Were the two split up here, at so inopportune a moment and so close to their goal, not only would the bounty hunter have no food, he'd be stranded in unfamiliar territory with almost no supplies. It was nearly impossible to discern shapes and colors, but with enough concentration, the half-elf could still keep his footing and direction. The dark was closing in, and as good as his eyes were, they were of no use if there was no light at all. It seemed he was going to need his employer's assistance after all. More chilling was the thought that the spy had entered such treacherous territory apparently alone, for what better place to stage an ambush than a pitch-black bottleneck.

Several turns he had made, and at each lay a crimson hand within sight of the crossroads to lead on like a grim flame into the dark. Something disturbed the hunter, though; as far as he could tell, no longer was his prey desperately fleeing, despite the darkening sky. Instead it seemed that it's footfalls were more deliberate, exact. His prey knew what it was doing, and that he did not like. Everything in him was saying 'stop,' but anger swelled up behind it, and washed away the fear; anger that this rat actually thought his trap would work.

Finally he caught sight of the little, two-faced dark-elf, and he just stood there in-between two widening walls, with a pair of matching crevices which split off into the black depths behind him. A flash of lightning in the far-off sky gave the hunter the one good look he needed as he slowed his pace to a stop some twenty paces from the spy. An elegant longsword with black, jewel-encrusted scabbard caught his attention first. The gems were worthless, but their significance intrigued him. Such gems were only given to those of exceptional skill with their respective weapon. His attire was otherwise rather incongruous, with several layers of concealing black and nothing else. He had no personal guard, but his eyes spoke of blood-thirsty ambition, and seemed interested in bigger things than stolen plans.

The larger man this dark-elven spy was attempting to stare down slowly drew the dagger from his waist with a hand dripping crimson. The half-elf dipped two gloved fingers into the pool of blood in his right palm, and while he held the dagger with a firm grip, scribbled 'ambush' in blood on the blade of it, and flung it behind him with nimble fingers to land in a vertical crack right next to his last set of directions, some sixty paces of slightly winding trail behind him. The dark-elf only smirked, and the hunter merely grinned, as he reached his gloved hand up to grasp the still-bloodied great-sword at his back after he wriggled the hand still leaking lifeblood back into its glove.

[Storm Veritas]

The breaths drew shallow, hollow, and weak. Why was he bothering to give chase? What good could come of following this thing? It was too dark, too dismal, too absurd to be looking into these cracks for some hope of finding the terrible dark elf and his (hopeful) prey. Besides, was Storm’s intuition correct, they were waiting for him ahead, simply biding their time until the true prey walked into the trap.

So what will you do? You’re tired, you’re beat, and the reward isn’t worth enough to risk this foolishness anyway.

Another breath, and the hand before him went down. He looked back one hundred yards behind him, where mighty Attila stood tied to a large rock. The horse was simply a shaking shadow against a lightning-dotted backdrop now, and without the flickering tendrils of electricity over his fingertips, Veritas could see very little before him, too. A sigh, and he reconsidered. The beast would be fine there for a full night, and if he was so inclined, Attila could certainly pull free of his reigns and run free.

Another breath filled his chest, and the scent of ozone reinvigorated him. His own arrogance had a way of driving him.

F*ck that. Come too far. He’s not getting my money, and I’m not riding into town without that other little bastard’s head.

The blood marks on stone were smeared with desperation; their wounded prey was on the run. Snapping his palm open, Storm was able to navigate easily as dozens of tiny flecks of white and blue danced over his hand. The light was quite bright; it would certainly serve as a disadvantage should they be scheming to corner him. There would be no hiding his arrival.

His leg and stomach were feeling stronger already, his breath coming smooth and calm, heart pumping slowly and relaxed. The mountains – so regularly pumped with lightning - there was something fantastic here. The energy was unmistakable in these crags. He felt alive as he walked, tracking, hunting, finding his way through the crevices. Enough twists and turns had left eventual escape a task in and of itself. Coincidentally, each turn seemed to bring more strength, more power. He lusted to look deeper.

And if that dark elf –doesn’t- want to ambush you, what then? Expect him to accept your cash payment and move onward? Not likely. You’ll have to leave alone… but you knew that, didn’t you?

A sneer, and he pulled his wrist across his face to stifle a laugh. Of course he would have to kill them both. He certainly learned he couldn’t trust the hired help near the horse, and didn’t particularly want to split the money anyway. The target, well… the target would have to “resist”, and would naturally die in battle after slaying Storm’s partner. That’s how this would work. It’s how it always was supposed to work. How had he fooled himself into thinking any differently?

His heart jumped and hand closed as he heard a tinny crack. It wasn’t the booming thunder above, but the loud, hollow thwang sound was no less distinct. Metal on metal, perhaps metal on stone. He hadn’t seen the sword smash into rock right by his face, but he nearly felt it, as though he had some extra sense that came about him.

Breathe.

He knelt, and took one more deep breath. There was almost no way that the dark elf hadn’t seen him, so he was either coming through the passage to kill one or two. He would give the elf the honor of seeing him eye to eye when he killed him, for his partner had proven his worth already. The twin Kriss daggers – given so long ago that he had forgotten the face of their donor, the great Damon Kaosi– fell effortlessly into his hands. He held them before his chest, his own electrical impulse sparking light between them in a twisting white snake.

Stepping out through the final crack, the opening was wide enough to give each of his waiting assailants a two-man berth. He couldn't see them yet, but their cackles and footprints had alerted him easily. This was inevitability. A sick smile crossed his face as the white light lit it, and he spoke in a language that he assumed neither of his soon-to-be victims would understand.

“Good. So you did try to ‘set me up’ then. I’ll sleep even better tonight knowing that. Hell, I’ll be warm too; those skins will make a fine blanket.”

His power here was enormous. With a clash of his wrists the knives touched, sending a deafening crack and a simply venomous arc of electricity at what was once identified as his bounty.

[Ebivoulya]

The blade slid out of its sheath slowly, it's sheen hardly noticeable in the dark depths of The Steppes. Finally it left its confining home, dancing with every twinge in the half-elf's wrist as he brought it down to chest level and tossed it into the air briefly with a spin while he positioned his other, still bleeding hand to catch the lower half of the grip. A shimmer of blue caught his eye in the reflection of the blade, and he turned back just in time to see his employer step out some twenty paces behind him, a snake of azure slithering through the air between his elegant daggers as a crackling resounded throughout the cavern. His hopes immediately rose and he couldn't help but smile - until the mage grinned and spoke in a language he couldn't understand.

The tone of his employer's voice reminded him entirely too much of his own when tying up loose ends, and the words seemed directed at him. He gripped his torso-sized Greatsword tighter and focused some of the pent-up energy stored within him into his extremities. The situation appeared to have gone sour, but he didn't know what to expect from either his would-be partner or the rat they'd been chasing this whole time. His questions were left unanswered as the mage clashed his blades, sending an enormous bolt of searing-white energy straight past the half-elf and into the spy's chest. The mercenary's left upper arm was burnt as the bolt passed him, and he was tossed back a few feet before he caught his balance, merely a couple paces from the craggy wall behind him. His other hand instinctively touched the burn as he looked down at it, wincing slightly. His blade was still crackling from the bolt, and his suspicions were almost confirmed, but it was too early in the fight to heal his arm and take on his ex-employer. The status of the spy was the most important thing to both of them at the moment, and after that display he could guess what status that was.

He spared a glance to his right, squinting through the black to spy a smoking figure on the ground. The information he could've spilled after some good torture techniques might've been worth more then the whole god damned bounty hunt they were on in the first place, but his fucking partner apparently decided to skip the formalities and off the spy right away. He was really, really looking forward to twisting, grinding, stabbing, and burning the information out of the little dark-elven piece of shit that he had been chasing for the last damn day or more. This pissed him off, and he immediately glared with unhidden fangs in his eyes at the mage to his left, who still held his twin daggers, which were crackling with idle sparks of blue.

"What the FUCK? That was NOT the godam-'

A shadow fell from the blackened night above, obscuring his vision of the bastard who just denied him the relief of grinding the jaw of their target into a mush. It also struck him as odd just in time for him to look up and see darkness falling down upon him as well. He snapped his arm up, the muscle straining itself more than normally possible to bring the massive blade up in front of him one-handed, as he reached for the dagger at his waist which...he had already used. Metal clashed, and he felt a weight on his sword that drove him to the ground, the hand that was at his waist quickly reaching up through his blurred vision to grasp at the black mask of the one on top of him. He ripped it off, exposing a dark-elven face painted with a sneer as the little bastard began to use his weight to push the barbarian's blade down. The mercenary was physically at his limit unless he tapped into the other two-thirds of the energy he amassed earlier, which he still felt as a warmth at the base of his spine. Instead of dropping the mask and reaching his other hand to his blade to overpower the physically smaller warrior, he dropped the mask and sent a steel-knuckled fist towards its dark-elven face.

That immediately proved to be a mistake, as the lighter assassin leaped from atop him and managed to catch his forearm in passing with an elegant, black-bladed longsword much like the one the sizzling spy on the ground bore. It left a three-inch gash a few inches above his right wrist. Combined with the pain of his burnt arm, he went into a slight rage, focusing all of the remaining energy he had released before into his legs and right arm. His hand slammed into the rocky ground that dug into his back, and he nearly threw himself up from it, crouching and dashing forward with his blade low and crossed in front of him in his left hand, his right palm still bleeding from his signals he left before, crimson also trickling down the same forearm. The dark-elf easily put up his guard, but that's exactly what his half-elven opponent wanted. Focusing the energy from his legs into his left arm and right leg, he dropped his right hand down to catch the hilt of his blade and slowed his pace slightly as he approached, swinging his nearly ten-pound sword mightily in a right-hand slash at the miniscule warrior.

Before the dark-elf ducked and tried to bring up a counter-attack as the barbarian's momentum carried him forward, the half-elf took his right hand from the hilt of his blade to stabilize himself, and while the smaller warrior was repositioning his sword, the swordsman in front of him was leaning back to plant the steel-plated heel of his thick leather boot squarely in the unprotected face of his opponent. The smaller warrior would've been thrown back if the man kicking him didn't bring his leg down in an attempt to stomp his head into the stone below. That attempt was thwarted as the warrior rolled out of the way, and the barbarian was left with a lot of momentum carrying him backward, lest he simply drop his sword. Rather than waste that momentum, he turned around toward his blade, leaning back and grabbing the hilt with his other hand as he barely got his foot back down in the right position, and he drew the remaining energy from his arm into his other leg, expecting a chase after that kick.

He didn't even have time to bother checking on his 'partner,' but soon brought the weight of his blade back towards his fleeing enemy as he spun around, and broke into a run with it, staggering the first pace or two. He made it only a few paces more before he got within range of his foe, who was still grasping his blade, but also his bleeding face. He kept scrambling backward, but the half-elf's onslaught of footsteps reaffirmed the death closing in on him. A flash of black steel caught the barbarian's eye as a blade sliced through his left leg, cutting at least an inch into the muscle itself. The pain enraged him even further, though he also thrived on its stinging grasp, and he threw his weight onto the other leg to stop, swinging his massive blade around to swat the weapon out of the charred hand of the spy he thought his 'employer' had killed earlier. Rather than finish the job, he caught the weight of his blade with both hands and swung it back around the other way, smacking the crispy dark-elf who had barely rose to his knees in the side of the head with the flat of his sword. That sent him tumbling a foot or two, but he stopped moving for the time being, and that was enough to let the cornered half-elf finish off this other assassin, and possibly his 'partner' as well.

[Storm Veritas]

Storm walked slowly forward as his own version of hired help scrambled to finish off the spy. It was really quite amusing for the veteran mage, watching the acrobatics at work. A kick, a spin, a roll, a stomp… this little fighter he had accounted for had certainly earned his keep. The scramble was maddening, and neither noticed as the wiry Veritas simply strode forward, inching closer, closer still, and standing less than ten feet from the two when last, buckled back against the rock face wall that leapt from the floor high above, the big elf-thing battered the spy backwards with a brutal swing of the sword.

Ten feet. Close enough. No use letting him close in closer than needed.

It was a miraculous place, these Steppes. They were in some deep ravine, lit dimly by moonlight and chance reflections above, while flat walls of jagged rock reached high into the air. The night seemed so impossibly far above that even the Gods themselves certainly could not see Storm Veritas close in on the target and his would-be partner.

Better yet, the Gods themselves could not feel stronger than he felt at this moment, impossibly charged with what felt like limitless power. Whatever was in here, it had made him godly in his own respect.

“Enough, you damned fool” he barked, yelling with alacrity and resolve. The same mercenary who looked so saddened to not interrogate this piss-ant spy certainly appeared to take pleasure in battering him about, to the point where Storm assessed the little opponent’s brains were likely scrambled eggs by now.

He walked to the spy, keeping a wide berth from his partner. The insignificant elf was completely unconscious. Storm knelt, keeping an eye on the other one, and pressed his dagger to the side of the felled elf’s neck. His body jolted slightly as his hand glowed white, and his titanium dagger glowed a horrendous orange.

The heat was unbelievable, and at once he smelled the terrible odor of burning flesh. The skin snapped away reflexively from the blade, yet the elf did not stir. The blade dug deeper, sending fountaining streams of blood in a sprayed stream of burgundy paint upon the rock crag behind him, and he persevered. Entranced, he drove the hot metal forward, and the flesh continued to yield. A chink at the spine, but a singular hard jerk was enough to separate little bones, and the searing kriss cleaved through. The scent that invaded his nose could not be described, and he gripped firmly at the hair of his adversary.

That's enough trophy.

He stood, and with him came the head, which he held onto by the hair. The meaty, still dripping and foul-smelling skull beneath the hair dangled like some unholy mace, and he felt his feet wet through his shoes as the puddle of blood upon the earth floor had spread quickly.

His opponent nearly stood, brandishing that huge sword, disgusted. Through thin slits of eyes, Storm assessed the assassin, reconsidering killing the thing. It was, after all, a fine killer, and didn’t seem indisposed to doing dirty work.

Then again, it was a lot of money to split in half. Unflinching, Storm merely stared at the one he had hired, and let the brute decide on his own which course of action would be his. As Veritas saw it, the barbarian had two choices: he could run deeper through the steps to the dark hills, or he could fight here and contribute to that macabre pool which was currently ruining his boots.

[Ebivoulya]

The macabre machine marched forward, staring down the lithe dark-elf like the night engulfs all ill deeds. His carnivorous thirst overwhelmed him, and as a beast he pounced on the little thing with a bloody face, the imprint of a steel-heeled boot still fresh and flowing with crimson. The black tides were turned, and it was the barbarian bearing down with the augmented strength of a true brute on the pitiful, bleeding assassin. It raised its blade with shaking hands, and still slowly scrambled backwards, flipping over as if in pain, only to turn and fling a trio of poisoned daggers at the half-elf, wrought from the black of a loose sleeve. The large blade held aloft between them deflected two of the tainted barbs, but the third soared on, trailing drops of death behind it. He dropped the grip on his sword to his left, and his right flew up to meet the attack, draining a deal of his remaining accessible strength. The steel plate he sported on the back of all of his gloves caught the dagger, but only enough for it to skim the exposed arm of the mercenary, who immediately lowered his head and sucked out a good deal of blood mixed with poison, spitting it onto the dark elf in disgust. He bent to pick up one of the deflected daggers, and narrowly ducked a sloppy swipe. Quickly raising his head again, he took advantage of the opening and lunged forward, plunging the still poisoned dagger into the exposed flesh just to the side of its dark neck, and rendering that arm effectively useless, though the thing's sword managed a short gash on the outside of his left leg first.

The panicked outbursts fell on ears deafened by seething hatred and a lust for pain, which now swam slightly with the onset of the bit of poison which persisted in his system. With an uncompromising swipe the grounded foe lost a foot while he fretted over being poisoned by his own blade. The screams were glorious, and spurts of crimson shooting up from a floor pitch black but for the smattering of flashes lighting the sky above set the perfect scene to the melody of massacre. A pitiful thrust was quickly parried by the barbarian, though the blood gushing from just above his right wrist was coating his gloves in a slippery film of gore. By now the pain from his burnt arm had dulled to a constant, far-off roar of irritation and delight that kept him in a mild state of 'blood drunk,' though the bit of poison that got in him began to dull his vision. He thrust his huge blade one-handed, and skimmed the shoulder of the assassin as the thing awkwardly rolled away, swiping behind it as it left to catch a fluttering piece of the half-elf's already bloodied pant leg. Only a sputtering, gleeful laugh met the horrified dark elf, and he swiped once more just to have his elegant longsword knocked from his hands. It was then the thing's eyes went exceptionally wide, and for a moment it faltered; it most certainly was expecting easier prey. The half-elf seized the chance, grabbing it by the throat as he stomped on its bleeding stump of a leg. A short, high-itched squeal escaped the defeated assassin's lips as the mercenary pulled him closer, placing the bloodied tip of his long and weighty blade at the throat of his prisoner; the half-elf whispered in a sly, yet broodingly ferocious tone.

"Tell me something good, or I'll chop that leg down to the nub inch by inch."

The relish and lustful tone with which the last words were spoken sent a shiver down the spine of the grounded, disarmed, and bleeding dark elf. It gasped for breath once or twice, and the half-elven interrogator loosened his grip on the thing's throat. Looking its beady, black eyes dead into the larger, and somehow darker eyes of the muscular mercenary, the assassin uttered an elvish curse with spite, but quickly began serenading its interrogator with those lovely screams once more as the swordsman dropped his blade to the ground beside him with a clang, and reached down to grab a piece of ivory white bone sticking out from the middle of his prisoner's stump of a leg. With another twisted smirk, he started bending the jagged piece of bone, much to the dismay of its owner, and soon snapped off one small fragment, then another. This quickly changed the assassin's tone, and he began sputtering elvish words so fast and with such thick accent that the mercenary couldn't understand him, and released the defeated man's leg bone to raise a cautionary hand up towards his face.

"Stop, stop. Slower, softer, and in the common tongue."

The small assassin's breathing now steadied, and he leaned closer in as if to whisper something, but brought another poisoned blade up from the sleeve of his good arm so fast the half-elf barely caught it before it pierced his throat. With several short snaps he broke each of the fingers on that hand in succession, and despite the dark-elf's promises, continued until the hand was mangled and virtually useless. Finally, sweat beading down its face, the thing looked up at its captor without a guise of cold uncaring, and whispered something very interesting to the half-elf between gasps. Apparently the guards of the spy had not been all truthful to the one they were helping escape, and in fact planned for him to die. Another group, split off from Raiaerian troops waiting on the other side of the Steppes, would be waiting where they entered the Steppes to ambush the returning bounty hunters, and take the documents for themselves. That they had probably already captured the horse, and were waiting nearby for the pair's return brought devious ideas into the barbarian's head, who had been getting the growing feeling that his employer would not simply return to Ettermire with him and split the profits of the expedition. A little insurance never hurt, at least until the mercenary could determine the mage's true intentions. Though he quietly wished he could simply have at the mage and be done with it, a deep-rooted fear of the power he had been shown so far stayed his hand, but not his mind. Without even responding to the information given, the blade for hire released his grip on the dark elf's throat, only to crush it in between the stony ground and the steel knuckles of his other glove, which was pooling up with blood from the still bleeding gash in his palm. One more sickening punch reaffirmed the death of the assassin and the information he carried with the delicious sound of bone grinding and snapping.

The mercenary quickly set to work looting the corpse, finding no money or equipment useful to him save for two items that caught his eye. The first was a spindle of wire, apparently copper from the color of it, and thick enough to hang someone with given a loop or two; probably intended for that purpose, or at least the quiet, come-from-behind type of strangulation. The second was a serrated dagger long enough to replace the one he lost in trying to warn his 'partner' about the ambush, though it was a bit slimmer. Ever since he was nearly hit by the bolt of what must've been lightning from his 'employer,' he had been pondering just how he would avoid getting killed by such a blast if worse came to worse and he had to fight for his life. Luckily, he knew that copper made the best lightning rods, and attached to something heavy, like the dagger, he should be able to ground the wire far enough away from him to avoid injury; once. After he used the trick, it probably wouldn't work a second time, so he would need to save it for the perfect moment, should it arise. Quietly looping the metal wire around the serration of his new dagger, he tied it to itself and slid the blade into the small sheath at his waist. It fit snugly, with one thin strand leading from the dagger to the spool, which had a metal hook he could dig into his thick leather belt to secure it directly behind the dagger at his waist.

Standing from the slumped carnage of the one he just interrogated, the mercenary turned back towards the dark, huddled lump which his traveling partner the mage had fried and beheaded earlier. As he glanced towards his 'employer,' he was suddenly very confused as he found not only no extra corpse from the shadow which seemed to descend and attack the mage moments before the half-elf himself was attacked, but the man had no further signs of battle on him; in fact he looked almost more composed than before. This brought so many questions to the split mind of the warrior of split lineage, and the only idea he could settle on which made any sense was that the extra presence within him allowed him some sort of premonitory hallucination to warn him. This he struggled to understand, though, as it seemed to him that the only time the two of them interacted directly was while he was sleeping, whenever he grew too tired to stay awake and avoid the nightmares any longer. Despite how unsure he was of what he had seen, or how he had seen it, he settled his sights back on the corpse of the spy he'd been chasing.

It only took a passing glance for him to tell that the corpse had been looted no further than before, and stooping down to it with his back towards his 'partner,' he sifted through the burnt contents of the spy's garments, finally settling on a singed envelope that was tucked securely underneath layers of leather and light mail. Quickly opening it, the half-elf found diagrams and technical papers, amazingly untouched by the scorching heat and force which killed their carrier, and silently wondered why his 'employer' would've left these behind for the trophy; he had thought these documents to be the reason they had come after the spy in the first place, or perhaps the mage had made a deal with another country for the documents after he took the burnt head of the spy back and swore to the destruction of the papers he carried. In either regard, the blade-for-hire quietly stuffed the envelope into a pocket on the inside of his vest as he stood and turned to face the man he'd been traveling with for almost a full day, silently thanking whatever gods had a hand in his turning of fortune.

"Well, they don't seem to be moving anymore; the blood has even stopped dripping from your trophy. I suggest we leave this place before it gets so dark even I can't see."

[Storm Veritas]

Dance for me.

The hired hand was many things, and several of those adjectives would struggle to be considered optimistic. Some of these traits Storm could not help but smile at; the efficiency and brutality of the methods employed could not be questioned. What was disturbing, however, was the motivation behind such acts. They could not ring true to the eyes of the nearly deified Veritas.

Why? If not for supremacy, to torture the dead is a waste of energy.

Indeed, he had underestimated the savagery of his help, while perhaps overselling the true clout this ugly thing could ever hope to hold. It did not kill for power, it did not take any sense of pride in the dominance it held over the adversary. The rush of power Storm had felt would likely have no effect on the hideous hired help, and it became clear what the true motivation of the dark thing sprung forth from.

Sadism. So simple, so elegant, so selfish.

It was true! This thing may have held the same stranglehold over physical beings that Storm enjoyed, but surely that was where the comparison stopped. It simply lavished in the suffering of its prey, nearly completely indifferent to the position of strength that it had leveraged to attain such superiority.

What life was this? What existence? How could Storm entrust any faith in such an ambitionless sack of hatred and evil? Veritas was different from this thing; cruelty and evil deeds were merely a tool of the trade; a vessel by which he could create results and expand his empire. For this tragic monster, evil was the whole deal, the pain and suffering serving as lifeblood to propel it through his days.

A good man for this job, but unreliable on the whole. How could you trust this thing to settle square in town, or to not wish to see you suffer when you invariably collect more cash for this whole ordeal?

That would be it. It was time to cut ties. Rather than engage with this abomination, Storm offered a simpler, peaceful solution. Extending an open and empty hand before the creature, Storm spoke in a stern, authoritarian tone.

"Very well. I believe our business is done. The plans."

His left hand shuffled nervous circles over the dagger at his side. The gunslinger would be ready should push once more come to shove.

[Ebivoulya]

It was a veiled look of confusion, slight pity, and the familiar hint of distrust which drew the swordsman's gaze into the eyes of the wicked wizard. In the dark corners of his mind he felt a resolve emanating from the man, to part ways here by force or by negotiation. Certainly this skilled sorcerer could but judge his hired hand by the deeds he saw, and revealing the trap which lay in wait for both might reaffirm his trust or shatter it altogether. The wearied wielder of the elements would probably come to irrational conclusions on the base of this great difference between them, the untrustworthy ground that stretched between each of their sheaths. The carnage from just before quickly faded to a memory in his intense pondering of this problem, for he understood very well the cost of fighting such a master of the arts. It could not come to that, not unless the lithe channeler of lightning insisted on parting ways at this very place. Before the hired sword could speak his still excited but perceptive mind, his 'employer' spoke his offer to the increasing winds as he dropped the severed head of the spy they tracked to these desolate Steppes, and extended his bloodied hand.

"Ah, so you didn't forget. Could you not find it, or did you not know where to put that lovely centerpiece?"

The question was light, and almost self-mocking, but the stoic summoner of great bolts of power neither moved nor acknowledged it. After a few moments passed it was obvious he wasn't going to take the bait, and in the brief flashes of light from the tumultuous skies overhead the swordsman could see the man idly toying with the hilt of his dagger. Suddenly the field of victory had become a stand-off, the two travellers turning their words and blades to each other. The sobering half-elf had to narrow the gap between them, at least enough to earn a little trust, though his right hand lay quiet on the hilt of the dagger at his waist. He could not tell for sure if his 'employer' really intended to simply consider their business closed before they made it back; to collect the gold. That must've been it, he either wanted it all for himself or thought the barbarian for hire would attempt to slay him and take his share. It was a nice thought, but unfortunately not a very likely one. The hired hand laughed a little at this realization, though he could clearly see anger building behind the eyes of the man before him.

"I don't think I'll be handing over the only assurance I've got that I'm going to get my share at the end of this. Don't forget that you're still lost in The Steppes if you manage to kill me."

The last part didn't seem to phase the dagger-wielding thunder-maker, but the half-elf thought to pry a little more on what insecurity lay in those grey eyes, which were nothing but occasional glints in a darkening landscape of steep walls and diverging passageways. The mercenary slowly strolled to one side towards some upturned rocks, and stopped next to one as large as his head, and twice as heavy. He placed his feet on either side of it, dislodging the spool of wire from his belt and letting it roll down his leg. The roll of wire clattered onto the stone in time with another roar from the skies. After so many flashes, the blade slinger knew the timing of the thunder, and quietly worried over the storm's approach. The spool landed close enough to his foot that he could flip the rock on top of it, providing a ground for the dagger on the other end of the metal string.

"That distrustful glare should be turned on yourself. I'm not the one who roasted our target; he could have given us some extra information. I'm willing to follow you back to Ettermire and turn over the documents there for half the gold. What say you?"

The menacing mercenary channeled his remaining energy into his muscles, quietly straining in the dark as he left his question to the man before him. His body promptly returned to its former state of enhanced ability, slowly releasing the remaining third into every joint and muscle afterward. This transformation stage often became painful, and the muscle being built was quick to tear until the completion of the ritual. If his employer was willing to agree to his terms, or at least talk for a while, he'd be both prepared for any betrayal, and for the ambush awaiting them both. Overexerting himself in this state also carried with it the heightened risk of losing himself as his body was pushed to such a level. He quietly relished the pain he was absorbed in as he prepared, and though he felt very certain he could die at the hands of the malevolent mage before him, a certain part of him longed for the seemingly inevitable confrontation between them.

[Storm Veritas]

The petulant savage was quite brazen, and Storm couldn’t help but smirk at the atrocity that stood before him. It questioned him, called him out, and forced his hand. This “partner”, as he saw himself, refused to follow orders, and would not hand over that which he had taken in. Now this thing wished to follow him back to town, a possibility which seemed ridiculous at this point.

Out here, my little –hombre-, I have no peers. You’ve gone and f*cked with the wrong bull today.

His body was lithe, strong, magnificent. The thundering steppes filled him with a radiating energy which he had never before enjoyed. This was –outrageous-, to have someone so marginal question his supremacy. None could stand between Storm Veritas and the collection of all things which should be his; the reward itself was trivial alongside the fame of such a job, and to share it with such a bloodthirsty, brutish beast was completely out of the question. As he glared at this abomination, his fingertips began to buzz numb, as though waking after a tough sleeping position. The pins and needles would bring a far greater pain.

“Share? Sharing the wealth was always the plan, but to have you calling shots and following me; I’d sooner turn my back on a musket. You’ve lost control, stepped outside whatever deal you thought we made. Don’t forget, I may have killed that man, but what you proposed was far worse.

“I may not be merciful, but I am certainly closer than you. You are not fit to walk amongst noble men.”

Nobility. It was a concept which appealed to him, and something he assumed for himself. Were he to use this to catapult future plans, his work on this job could not be tied to the savage. No loose ends. Enough talk; he would have to take action.

His fingers were ablaze now, and it would not take time to usher forth the type of ferocity that the disgusting turncoat deserved. With a simple sneer, his right wrist flipped up to chest height, bringing with it a hailstorm of electric frenzy that was simply unrivaled. A white-hot dance of flickering energy exploded out, a twisting stream of raw power the likes of which Veritas had never before experienced.

The power was overwhelming, incredible. He felt his blood boil, and heart race. The power was fantastic.

[Ebivoulya]

Thunder from the many fading scars which marred the night rolled together into a dull roar, and the howling blackness greedily ate light and warmth alike as the air thickened with an almost tangible charge. The stench of corpses was intermittently dispelled by the bite of the winds, blood splattered dry upon the sandy stone. Within the depths of that earthen crevice, two titans stared down one another, the culmination of their confrontation nearing with each blast from the skies. Uncertain moments dragged on into the night, and with each of these the wary half-elven mercenary prepared himself. The tension and uncertainty that gripped him steadily grew, and he could only wonder just how much of a difference the light show in the skies would make in their conflict.

Finally, the wicked wizard spoke, and his monologue began just as the demonic hunter finished his physical preparations. He could literally feel the energy slowly eating away at his muscles as he held it at bay, and waited for the only chance he would have to survive this encounter. A singular burst of thunder rose above the rest, deafening everything within miles, and in a stray moment of dark the half-elf flipped the rock between his feet over on top of the spool of wire connected to his dagger. The sand consumed the spool as the weight of the stone settled, and he suddenly realized what his employer had been saying.

Betrayal and anger overwhelmed the mortal man, and his pure disgust manifested itself as a pained grimace etched across his face. The numerous times previous his paranoia and distrust had eventually screwed him just amplified the bitter taste and keen hatred he was drowning in. As if solid ground rose up from an ocean to keep him dry, his mind quickly began assessing the jagged walls to either side behind him in the sharp bursts of light from blackening skies. Thin and snaking cracks lit up to form a thin pass into the next corridor, and just beyond them there seemed to be a parting of the stone just deep and slanted enough that the swordsman might be able to scramble up to the top of the Steppes.

The rolling rumble of the night quieted down just enough to emphasize the mage's last words, and they struck deep into the twisted man. Never had he thought of himself in terms of nobility, but the statement only emphasized the ultimate fate which had been bestowed upon him the moment he first woke as two people. Never could he question it, or oppose it, but always did he run from it. Everything in this moment told him to run, from the quivering hair on the back of his neck, to the sickening urging from somewhere in the blackness within. He decided not to question these signs, and prickled with anticipation and fear when his employer's hand began to raise just as the swordsman drew his dagger. The weapon flew from his hand almost of its own accord as his steel-plated heels ground through sand to find traction for his escape. A blinding white shot through the air in response, branching out into searing fingers that scorched all things they touched.

Oh shit.

The thickest branch of energy connected with his airborne dagger, which successfully redirected it to the grounded spool, but its brother lashed out towards the corpse of the spy they chased this far from Ettermire. Its dark elven flesh was consumed in flame, and anything that may have been left on its person was thoroughly destroyed. The half-elf's augmented legs found him at the entrance of his only escape before he realized an arm of the blinding attack had reached out to grab his steel-plated heel. It was grounded quickly due to its proximity to the stone, but the sharp pain of its passage through flesh made the swordsman falter as he nearly fell into the stone alley. His wide frame wedged into place, the sword sheath strapped to his back catching on a sharp outcropping that dug into his leather vest. The blade-slinger frantically reached up to unsheathe his sword as he unclasped the strap and let his scabbard fall to the stones behind him in a clatter devoured by the fury of nature.

...shit, shit, shit...

The leaping gait of a man cornered into his own mortality carried the half-elf across the next crevice, and to its opposite wall through the pounding of thunder and his own heart. He hurriedly shoved his sword into his belt, letting its hilt hang from the thick leather. His gloved hands found their places deftly, and the slick gore which filled his right glove had already dried. Steel toes voraciously devoured the stone as he scrambled to the top, and he thought he heard a curse rising above the winds. The clatter of his blade against the stone as he climbed brought a cringe to the mortal man's face, but he did not relent, and soon grabbed the top of the fifteen foot wall and pulled himself over onto his back. The moment of heaving breath and oddly dark and quiet skies was brief, and with the next great clap of the storm he was on his feet and surveying his path.

The footing on top of the Steppes was hard to come by, and unsure at best, but by the next four flashes of lightning the swordsman had found his path, and began down it towards the ambush he knew would be waiting at the end of this terrain phenomenon. His mind and heart still raced as he considered the odds of the elemental wizard reaching the plains before him, and just how much of a diversion the Raierian troops would be to someone so frighteningly powerful. The pain in his arm and foot still reminded him of the power of those bolts of light, and he surmised the mage could take care of ten soldiers without even taking an injury. His only chance was to make it to Ettermire first to receive the gold for the documents he held, and head straight for Salvar or Raieria. A tentative leap brought the half-elf across a narrow gap, and he began running once more, his feet plodding ever on towards survival.

[Storm Veritas]

Had he connected with his icy electric fire, things would have been simple. A snatch and grab, a simple walk, and he’d be back in town to collect a hero’s ransom. None would miss his horrid partner, and stories of the monster’s demise would only inflate his own brave deeds. He could write his own check in Alerar, the mercenary do-gooder whom had secured the nation’s very critical information, all while overcoming insurmountable odds.

Of course, things never went according to plan. Life was never that easy, and a part of him was certainly thankful for it.

The big elf moved and jumped and ran, a blur that was past him before he could react. As fast as Veritas could move, the exertion of such tremendous energy was consuming, it kept him grounded as he exerted such outrageous power. Though he would only be stuck for a second or two, it was enough time. The beastly thing was on the move, dashing down a crevice with speed and a decidedly ugly grace. The rabbit dashed before the fox, and Storm all but licked his lips at the chase.

Yes, run… Let my kill be satisfying.

Shockingly, as fast and graceful as the young mage moved, the elf was faster. Something about his body’s balance was simply beyond the capabilities of human geometries in such a place. Each contortion, each turn and pivot, they seemed tailor cut to grow the gap between the two. It was seconds before the elf was out of sight, and Storm charged headlong, leaping and dashing still faster than any man could hope to move.

Each split in the road was a delay, where the wizard had to assess direction based on tumbled rocks or a stone-pressed footprint. He was deft at the tracking, but he knew the cold reality. Each pause was three strides the elf put between them. Each thought or consideration was another two. He was losing him. He strode furiously, and turned a corner to see the great long and straight.

You filthy son of a whore!

He turned and saw a long channel, cut from the steppes like a knife through the earth. It was long and straight, some four hundred yards, and Veritas instantly knew it for the exit. Up and ahead, he saw something move skyward, and impossible leap and climb and dash. It was the target. He was too late; he couldn’t catch this animal in the grasses. A long sprint defied his sinking logic, and he covered it with the speed of a deer. He emerged through the rocks to a sight which he had not anticipated.

A throng of soldiers had once stood here, obviously as shocked as he to have company at this point. They turned back to sight him, raising long, two handed claymores and glaring up at him with an unknowing courage through their well pressed steel helmets. They yelled some uniformed set of commands all at once, to lay down and surrender and identify himself.

Within moments, the people of Alerar would be well stocked with single parents.

Storm’s single blast of electric hatred came forth with more fury than any yet. It came with a crack of thunder, and produced awe that none would live to tell. A thick, twisting beam of the horrible white energy hit the first man like a cannonball, firing him backwards and splintering outward. Tragically, there were eight convenient metal grounds, all which would absorb some unfair share of godly power. There was no drama here; the men fell dead over themselves, lifeless and revolting as their bodies scattered in rag doll poses.

A tenth man lasted through, falling to his knees and covering his ears, a leather-clad tracker with a few assorted tools around his feet. After a brief pause, he looked up at the assailant, a knife wielding madman who just killed nine friends with a flick of a wrist and a lifeless gaze. The now-lone soldier looked up through pleading eyes at the mighty Storm Veritas, bringing hands together in prayer and begging for mercy. As the spell-caster produced a knife from his hip, the smile upon his face told him his only mercy would be a quick death.

He was correct.

And so, Storm sat by the fire the men had set, surrounded by a sea of death and carnage. He stood and looked for his great Attila, whom he now hoped had run to safety, and cleaned his knife with a torn leather sleeve. He had lost. As he rose and began to walk, the drifter knew a new home was out there for him. It was not Alerar.

There were other lands than this, and he would find them. He would make them his.

[Skie and Avery]

Plot

Storytelling - 7

Setting - 8

Pacing - 6
There was a disconnect between the brevity that the two of you used that really jarred the reading experience. Sometimes it felt like because of where your posts were, where they ended, and the next one picked up and focused, that I was reading two different threads going on at once.
Character

Communication - 5

Action - 7

Persona - 8
Prose

Mechanics - 7
Minor mechanics issues. I saw more of this in Storm's posts, like leaving out words or using a word from earlier in the sentence that didn't fit.

Clarity - 5
This could use a bit of work. For one, I was confused about Ebi's character. I was under the impression that he was a half elf, and a little bigger than a normal elf. But Storm's posts made me feel like he was a goblin with spiky skin? I was confused. Also, at one point Storm says that they needed to keep pressure on the spy and pursue him. He then immediately asks Ebi's character if they need to keep the pressure on the spy. Um... Okay. And finally, is Attila a boy or a girl? This was the most driving mystery for me through the entire thread. The horse was called he, it was called she, and at one point Storm referred to Attila as a mare and a stallion in the same sentence. I am intrigued. Inquiring minds need to know.

Technique - 6
Other

Wild Card - 7
I gave you guys a bonus because this is the first thread that I've ever read in which I was given a status update on the state of a character's balls. (Post 11). It was highly entertaining. Also, I really did enjoy the thread despite the sometimes confusing way the story flowed. It was a pretty solid little piece that I could see being an important chapter for both of your stories.

Total - 65

Storm Veritas gains 2249exp and 254gp
Ebivoulya gains 1248exp and 235gp

[Letho]

EXP/GP added.