She Wolf (Closed)

[Anke/Varg]

She Wolf (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PVzljDmoPVs)


2905



The choice of opposition is entirely up to my opponent; Anke, or Varg.

Closed to Aurelianus Drak'shal.

Intricate little notions of fear, injustice, and loathing crept into Rouge’s mind. At the behest of her superior, she stood in the depths of a verdant forest waiting for the end to come. Her keen intellect made short work of the odds of her survival. In the slums of the world’s cities, she was a hellion. She was a stalking shadow, ablaze with hatred. Here in the Citadel, however, she was truly outmatched. She remained put all the same. It was her way. It was her purpose. It was her occupation.

“I am really regretting listening to Arden, you know…,” she said, flatly, gingerly, and yet somehow with determination that could crack rock.

The man stood next to her nodded solemnly. There was no need for words when a simple action would suffice.

“Are you sure you want to sit this one out?” she enquired, turning about slowly, so as not to trip on the thick blanket of damp vines and knots of ancient trees that covered the vast expanse of terrain.

Everywhere you looked; there was a maze of nature’s indomitable advance. Sunlight just about danced down in wavering bolts through the thick, wind kissed canopy. She looked up at the werewolf, aloft on his callipers, and pursed her lips tensely.

“Let us see what we are up against, first,” he said softly.

Varg was ever ready to see his long-time companion better herself, so he only nodded in agreement. Steam vented out of his spinal machinations as a way of expressing his solemnity. He adjusted himself, straightened his bow tie, and cocked his top hat in her direction. Birdsong overhead echoed along with the silence that followed, broken only by the eventual slap of the woman’s hands against her lithe thighs.

‘“No Going Back’ as a motto is starting to get on my nerves,” she said, exhaling with a long, drawn out notion of defeat. “Do not get me started on all this infighting and secret war business,” she unsheathed the dagger on her left thigh with the speed of a fox and the grace of an eagle.

“Pace yourself, Rouge. You are already doing your opponent’s work for them.” The werewolf chided stoically.

“If Arden is so determined to destroy the Bandit Brotherhood,” she snarled, “why does he not do it himself?” The tone of her question told Varg all he needed to know – it was entirely rhetorical. He knew better than to push her.

For a while, Rouge looked out across the treeline. They had walked for almost an hour from the dome’s entrance, before they finally came to a standstill in what appeared to be the only real break in the dense wall of wood and wold. It was some two hundred feet wide, and a little over three hundred in length. It stretched south to north like a scar slowly healing on the otherworldly earth. The smell of peat in the air was stifling. The intensity of heat was almost unbearable.

“I like this place.” Varg hissed. The grinding of gears and the bubbling of oil through his metallic veins formed an accompaniment to the distant roar of beasts and behemoths.

“It is too…I do not know,” she wiped the sweat from the tip of her petite nose, “alive for my tastes.” Her languishing mind expected fairies to appear in between the tree trunks. She picked their cruel, mocking, and hideous faces snarling at her.

The widow and the wolf fell once more into a union of silence and understanding. Like a watchful hound, Varg simply stood. He waited. He wished patiently for madness to break out in the vine trellis of someone else’s dark imagination. Rouge did nothing save twirl her dagger feverishly; there were times in the ritualistic spin of her blade where it appeared more like a fan than a knife. The whump of its rotation served as a poultice for her growing anxiety.

“Why do I never say no…?” she said, after the silence became unbearable.

With a flick of her right wrist, she lifted her arm up to her brow. She pulled back the thin hood that shielded her from sight and left her namesake burnt into the fearful hearts of Scara Brae’s underworld. The streak of red down the centre of the fabric faded and formed a ponytail of jet-black hair tied neatly with brown leather. She bent one knee to take a hold of the thick metal chain coiled neatly by her thick, well-worn boots. It’s still cold touch served as a focus for her straying mind.

“I can hear something,” Varg said, a guttural growl swelling in his voice. Very quickly, the werewolf becomes less courteous. He flexed his claws, lowered his callipers, and splayed his arms wide. He looked like he could pounce half a mile into the heart of battle.

Rouge looked up with a crane of her neck, and relied on instinct to lift the mechanical lantern up to knee height. It rattled ominously, and magical flecks of dust and damnation fell from its dying flame. She turned the chain in between her fingers, to kindle the ether in its cage and bring the chronotrons to life once more. She had concentrated to hear it, but Varg was correct. Somebody, or something, was advancing clumsily towards them like a scorned devil in dire need of falling into a trap.

She curled her lip sadistically.

“Ah,” she smirked wider still, “now I remember why…” Rouge never said no because after inventing new ways to kill people in the name of Scara Brae’s future, her second favourite passion was getting the chance to use them.

[Aurelianus Drak'shal]

I'll take both, if it's all the same to you cutter. Can't pass up a decent challenge, now, can I?

Aurelius cursed once more, flicking a small burst of Hellfire at the cluster of mosquitoes that seemed to love the taste of him. Running a hand through his blood-red quills, the tiefling tried to ignore the vampiric insects, trying to turn his mind back to business.

He found himself, once again, in the confines of the Citadel, hungering to nick some poor sod- he had been banging around Radasanth too long now, sitting idle as he scanned the latest chant on a war brewing. So far, he wasn't involved personally, but his steel-trap of a mind had already thought of a hundred-and-a-half ways to turn a possible conflict to his advantage. And from what his myriad of contacts were lanning him, both sides were eager to hire up as many mercenaries and sell-swords as they could get. With an angry sigh, Aurelianus realised he was, once again, letting himself get distracted.

Another little gout of Hellfire to ward off the bugs, and the tiefling knelt on the mossy ground.

He'd arrived in this arena roughly just after peak ("noon", to the native Althanians), and judging by what little he could see of the sun above, through the thick canopy of leaves and branches, he had only been here for about three-quarters of an hour. But, the half-breed had found out almost instantly that he wasn't the first to arrive; there were a pair of tracks leading from where the Ai'brone had gated him in, leading into the cloying, claustrophobic forest in a seemingly random direction. Aurelius had tracked beasts and bodies in dozens of different terrains, and planes, so following the meandering passage of the two sods wasn't difficult. Hells, the berks ain't even tried to 'ide where they were 'eaded, he spat, his respect for whatever quarry he was following lowering another notch. An ambush, an outright attack, a trap laid out for him in the path.. anything rather than traipsing through this unpleasant little forest. His cleaver had been in hand almost the minute he arrived, hacking through the verdant greenery.

Back in his home-city, a body would be lucky if he could find a single tree, and down in the Hells? Ha! The closest you could find down there was the occasional crucified soul, left to mark the territory of some demon lord, or another. It didn't matter that he was used to forests and jungles now, they still made him slightly uncomfortable- Too green, too livin'.. s'not natural, he tutted.

The tiefling could feel the balmy heat pressing in on him, as he set off again, tracing the track on the ground before him without any difficulty. But, after some of the places he'd called kip in his life, the heat didn't bother him. He had thankfully left his coat back with the attendant monks when he entered the building- he felt slightly naked without the heavy, leather-armoured coat, but in retrospect, it would have been an unimaginable burden in this sort of terrain. Instead, he simply wore his usual leathers, with his wand-bracers and bladed-armour strapped in place- the barbed plates strung with small kill trophies and assorted mystical knick-knacks he'd collected. And to complete his usual attire, all his weapons were secured in their usual places, close to hand.

All in all, he was as ready to nick someone as he could be.

***

After an other twenty minutes of following the trail, butchering the plant-life with prejudice, the Cager had got bored of hoofing through the Gordian Knot underfoot- the vines and roots of the omnipresent flora made for a hell of a time walking, and there was a much quicker route available.

His serpentine eyes danced across the area, taking in all the details he needed in a heartbeat, and with that, Aurelianus took off at a sprint. It was difficult to get going without losing his footing, but he only had to run a few steps to build up momentum before he leaped straight at the nearest tree, a bloody great ash. His boot hit the solid bark with a resounding thunk, shaking loose some leaves, but the gutter-runner was using it as a spring-board. Bending his knee to take the impact, he launched himself off at another tree, grabbing a low-hanging branch with both hands, swinging his legs to carry his momentum- hauling himself up, the blades and spikes he wore digging into the bark, the half-breed scampered up the trunk, bounding from branch to branch.

From up here, some twenty feet above the ground, he could still make out the trail of his quarry- marked by the trampled flowers, snapped branches and misplaced rocks.

With a predator's grin, fangs bared at the thrill of the hunt, he set off, leaping through the trees, scattering flights of birds in his pursuit.

***

In no time he had followed the trail almost to its end, finding his tree-hopping was quicker than trying to stomp through the green-labyrinth below. Not fast, by any means, but still faster

Jumping to a lower branch, the warlock stopped dead as the sound of some body talking reached his knife-ears, audible even over the background noise of wildlife. Even with the baffling number of rings, fangs and other oddities jingling softly in his ears, he could make out two voices ahead. His head snapping to face the direction of the voices, Aurelius dropped from the trees, rolling as he hit the ground below. There was a clearing up ahead, and as he sauntered into view of his opponents for the first time, he brushed clods of earth from the myriad of protrusions adorning his leathers. He didn't attempt to draw a weapon- he had his invocations ready to use whenever he willed- and he made no effort to hide. The pair already knew he was there, they'd said as much. Flicking his quills out of his inhuman eyes, he scanned his foes.

His eyes were instantly drawn to the larger of the two: He stood a least a head taller than the tiefling before him, raised up on a pair of metal callipers, his body encased in what appeared to be a suit of armour, but venting steam, with various pipes and tubes connected with the lupine body within. But he still wore what looked to the sneering half-demon like a gentleman's finery, complete with a bow tie. And, to top off the bizarre little ensemble, a top hat of all things!

"'ell's bells, I really 'ave seen everythin' now," he chuckled at the werewolf, keeping his hands nonchalantly at his sides, raising an eyebrow at the off-kilter sight.

The other was a chit, looking fairly plain.. well, compared to Aurelius and her companion anyway. She wore a cloak, some armour, and had a chiv in one hand, at the ready. Apart from that, the only other thing she carried was a lantern. Cocking his head to one side, the warlock was surprised to find he could feel magick contained within it. Wonder what surprises that little trinket 'olds, he mused.

Both of his opponents were in aggressive, battle-ready stances; the werewolf in particular, with his claws flexed, legs bent ready to pounce. Still, the warlock kept his weapons in their sheaths. He glanced between the two, running his forked, black tongue over his lips, waiting patiently.

After a few moments of silence, he got tired of patience.

"So," he said finally, swatting away another cloud of damned mosquitoes, "you sods ready?"

[Anke/Varg]

Rouge had spent the moment between their opponent’s appearance and his aggressive introduction in deep thought. Though she remained flexed, tense, and prepared, the bestial nature of the creature stood before her caused her to become utterly undone. Demons were rare in the predominantly human populous of Scara Brae. Rouge’s mind threatened to shatter, fearful of the implications.

“My whole life,” Leper roared. The glottal stop and the hiss of steam brought his determination to life with the echo of his words through the bending boughs all around them.

Before Rouge could interject, before she could temper her colleague’s ferocity, he was away. The snap of springs, the stretching of metals and the swiping of claws through tense air heralded the man’s closing of the gap between his courteous visage and the black tongued devil.

“Leper!” she bellowed, with similar pitch to her werewolf friend’s battle cry. She shook her head and threw all hope of a one on one spar out the window. The assassin traipsed after him with delicate footwork over the thick vines and woven roots.

“What about you?” the werewolf asked, his heavy feet landing ten feet in front of Aurelianus.

He shifted forwards to allow him to carry on into a run. He came at the devil with all the fury he could muster. His strange mask hid his blazing eyes, but his waistcoat contained none of the steam that vented from every ventricle on the metalwork that kept him alive, contained, and human. The claws swiped in a convex cross into the devil’s guard when distance became a memory, and the two beasts become a battle.

[Aurelianus Drak'shal]

The metal-clad creature launched itself toward Aurelius with a roar of bestial hatred that amused the tiefling. Maybe 'e doesn't like demons, he chuckled. But, the time for amusement would come later- for now, he had two sods to nick. The chit was further back, and looked to be the lesser threat of the pair. Which meant, to the guttersnipe's cracked cesspit of a mind, that she could be effectively ignored for now- he would play with her once her minder had been dealt with.

The armoured form landed heavily a short distance in front of the warlock, even as the chit yelled at her companion, her apparent grace carrying her over the treacherous ground.

**“What about you?”**

The deep, bass tone of the creature's snarl made Aurelinaus curious as to what was hidden under the metal and pipes. Whatever it was, he could smell, even over the stink of machine oil and vented steam, wasn't human. Not entirely anyway.

But, he was letting his mind wander. In a scrap like this, that could get a cutter penned in the dead-book right quick.

The bizarre steam-powered creature sprinted at him, claws flexed for the kill. A smirk spread across Drak'shal's face, as he felt his powers flowing through his veins. He waited as long as he could, letting the creature- Leper, the chit had called it- close some of the distance between them. He counted down his heartbeats.

Three...

Two..

One!

The tiefling threw up both his hands as soon as Leper was close enough, raising his claws to rake across his enemy's flesh. But Aurelius didn't plan on letting that happen anytime soon.

As Leper brought his claws up, the warlock grinned, throwing out two gouts of Hellfire from his palms, thoroughly dousing his opponent, even as he threw himself backward, trying to avoid the razor-keen talons. He wasn't quite quick enough; Leper's claws managed to shear off one of the blades on his armour, scoring the leather deeply. But, thankfully, they hadn't torn into the alabaster flesh beneath. Not yet, anyway.

Rolling as he hit the ground, Aurelius sprang back up onto his feet, yanking out one of his Baatorian knives with his right hand, while his left threw out another Lash at the berk before him. The sod was quick, the half-demon admitted, but Drak'shal wondered if that would save him from the Hellfire he was bringing into play.

[Anke/Varg]

Rouge had grown up on the streets of Scara Brae, and so she did not avert her eyes then the blade struck one of the few weak points in her greatest invention. She simply watched, poised and focussed, and waited. Her long toil to contain the raging creature within the once docile man called Varian prepared her for the worst. Time, after all, had an inevitable way of setting monsters free.

Varg toppled backwards, blood trickling from the metal meets flesh he called an arm, and crumpled onto the vine trellis. Flame lingered in his wake, his singed cloth smouldering with embers that could have lit the way to heaven on a dark night. Somehow, despite the roar, the steam, and the smell of dead flesh, he still looked elegantly dishevelled.

Rouge shrugged.

Leper roared.

“I am sorry you have to endure his savagery,” she said. Her words seemed pointless, but the decorum she had clung to through the dark times of the Scourge’s rising was all she had left to hold dear. “He is quite the fellow when he is…” she smirked, “on the right side of the moon’s ebb and flow.”

The sun seethed between the tree branches, and Rouge had to wipe her brow. Leper rose odiously, slowly, and cantankerously. Aurelius still smouldered with an aura that the inventor could not quite place. She was used to being around ventricles, electrified augmentation devices, and mystical charm flows; it was part of her lifestyle. The undulating sense of nausea this creaturely vision instilled in her gullet, on the other hand, was entirely alien to her.

“Perhaps another day we will have tea!” she cackled, her momentary clarity broken in twain by the rush of excitement she felt as Leper lurched.

The tea, naturally, would be earl grey.

“I hate fire!” Varg roared, bringing his claws up in a raking motion as he raised proper from the pit of burning despair. Sparrows, tits, and warblers scattered from the clearing’s edge. A wing beat and a prayer carried them, in their illusory non-chalant, to safety beyond sight.

Rouge rolled her eyes. She did this too often when Varg was around. Arden Janelle, their leader, had often commented that the pair made a cute couple. She smirked, again, and pulled on the chain that bound her hand to the lantern she treasured as if it were her soul.

“I hate demons…”

In the moments to follow, the devil would remember, or so Rouge hoped, a strange sensation of being torn open from the bottom up. Leper raked from south to north with his claw. Rouge followed with a large, blunt, and improvised strike with her instrument. She aimed squarely at the head with a swing that belied her lithe form. The lantern thumped as it spiralled, a flail born of artifice.

A wolf howled on the verge of somewhere else. The tree line hummed with life. Fireflies sung.

[Aurelianus Drak'shal]

**“He is quite the fellow when he is…” she smirked, “on the right side of the moon’s ebb and flow.”**

Aurelianus let his eyes dart from the barmy chit, to the steel-clad behemoth, and back again. His senses reeled from the scent of blood, dripping richly from the serrations on his blade.

"Aye, and I bet you're a right little savage when you ain't on the right side of your flow," he smirked, baiting the chit to attack.

He had managed to wound the big one, that was obvious from the blood running down his chiv, and the smell of scorched flesh and fur, heavy in the thick, cloying heat of the forest. But he knew the bugger wouldn't stay down for long- nah, he's too addle-coved and leather'eaded to stay down. But, wouldn't be the first mangy mutt I've 'ad to put to sleep, he grinned his razor-edged smile, never letting his attention waver from either of his opponents. He kept a ball of Hellfire floating in his palm, his knife still gripped tightly in his right hand, knuckles white under his leather gloves. His brain-box stayed still, but his senses were as alert as they could be- eyes darting between the cutters, ears parked for any sound that would lann him of their movements..

Now, who's goin' to make the next move?

The walking scrap-heap dragged himself upright again, snarling from inside the metal mask. As soon as he had started moving, the tiefling had side-stepped away a little- he'd need to be a complete sodding leatherhead to stand so close to the beast, after all.

**“I hate fire!”**

The roar echoed through the boughs, scattering flocks of birds in all directions, followed by the sounds of larger predators fleeing the area as well.

**“I hate demons…”**

The Cager chuckled softly under his breath. "Didn't your ma ever tell you," he said to the pair, "if you can't say anythin' nice--"

Before he could utter another word, Leper went on the offensive again, lurching forward with a claw-swipe that would have opened up Aurelius from balls to brain-box. If it had connected; the tiefling, once again relying on dirty-fighting to see him through, let loose with the Shahab's Lash coiled in his left fist, once again bathing his opponent in roaring black flames as he threw himself into a roll, off to his right- toward the chit. He was, once again, a fraction of a second too slow, and the beast's steel claws tore across his right forearm, leaving four neat lacerations across the white flesh. They weren't deep, but that didn't stop them stinging like a cast-iron bitch.

As soon as the tiefling hit the ground, black blood already welling up from the shallow gashes, he sprung up to a knee, just in time to see the heavy lantern on a collision course with his face. Pikin' 'ell, these two ain't 'alf bad, he thought. The warlock just managed to throw out two quick blasts of pure arcane energy, in rapid succession; the Eldritch blasts hammered into the metal of the lantern, not stopping the weapon, but at least slowing down its velocity. Not stopping for a heartbeat, the warlock dodged forward, toward the chit; it was the only thing he could think of in the circumstances- step into the attack.

Moving as quickly as he could, he grabbed hold of the lantern's chain with his both hands, still holding his Baatorian knife awkwardly in his bloody fist. His snake-like eyes narrowed as they marked the heavy bracelet securing the chain to the chit's wrist, and like that, he had an idea. Hauling with all his might, he yanked the chain, trying to spin his enemy off balance. If it worked, he might be able to throw her into her partner, hopefully staggering the big bastard for a few moments.

Ignoring the sting from his arm, and breathing a little heavier after the exertion of the last few seconds, Drak'shal's face split into a shark-like grin. He was thoroughly enjoying himself.

[Anke/Varg]

There was a time long ago when Rouge would have allowed Leper to retaliate on her behalf. She would have stood back, watched the carnage, and smiled. In recent months, she had become more like he then she had ever expected. The sight of blood on her hands was no longer intoxicating for the woman. She had started to ask which of the two was the more monstrous.

When she careened sideways into the gentleman, who was snarling and feverish with rage, she could only scream.

“Leper, no!” she roared. The werewolf span on a heel with instinct, and brought his claw into her personage with a raking motion. It flashed in a haphazard beam of the broken sunlight, danger illuminated with a malefic glean.

It was only her quick-witted intellect that averted certain disaster.

“Die!” he roared, steam spewing, eyes ablaze behind sickly white lenses, and tailcoats flapping in his wake as he advanced towards her. He clambered towards her, swiping left and right with great strength but little accuracy. “Grah!”

Rouge abandoned the end of the chain to the fates, cursing the devil for inadvertently turning her greatest weapon against her. Each advance Leper made, Rouge matched, though her tall tightly strapped stilettos afforded her greater stability over the tight weave of roots than the callipers of the werewolf’s armoured contraption.

“I do hope you are going to buy me a new corsage,” she quipped, as the left claw tore through the tight fitting bodices and lace that hemmed in her slowly. Though she burnt with hellish flame, covered in sweat and grime and already flaky on her feet, she avoided any more injury.

“Nice work cutter!” the devil jeered, a cocksure stance showing off his amusement to the veiled spectators. He mock punched, like a boxer, to mimic each advance of the werewolf with his own crooked fists.

Rouge, now tired of the charade, saw a minute window of opportunity in Leper’s onslaught. She slammed her heel back into a root, which offered no resistance against the steel tipped point of her heel, and dropped to her knees. They broke against the hard wood painfully, but allowed the werewolf’s claws to hit nothing but air.

“That is enough, Leper!” Rouge stated clarity to her voice that came from years of academic presentations in the Academy De Lune where she learnt her art. “You have had your fun, for now at least.” She sidestepped and used her ballast to push her clear out of harm’s way. She landed with a roll and pounced into a standing position. Her dagger flashed, joined by its left twin, and she span like a dervish in mid zenith of a death dance.

She shook her head, mourning having to betray his trust once more.

“Draeda, ill um hesta.” The archaic language crackled with power contained within runes and steam gems in the clavicle of the werewolf’s heart. The dapper man collapsed in a bundle of twitching limbs, cracking bones, and suddenly attested machinery. Rouge thanked the gods under her breath for having built a safety mechanism into the creature's spine.

“What the…” Aurelius mouthed, his enthusiasm cut short. His black tongue forked between his lips.

“Sleep well my friend.” Rouge turned, faced her opponent on equal terms, and bowed. “I have business to attend to.” She pointed to the end of the lantern chain. “Pick that up, and dare use it against me,” she challenged. An all-knowing smile broken only by drying, cracked, and blood stained smile turned a shrewd face into an almost lady-like visage.

[Aurelianus Drak'shal]

Aurelius idly chewed at one of his quills, his serpent eyes flickering between the chit, and her now incapacitated minder- admittedly, it had taken him slightly by surprise when she had taken her own back-up out of the fight- more importantly, it had denied the tiefling the opportunity to see the red-clad chit eviscerated by her own ally; he didn't like it when people spoiled his fun. He also wondered, idly, if the words she had spoken only knocked her ally out- some form of safety word- or if they could possibly have an effect on him.

A frown creased the half-breed's pale lips for the briefest second, before his usual arrogant visage reasserted itself. Whatever this chit could throw at him, the Cager knew he could handle it.

The tiefling readjusted his grip on the Baatorian knife, the blood-stained green-steel catching an errant beam of sunlight, fitering through the dense forest overhead. The gashes on his arm were still slightly painful, but the flow was slowing, his inky black blood congealing over the wounds. Well, now the big sod's out for the count, I doubt this'll take much longer, he thought. He could still smell the burning beast from here, the metal smoking as he lay, inert, on the verdant greenery of the forest floor.

**“Pick that up, and dare use it against me.”**

The warlock looked down at the lantern, near his boot, lying on the thick carpet of vines and roots. He could still practically taste the magick bound in the metal contraption, but still didn't have the faintest clue what sort of power it held.

"You take me for some kind of addle-cove, luv?" he sneered. Shaking a bead of sweat out of his eyes, Aurelianus went back on the offensive.

He didn't make any effort to reach for the lantern. Instead, he flicked it into the air with the tip of his boot, throwing it up in front of him. With his free hand, he launched a gout of black Hellfire over the metal object, coating it in liquid flame before he hammered an Eldritch Blast into it- launching the now burning lantern directly at its owner with the force of a strong throw.

[Anke/Varg]

The flaming lantern, ironically lit by unintended flame, collided with Rouge’s face with all the grace of a five-coin whore not fulfilling her promise. The sound to erupt through the forest would have been sickening to most, but these were no mere citizens of Radasanth – sanity, for want of a better turn of phrase, had gone square out the window.

“<Nirrata>!” she roared, blood breaking out in streams from her nostrils, lip, and cheek. The impact of the blow knocked her for six, and she stumbled backwards, stilettoes not quite finding their mark until momentum and gravity won their brief conflict. Her bottom collided with a large and withered root.

“That was,” she stopped mid-sentence. She flexed her bloodied fingertips in the dancing and flickering light, “illuminating .” She spat a gobbet of blood the size of a good night out and pushed against the root to right her. Every part of her body, once beautiful in tightly wrapped lace, hurt like a hurricane. The pain whipped, wailed, and battered against her, threatening to steal her consciousness.

An owl twit-wooed in the distance.

“If you do not help a lady,” she said, her eyes sparkling. She reached with crimson fingers for another knife, “how can you have any pudding?” she snapped her neck to the right, putting her glare off kilt with the devil’s oddly attractive grimace of glee. “If you do not play by the rules, why expect me to?” with a flash, the mechanism in Leper’s body ignited with steam.

“Roar!” went the gentlemen, swiftly forgetting his place as he lurched back to life. “<No fair, no fair!>” he complained, in an utterly guttural and virile dialect the duo shared. He brought a claw up, and smashed it down. He roared, hissed, and wailed in tandem with his discontent.

“If you play that dirty,” Rouge continued, her accent returned to a quaint, lady-like breeze, “then I will have no parlance in this affair.” Dutifully, she sheathed her blade, and tended to her injuries with the frilly cuff of her attire. As if a leading lady world-renewed, all taint of madness and murder vanished from her. She eased away slowly, leaving her companion to continue the exchange of violence.

Leper did what he did best. He tipped his hat to the devil, made sure his gears were thoroughly ground, and whilst smoke trailed up from discarded lantern and fine Scara Braen silk dress, he flexed his claws. His eyes, pallid saucers behind glass tainted with magic glowed. His heart, bound in steel, beat mightily in his chest.

He sprinted forth, feral incarnate.


Nirrata means, quite simply, 'fucking hell'.

Any dialogue in <> is Scour, the secretive language of the agents of the Scara Scourge.

[Aurelianus Drak'shal]

Aurelius sneered as the chit continued to wigwag, deciding she didn't feel like crossing blades with the tiefling. How adorable, he smirked viciously, she thinks she 'as a choice in the matter.

He watched, eyebrow arched disbelievingly as she backed off a few steps, dabbing at her bloody mess of a face with a lacy cuff. It didn't help all that much, surprisingly. The half-demon's fists tensed, his knuckles cracking audibly around the grip of his Baatorian blade. Who did she think she was? Did she really think she could just throw in the towel, and expect Aurelianus to let her be? His fangs creaked as he ground them together in irritation.

He jumped back a step a moment later, however, as the still-smouldering Leper pounced back to his feet roaring in almost lunatic fury, whatever the chit had done to him wearing off. The barbaric clamour set loose another flight of birds from the nearby trees. The female eased away, leaving the fight to her partner, but the warlock wasn't having it. He whipped out his left fist, invoking a roaring ball of black flame which sailed past the chit; she stopped in her tracks- she had no choice. Another step and the Hellfire would have hammered into her head with fatal force. Instead, it crashed into a tree not far behind the pair, instantly coating the bark and setting it alight. The smell of smoke instantly invaded the cloying, sticky air. She glanced at the malcontent before her, her gaze meeting Aurelianus' serpentine eyes.

"Stay where you are, luv. I'm not done with you yet," he sneered, turning his attention back to the armour-clad creature, as he politely tipped his hat to the warlock. Aurelius returned the gesture with a nod, circling his wrist, loosening up for the flurry of blows that would inevitably follow. His right arm was a little stiff, and as Aurelius moved it, the dried black blood cracked across his pale skin, eliciting a sharp sting from the four slashes. A shiver of pleasure went up the plane-touched's spine.

When Leper charged, the glass covering his eyes was almost glowing with a lambent and baleful light- whether it was a trick of the sunlight filtering down through the canopy, the warlock wasn't sure. Either way, Drak'shal was ready for him.

The steam-venting behemoth thundered forward like some primal god given form. Luckily for Aurelius, his ego told him he was a God most days, so he wasn't cowed. Instead of shying away from the razor claws of the monster like he was sure so many must have before, the tiefling darted into the attack, blade held low at his side, a ball of Hellfire in his left hand. He saw the way Leper raised his arm, seeing the muscles bunch, even under the all-encasing suit. If he had marked the attack right, Aurelius' next attack became less 'suicidal', more 'extremely risky'.

As the "gentleman" cutter slashed with his disemboweling talons, his inhuman foe dived into the arc of the blow. Aurelius landed on the uneven surface of the roots and leaves underfoot, pivoting at the hip even as the huge arm came crashing down at him. His gambit had paid off, putting him past the steel claws- instead, he was risking being kissed by the battering ram Leper called an arm.

But the canny Cager had anticipated this. If he hadn't thought this out ahead of time, he never could have reacted in time. The leather-clad tiefling ducked under the swinging limb, feeling the rush of displaced air as it missed him by a hair's breadth, sending his quills rustling like a rattlesnake in a bad mood. The wanker's fast, can't deny it.

But even as he had bent his knees, dodging Leper's clumsy attack, the vicious half-breed bastard was striking out with his serrated knife. The blade was aimed for the joint at the back of Leper's knee- Aurelius knew his armour would be weaker at the joints, like most suits, and he also knew he had to hamper the big bastard in some way. The man-beast was faster than him, and the Cager wanted them to be on a more level playing field.

But he wasn't finished there.

Aurelianus, still keeping low, ducked behind the berk, keeping him wrong-footed as much as possible. With his momentum carrying him forward, Leper staggered on another few steps, trying to get to grips with the slippery tiefling. Sadly for Leper, this was far from the former Hive-ganger's first time trying to kill something larger, faster and stronger than him.

The fireball in his left hand was thrown out at the bloodied bitch, just to make sure and keep her out of the fray for at least a few more moments, at the same time as he spun the knife in his hand- reversing his grip on the weapon. The moment Shahab's Lash left his hand though, Aurelius was whirling round, setting the myriad buckles, tokens, talismans and kill-trophies jingling all over his wolf-lean frame; his now-empty hand managed to catch hold of the edge of an armoured plate- near the shoulder of Leper's bizarre metal-tomb. The force of the werewolf's thrashing strained the muscles in his wiry opponent's shoulder, making the half-demon grit his teeth in pain, but he held fast. Dragging himself up, he managed to mount Leper's back, bracing his hobnailed boots against the steam-belching spine.

Lurching up with a heave, trying to avoid being dislodged in the process, Aurelius brought up his bloodied green-steel knife, the Hell-forged blade shining as it caught a stray beam of sunlight.

With a vicious grin, the veteran killer brought his knife whistling down toward Leper's neck with all the strength and speed he could put behind the blow.

[Anke/Varg]

There were few tools in an assassin’s armoury that garnered as much love, longing, and friendship than the simple dagger. They took many forms. Some were cruel, barbed, and poisoned. Many were simple double-edged blades mounted on cheap, effective, and simple hilts. Many never knew what a pommel was, and fewer still became gifted with a cross-guard, sword-breaker notch, or a single-shot pistol. Virtually every assassin, however, gave their daggers names.

Rouge’s were too hard to pronounce. They had earned them, all the same. <Heston> and <Lupine> in common tongue were the words for wolf and widow.

The tinkerer winced as the tiefling’s blade penetrated Leper’s neck. Despite all the melodrama, madness, and magic flung between them, even she could appreciate the simplicity of it. Bile churned in her stomach, adding to the acrid smell in the air as her world literally burnt to cinders about her feet.

“Rest well the wolf, my friend…,” she said mournfully, bowing her head to the wind in observation of his passing. There was little need to question wherever or not he had survived. She saw the strength drain from him, and in turn, the resistance he had plied against the demon as they had tussled for supremacy.

Aurelianus stood upright, flicking the corpse away with relish. He turned his attention almost instantly to his price, though the chit, as he had referred to her, looked somewhat more resilient now she was alone. “As I was saying,” he licked his lips, cleaning the dry, cracked, and blackened blood with a forked tongue.

“You were going to say, my dear fellow, how you were so looking forward to cutting me open.” She gestured her arms wide. There was no remorse in her eyes anymore. There was no emotion at all, in any part of her body or soul. “I only hope that my colleague, who has been all too eager to test your mettle, believes in your peculiar talents as much as I…” she let loose a grin that rivalled even the mania hovelled deep in the tiefling’s psyche.

However bloodily a wolf of sorts had died in the arena that day, it was only now that Aurelianus saw his true opponent. The names shone in the roster listings in the Citadel’s sandy reception. Monks had chanted it all too eagerly, as though destiny had brought them together. Now Aurelianus stood truly set against the ‘She Wolf’ of the roster listing’s nomenclature.

“You sound like you know me…?” he questioned, cleaning his dagger of “gentleman” ichor.

Rouge could only smile, though it was an expression pained and drained of vigour. She had one last flourish left in her, before she knelt before Iharkav’s blade, Aurelianus’ flame, and the newest member of the Scourge’s anarchistic brethren. Even if he did not quite know it yet, the freedom fighters of the world seldom took no for an answer.

She drew Lupine greedily, cut it across her midriff in a gesture of aggression, and waited for his next move.

[Aurelianus Drak'shal]

Victory was roaring through Aurelianus' veins, every pulse of his black heart sending pure elation at the kill pumping through his system.

The tiefling glanced from the mechanical behemoth on the ground behind him, to his rather unhinged chit partner.

A smug smile danced over his fanged mouth, his long forked tongue running over his lips, tasting his sweat; his exertion, his labour, his murder had taken it's toll. The half-breed took a moment to savour his impending victory, his chest rising and falling as he regained his breath, and his composure. It wouldn't do to get too eager, and walk right into a nasty little surprise.

The greenery around the clearing was burning now, the Hellfire having spread from tree to tree, stripping them of leaves within minutes. The sound had started off faint, but was now roaring in their ears. Thick smoke flowed freely into the air, making the forest air even more humid than it had been. The plane-touched flicked his knife, spraying small droplets of Leper's.. well, what passed as his blood across the knotted and tangled undergrowth. Before his serpentine eyes, the sun was being blocked out by the coiling serpents of smoke, turning the day to twilight in minutes. Aye, it's definitely a good day, he smirked to himself.

He turned his attention back to the chit, her blood running down over her toned midriff in crimson rivulets. The smell of it was strong in Aurelianus' senses, even over the overpowering smell of smoke. The degenerate warlock could feel his lusts stirring, and struggled to keep them under control.

Mouth watering at the prospect of slicing up this fine little barmy, he turned to Leper's corpse, blood still flooding out in gushes, though the beast was definitely dead- with a gesture of contempt, he doused the deader in Hellfire, whistling a merry tune as he did so.

Satisfied, his lusts sated for the moment, the horned horror strolled casually over the clearing, stopping a good seven feet in front of the kneeling human. His eyes were almost glowing in the unholy lights of the fire blazing all around them.

He looked her over, but shrugged, the various kill-trophies hanging from his frame dancing grotesquely. The time for words was over.

Raising his hands, palms facing the chit, Aurelianus smirked, still whistling his merry little tune...

... before he launched out two huge gouts of retina-scarring black Hellfire.

[Anke/Varg]

The last thing Rouge remembered was a searing pain. It engulfed every inch of her lithe form. It set her ablaze with passion and agony. She screamed. She remembered the sun, and the trees, and the forest aflame. She remembered her cry of contrition as it echoed through the wild branches.

Then she slipped away into darkness.

When she awoke, the small infirmary chamber beneath the dome seethed with three things she hated. The first was the smell of sweat. Men and beasts perspired, and as such, she had grown to loathe its presence. It reminded her of the bestial nature of war. It reminded her just how much danger she was in every moment of her life. She turned on her side, winced, and then saw the second thing that made her skin crawl.

“Hello Rouge,” said Arden.

The redheaded swordsman sat on a small three-footed stool. His back was bare, and he wore nothing more than a simple pair of black slacks, his sword on a rugged scabbard, and a heavy red bandana. From the perspiration on every inch of his tanned skin, she surmised he had not long left the arena himself. “How are you feeling?” he cocked his head to the right, and tried to smile with warmth and compassion.

“It is a little…” she licked her dry, cracked lips, “hot in here.” She narrowed her gaze. Arden rolled his eyes. “But other than a little trouble with sycophants,” she pushed herself upright, “I am alright.”

“You were excellent in there,” he pointed to the wall. Rouge looked up at the sandstone, and made the connection between his gesture and the rough location of the arena she had entered. “The crowd were rooting for the Widow and the Wolf every step of the way!”

Rouge could believe it. She coughed, and Arden instantly scooted across the room with a hastily produced flagon. She took it without question, and greedily downed the contents. The foul tasting, but deliciously potent ale quenched her thirst instantly. It also soaked the sheets, her arms, and made a puddle on the sandy floor. Arden stepped away, somewhat shocked by her gluttony.

“I find it,” she wheezed, set the mug down, and caught her breath. “I find it hard to believe…” she sat upright, swinging her feet off the end of the bunk with candour. “That anyone on this earth could root for…” she furrowed her brow. “Whatever that was.”

“I take it you mean Aurelianus?” Arden frowned. “Now, Rouge. That is no way to speak of a potential Brother.”

“What sort of Brother would do that to me so readily?” she glared at her mentor with fire in her eyes. It matched the intensity of the fire in her belly as the ale went to work on aiding her slow recovery. Every bone in her body still ached, and every muscle still tingled with heat as she struggled to stay upright. She would be in the infirmary for many hours yet. “I cannot describe how potent that flame was…” she ran a finger over her exposed arms. She would have felt the cold, before the battle, but now there was on a desert’s caress.

“The sort of Brother we so sorely need, if we are to succeed with our plan.” Arden’s solemn tone knocked the scintillating rage out of the assassin. She set the flagon onto the floor. “You are to receive a commendation, and Leper, for facilitating his…” he mused for a moment. “For facilitating his initiation.”

She looked up at him, this time, with humanity in her pupils, and not hellfire. “Has he accepted, then?”

Arden shook his head. “Good lord, no, not yet. I do not think he even stayed in the Citadel long enough to hear the cheers.” He slapped his thighs non-chalant. “I have every faith we will be seeing our quilled compatriot again.” Arden Janelle was certain of that.

Rouge wrinkled her nose.

The Red Widow was counting on it.


Spoils:

Safety Word: Rouge has trailed a small safety enchantment, allowing her to disable Leper if he ever gets enraged, or risks transforming into a werewolf (which would kill him). The Realm of Greetings moderator on the event of the next profile update can clarify and set the parameters.

[Otto]

Anke/Varg

Plot: 20/30
Good story arcs – the smaller one, of Rouge attempting to better herself in combat, and the overarching one of assessing Aur for membership. Setting was a little sparse and underutilised, but quite well-described in a number of ways. Decent pacing, could have been more frantic when Varg turns on Anke.

Character: 18/30
Dialogue certainly seemed unique to the characters, fitting, even endearing – but, at times, perhaps just a little cliché. Action was similarly credible and well-described, but once or twice, a little unclear – also, I thought Rouge would have a smarter way of trying to ‘trick’ Aur into using the Chronotron.

Prose: 17/30
Small, infrequent errors – unnecessary punctuation and changing tenses. Clarity was a real issue – sometimes it was due to poor sentence structure, other times, your wording or strained metaphor. On that subject, I saw some good and interesting use of metaphor, but other attempts didn’t quite work.

Wildcard: 7/10
Interesting characters - I was initially sceptical, but you won me around to them.

Total: 62/100




Aurelianus Drak’shall

Plot: 17/30
A basic premise; it worked fine, but was nothing special. The setting was richly described, and Aur got fairly well involved in it, even if it didn’t play an important part. I was, however, quite frequently thrown off the story what with all the doubling back – sometimes it’s better for flow to just keep going from where the other person left off. Also, you can be a little over-verbose.

Character: 20/30
Aur’s character comes across rather well, although, knowing him from other threads, the depths of his sadism don’t seem to have been fully expounded upon. Be a little more careful that long action sequences don’t become too cramped and muddled.

Prose: 17/30
Overusing commas makes sentences appear clumsy, and affects flow, as do some (unintentional) forms of repetition. Good use of voice, though. There were some clarity issues, such as who’s using claws in post 4. Sigil vernacular is distinct, but Aur’s posts otherwise lacked deeper elements – little metaphor, allegory, etc.

Wildcard: 6/10
Good work here, but overall, Aur’s didn’t have a great impact.

Total: 60/100



Anke & Varg win, and receive 825 experience and 130 gold. As stated, spoils will be awarded once approved through the Realm of Greeting.

Aurelianus Drak’shal receives 225 experience and 110 gold.

[Mordelain]

EXP/GP Added.