The Prayer (Closed)

[Duffy]

The Prayer (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T8oRFcA0mFM)

2930


Closed to Aurelianus Drak'shal

A solitary man advanced through the snow. His stoic, trundling, and uneasy steps struggled to carry his tired frame. Clad in a thick winter cloak, swaddled by woollen underlay, and hiding beneath a cavernous hood he trudged on. He rose and fell up and down the inclines that formed the last of the tundra. Berevar was falling behind and ahead just over the border, laid Salvar.

“Born of malice, hate, and loneliness,” he whimpered, his blue lips barely alive beneath the wind’s howl. “I beseech thee with psalms and arias to sing.”

The winds, just like that, died down into a faint whisper. It started to get warmer, though warm was a relative term in the cold bosom of the world.

“You can come out, now,” said the man, as he removed his engulfing hood and ruffled his curly locks.

Somewhere through the veils and the drapes of the worlds, there came a strange, dull gargle. A sucking sound, like a drunken exhalation, filled the man’s eardrums. He tensed, as if expecting something bad to happen.

The wind continued to whisper.

“I said…” He straightened his back, “that you ca-.”

“I heard you, cutter,” replied a voice. It cut the man short with far too much relish.

Duffy Bracken curled his lips into a pained expression and eyed up his unwitting companion. He was far from impressed with the ulcerous display of power as the devil manifested a few feet away.

“We are here,” the bard said flatly.

[Aurelianus Drak'shal]

Aurelius stepped out into the all-encompassing snow of Salvar, his heavy boots crunching deep into the drab white. The tiefling scanned his surroundings, dusting a few flakes of snow from his worn, but beloved coat.

A cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth, trailing bluish smoke into the icy air. Exhaling slowly, the half-breed stepped fully out of the portal behind him, tucking a small shard of black glass wrapped in rose-petals back into his satchel; that one, the swirling tunnel he had travelled through, had been particularly irritating to find the key. But, as evidenced by his timely (if unwelcome) arrival, he had managed to do just that.

He ran a hand through his mop of bloody quills, scanning the cutter he was working with for this ride- besides the odd eyes, and a few piercings, he seemed to look like any other of a thousand blokes. But, he was offering the Anarchist an interesting opportunity, so the plane-touched warlock wasn't planning to judge the berk.

**“We are here,”** his companion replied, obviously not set on becoming friends with Aurelianus.

"You don't say, mate," the half-demon mocked, taking another draw on the hand-rolled cigarette.

His serpentine eyes darted over the surrounding landscape, ignoring the flurries of snowflakes drifting in against the top-to-toe black leather. On the horizon, a few miles away, he could see the enormity of Knife's Edge, grim and bleak against the banks of snow everywhere. Aurelius tumbled to which direction they had to go, and without saying anything else to Duffy, set off. They had been introduced via Luned, the scribe he'd been tormenting on and off for a few months. Apparently, she was joining up a little club with this cutter, and when the bloke had asked for a hellraiser... well, who else was going to come to mind other than Aurelianus Drak'shal? But, seeing as the work he was undertaking was in Salvar, the malcontent had fallen back on one of his many aliases; Iharkav.

Smiling to himself, his ego sated for the moment, the Anarchist turned his mind to today's work; according to the chant Duffy had provided, the mismatched pair were heading to a border-town, East of the Salvaran capital, to intercept a pair of Sway Church operatives- witch hunters.

An' a right pair of bastards, if chant 'olds up, he thought, clearly relishing the opportunity to cause some havoc for the Rhabdophobic addle-coves.

He glanced over his shoulder, the three obsidian rings in his right brow catching the weak sunlight filtering down through the overcast sky, checking to see whether or not his accomplice was following him.

He was.

Satisfied, the tiefling blew another stream of smoke into the air, trekking through the knee-high drifts of snow. Shrugging his heavy, armoured coat closer around his bladed form, trying to ward off the Northern chill. He decided to try and be amiable, considering the fun he was being awarded here.

"Y'know, cutter," he started, taking the cigarette from between his lips with already-numbing fingers, "I pikin' 'ate the snow."

[Duffy]

“I am afraid to say Iharkav, this is not snow.” In Salvar, the weather had echelons of virility. “If you were to have joined me on the trip south from Berevar, you would really feel cold.” He held out a hand, ungloved, as testament to the fact. His skin, though pale anyway, was especially so in the darkening valley.

He trudged on, determined to remain bitter out of spite. He was not entirely sure whom he was spiting but it made him feel better. The bard had spent many a week in solemn contemplation, most of it drunken, trying to work out what he was going to do with his life now he was…aimless.

“I can keep the wind at bay only so long!” he bellowed, cupping his shaking fingers over his mouth to project his voice.

If he had been ahead or alongside his companion, he might have caught his cocksure grin. Instead, he dropped his gaze back beneath his hood and quickened his pace.

“We had better hurry…,” he said softy.

The journey to intercept the witch hunters was ending. With the rocky outcrops and winding, snake like tunnels of the ice plateau behind them, ahead, laid only open wilderness. Spindly trees sprang up from the permafrost, whitened on one side by the scouring wind. Every thirty or so feet there were signs of long gone civilisation, broken shacks with caved in roofs, surrounded by half formed stockades that once housed wild stock and vegetables.

Something had happened, here in Salvar. Duffy had been too busy saving other continents, and himself, from the ills of the world to have had a hand in the decay of the land. Now, he saw it for all it is worth. He remained hopeful that it could survive. The Church of the Ethereal Sway had remained ensconced here for too long. There was still too much oppression despite the fall of Denebriel, to have any hope of regrowth, rebirth, and resurrection. It had to go. It had to fall.

“Iharkav!” he crowed, breaking into a run with strength he did not know he had. The tiefling bowed at the knee with quicksilver speed. Duffy would have shouted for him to get down, had he not stolen the words right from under his nose. “Look!” he shouted. He caught up, knelt into the snow, and pointed ahead. “There is the village.”

Two pairs of eyes, each otherworldly, picked out the detail of the smallholding half a mile ahead. From this distance, Duffy could see a small shack attached to a larger farmhouse. A few feet to the left, another building jutted out, and in the shadows beyond, veiled by snow, he could see the immestakible architecture of a Sway church.
“That it?” the tiefling asked, seemingly unimpressed. There did not appear to be much hell to rise.

Duffy nodded. “It’s one of many hundreds of outpost churches in northern Salvar. They used to pin together the caravan routes between the northern fringes, Knife’s Edge, and before Denebriel’s…madness, it touched into Berevar as well.”

“The chit thought I’d want to pop along…to this?” Duffy did not need to look to picture the toothy scowl.

“If the chant and the charts, and Leopold’s coin are worth anything…” He paused to muse over the information he had. “Then inside that church are two treasures much more exciting than palaces or provinces.”

Iharkav chuckled with a rattle in his lungs. “Cutter, you don’t ‘alf talk proper,” he jested, though the thought only made Duffy a bigger berk in his mind than before.

Finally succumbing to the encroaching cold, and the fatigue, Duffy slapped the tiefling over the back in a brotherly manner. “Look,” he said, trying to dumb it down, “I don’t want to be here anymore than you do.” He tucked his hands back under his robes. “Sadly, if people like us don’t do away with people like them, the world will never brighten up.”

“If you insist,” the tiefling said disinterested. He ran his hands through his quills again, and then stood. Duffy rose after him.

“I do,” Duffy wobbled as he stood to attention. The long hike had eased off the pain in his shin, but stopping, in the cold, had brought it all back. It twanged with regret, and shot discomfort up his back. “But,” he winced, “tell me one thing…” He gestured with a flattened palm towards the village, where inviting lit windows and wood smoke plumes glowed in the twilight.

“What’s that?”

“Why does Luned Bleddyn place so much trust in someone so…unique like you?” He hobbled after the tiefling towards the farm, his quickly conjured cane keeping him upright through pained steps.

[Aurelianus Drak'shal]

Aurelius nearly choked trying to contain his laughter.

The words "Luned", "trust" and "you", put together? The tiefling tried to force back the full-throated explosion of humour, with little success. But, he was aware their job here required a certain amount of stealth and guile- so he bit down on his knuckles, trying to control himself. A small trickle of blood, like ink, trickled from under the edge of his leather glove.

A few moments passed before the snow-dusted half-breed managed to get a hold of himself, ignoring Duffy's obvious look of bewilderment.

"Our girl Luned knows I'm good at what I do- kill things and kick up merry 'ell while I'm at it." Aurelianus shrugged, a smirk dancing at the corner of his pale lips. It was as close to the truth as his forked tongue was willing to go.

The cold bit deeper, making the tiefling grind his fangs, shrugging his collar up around his neck, feeling the icy brush of every buckle and trinket on his body as they grazed his alabaster flesh. He grumbled a few curses under his breath, keeping his serpentine eyes locked on the village- first thing was first; they needed somewhere to call kip for a few hours, to find and study their quarry. Without realising, the half-demon was caressing the curved, notched blade hanging from his belt. His joy at this venture was palpable, with every twitch of excited muscle, every pass of black tongue over blue-ish lips, and every time the stab-happy guttersnipe drew one of his knives, testing the edges he already knew were keener than any razor.

He was like a murderous half-breed child in a candy store.

A stirring under his coat caught his attention, and Drak'shal crouched again, smiling as Junior crawled from deep inside an inner pocket of the warlock's coat. It hissed up at it's "father", shivering even under the sable pinions of it's wings. The little monster turned it's minuscule head toward Duffy, not hindered at all by the fact it's eyes were stitched shut, opening it's mouth in a short, sharp screech, needle fangs glinting viciously even in the dim light.

"Oi," Aurelius admonished, tapping a finger against the albino head gently, "you play nice."

Junior bowed it's head, whining like the world's most mutilated puppy. Smirking despite himself, the tiefling reached into his coat again, drawing out a small strip of dried meat. He offered it to the familiar, which it took with glee, chirping and hissing excitedly as it tore into the meat.

"Kids, eh?" he chuckled to Duffy.

Junior snuggled back under the armoured-coat, still ripping tiny chunks out of the strip of meat, it's scalpel fingers dissecting it like a surgeon with a cadaver. Aurelianus tucked the abomination away, making sure to keep it warm. Not that the cold would, or could kill it, thanks to the method of it's "birth"... No, the little bastard just gets grouchy when 'e's cold, the warlock thought.

Standing again, he gestured for Duffy to follow on, barging a trail through the thick, deep snow.

***

An hour later, the mismatched pair were safely ensconced in a small barn, on the outskirts of the town, a small fire lit in the middle of the floor; Aurelius had made sure to pile up enough hay bales to stop the light being spotted from outside, even as he perched up at the bay-door at the top of the building.

He may not have liked the cold, but he was more than willing to suffer a bit of discomfort if it meant getting to pen a pair of witch-hunters in the Dead-Book. Shifting about on the dank wood, feeling Junior stir inside his coat, the tiefling kept his snake-like eyes scanning the town, marking every bit of movement, every body he could see moving. It was slow work, and bloody dull, but it was necessary.

It was another hour before he spotted a slight commotion on the outskirts of the town, away to the East of his and Duffy's current position. A gaggle of children were calling out, and running excitedly towards the edge of the small burg.. towards an approaching caravan. A feral grin touched Aurelianus' pale lips; this was what he'd been waiting for. Excitedly fiddling with the charms tied round his wrists, the warlock scanned the approaching group.

There were two caravans, each led by a pair of emaciated, long-maned ponies (the kind commonly used this far North, bred for working in the sub-zero temperatures). Sat on the first caravan were a pair of humans, both huddled beneath fine looking cloaks, one keeping his face hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat. The other was tall- that much was visible, even while he sat on the driver's bench of the cart- and had his long hair bound up in an intricate series of braids. A sword hilt was visible over his shoulder, and a crossbow lay across his lap. Following a short distance behind, surrounded by a small group of guards, all bearing crossbows pointed inward, was the second caravan- sitting on its back was a wrought-iron cage, a grim and foreboding construct even to the onlooking half-demon. He could just make out, with some difficulty through the constantly falling snow, someone in the cage, their arms outstretched and held aloft by thick chains.

A "witch" no doubt.

He gave a soft whistle to the human down below, huddled next to the small fire, breath still rising in icy clouds.

"Looks like our lads," he called down, keeping his voice low despite the fact there was no risk of giving themselves away from this distance.

[Duffy]

Duffy began to feel lethargic, repentant, and irritable. The long wait since their arrival in the village had tested his mettle. Now, faced with one of his worst hatreds, he was practically frothing at the mouth. Above magic, cruelty, and tyranny, the bard of Scara Brae loathed slavery and intolerance. He snarled at the thought.

He felt dirty.

“We must protect two things in life.” He rose slowly. “The weak,” he continued, with a righteous pause. “Then there is family.” This, most of all, was Duffy’s greatest desire in life. If they perished, he perished. They entwined his kin and him.

His family, in his idolatry, had become much wider than just those born of friendship had. It now extended further than blood or soul. He began to wade towards the distant caravan, his bloodied shin slicing red trails through the snow, his cane fumbling through the encroaching drift as the night turned darker still.

“Get down here, right thi-.” Duffy looked over his shoulder, but when he saw an empty space, he dropped his gaze back to the east.

“Hey, don’t you be barking up my tree,” the tiefling clucked. He adjusted his attire, as if readying himself, and turned to the caravan proper. Magic lingered in his wake, though it smelt like nothing that the bard had ever encountered. A quality to it quite belied belief. It was the magic of motion far too quick for normal folk. Iharkav had quite literally leapt over the balcony like lightning.

“I…will ask you how you do that another time…,” Duffy grumbled. He urged them both forwards, his bloodied trail continuing as they crossed the threshold of the crumbling barn and out of the frigid wind.

“What’s the plan cutter?” Iharkav replied. He set the fetish down, parsed his sword arms, and smiled eagerly. His strange companion hopped along behind them, scrambling through roils of sparkling snow.

Duffy formulated one quickly. It was a simple, yet effective solution to the problem.

“Easy,” he said, with a cocksure nod. “We save the girl, and we kill the bastards that put her in a cage.” There was no sign of doubt in his voice, which, despite his earlier shouting, had died to a whisper.

For the briefest of moments, Iharkav seemed to question the boy’s motives. He looked at his crippled companion with the sort of contempt that came just became a sudden, and quite sporadic murder. It passed, though doubt lingered, and he stalked after him.

“No complaints,” was all he said. His voice was devoid of glee, which worried Duffy.

Meanwhile, the girl in the cage began to scream, rattle, and wail.

In Salvar’s dark heart, prayers fell from cracked lips.

In Salvar’s dark heart something worse than St Denebriel answered.

[Aurelianus Drak'shal]

Aurelianus stifled a curse in his throat, resisting the urge to cast a pall of Bad Luck over the boy out of sheer disgust.

He bit back the magick with a force of will, sneering at Duffy's back. Protect the weak? Save the girl? The thoughts were anathema to the half-breed demon. What the pikin' 'ell is Luned playin' at, sendin' me off on a ride with this addle-cove he hissed mentally, running a hand over the demon-hide grip of his Baatorian knife. I'll be 'avin' words with that chit when I see 'er, he thought, running his black tongue over his fangs.

Junior, sensing his master's thoughts, let out a low hiss, running its tiny scalpel fingers over Aurelius' bladed leathers. It left tiny little scores along the black straps and segmented plates, trying to distract the tiefling from his slightly soured mood, but when it realised its "father" was not going to be turned away from his smouldering temper, the familiar turned all its vile little features toward the other creature accompanying its master. It ruffled the sable pinions on its back, chittering all manner of vile obscenities in the Infernal tongue.

But, as the girl in the cage started to scream, howling out to protest her "innocence", and praying to anything that would listen, Duffy started moving to the caravan quicker, leaving streaks of blood in the crisp, white snow. If Aurelius didn't do something, they'd both be walking straight into a wall of crossbow bolts- and even his immeasurable ego didn't fancy his chances there. The half-demon was fast, but he wasn't sure if he was that fast.

The leather-clad warlock snarled, once again reminding himself of the reward that lay at the end of this. He darted forward, his movements fluid and serpent-quick, his hands lashing out to grab Duffy's collar. With one hard tug, he yanked the boy off his feet, depositing him on the ground, in a deep snow-drift, flat on his back. Aurelius knelt, planting a hand over his "ally's" mouth, leaning down close so that his words could be heard without risking giving away their presence to the targets. The small bank of snow kept them hidden from view, so long as they stayed low. Drak'shal's cold, bluish lips left small curls of breath condensing in the air as he hissed at the man, "keep your bone-box shut, and your 'ead down, mate."

One of the witch-hunters, the one with the wide-brimmed hat (http://elydis.files.wordpress.com/2011/01/witch-hunter-warhammer-online.jpg) turned in his seat on the leading caravan. He could have sworn he'd seen someone far on the flank of the caravans, close to the town... but after a few moments, he turned back to steering the ponies. It must just have been a trick of the light, or some of the local children out gawping at the heretic prisoner. They were almost at the border-town now, and night was closing in fast.

Aurelianus counted his heartbeats, risking a glance over the small bank once he was sure they hadn't been marked.

"You brought me along because I've penned more of these bastards in the Dead-book in my three years 'ere, than you 'ave in your life," he sneered, wondering whether or not he should just knife the boy now, and save himself some trouble later. "If you don't want yourself, and that pretty little chit over there dead," he leaned in closer, serpent eyes meeting Duffy's own unnatural gaze with cold promises of a slow, painful death, "you're goin' to listen to me. Are we clear?"

Duffy, while obviously far from happy at the rough treatment, and chafing at being prevented from running to the rescue as quick as his legs could carry him, finally nodded his ascent.

"Good," the plane-touched malcontent smirked, finally letting Duffy up and releasing his grip on the Baatorian blade sheathed at his back. Dusting off his coat again as he rose, still keeping low, the tiefling even reached down to help the bard to his feet.

"Now, if we're goin' to.. save that girl," he said, grimacing as if the word left a bad taste in his mouth, "an' pen those wankers in the Dead-book, then you might want to be a little bit more canny," he stated, starting back towards the barn building. He glanced over his shoulder, stuffing his hands into his pockets to try and ward off the numbness in his fingers. Duffy was following.

The Anarchist continued his lesson, cocking his horned head in the younger man's direction every few seconds to check if he was actually listening.

"Park your ears, cutter. I picked this barn for a reason." As they entered, he kicked a decent helping of snow over the small fire, extinguishing it instantly. He hopped nimbly from the ground, darting from wooden struts, to other debris, and within seconds, was perched back up on his lookout spot, in the hay loft.

"When the sods make it into town, in a few minutes time, they 'ave to pass by 'ere..." he smirked viciously, looking down on the human below. "We can get the drop on them," he chuckled, fangs displayed in genuine pleasure, "and nick 'em good," he finished, drawing his thumb across his throat in a universally recognised gesture.

"If you really 'ave to save the chit, wait for me to make my move, then follow when I draw some of the guards away," he muttered softly, licking his chapped lips. The veteran murderer wished he had time to have a final cigarette before the attack.. but he knew the smoke could be noticed too easily. Biting down his irritation, he instead turned his deviant mind to the slaughter about to be unleashed, chewing on one of his red-black quills.

Very little compared to the ecstatic feeling of hunting worthy prey, of being moments away from murdering an unsuspecting foe with all the hatred that could be contained in a heartbeat's passing.

His skin was prickled under his coat with goosebumps, a shiver going up his spine. But the tiefling's Hells-tainted blood burned hotter than a normal human's, and with his lusts singing at the bloodletting to come, he shut the cold out from his mind. Nothing was going to distract him.

***

Tense minutes stretched on, every second Aurelius expecting Duffy to go charging out and give the game away.

Morals! The concept of something so banal was abhorrent to Aurelianus- they were a weakness to be exploited; a quaint notion for those not brave enough to embrace their deepest depravities; a millstone about the neck.

But, to his credit, the man managed to bide his time. So 'e's not a complete rube after all, the half-demon mused, without tearing his inhuman gaze away from the caravan. He could see it finally enter the outskirts of the town, passing one of the few other buildings on its way to the church. Sitting out here on his perch was too risky now- they could spot him without much difficulty, so he slid back into the pitch-black confines of the barn's hay loft. He could track the party by his other senses with no difficulty anyway.

The guttersnipe gestured to Duffy, letting him know the group was very close, as he removed his armoured coat. Laying it down gently, he saw Junior peep out from the folds of heavy, worn leather, but he forbade it following him with a look.

Closing his eyes, the tiefling focused; he could smell the lathered bodies of the ponies, the sweat of the humans, even the metallic scent of the iron manacles cutting into the girl's tender, pale flesh. His pointed ears pricked up at the sound of the wooden wheels crunching and grinding through the deep, hard-packed snow getting louder, and louder...

An imperious, clipped voice got louder as the distance unraveled.

The lead caravan trundled by, the two witch-hunters perched on the driver's seat, completely unaware of the malcontent in their midst. A sneer of bitter hatred split the warlock's visage as he made out the words of a prayer to the powers these addle-coved mortals worshiped.

"--nd bless me with your wisdom and sight. There is no such thing as innocence- only varying degrees of guilt. As your humble serva--"

That was the last straw, and with a snarl, the tiefling bounded from the hatch, launching himself into battle.

Vaulting from the second story, drawing both his Baatorian knives as he fell, Aurelius landed solidly on the top of the iron cage, to yells of surprise. He barely halted for the merest fraction of a second, opening his fanged mouth wide and breathing a gout of Hellfire over the two guards to his left. The black flames covered the men in a moment, setting alight their flesh and clothing, leaving six others to go. But even as the fire had hit the two men the warlock hadn't stopped moving.

As his heavy, hobnailed boots thudded against the iron, setting the girl below to screaming more, Aurelianus had rolled with the momentum of his landing, throwing his legs over, his practiced body moving into an acrobatic aerial somersault to land on the far side of the cage-cart. As he came down, he lashed out with a boot into the chest of the guard before him, sprawling the man before he landed. His impact threw up a soft spray of powdered snow, clouding line of sight, but even as the plane-touched darted forward, with every ounce of demonic speed he could muster, one crossbow bolt whistled past his ear, another narrowly deflected by one of the dozens of blades on his outlandish armour. They were getting over their surprise pretty quickly.

But, as his green-steel knife found it's mark in the throat of the downed guard, tearing free of the weak flesh in a shower of viscera, Aurelius knew they still weren't fast enough. By the time the third man started spasming in his death throes, his throat half hanging out in a gory ruin, the first two finally fell to the ground, rolling around frantically in a vain attempt to extinguish the Hellfire covering their bodies. Steam gushed into the air, making visibility even more obfuscated.

Their shrieks were like music for the half-breed.

The fourth man died as he swung his crossbow at the tiefling insurrectionist, knowing the abomination was moving too quickly, and was too close to draw a proper bead on. Drak'shal ducked under the clumsy attack with ease, smirking to himself. These pathetic bastards were just the warm-up for butchering the two witch-hunters. A little foreplay before the grand seduction, he chuckled, whipping his knives forward in a blur.

The viciously serrated blades tore through the leather of the man's trousers, sinking into his groin with a thoroughly sickening sound of wet meat tearing. Before the man could even open his mouth to scream, the cruel blades were dragged upwards with unstoppable momentum. His intestines spilled out in steaming, red loops, coiling around his boots as he staggered. The crimson flowed, pumping out of the man's brawny body like it couldn't wait to be free of its earthly vessel. The tiefling booted the eviscerated human off his knives, turning to--

**BANG**

Aurelius was stopped in his tracks, sent staggering back a step as the sound rang out into the darkest recesses of the night. A white hot lance of pain shot through his shoulder, his leather parting like cloth at the unexpected attack.

As some of the steam cleared, the Hellfire finally dying out on the two charred corpses, the tiefling saw the witch-hunter under the hat holding a smoking flintlock pistol.

For any human, the pain might have been quite severe, but for someone who had walked through the Nine Hells, who had survived the nightmare of the Hive, it was a minor irritation at best. Shaking it off, Aurelius knew the shot had missed all of his vital organs, so with a shrug to make sure his arm muscles weren't impeded, he ignored the trickle of black blood flowing down his leather plates. The hunter leveled the pistol and fired again, but Aurelianus was ready this time and dodged aside just in time; a puff of snow marked where the lead shot landed.

The tall, imposing figure drew a slender rapier, saluting Aurelius as he strolled forward, not intimidated by the havoc the half-demon had wreaked.

Bleeding slightly, but with much more blood of others staining his hands, the tiefling hoped Duffy was having as much fun as he was. The second witch-hunter, drawing a short, curved sword, darted off to the side, ignoring the warlock entirely. The tall one, on the other hand, waved off the remaining guard at his side, opening his coat to reveal an ornate steel breastplate, covering his leather armour. He wore a coat not dissimilar to Aurelianus' own, but with much more tooling, and in red. At his belt hung a brace of pistols, in addition to the fine piece grasped in his right fist; an assortment of other weapons dotted his ensemble, from small knives, to other, more esoteric items- vials, stakes, and strips of prayer parchment affixed to his single, steel pauldron with scarlet wax. A grim face stared out at the half-breed killer from under the distinctive hat; the disgust was almost a physical force as he took in Aurelianus' demonic horns, the inhuman eyes and fangs, all of the other features his polluted blood granted.

"Demon!" he spat, "Foul abomination! Servant of the blackest magics!" he growled, his fists tightening around his weapons. "I should have known the witch would have help!"

Raising his hands in a gesture of mock innocence, Aurelius smirked arrogantly. "You're a sweet-talker, aren't you mate? Sorry to disappoint you, but I've never seen 'er before in my life. I'm just 'ere for you," he hissed sibilantly.

"Save your lies and your threats, wretch! I will see your corruption wiped from the world. I, Sariel Lekmann, swear this!" he shouted.

Aurelius hadn't seen Duffy since he started his attack on the caravans, too busy enjoying the bloodletting, but he doubted the boy was dead yet. Without taking his serpentine gaze from the the man's icy eyes, he called over his shoulder to his companion.

"You 'avin' fun yet mate?" The pleasure in his voice gave it a silken edge.

Circling his Baatorian knives to loosen up his wrists for the inevitable duel, he said a single, final word before he leapt to the attack.

"MINE!!"

[Duffy]

“Am I having fun?” Duffy mimicked. His voice strained.

The chaos that ensued after Aurelianus’ charge was tumultuous. It exploded in the woods, tore through the village, and swept away the idyll of the night like a maelstrom. Whatever peace existed before demon and bard met priest and pauper, it was long gone.

“Define what you mean by ‘fun’?” he continued.

Wherever the witch hunters viewed the demon as a greater threat, or his cane concealed his true talents behind a wall of supposed weakness, Duffy found himself beset by only one enemy. The curved sword caught his attention long before the person holding it. Whatever signal the demon had in mind to bring him into the fight, it could wait.

"Whatever floats your boat, tickles your pickle, sharpens your pike...?” Aurelianus roared. Hellfire flickered into and out of existence in his cry’s wake.

Without thinking, Duffy gripped the polished tip of his cane tightly. His right hand turned pale white from the strain. He forgot his own strength for a moment, but the pain in his leg was severe, and his heart beat in his chest with the force of a hammer blow.

“You consort with devils, I daresay you know the punishment for this crime?” the witch hunter stopped when the gap between them was twenty feet. He was clad in similar garb to his colleague, although in the place of pistols, there was a cruel array of fetish, trinket, and talisman. Whatever faith the other man placed in steel and gunpowder, this man placed in divine prayer and spiritual guidance.

Duffy shook his head. With a wave of his hand, he did away with the Cane of Eraclaire. It danced with white light for a second, until the ribbons tightened in on themselves. They formed a solid beam, which faded, and formed a more deadly weapon than wood and Scara Brae style. The Katarhna, in its black lacquered sheath, immediately felt more comfortable in his grip.

“It is death in the name of the Sway.”

The katana rose, the sheath vanished, and the bard put his left leg forwards. He was in no mood for rhetoric. He was in no mood for grand schemes and odious plots in the air along with their hastily flung blows. Judging by the cacophony of noise that did not belong to the tiefling and his victims, they had little time left before the girl was lost to them. Madness was a fate worse than death, and Duffy would not let that happen to her.

“What you are doing is wrong,” he said flatly. He cocked his leg slightly, and took to a duelling stance. His blade rose in his right hand, his eyes levelled at the man’s blade, and his soul burnt brightly in the dark. “I pity you. Either you flee, and fail in the service of your crooked church.” He cocked his head to one side. For the briefest of moments, confusion reigned. Which of the two, bard or bloodied tiefling, was the crueller?

“The Chu-.”

Duffy cut the man off. “Or you die where you stand.”

The witch hunter charged. There was a certainty to his movement. It was a cannonade, a trundling, foot heavy, and rushed onslaught. Duffy picked out the minute details of the man’s musculature, analysed his stance, and acted without breaking into a sweat. Doubt reigned in the witch hunter’s mind. Certainty ruled the bard’s mind.

Fire shone in the dark, the black, iridescent light scorching the flesh from another guard’s bones. Sparks flared from the katana as it connected with the witch hunter’s blade. Duffy leant in to the man, pushing against his sword with all the strength he could must. The witch hunter pushed back, aided by his hobnail’s grip on the drift, and his ardent plea to unseen deities.

Both their nostrils flared from the strain. Duffy stumbled back a step. The witch hunter’s face turned red. The Katarhna, a sword that had seen a hundred battles, began to sing.

“What in…,” the witch hunter mumbled. He took his eyes off Duffy for a foolish second, his gaze turning to the hilt of the Akashiman blade as it began to glow with a soft and undulating light. The latent energy within the weapon narrated their engagement.

…on darkest night two foes did meet…

Duffy’s eyes lit up. He redoubled his efforts, took to a defensive stance, and gestured for the priest to approach. The witch hunter, with a word to the wise from his instincts, did not consent. He retreated to twenty feet and clutched at the symbol he thought most appropriate.

“You are a devil in disguise. Your magic is deceptive, you veil your hideous nature with lies!” he accused. He dropped the talisman and picked up another. Duffy did not recognise any of them. The circles with spikes, the squares with circles, and the many little statuettes were as meaningless to him as he presumed his own faith would be to the witch hunter.

Duffy realised, at that moment, just how annoying he would have been to fight. He thought back to all the times he had turned to words and oration to defeat his foes. He must have bored half of them to death.

“Give it a fuckin’ rest!” he quipped. His accent, previously uptight and regal, returned triumphant to its Scara Brae origins. It was a plucky, broad, and working class twang.

With strength renewed, he charged the witch hunter. With speed, finesse, and rage, he clashed a flurry of blows against the man’s guard. Each strike from the Katarhna gave rise to another jibe from the narrating choir.

…a foolish errand shall end with a fool…

He ducked the man’s slice, rose up into his guard, and drove his fist into his opponent’s chest.

...receiving a decisive blow…a blow…a blow…

The screams from the girl finally drowned out by the man’s cry. His head snapped back. He stumbled through the drift. He dropped his sword.

“I hide nothing about myself from the world,” Duffy spat. He looked down at his left hand. “I am who I am.” He rubbed his thumb up and down the comforting hilt of Tooth, and broke into a broad grin. “Gods, and monsters, and myths are for those with nothing worth believing in.” The witch hunter dropped to his knees.

Duffy looked across the expanse to where he had last seen Aurelianus. His attire flapped in the wind. Blood trickled from his dagger’s tip, and left marks in the snow that would take weeks, if not months to fade away. Winter would steal away the dead come sun’s rise, leaving the mourning and the horror they left in their wake until spring’s warm caress.

“I think I am about bloody time ‘avin some fun,” he roared. He made out a quilled head, a pair of daggers, and a scream. He broke into a limp towards the motionless carriage, uncaring if a reply came or not. He would break bread with his newfound companion at arms later.

He set his hand onto the side of the carriage, and climbed up onto the iron cage. He sent his sword and dagger away in a trailing flurry of light that burnt in the air for several seconds.

…goodbye…farewell…the blade sung in a final ambient trill.

“Can you ‘ear me miss?” Duffy asked. He clanged against the side of the wagon’s iron mesh with his fist. It was a desperate, but righteous attempt to wake the pallid female from whatever nightmare the witch hunters had inflicted upon her.

No reply came, and Duffy’s heart sank.

“Oi, cutter!” he screamed. He used the tiefling's peculiar inflection as a way to express his growing fondness for the man's mannerisms and style, or lack thereof. There was ambiance to his voice that transcended the normal confines of hearing. “I think I need a hand here sir, and to hell we will go to free this mate !” his voice sang the words melodically, and spell song gave it power. Wherever his fire-obsessed colleague was he would hear Duffy.

[Aurelianus Drak'shal]

The tiefling and the witch-hunter disengaged from each other for the dozenth time in the last few minutes, both panting heavily from exertion.

Aurelius spat in irritation, his inhuman eyes fixed on the mortal before him, his hatred burning through him with every beat of his black heart. The bastard was fast! Fast enough to keep up with his half-demon opponent, his rapier slick with black blood. Without losing track of the monster-slaying bastard, Aurelius shook a thin stream of blood from his eyes, his quills rustling as they scraped together. But the rhabdophobic hunter was not unscathed himself; deep scars marred his ornate breastplate, blood welling from many of the wounds, and the human's gait was limping. One of his pistols lay in the snow, cleaved in two with a vicious swipe from the half-breed, and his hat lay off to the side, a chunk sliced neatly out of the brim.

Still, he was holding his own more than Aurelianus might have liked.

Lekmann turned his rapier with a practiced flourish, whipping the blood from its gleaming, mercurial length. The demonic blood hissed as it touched the snow.

He nodded another brief salute to his abominable opponent, before he lunged at the warlock again. But Aurelianus was ready for him this time; as the silver blade speared for his heart, the Cager whipped up his Baatorian daggers in a cross-guard, the green-steel blades hammering into the slender rapier. As expected, Lekmann yanked his blade back, trying to prevent it being torn from his grip, or the blade being damaged. The human tried to abort the attack a second too late, and as he jumped back a serrated blade hacked along the side of his knee. Roaring in rage, the devout preacher started praying, barking out catechisms to his Gods in the same heartbeat as his rapier flicked out in retaliation. The needle-tip lacerated the tiefling's skin like parchment, releasing yet another trickle of ink-like blood.

A snarl split Aurelius' marble-flesh with bestial fury, his hand reaching up to feel the gash across his alabaster cheek- it would scar. His senses reeled from the fresh gush of blood from the human's wound, and he relentlessly followed the man, keeping up the offensive.

Prayers still spilling from his grizzled lips, Lekmann tore one of his spare pistols free from its holster, leveling it at the demon as he sped forward- his horned visage was backlit by the black flames he left in his wake. The creature's eyes glowed with baleful light, closing in far too rapidly for the witch-hunter to snap off a shot.

Another moment saw a dizzying storm of blows, ripostes and parries, both combatants moving far faster than any mortal creature had a right too; one powered by faith in his deities, the other by dark, unspeakable pacts with unnameable horrors in the deepest bowels of the Hells. They tangled for a full minute, neither warrior able to gain an advantage over the other. They came together again in a flurry of clashing steel, finally locking blades in a tight clinch, neither willing to give ground, but unable to force their enemy back.

"Give up now, demon!" the holy-man spat, his salt-and-pepper beard flecked with blood and spit, teeth grinding together at the strain. "Accept the price of your sins, and burn in the fiery pits of Hell."

The half-breed's response was much less eloquent. He rammed his horned head into Sariel's face, his glossy horns slicing across the bridge of the human's nose, driving him back a few paces.

"Been there, done that, mate," the Cager sneered.

Blinking tears out of his eyes, the witch-hunter back-pedaled as fast as he could. The bloodied warlock would have been straight back to attacking, if not for the final remaining guard. In the excitement of finding a worthy opponent, the tiefling had forgotten about the man, hiding behind the nearby cart. Even as he started to charge, Aurelius marked the man rising from cover with his hefty crossbow tracking the snake-fast half-breed. His preternaturally keen hearing locked on to the sharp crack of the crossbow releasing, the whistling of the bolt as it sailed the space between the weapon and his flesh.

Even with his demonic speed Aurelianus knew he couldn't dodge the bolt without opening himself up to Lekmann. With a split-second's thought, the tiefling did all he could given the circumstances: He brought his arm up, taking the shot and continuing his rush back into the fray. It hit his left arm, biting deep into the segmented leather of his armour, before puncturing the flesh. He felt the steel tip grind against the bone, tearing a ragged scream of pain from the half-demon.

But he didn't slow down. Instead, the guttersnipe twisted as he ran, hurling one of his Baatorian knives at the guard. It whistled through the air and hit the man in the collar bone, serrations along the green-steel opening his carotids in a rush of red. But Aurelianus' attention was already back on the veteran bane of heretics.

Leveling the pistol still clutched in his fist, catechisms of faith driving his willpower to spear-tip focus, Sariel Lekmann lined up his shot. He could feel vitality flooding his limbs, the pain from his myriad wounds dulling. Time seemed to slow, and he smiled victoriously as the foul hellspawn tried to skid to a halt before him, his head swinging back to the human, finding the pistol's barrel staring him in the face. Sariel's Gods were with him and with their benev--

Shahab's Lash roared from the demon's mouth, engulfing Sariel's hand. The scream that tore from his mouth almost pained Aurelius with its volume, making the tiefling wince, his pointed ears ringing.

Lekmann shrieked, looking down at the clinging, corrosive nightmare coating his hand, watching the flesh run like tallow in seconds. The pain was like nothing he had ever experienced, but it was eclipsed when the unholy heat finally cooked off the powder in his gun. The small explosion took his hand off at the wrist, hammering the mortal onto his back, screaming wordless hate and tormented howls. Writhing in agony, his rapier dropped, forgotten, the witch-hunter thrust his immolated stump of an arm into the snow in an attempt to quench the unnatural flames.

A silhouette towered over him, blocking out the disorientating unlight of the demon's hideous, blasphemous magical fire.

Aurelianus Drak'shal smiled down at his foe, black blood glistening in the retina-scarring light of the numerous blazes of Hellfire. His eyes showed the pain he was feeling, despite his inhuman resilience, but as a shiver ran up his spine, Lekmann realised with sheer revulsion that the creature was enjoying his wounds!

Looking down at the mutilated form of Sariel Lekmann, the tiefling warlock savoured his victory.

He raised one hand, his bloodied, pale flesh covered in tattoos, invoking a swirling ball of black fire. It floated gently, seeming almost tranquil in contrast to the mayhem the magicks inflicted. Serpentine eyes roamed the man's ruined form, marking every single nick and bloodstain.

"Well, well," he said, asserting his iron will to mask any sign of the pain he was feeling. He would not show weakness in front of this rube. Not for all the jink in the multiverse. "Looks like your Gods abandoned you this time."

The hand came down, palm facing the injured mortal.

The thought entered Lekmann's mind unbidden- So this is what death looks like.

Blood dripped from the tips of the abomination's red quills, pattering over the witch-hunter's battered breastplate. Aurelius was just about to douse the bastard in Hellfire--

-- when Duffy's voice shattered the moment before the kill, singing through Aurelius' brain-box.

Evidently, the boy couldn't handle things alone. Sighing angrily, the tiefling waved away Shahab's Lash, kneeling next to Lekmann with his remaining Baatorian knife gripped tightly in his fist. An alabaster hand gripped the human's throat, dragging him up level with his fanged mouth.

"Scan this, mate, and scan it bloody well. You're goin' to live through this." He tightened his grip, Lekmann's eyes narrowing at the same time as his airways. "And you're goin' to take a message to your masters, from mine. Tell them we're coming for them. Tell them about me, about this," he gestured to the devastation around them, "and tell them my Lord, Aran Sicht, has a thousand soldiers just like me, ready to rip out your throats at a moment's notice. He is coming, and he heralds the end of the Sway."

There, the Anarchist mused. Per'aps a touch melodramatic, but it should do the trick.. He couldn't wait to see what the high-ups in the Church made of their servant's report. If nothing else, it would let rumour of Aran Sicht and his army circulate a little.

With a final contemptuous gesture, Aurelius swathed his free hand in Hellfire, and pressed the palm against Lekmann's face. The pain of his melting flesh drove the man from consciousness, his screams dying on his lips as he finally slumped to the ground, defeated.

Satisfied, Aurelius stood again, grimacing as some of his wounds pulled tight, feeling a sticky wetness spreading over his skin in a long list of places. Forcing the pain down, he strolled over to the guard who had shot him. Taking his knife back with a vicious wrench, the murderer wiped the blade clean on the deader's jerkin before slotting it home in it's sheath. The movement elicited a curse from the battered rebel, as a dull throbbing pulsed pain through his impaled forearm. But, he would worry about that later, when he had time to relax and actually patch himself up.

For now, he had to go see what his accomplice had bee--

Silence.

It took a moment for it to register to the tiefling, the recent fight keeping his blood pumping and his attention focused. But it hit him like a brick.

For the first time since he had sprung his ambush, there was complete silence. The chit in the cage wasn't screaming anymore...

He turned slowly, his cold eyes falling on Duffy. The boy was standing before the cage, a heavy ring of keys in one hand as the other pulled the front of the mobile cell open. The chit was watching him, utterly still, her eyes locked on her saviour with.. an involuntary shudder wracked the half-demon as he tried to work out what her expression signified. Something was.. wrong, but he didn't know what it was.

Trying to shake off the feeling, Drak'shal stalked closer to the cage, his eyes darting between his ally and the witch-hunters' captive. He made it to the cart, not even paying attention to the multitude of corpses he had left in his wake; he only had eyes for the chit, the so-called witch.

Duffy gave him an acknowledging nod and a cocksure smile as he unlocked the first of the girl's shackles. Her arm dropped to her side, and despite the bitter cold, and the fact she was wearing only a thin cotton dress, not a single goosebump marked her skin. Running a hand through his quills, Aurelius cocked his head, scanning the chit intently. Something about her was.. off.. but try as he might, the warlock couldn't put his finger on it.. it was almost like a lingering trace in the air.. something so familiar. Duffy reached up to undo the second iron manacle.

And then she looked into Aurelianus' eyes.

Everything clicked into place, and Aurelius felt a lurch in his stomach as he finally tumbled to what was wrong.

With nothing but sheer adrenaline and a tinge of panic to motivate his limbs, Aurelius flung out an arm, hurling an Eldritch Blast into Duffy. The boy went sprawling, thrown off the edge of the cart and into the snow. But before he could get himself to safety, the madness bound within the girl's frail, mortal body erupted, finding a foothold in this plane.

The blast of sheer chaotic energy utterly destroyed the cart and buffeted Aurelius, swatting him like the fist of an angry giant. As the iron cage buckled from within, the invisible wave tossed him through the air. He hit the ground a few feet to Duffy's left, rolling to a stop in a bare patch of earth- the snow had been melted by his own Hellfire mere minutes before. A groan escaped his blood-flecked lips as he felt the unmistakable pang of broken ribs within his chest.

The Cager dragged himself to his feet, feeling like he'd been put through a shredder- he certainly looked the part, with his blood trickling from a dozen cuts and holes, bruises spreading under his alabaster flesh, and his breath coming out in ragged, laboured growls.

Something stirred in the wreckage of the cage, and even the Planewalker had to admit, the creature (http://i636.photobucket.com/albums/uu84/Anarchist147/spawn03_zpse01dcfc8.jpg) that pulled itself forth on mutated limbs was something new to him. It had the scent of one of the Hells on it, but the insanity of it's anatomy hurt to look at for too long. Even as he turned his stinging eyes away, he could see it's form blurring, constantly in flux, and flowing like mercury to reform limbs, sprout fanged maws and open eyes that had not been there a second before. In the blink of an eye, the half-demon marked atrophied wings, claws, scales, grasping pseudopods.. and other, less identifiable appendages burst forth from the beast.

Drawing itself up to easily head and shoulder above the pair- even on all fours as it was- the demon opened it's many mouths, unleashing a babbling, screeching cacophony of raw madness and hate. Aurelius wasn't sure, but he fancied his ears were bleeding.

"Well," he grunted, "this just keeps gettin' better and better."

[Duffy]

Duffy was not amused. The creature writhing before them was not the source of his displeasure. He glared at Aurelianus. He spat. He flexed his knuckles to rid them of their stiffness.

“You could have just asked,” he said.

His piece imparted, he returned his marl eyes to the matter at hand. He shook the snow from his shoulders. He patted himself down, and tried to regain his composure. Unlike his partner, he was all too familiar with the creature-manifesting destiny before them. Its vermillion light danced in his pupils. Its aura, malefic and foul, was an echo of all the nightmares that had wandered the world for centuries.

“That,” he pointed a shaking finger, “is older than I am.”

The tiefling glanced at the bard, raised an eyebrow, and looked at the creature. The wind swept up from behind the shattered cage, carrying with it the scent of detritus and ill placed faith.

“It’s not 'ard,” he clucked. “How old are ya, twenty?” he chuckled. His quills rattled, his sword hand twitched, and he parsed his legs as if taking to battle. The creature closed its gaping maw, but opened two more. The tiny mouths, hungry for blood, screeched a minuet of torment in the place most living things had ears.

Duffy set his cane into the snow. The curse in his shin flared, striking pain, and newfound determination into his body. He did not trust Aurelianus. He had no reason to, despite Luned’s attestation that his peculiar branch of madness was a required part of their mutual endeavour. He would have given the creature something to prove his worth on, had the possessed monster not chosen that moment to charge.

“Over five centuries,” he roared, mid-leap, and with hair flowing and eyes ablaze.

In the midst of the chaos, the bard ascended. In the tumult of snow, screeching, and fire, his cane vanished. Calling on dexterity long dormant in the bard’s bones, he set his boot down atop the creature’s head as it careened through where he had been standing. He felt the creature stop, raise its head, and snap up at him with four mouths.

“Give,” he grunted, “or takes!” With his limbs at stake, he forgave himself a brief dip into his natural slang.

In the place of the Cane of Eraclaire, a katana appeared veiled by sound and radiance. As Duffy descended, he twisted his wrist so that the tip of the blade pointed downwards. The wind cupped him with angelic hands, let him drop back onto the creature’s back, and slide down its plated spine.

“Limber for a Grandad ain’t ya!” the tiefling shouted appreciatively.

Fate turned its hand back to the duo, leaving the servants of petulant gods to scream, moan, and writhe in confusion. Taking the moment as a sign to help out, the tiefling drew the embers of fire into one coherent blast, and jettisoned the gout of hellfire directly at the creature’s largest mouth. Searing flesh eradicated the smell of the cold and the cracking pine.

Duffy skittered down the demon’s back, feet deftly placed on the chitin, eyes firmly fixed on the only sane place to be running. He leapt as back turned into tail, and surefootedness turned into uneasy disaster. For a brief moment, he pictured slapping the scribe around the face. When he landed feet firmly on sanctified ground, the thought left his mind.

“What the fu-,” was all he could spurt before a lancing pain whipped him over the back of the head.

As it convulsed in conflagration from another plane, it lashed spindly limbs, quills, and quicksilver tail. The tail in question struck the bard with such force he saw, for just a moment, his younger selves dancing and frolicking at amnesia addled judgement day. He tumbled forwards, face first, into the permafrost.

“That,” he lifted his face up, “hurt…” he grumbled. He spat mouthfuls of snow back into a melting puddle. It did not hurt as much as the reticent magic lingering in his body did. His limbs flared, his shin ached, and his eyes, once grey, turned blood shot.

“Okay back there cutter?” Aurelianus heckled. With a sadistic grin, he shot forwards as the creature reared up onto its spindly legs to scream. He did not care if it was in pain or ecstasy. His bloodied lobes did not care either.

What he did care about was driving his daggers expertly up in a thrust that could have split rock. They appeared from nowhere, and danced with the last of the flicks of fire from singed eye sockets. Black blood oozed from them as knifes withdrew, and eyeballs imploded.

“Why,” Duffy rose, “do I keep taking in strays…” He turned slowly. When he saw that the tiefling was indeed both having fun, and having all of it, he bit his lip chagrin.

He held the blade that had ended wars, sung maidens to sleep, and splintered time lines firmly in his right hand. He limped back and forth, to keep his blood pumping. He traced the shadows of his companion as they danced out from either side of the demon like abyssal wings.

“This is it…,” he grumbled.

He was certain the fight was over.

He held the Katarhna aloft, and conjured power from his friends and allies. The blade of the katana began to vibrate. Duffy began to sing. Despite his pain, he surged forwards, to deliver a second blow to the creature’s rear leg.

It would be a death knell.

Aurelianus had just enough time to leap back out of harm’s way when he realised that the writing, oozing holes were not wounds. They were openings, manifestations of the creature’s immense power. Little tendrils reached out, wrapped together, and began to form what he thought were arms.

“Pike me…,” he groaned. He sounded genuinely perturbed for once in his long life. “It’s got pikin' wings…”

Duffy heard ‘wings’ just in time. He dropped to his knee, pulled the sword back, and swung with all the might and ardour of a beleaguered, pissed off hero.

“No foul fandango fair shall end me, no rhythmic verse shall to hell send me!”

A tail, on the other hand, wreathed in suddenly erupted violet fire, would deliver him to another life twice as quick. The demon split its appendage again, until it had growing wings, three fiery lashes on its back, and two new mouths.

Duffy landed in the snow flat on his back, eyes to the stars.

“This is just getting silly.” Duffy spat snow again, his marl eyes devoid of their vigour. His sword kicked up white dust as it tore through earth and snow, not flesh.

Aurelianus spun the daggers, licked his bloodied lips, and watched the creature continue to metamorphose. He managed to smile before gouts of reality warping flame lurched out of the blackened beak of the creature’s first mouth.

“Oi, that’s my trick, wanker!” the tiefling roared. He circled to the left slightly, to try to catch a glimpse of the bard he had only seen tossed through the air repeatedly. When he saw he was pushing himself upright, he abandoned his temporary concern. He looked the creature in the eye, and then turned to the fire in the snow.

It melted the drift as expected.

It scorched the earth as fire tended to do.

When it began to take shape, tall, gangly arms rose from the centre. It shed one set of limbs, then began to grow another.

“Mine don’t do that…,” he muttered.

[Aurelianus Drak'shal]

The fleshy mass birthed from within the unholy flames grew, gaining mass with every passing second. In the span of a few moments the.. thing was at least half Aurelius' size.

The little abomination drew itself up, and the tiefling raised an eyebrow- the nearest he would show of his surprise at the day's turn of events. It sported three gnashing mouths, ringed with sharp teeth, and in the centre of it's-- of where it's face should be, it had a curving beak like some mutated hawk. Seven eyes, each with a different pupil glared manically at the warlock. The half-demon jumped back a few paces, keeping his Baatorian knives at the ready as he marked two more abominations- each as different from each other as they were from himself, emerging from the flames to his left and right. They were flanking him.

Canny little bastards, he hissed, his horned head swinging between the three spawn.

And rising above it all, was their brood-mother. It's wings had fully sprouted now, keeping the demon airborne with powerful flaps. The down-gust blasted the pair with flurries of powdered snow, bringing visibility down. But they didn't have to worry about losing track of the thing possessing the girl- it never stopped shrieking from it's many mouths, and the wet tearing sound of muscle and flesh reshaping was grotesquely loud.

Aurelianus raised his arm in front of his face to keep the snow out of his eyes, being knocked back a step by the force of the wind. But, even as he brought his impaled arm up in defense, the three little spawn leapt to the attack. They were much faster than the plane-touched would have expected and he just managed to duck under the first two as they came at him with claws and razor-edged tongues.

The third barreled the Cager off his feet, sending him sprawling in the blood-stained slurry of snow.

Satisfied that the little ones could kill the flesh-thing below, the original spawn turned it's back on the warlock, turning it's attention the other flesh-morsel.

Lashing out on instinct, Aurelius hammered a blade deep into the beast, violently twisting and yanking the weapon as it rended the thing's rubbery flesh. Pale blue ichor poured from the gaping wound, sloshing over the tiefling in clods and splashes. It covered his eyes in seconds, leaving him fighting blind, unable to wipe his eyes without opening himself up to attack. He grunted in pain as the thing's flailing limbs hammered against the bolt sticking into his humerus, turning into a full-throated roar as a barbed tentacle slid into the bullet wound in his shoulder with sickening slowness. He thrashed violently, his bladed armour ripping strips off of the mutant-spawn.

Ripping the serrated knife out the beast, Aurelianus rammed it back in and started stabbing frantically. Flesh parted and the enchanted blades made sure the ichor kept flowing. After a solid minute of hacking and stabbing, the flesh-thing finally slumped down, dead.

So the bastards can be killed, he thought, throwing the weight of the creepy little sod off his battered form.

Springing to his feet and biting back a scream as his broken ribs grated together, the tiefling angrily cleared the milky blue gunk from his eyes, swaying a little on his feet. Blinking rapidly, the half-breed looked around for the other two. Sure as shit, there the pikers were, circling him, chittering, barking and making all manner of less identifiable noises. He spared a brief glance toward Duffy, who was dueling the monster with admitted (albeit grudgingly) skill. The tiefling sneered at the bard's back- he would need to test out just how good the sod was... after he'd received his jink for this job.

He didn't wait for the pair to attack him again.

The first one was engulfed in a searing cone of Hellfire, from the warlock's left palm, coating it head to... other heads. It's progenitor may have birthed them from a similar form of unnatural flame, but as the thing lit up like a firework, Aurelius knew they weren't from the same Hell he was. That meant they weren't immune to his powers.

The third little creature must have realised the same thing, because it launched itself at the tiefling with reckless abandon. Drak'shal brought his knife up in a defensive swipe, his right hand coming up to douse the mutant little ball of weird like it's companion... but as his right arm started to rise a sharp shard of pain elicited an involuntary yell from the snake-eyed demon. He hadn't noticed the bone-spike the first creature had impaled him with was still embedded in the wound. For now, he decided to leave it in- better to suffer the pain than bleed out.

There was the briefest moment where a look of sheer pissed-off resignation crossed the marble-skinned, blood-soaked murderer, before he was once more tackled to the ground. Once again, going on killer-instinct, the half-demon let loose with Shahab's Lash, spewing flames from his bone-box directly into the spawn's face.

This one was different from the others, with a sinuous torso, and many bony arms emerging at disturbing angles, all showing too many joints. Even as Drak'shal's serpentine-eyes marked these, two were wrapped around his throat. His eyes bulged as the thing exerted more strength than Aurelius would have thought possible, cutting off his airways, and the blast of Hellfire. But it was too little, too late. The Hellfire ate away at the beast, and after a few moments, his chest hiking with the need for air, Aurelianus was relieved when the spindly fingers finally uncurled from his throat. The creature fell away and the tiefling sat up, rubbing his raw throat and coughing violently.

Goin' to feel that in the mornin', he thought, dragging himself to his feet again.

His entire body was aching, but he still had to deal with the big bastard before he could even think about getting patched up. With that in mind, he started toward the clear patch of earth marking where the beast was trying to roast Duffy alive. The snow was obliterated in a decent swathe of ground, but apart from a few little burns, the human was holding himself up well against their enemy's dive-bombing attacks. With every pass overhead, Duffy took another chunk off of the beast's frame with a katana Aurelius could swear he'd never seen the bard carrying.

There was more to that sod than met the eye.

But he could investigate the chant later.

He stuck two fingers in the corner of his mouth, and gave a long, shrill whistle. Above, on a stalk emerging from between it's wings, an eye turned toward the tiefling. It swayed back and forth, surveying the wreckage of it's children even as it launched another flamethrower at the nimble, five-century old kid.

Whether the abomination had anything resembling human thoughts was a mystery that would never be answered, but judging by the way it whipped it's constantly-shifting frame around and shrieked from every fang-lined mouth, Aurelianus guessed it must at least understand the concept of 'rage'. But as the thing opened it's main mouth wide, the flesh still flaking and charred where Shahab's Lash has smashed into it, the tiefling's razor-keen eyes locked on to something.

Deep back in the gullet, he could make out something fleshy and pink- not like the little spawn.. decidedly more human. As it's throat pulsed with a sickening peristaltic motion, the thing turned enough for Aurelianus to see what it was.

It was the witch-girl.

A slow, vicious smile split the planewalker's fanged mouth. A trickle of blood slid from a cut inside his lip, but he didn't even notice. His ink-like blood was dripping from so many places, it was impossible to keep track. None of that mattered, though. Everything clicked into place in the Cager's brain-box, and he now knew how to make the demon a deader.

All he had to was get it to eat him.

[Duffy]

“It pikin’ needs to swallow me!” Aurelianus roared.

It was the first and last time Duffy would hear those words in a suitable context. Duffy stopped, mid-swing, and did a double take. He had heard some strange requests in his life, but this was the strangest. He struggled to remove the image rattling around in his brain in time to deflect the spawn’s advance, and took another tentacle to the chest for his trouble.

“Can you repeat that?” he wheezed.

He pushed himself upright. He conjured his katana back to his grip in a peal of white light with a grunt. He observed the writhing, pulsating creature with dulled curiosity. He was beyond caring what, by now. All he cared about was how to make it go away.

“Get it to eat me!” The tiefling corrected his request with a wry, bloodied smile. He ducked under a swing. He raised, pummelled outwards with his daggers, and continued to dance his merry dance. “I don’t dun care how cutter!”

Duffy shrugged. He lashed, he spiralled, and he cut upwards. His blade severed the tentacle as it tried feebly to pierce his defences. He was awake now. He was no longer bumbling from the cold. He was also decidedly not shocked by the man’s strange, crass, and unnerving ways. The bard saw that as a problem with his own personality, and not the tiefling’s ways. He was starting to think like the quilled cavalier, as well.

He sighed.

“You are a strange little fucker Aurelianus,” he said to himself, His list of questions for Luned Bleddyn continued to grow, and he was certain there would be many more come sunrise. “On the other hand…,” he erred. He ducked as a flick of flame tore through where his lithe form had been seconds before. “I am happy to oblige.”

He had no difficulty following the request. That did not mean it was going to be easy, however. Whatever the daemonic monstrosity was, it was too preoccupied with barbecuing, gutting, and piercing them with spikes to want to eat the tiefling.
With grace, virtue, and a lot of grunting, Duffy raised his blade and advanced. He drove forwards towards the spawn that barred his path to the ‘mother’ creature. She would have to wait. He deftly rebuked tentacle and trap. He ducked, danced, and devilishly smiled through the calamity the spawn exuded. He began to sing, contrary to convention, and channelled all the energy, rage, and cold in his bones into every syllable.

“There was a red arse called Aurelianus, who came, saw, and swore at us,” he sang. The rhyming was loose, and the vocals marred by fatigue, but they served a purpose.

The katana began to vibrate with such intensity it could have sliced through gold, diamonds, and heaven itself.

“He danced, pranced, and rocked and rolled, all in the name of being consumed.” Duffy sliced through he spawn’s skull with ease. There was no fanfare. He simply continued through the tumbling, flickering flames that had been its body, and stepped through the manifesting slime of its corpse.

“I admired his plucky spirit, I admired his every shunt, but the thing I admire about him most, is that he’s a massive cu-.”

Before his profanity could rock the foundations of the holy ground, the katana drove down in a cleaving arc, struck the melting snow, and jettisoned its power through the clearing. It hit the demon, but instead of hurting it, it swelled in the crackling spell song’s power. Duffy had thought of goading, hateful thoughts towards the tiefling as he had sung. He put every bit of hatred and self-loathing into his rhyme, and now, the demon felt it too.

The clearing fell silent. The witch stopped jabbering. The screaming drifted into snow-tinged nothingness. The demon turned, maws gaping, and leered at Aurelianus.

“You did ask to be eaten, right cutter?” Duffy quipped sarcastically. He peered around the growing form of their enemy, and shrugged. Whatever the tiefling had planned, the bard guessed his curiosity would be satisfied soon enough. He sheathed his blade, conjured his short swords, and turned to the third spawn.

He was far from done yet. His face, despite the cold, beaded with sweat and blood. It was trickling from his browbeaten forehead. They were still in danger, and he was running out things to rhyme with female genitalia.

[Aurelianus Drak'shal]

Aurelius had to admit, the bard's little ditty had brought a wry chuckle to his lips. But, the tiefling still wasn't happy that Duffy had used his real name.. or even knew it for that matter.

If everyone in the vicinity hadn't already been dead, he might even have been pissed off.

But as the immense spawn turned its slavering maws and hungry eyes to the warlock, his attention snapped back to the task at hand. Swaying a little on his feet, the wounds that were still bleeding dripping black stains in the remaining patches of snow, he stared the barmy looking beast down. Rearing up on whatever appendages had sprouted at its back, the monster screeched and roared at the flesh-thing before it. It could smell the morsel's blood, see it was hurting.. but it didn't smell like any of the other meat-things lying around the area. Still, the spawn was not in the mood to ponder such things.

It had a hunger; a deep, gnawing, ravenous need to devour the thing standing defiantly before it.

"Come on then, you wanker!" the guttersnipe roared, throwing his arms out wide, Baatorian blades gleaming in the lights of a dozen fires. Sweat dripped off him, stinging as it ran through his cuts and scrapes, the bitter climate of Salvar forgotten. "Quit rattlin' your pikin' bone-box and eat me, you ugly bastard!"

For a moment, Aurelius could almost believe the creature understood him. It lumbered over to him, myriad eyes all locked hatefully on him, mouths dripping thick drool in anticipation.. and he swore the thing was smiling in triumph.

Aye, that's right, you ugly sod.. keep it comin', the half-demon thought smugly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Duffy duck a spined claw before deftly dismembering one of the capering mini-creatures with a fluidity of movement, and a grace that was decidedly not human. That, however, was not the malcontent's concern at the moment... but he was genuinely hopeful he could test his skills against the bard at some point.

The horror planted two grotesquely muscled forelimbs on the scorched earth either side of its wounded prey, extra claws sliding from within its malleable flesh to anchor it to the ground. Dropping its wedge-shaped head level with the object of its gluttonous desires, the nightmare creature let loose a roar that left more blood slowly trickling from the half-breed's pointed ears. The stench of rotted meat and brimstone was almost worse than the volume. He winced, but fought the urge to cover his head with his hands; he had to time his next move perfectly, or he was up the proverbial creek.

The main mouth opened, lined with a double-row of serrated fangs like a shark's. The beast rose up, towering over the tiefling and outweighing him many times over. Aurelianus didn't move, his every muscle tense, like a spring ready to uncoil.

"I 'ope I give you the shits," he smirked.

The maw loomed wider in his eyes, coming towards him with all the inevitability of the tides. A bead of blood slid down his nose from the gash on the tiefling's horned brow. It gathered on the tip.. and fell.

Moving faster than most mortals could ever hope to, Drak'shal launched himself into the air, diving straight for the gaping, fang-lined pit before him. Luck was with him, and he managed to avoid the serrated fangs.. for the most part. A yell of pain started to emerge from his throat as one of the fangs tore across his shin, but the sound was swallowed as soon as he hit the oily, rancid meat of the creature's throat. The smell was almost enough to make the planewalker vomit, but he managed to hold back his rising gorge, and let the peristaltic pulsing of the throat carry him down deeper into the foul depths.

There was no light.

The Cager thrashed about, the spikes and blades on his leather armour tearing into the soft, vulnerable flesh surrounding him in a clammy embrace. Breathing was getting harder and harder, with the slick, greasy walls pressing in on him. But he pressed on, forcing himself down the abomination's throat. He could feel a massive shudder tear through the beast, and could faintly hear the many other mouths shrieking outside. Snarling and spitting to clear his mouth of the putrid fluids dribbling in, Aurelius tried to slash around him with his Baatorian blades but his hands were held tight by the constricting muscles spasming around his battered body. Still, even without hands the warlock was far from unarmed.

Lashing out around him with his fangs, ripping bloody mouthfuls free from the spawn, Aurelianus got to work. His breath was coming in ragged bursts, air becoming short as his enemy tried its utmost best to swallow the creature so stubbornly sticking in its throat. He summoned his will, honing it to knife-edge focus and for the thousandth time in his life, unleashed the unnatural fire of Freki's Shield. A sphere of pure magickal heat tore free from the Cager, instantly charring the flesh and meat around him. The smell was heinous and Aurelius coughed and choked on the acrid smoke that wafted up. Shivers ran through the blackened flesh, before the walls finally relented their grip, freeing their captive.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity enclosed in the sweating clutches of the enormous throat, there was a whimper in the darkness. Knife-ears perking up, the half-demon forced himself towards it, wriggling in a decidedly undignified way. Aurelius was silently glad the bard couldn't see him right now. He slid one weapon back into its sheath. Another whimper emerged from the lightless meat-cage, closer this time. A feral grin spread across the half-breed's demonic visage. A true hunter didn't need all his senses to find it's prey, and Aurelius was no different. He dragged himself closer to it, grabbing handfuls of quivering muscle to haul his barbed frame closer to the source of the pathetic noises.

His marble-skinned hand, blood-soaked and stained with whatever secretions he was wading through, reached out.. and touched smooth skin. Growling a triumphant string of profanity, Aurelius hauled his body closer. He ran his hand over his discovery and was perversely delighted to see his canny notion was bearing fruit.

It was the girl.

She was whimpering like a beaten dog, and repeating the words 'help me' over and over. A sneer crossed his features - back home, in his native Sigil, showing weakness like that would be a sure-fire way to wind up in the Dead-book.

"Nothin' personal luv," he whispered, his fanged mouth intimately close to her ear.

Her body went rigid, realising that in the midst of the madness, there really was someone next to her. Her hands came up, trying to beg, to plead for rescue.

Instead, Aurelius brought his mouth to her's, kissing the girl suddenly. She froze, not sure what was happening, before she eventually started trying to fight the thing in the dark off, to push it away. But the soft skin of her hands parted like cloth as they beat against the bladed horror.

Then came the heat.

The warlock let the Hellfire build up in his throat, a small smirk touching his lips; the girl felt it against her own. She drew in breath to scream.. and that was her final mistake. Her attacker let the black flames pour into the girl's mouth, igniting the air in her lungs as she tried to shriek. Instantly, her body started burning from within.

For a few hellish seconds, she was alive to feel it.

[Duffy]

Twisting a heel, ducking, and rising with blade cutting flesh, Duffy found his swagger. The cold of Salvar had taken its toll on his ageing, wounded body. He was not sure if it was the imminent danger, the tiefling, or the sense that, if he failed, an innocent girl would die. All the bard knew was that he had to find speed. All he knew was that he had to find strength.

“Aurelianus!” he roared.

He felt the fire, even though it was far away, and hidden from view. Lysander, his katana, began to sing with a vibrancy renewed. Everything Duffy knew, he forgot. He replaced his memories, his sensibilities, and his drives in life with something simplistically heroic.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

A breeze rolled down through the valley. It lanced with ease through the limited resistance of the spindly pine forest, and in a lull, it stole away the tension. When it faded, there were nothing left but faltering demons, angry immortals, and aroused Planeswalkers, bent on anarchy. Duffy locked his eyes on the pulsating mass, and peered through the folds of flesh with the wisdom of ages.

“No…,” he whispered. His breath froze. He dropped his blade to his side, and gestured at the demon. “No!”

His voice cracked the ground, and the village, tainted by witchcraft, felt its first dose of redemption. Centuries ago, his primal command felled mountains. In the absence of heroism, the avatar of creation settled for something all men would come to know at some point in their short lives.

He felt pure, unbridled, and unfettered anger.

He charged, desperate to try to prevent that which had already happened. Even as he traversed the dead leaves and the dirty ground, his heart sank. His sword lashed left and right. His shin bled freely indifferent to all that unfolded around it. His heart raced. His memories seethed.

“You fucking traitor!”

His uncouth accusation bounced from flesh, the very same moment he sliced downwards in a cleaving arc. The blade, empowered not by spell song of the voice, but of the heart, sliced open the gizzards of their adversary with ease. In a flow of detritus, puke, and bile, the tiefling and the witch appeared. As though trinkets released from the ground, they began to shine with moisture in the darkness and twilight of the encroaching midnight.

The tiefling stepped away in a clambering mound of spores, crimson ichors, and flickering flames. The girl writhed in unseen agony, leaving Duffy exasperated, and Aurelianus titillated.

“We are supposed to save her!” the bard objected. His voice sang with trill emotion, encapsulating his despair with a high-pitched echo. He could not help but gaze wearily at the now freed soul. Her skin beginning to burn with whatever ignition the demon’s magic instilled in her. He had been so close. He had been so certain her loss was preventable.

Luned Bleddyn’s crimes continued to tally in the bard’s mind.

Black quills and mouse brown locks danced, cropping piercing abyssal eyes and glistening pupils with moody glamour. Bard and bastard stared at one another. Blade and butcher leered down into one another’s presence. The girl bent over backwards, shone bright, and erupted from within. Duffy looked away. Aurelianus continued to observe his handiwork, pleased that glory and carnage were firmly his own.

“To think…I trusted you.”

Duffy looked up; certain he had the courage to overcome the disgusting sights before him, and sent his blade into an abyss. The katana vanished in spiralling plumes of white light, each ribbon dancing with minuet and madness. He slouched, fatigue finally overwhelming him, and let his hands hang loosely by his sides. Aurelianus, a name he knew through subversion and knowledge, was now a name he would learn to hate.

He avowed to make the creature pay, but not today.

“She’s free now, ain’t she cutter?” the quilled vagabond clucked.

Bastard or no, Duffy sorely wished his ‘accomplice’ had parents he could scold for allowing such an abomination into the world. Upon reflection, he was glad there was none – no family should have to rear such disappointment.

“She is free…from you,” Duffy spat. He leant on his shin, felt the pain return, and conjured his cane into his outstretched fingertips. He set the tip into the long melted snow, which had turned the furrowed ground to bloodied mud. Reverently, he watched the girl’s corpse flicker with black flame, abandonment, and hatred.

"Now, mate. That's not very fair, is it?" he smirked.

“No…” Duffy let out a long sigh. “I suppose it’s not…”

The village was free.

Nevertheless, inside, Duffy knew that he was not shot of Aurelianus Drak’shal just yet.


To be continued.

[Otto]

The Prayer


Plot: 21/30


Storytelling: 7/10
There was certainly much more to the story than saving the damsel. First, it fits into a larger picture (regarding the church), although said picture could have been filled in a bit more. Second, expectations were expertly subverted, thanks to Aurelius’ initiative – but again, this event could have been better defined (please see ‘clarity’ for details). The ending was a little weak, too (see ‘persona’).


Setting: 8/10
It felt like the desolation of the place pervaded every post – nice job on setting the atmosphere. Regarding the cold, there weren’t really any issues with describing it, it just could have influenced the characters some more than it did. Example: having the guard fumble with their crossbows due to the numbness in their figures would have made Aur’s ability to evade them somewhat more credible.


Pacing: 6/10
It didn’t feel like there was a race against time to reach the girl – although you stated that there was, it seemed as though Duffy and Aurelius were happy to take their time. The climactic battle with the abominations at the end similarly lacked much of a sense of urgency. But the build up to combat was done quite well – slow, but tense.


Character: 21/30


Communication: 8/10
Dialogue was great for the PCs, and your bunnies were fairly seamless. It was less great for the few lines that the NPCs had. Still, I think the curious back-and-forth between Aurrie and the Duffmeister did a lot to give this thread some life and colour.


Action: 6/10
Good, but flawed. A prime example would be how the abomination’s minions adhered to http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/MookChivalry’]Mook (’ [url) Chivalry[/URL] when fighting Aurelius. I also point to his fight with the witch hunter – although badly wounded, Aurelius was able to partake in a stand-up fight with the man, which detracted from the sense of danger to Aurelius. I never felt that he was actually ever really in any. When might alone doesn’t look like it may be enough to pull him through, why not put his smarts to use and show just how canny the guttersnipe can be?


Persona: 7/10
The NPCs needed considerably more work. Aurelius, you have a tendency to caricaturise these people, as I have mentioned in Child of Darkness. When the witch hunter opened his mouth, I cringed. The story would have benefitted greatly from developing the girl a bit more, as well, to get the reader more invested in that character. And as for Duffy – as I mentioned before, the ending was a bit weak. For all his anger towards Aurelius, his actual response fell far shy of conveying that.


Prose: 23/30


Mechanics: 8/10
Good work. Please proof read to pick up on typos, clumsy sentences, and misplaced or absent punctuation (particularly commas). Also watch out for awkward repetition (example: post 4, “A small trickle of blood, like ink, trickled”). Oh, and Aur – you had a tendency of using “it’s” (contraction of ‘it is’) instead of ‘its’ (possessive form). On the other hand, your writing styles are obviously highly developed, expressive, and flow well.


Clarity: 8/10
How did Duffy know Aurelius’ name? It’s a question asked, the answer of which, and its relevance, is something not even alluded to. Aurelius’ motives for killing the girl are also a little unclear. Did he have to do it to kill the monster? Was he just taking his anger out on her? Or was it just for fun? Apart from that – very well done.


Technique: 7/10
There were some nice metaphors (“cold bosom”, post 1), simile (“He was like a murderous half-breed child in a candy store”), etc. Nothing was really outstanding, per se, but it certainly persisted through the thread and spiced things up. Apart from anything else, your techniques provide a glimpse into the heads of your characters. While I would argue that you could stand to lose a few words here and there, so that it doesn’t drag so much, I would also say that these words aren’t actually wasted, and that they all contribute.


Wildcard: 7/10
I got that this was all part of something bigger – but the consequences of the events in this thread aren’t really envisioned, so it feels a bit isolated. In itself, though, the story is a cohesive, wonderful piece of work.

Total: 72/100



Duffy Bracken receives 1550 experience, 175 gold, and another morbid memory to weigh upon his already overburdened conscience. And a sword ("a Salvarian sabre, a curbed blade forged in cold steel (steel which never warms)").

Aurelianus Drak'shal receives 1325 experience, 270 gold, the mother of all splinters (aka that bone shard in his shoulder), and a sweet new wide-brimmed hat. So stylish!

[Mordelain]

Experience and gold added.