A Hello To Arms (Guided Quest)

[Mordelain]

A Hello To Arms (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IIkRpop3zzI)



http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_mduup2o7JM1r9unjgo1_500.png



This is a guided quest, the out of character thread to which can be found here (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?25651-A-Hello-To-Arms-(Guided-Quest-Recruitment-and-OOC)&p=210047#post210047).

It is closed to Otto and Hysteria.




For the purpose of this quest, I will be playing the role of Malachi, the Black Sail Armada's Pirate King.

[Mordelain]

Prologue

“You’re going to do two things whilst I’m in charge,” the dark elf barked. “You’ll listen, and you’ll do. You’ll listen and you’ll do exactly as I tell you.”

There was a certain degree of captivating charisma to Malachi Drear. The leader of the Black Sail Armada had earned his reputation for many reasons. First, his almost unwavering dedication to gutting his rivals. Second, his ability to talk his way into, and indeed, out of, any situation.

“Does anyone have any objections?” There did not appear to be any hint of a question in the tone of his voice. The tavern remained deathly silent.

Malachi nodded with a grin. He flicked his lank hair back, scraping it over his prominent skull, and ran a finger down his facial scar with relish. It was a brand, as much as it was a sign of experience, and the pirate had no qualms with using his own triumphs and errors to lead by example.

“I don’t need to tell you what will happen if you don’t.” He turned to the man standing behind him, quivering himself out of his skin, and gave him a gruff nod. “Jon here can attest to the strict rules the Black Sail live by.” He turned back to the duo at the table that the empire had sent to oversee their mutual interests. “You are no excused from them because you’re,” he paused, spat on the table, without a care for his host, and hissed, “Land dogs.”

There was no interruption, save for the tinkling side of glasses collected on the far side of the bar, and hushed whispers of conversation at the other tables. Though Malachi never vacated a property when he conducted business, the joy and exuberance usually present in the taverns along the seafront in Etheria Port tended to vacate anyway.

“The arms deal is going down as scheduled, as far as we know.” He clapped his hands, and Jon, still wetting himself, sprang to the pirate’s side. He laid out a map without command, and retreated before he caught a clip round the ear or a dagger in his gizzards. It did not take a genius to guess that Jon was anything but a willing aide to the pirate. “It is here,” he prodded a finger at the dot marked Ettermire.

Anyone with a slight grasp of Alerar geography would know that the northern half of the city, in simple terms, was not a good place to be. If you were a dark elf, it was a dangerous, cutthroat political black hole. You may as well stab yourself in the heart than go there if you were a foreigner. The black fortress, named as you might expect for its dominating presence on the skyline, and the hearts’ of its occupants, was as close to hell on Althanas as you could get.

“Isn’t that…,” the orc opposite eared.

Malachi nodded. “The Black Fortress. Home of Alerar’s hierarchy, and just north of that, the location of the noble district.” The people of Alerar left it to ruin a long time ago, as the rich and mighty had retreated behind the obsidian walls when the Corpse War broke out in Raiera. Even gunpowder had its limits, and the dead laid down for no barrel or bomb.

“You’re shitting me,” the woman next to the orc sputtered.

Malachi smiled. It was a wicked grin and an all-knowing cackle accompanied it.

“Scared of a little adventure?” he rolled his eyes. His piercings caught the light of the fire that roared in the hearths on the eastern and western walls. Dusk settled, and with it, the humidity of the early sunset. Winter was coming to the dark elven homeland, a darkening fact that offered the ragtag party some hope in gaining access to the city without fanfare, danger, and the occasional brutal and agonising death.

The orc and the woman, as expected, both shook their heads hesitantly. Malachi could see the fear. He could smell it. He could practically taste it like a fine wine and steak. He chuckled, rolled up the map, and handed it back to Jon. The diminutive human snatched it away, tucked it into its vellum tube, and cowered back into the azure light of the fire.

“As you know, we have to disrupt the arms deal, no matter the cost.” There was more to it than that, and Malachi would reveal the extent of the corruption in due course. He needed to trust them both first, and they would have to bleed and sweat to earn that from him. “Do you have any questions? It would be good to…,” he licked his fangs, “iron out the detail before we hit the road.”

[Hysteria]

Talen ran a hand through her hair, a thick tangle of black locks fell around her pale face like a dark waterfall. A mischievous smile crawled across her lips, punctuated with a wild look in her eyes. She brought her hand around and rested it under her chin. Absently she bit her finger as her blue eyes stared at the dark elf. Silence for a second, a little laugh; soft and sweet.

“Questions, questions, questions!” she chilled the elf, “What light yonder window breaks? How does one turn lead into gold? Such beautiful mysteries are what make life worth living, are they not?”

Talen's smile broadened, but her face lent forwards, her eyes staring from the dark shadow of her brow.

“I do have a question, perhaps more poignant than the others. You've entered into contract with the Empire, but there are two things I have learnt you cannot leash, one is a shadow, the other is a pirate. But here we are, tracing scars and scaring ship-boys.” Talen lent back and raised her palm into the air in a fake gesture of defeat.

Purposeful, that was a good way to describe Talen. She dropped her hand and lifted her feet up onto the table, the thin sharp heels of her boots pointed towards Jon. This time Talen's eyes were focused on him as she reclined further and inhaled deeply, the cut of her top framing the slow rise and fall of her chest. Around her shoulders a dark cloak hung, under which a tight black outfit. The woman did not look as if she belonged in the seedy tavern that set the first scene in their twisted play, but she looked at ease, perhaps even overconfident. She carried no weapons with her, no provisions or equipment for a sea voyage.

“Oh and it is pronounced Tae-len.” She clicked her tongue a few times before dragging her eyes back to Malachi, “If you call me a dog again, even if it is with that charming salty vernacular, I will rip out your heart.”

[Otto]

"Dogs work", Otto piped up suddenly. In an attempt to avert oncoming disaster, he'd said the first thing to pop into his head. However, the blank stares directed his way informed him that he would need to elaborate. "Figuratively speaking. I might pass for local labour in the common parts of the city. But the Dark Palace? An orc will muster suspicion. Unless, maybe, they think I'm more of a, hmph, a pet."

Malachi fixed his ireful grin on the orc. "You think you aren't already, law-dog?" he chuckled.

Otto looked the pirate in the eye, and shrugged.

From Radasanth's docks, across the seas and up to this point, here, in the tavern where the atmosphere was more highly-strung than a tightrope-walker's lute, Otto had maintained an air of stoicism which, if looked at in the right light, might pass for professionalism. On the inside, though, things were running a little more frantically than his blasé demeanour would suggest. He'd had scant time to become acquainted with his colleague, and were they not paired together for this mission, he wasn't sure that he'd want to. She gave him the creeps, possibly more so than Malachi Drear. Then again, he'd never had the pleasure of knowing any of the Black Sail either, so the biggest lunatic of the bunch was far from decided.

How comforting. Perhaps he shouldn't have been so quick to volunteer for slave duty.

Otto shifted in his seat, broke off a hunk of rye bread and used it to scoop up a portion of the stew before him. His discomfort had not been so great that it robbed him of his appetite, and the smell of simmering beef, carrots, onions and potato had done wonders to distract him with the more immediate concern of an empty stomach. Having averted a potential crisis - for now - he returned his attention to the meal.

[Mordelain]

Malachi was not entirely sure what he liked about the pair, he just knew that he liked them. It took guts to stand up to a dark elf in Alerar. It took near suicidal tendencies to stand up to him in particular.

“Dogs, monsters, and wastes of space,” he jabbed a thumb at Jon. “Quite a team, quite a team,” he smirked. He gave the woman some thought, if she was a woman at all. Her question had been the source of much debate in the brothel to the east, where he, and his brothers, held sway over something more worthwhile than politics.

“So…,” Talen erred, “my question?”

"No need to worry. We have to disrupt this arm's deal, and the Black Sail and the Empire have something common in ensuring it is terminated." He glinted mystery. "Neither of us want fucking dark elves selling to anyone 'cept dark elves."

Alerar was good for many things, but quashing racism was not one of them.

The tavern seemed to die an awkward death in the ensuing silence. Games of cards petered out as players made idle excuses and left. The bar keeper polished glasses, until they shone, dimmed, and cracked. The ale-scented air, for drinking was an all-day activity to the downtrodden of the Black City, stagnated into decadent fog.

Malachi blinked. “Ah, yes, of course. You,” he jabbed a stiletto like finger at Otto, “and you,” he did the same to Talen, “need not worry about looking inconspicuous.”

On the contrary, they both had to worry quite a lot. The pirate was not about to tell them that, though, because watching the looks on their faces when they got chased, at knife point, from one side of Alerar to another would make him laugh till dawn. He liked them, but not that much.

“We have arranged alternative transportation,” Jon interrupted. From the look on his face, a contorted whelp, he knew he had spoken out of turn. Malachi snorted. “For us all,” the clerk continued, twitching as he shuffled forwards. He produced a scroll, much like the map, and unfurled it out onto the table.

Malachi clipped him round the ear as he retreated. It was ironic that Otto had mentioned dogs, when if anything, the orc was kingly in a city of slavers. Humans were the livestock in a dog-eat world.

“We’re going to be smuggling ourselves into the arms deal inside a crate.” The matter of fact way the dark elf revealed this enticing fact spoke leaps and bounds about his faith in the plan. For once, though, it was not his call. He would have gone in guns blazing, and damned the consequences, because that is how the Black Sail worked. “Once inside the factory, we spring ourselves, hideaway, and then interrupt their pathetic break for a victor.”

“Crates?” Otto blinked. “Crates?”

Malachi nodded. “We’ll all be in the same box, so don’t worry,” he grinned. It unnerved the walls, never mind the occupants of the tavern. “I won’t ship you off to a slaver’s yard, or drop you in a well.”

He would have liked that, liked it very much. “We leave in a few hours. The journey to the collection point is a day, and then a day to sneak up into the factory…don’t eat any meat, I don’t want you to die from suffocation on the way.”

His mischievous wink offered no comfort to Otto or Talen, but somehow, because it was he saying it, it seemed okay. Malachi produced a bottle of whiskey from nobody quit saw where, set it onto the table, and offered it to his companions.

“One for the road?”

[Hysteria]

Talen's eyes narrowed, but she kept the rest of her face passive as the plan was revealed. She did not like the idea of being place in a crate with an Orc and a Dark Elf. She knew that she could probably infiltrate Alerar without resorting to such tricks, but it would be impossible to claim her fee if she didn't go along with the plan.

“An Orc, a Dark Elf and a woman walk into a crate. Sounds like the start of a bad joke doesn't it?” Talen clicked her tongue a few times, a trait she had inherited some time back. Matching her eyes into Malachi's she took the small cup filled with whiskey.

“Well then, Otto, Malachi...” Talen lifted her cup into the air, “Bottoms up!”

Talen downed the contents and slammed the cup down on the table.

“Ahhhhh!” She exclaimed with her face scrunched up, “Damn! What sort of dragon vomited up that?”

The dark haired woman paused for a second before holding out the cup.

“Pour me another.”

[Otto]

Otto chewed on his bread thoughtfully, and surveyed with impassive eyes the scene unfolding below.

He and another red-clad watchman were sharing a lunch atop a stout, wind-licked wall, some distance uphill from Radasanth's seaport. It was a fine day, possessed of a clean breeze, clear skies and warm sun. Their secluded spot offered a pristine view of the boundless sea to the west, and its bounty of meandering, puff-sailed ships. One had recently pulled up to a long grey pier close to Otto, and his colleague, William. This ship, though (un)remarkably unassuming in appearance, was at the centre of a bustling maelstrom of frantic activity. Otto peered down at the name painted in large, white letter across its hull. After a while, he leaned back in surprise.

"The Silver Spray went missing two months ago", he said to the man at his side. "Why's it just come in now?"

"Well, they found her again, obviously." William spoke with offhand derision as he focused on skinning a shiny red apple. "She was adrift. The CES Liberty spied her to the north, and dispatched a skeleton crew to bring her back."

"How do you know all this?"

William took a crisp bite of apple, savouring it, before he replied. "My cousin plies the route between Radasanth and Scara Brae. Sailors are a superstitious and gossipy bunch, so news of a derelict ship travels fast between them."

Otto frowned. "What? As in... ghost ships?"

"Nah," replied William, shaking his head, "there wasn't much mystery to this one. 'Ere, look how high she sits. No cargo, see? And all that damage to the railing?"

The orc squinted towards the Silver Spray's haggard decks. "Looks messy, but it's been lost for a while. I thought that'd happen naturally." His use of pronoun showed just how far from his element he was with all things nautical; iron was his mistress, not the sea. William, however, seemed much more confident in his analysis.

"Nope. That's what grappling hooks, boarding ramps, and maybe a bit of blackpowder will do to a ship. Odds are pretty good the poor bastards ran into some pirates."

Wind coiled around them, lightly tinged with fish and salt and pitch and resin and a million other things that made the seaport what it was. Otto took another bite out of his loaf, a light thing baked with oil and studded with olives.

"It was carrying passengers, if I remember right", he remarked.

"My cousin said that they found the bodies of the male crew, and a few young 'uns. Real young." William shook his head again, this time with solemnity. "They were either too much trouble, or too small to be useful."

They lapsed into silence for some time, both of them regarding the pandemonium on the pier.

"Pirates", Otto repeated.



* * *


Otto bit into his ryeloaf, face pointed downwards at the stew, keenly ignorant of the bottle upon the table. He sucked a few errant spots of glutinous sauce from the tips of his fingers, and then - finally - looked up. Two big, amber, and impassive eyes flickered over Malachi's gift before settling back towards his meal.

"Wouldn't go with the stew", he muttered.

[Mordelain]

Malachi’s laugh echoed through the tavern long after the group departed. With Otto’s appetite sated, and Talen’s unique ability to drink even the pirates under the table proven, they were as prepared as they were ever going to be.

“This way,” the enigmatic elf clucked, ducking into a low portal down an alleyway. He wove in and out of the streets with urgent grace, and the others, twitchy assistant included, struggled to keep up.

“That way,” John jolted, daring to point out the captain’s error. Malachi glared over his shoulder. “That way sir,” John corrected.

“Good good,” he replied, veering back on course.

Despite the notoriety of their employer, he remained civil and jubilant to the pair. He took his frustrations out on his Armada, and for that, Otto was glad. He had done enough to test his patience of late, and the malefic forces in the world would be wise to leave the orc well alone.

“Why do we have to hide here?” Talen enquired. Her voice was starting to show signs of childish excitement.

“Because we don’t want any trail!” Malachi said, as though it were obvious.

They turned another corner, and then another, and then broke out into a small courtyard that trailed off down a cobbled alleyway. Great cogs turned in the walls, and a pale evening sky hung overhead. Moths danced in the gaslights, and steam emerged from every crack and orifice visible.

“And because I left these here.” He pointed a little north, to what appeared to be a large wagon surrounded by crates. As the elf had described, there were several large enough to house people. They were thick, reinforced oak shipping crates, clad in iron rivets.

“I want the one on the right!” Talen exclaimed, as she walked with feminine guile towards her chosen carriage.

“We’ll all be in the same one cutter,” he frowned. “John, get the guards from the safe house and let’s ship out.”

The servant scuttled away, not wishing to stay in arm, and thus swords reach a second longer than he had to. Otto watched the man depart furtively, his hesitation growing, his conflicted loyalties and political ideologies turbulent ideas in his mind. He furrowed his grey forehead.

“You fucking log-heads!” the pirate boomed, finally noticing his crew were lounging against the side of the wagon smoking pipes and drinking what Otto would refer to as ‘contraband grog’. “Koad ‘er up!” <Tisha lumen!>” The Drow was heavy and aggressive compared to the common. Otto was glad he could not understand what it meant.

“When do we leave?” Talen asked. She looked back.

Malachi, with a demure grin, flashed his teeth and let his scar catch the lantern’s light.

“Now…and god speed!” He pointed at the crate, gestured for the duo to climb in, and cursed silently under his breath that none of them passed wind. It would be a long enough ride as is.


Going to proof read and edit thus far. If anyone wishes to post again before we hit part one, and the first encounter, please feel free. Sorry for the delay.

[Hysteria]

“Whhhhhaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaattt?”

Talen's eyes scanned the inside of the crate, then to Otto and Malachi, finally back to the crate. Sudden realisation crashed through her mind like a brick through a window. This time the shattered glass was regret as being stuffed into a tiny box.

“Fuuuuck....” She managed with a slight look of defeat on her face.

A slight cough from Otto signalled that the other two were waiting for her and spurned Talen forward. She climbed inside. She didn't know how to take Otto. It wasn't her first time around an Orc, although it was one of the few. He seemed polite, rather than brutish. Talen sat down in the corner with a look of indigence plastered across her pretty face. Otto followed, settling himself down with a slight grunt and finally Malachi.

It wasn't that Talen disliked Otto, she just didn't know how to take him. Straight laced people irked the shadowmancer. Her thought was cut off as the crate was shut and a few short seconds later the wagon kicked into motion. Inside the box even the shortest trip was going to seem like a lifetime to Talen.

Play the game.... For someone who barely followed even the rules that she set for herself she was finding the box charade tiresome.

“So what game should we play? I spy? Spot the mule?”

She met blank stares.

“Jeez... for a captive audience you guys are hard to please.”

[Otto]

Otto exuded a sullen silence. Truth be told, he found Talen's chittering to be almost comforting, for the simple fact that it broke the oppressive mood within the crate. On the other hand, he was more than a little wary of indulging her, lest someone outside consider a talking crate to be suspicious. Besides, he didn't even know any games.

He could feel the street pass beneath them, as jarring cobbles transitioned to smooth flagstones and, at times, hard-packed earth. Tiny flecks of light made their way past the wooden boards, enough to make out the positioning of Talen and Malachi. The drow had a knife out, and though he seemed only to be using it to pare a small, red apple, this still put Otto on edge.

Otto did not trust Malachi.

It did not take too long - an hour, perhaps - for a queasy sort of feeling to start spreading through his gut. At first, he ignored it, or told himself he was imagining things. It was just nerves, or the peculiar effect of being trapped inside a small box with one of the sea's most dreaded pirate captains and the walking epitome of an unknown quantity. These reassurances lasted all of ten minutes before the swelling unease was strong enough to begin eroding them. The orc broke out into a cold sweat, and his teeth chattered when they weren't clenched shut to stifle panicked groans. Slowly, unwillingly, Otto was forced to face the truth.

And then it came to him in one furious, unstoppable wave.

"I think", he moaned, "that stew was off."

He hunched over in his corner and heaved. Malachi and Talen heard him retch mightily, heard a wet sort of pattering sound much like sick pooling upon the wooden crate's boards, and then they were struck with the overhwelming stench of half-digested beef and onions.

"Bloody pirate dive bars..." they heard the orc mutter, followed by another bout of wretched vomiting. The smell somehow intensified, and with nowhere to go, it almost precipitated out of the air.

The wagon trundled on towards the very, very distant city of Ettermire.

[Mordelain]

Ettermire had been resplendent once. Now, it was an acrid wasteland and temple garden of steel, steam, and corruption. The black fortress at the centre of the city was a nexus of beurocracy and racism, full of despots and tyrants willing to eradicate neighbours from the surface of the world.

“What a shithole…,” he spat.

Malachi remembered when Alerar had been a civilisation to be proud about. That was centuries ago, before gunpowder plotted against the freedom of the dark elves, and trapped them in an endless cycle of war.

“What is?” Talen chirped, finally glad the awkward silence had come to a natural end.

With cold, calculating eyes, the pirate stared out of the small hole in the front of the crate. It offered him respite from the stench in their transport, and a vantage point of the towering walls that blotted the horizon. He had carved it out of desperation once he had eaten his apple, and sucked the core down to the pips.

“Ettermire of course. We’re approaching the south gate,” he whispered. His voice somehow retained its malefic, charismatic presence, despite its pitch.

Plumes of smoke miles high knotted together into a black disc of smog over the city. Even from two miles away, the distinct sound of machinery clunking endlessly away day and night echoed through the air. It was a beat to the heart of Alerar, inescapable, necessary, and comforting to its people.

“Are you two ready?” He turned back into the crate, glanced at Talen, and turned to Otto. The orc did not look well at all, despite having stopped vomiting hours ago. “Or rather, are you ready?”

Otto nodded meekly.

“Okay killa!” The elvish curse word resonated in the gloom. “When we get to the gate, I don’t want to hear a peep from either of you, you hear?” He did not wait for a response. “We’’ll slip in, get to the inserting point, and then,” he ran his dagger over his throat, “straight in at the pickin’ deep end!”

He neglected to mention the presence of the Sontari – the drow equivalent of royal guard. He figured that would be a welcome hello and a good time to introduce the outsiders to why precisely the arms deal could not go ahead.

[Hysteria]

Talen quickly covered her face again after speaking. The indignity of travelling in a crate has only been compounded by Otto's inability to handle motion sickness. She had, rather quickly, pulled herself off the bottom of the crate and was sitting in on of the corners several feet off the ground. A unique ability for infiltrating, she had been very quick to use her wall walking ability to escape some of the discomfort of being trapped in a box with a large amount of orc vomit. Both Otto and Malachi had looked at her with confusion as she defied gravity, but remained silent.

“Hold!” The call came from outside the crate. The three bedfellows within tensed. “What’s inside these crates?”

The voice was bored, slightly contemptuous. Talen figured the guards were nearing a shift change. Smart, I'll give him that. Just when the guards are most likely to let us through.

“Supplies mostly. Some ingredients for shops and what not.” The voice this time was one of Malachi's crew posing as the small scale merchant driving the wagon.

“What not indeed.” Replied the guard.

Talen looked out of the cracks in the wood. She could just make out the guard moving past the driver towards their crate. Talen bit her lip, the guard came closer and lifted his hand to his eyes to peer into the crate. Shadows sprung up from around Talen and washed over the inside of the crate turning everything black. Otto muffled a gasp in surprise. The guard peered in but couldn't see anything. A moment later he recoiled gripping his nose.

“Ahhh what the hell is in there? It smells like an Orc vomited!” The guard regained himself and pointed at the create for his men to open it.

“Ambergris!” Shouted the wagon driver, “its ambergris, you know for perfumes and stuff. You know, whale vomit.”

“Whale v-” The guard was stunned, “What are you trying to pull?”

“Um, cap'n I've heard of that stuff.” A voice from one of the other guards out of site, “the misses had me buy thi-”

“Alright! I get the point. Get this stinking crap out of here.”

With a wave of his hand the gate creaked open and the driver flicked the reins for the horses to continue.

[Otto]

Took the liberty of taking us to the collection point. As usual, please let me know if I need to change anything, and I'll be happy to do so.

Otto's cheeks, unseen in the darkness, burned scarlet. His stomach had settled enough that he wasn't in any danger of producing more eau de Otto, but he was humiliated and ashamed that he had brought them so close to discovery. He also felt bad about forcing the others to suffer the dense fug within the crate - although this was rivalled by his amusement at what it must be doing to Malachi.

The cart trundled on, with each occupant attempting to stick their noses to the largest holes they could find. As they made their way deeper into Ettermire, though, Otto couldn't decide which he found more sickening - the nauseating stink of the vomit-soaked crate, or the acrid fumes cascading from the chimney stacks around them. Radasanth had stunk, true, and Otto wasn't hugely fond his home city's particular mix of salt, fish and shit... but compared to the unchecked chemical smog of Ettermire, it was sweet perfume. A lone, amber eye peeked out through a gap in the crate's sick-soaked boards, taking in the form of the city. The eye widened in surprise.

Otto had a limited view of cracked, grey pavement, interspersed with heavily corroded iron grilles along the roadside. These funneled in streams here and there; thin trickles of grey water from crowded tenements, and stronger, gushing, polluted torrents from regularly placed factories. The buildlings were crusted with soot, the people grey-faced and thin, the air filled with the ring and clack of machinery. Somewhere nearby, a great horn let out a long, low roar that made the the crate's wooden frame rattle under Otto's fingers.

Malachi was right. Despite the obvious marvels of the place, he'd seen cesspits that were more inhabitable. But at the same time, he recognised the colossal might of industry here... and the overwhelming force of iron. It was all around him in the buildings, below the streets, even, somehow, in the sky. He could feel an army of iron tools beating away, and a molten river of the stuff flowing through the city.

And then, the feeling was gone. It wasn't normal for Otto to be able to sense the metal's presence so acutely. Perhaps Anvil had been overwhelmed by the sheer volume of it once they had passed through the gates, and simply had not been able to contain itself; the thing had proved itself capable of forcing its perspective on Otto in the past.

The wagon turned off the main drag after a few minutes, then spent another half hour meandering up smaller and smaller streets. The light was fading rapidly by this time, shifting from dreary grey, to a surprisingly incandescent gold, and, finally, a dying, blazing red. At long last, the cart rolled up a tight alleyway, surrounded by looming structures that cast them temporarily into darkness, before emerging into a cramped little courtyard.

"Just a little longer..." growled Malachi.

One of the drivers spoke to someone outside. "Check the alley, see if we bin followed", came his muffled voice, followed by the sound of receding footsteps. Then, after a short while stuffed with tense silence, the trio heard the footsteps return.

"Clear", said someone else.

"Alright, help me with this, then", muttered the driver.

They heard the sound of ropes sliding against each other.

"Bloody hell", exclaimed the lookout. "How tight did you want to tie this thing up?"

"If it's a problem, just use your knife", the driver replied.

Nah, almost got it. Ready? One, two - wait, do you smell something...?"

The crate lid flew up, and with it, rising like a vampire from the crypt, came Otto. As the two henchmen reeled back, the orc fumbled for a grip upon the crate's edge, hauled himself over, and slunk down to the cool stone ground. Malachi, meanwhile, wasted no time in hopping out, and Talen managed to rapidly vacate their transport while retaining her sense of grace.

Malachi strolled up to the prone orc. He looked down impassively at him for a moment, then slammed a foot into Otto's abdomen. The orc's eyes went wide, and he curled up, wheezing. Malachi put the boot in a few more times, hard, but without much apparent sense of rage.

"I told you no meat, killa", Malachi said when he was done. "You get off light, 'cause I want to keep you useful, and you kept most of it up your end... but the payment I got will only go so far. Understand?"

Otto, white faced and gasping, nodded feebly. Malachi seemed to find this acceptable.

"Right. Get up - there's a long way to go, yet."

[Mordelain]

They got half into a long way before somebody decided otherwise. They came from the shadows and alleyways, slinking, lethargically, as though they were afraid to approach.

“Malachi…,” Otto said, gruffly, and with a hint of apprehension.

“I’m not blind,” the dark elf replied.

True enough, he had seen them, drawn his slender blade, and parsed his feet before the orc had spoken. He remained utterly calm, and devoid of fear, or any emotion at all. It was as though the Black Sail expected trouble, as much as they caused it.

“You are however trespassing,” Joni, the bravest of their pursuers, added sarcastically.

“These lands, and these streets, belong to all elves killa,” Malachi spat. He sliced his blade through a cross or two, to show he was serious. “I cannot trespass in my own home.”

“I don’t think he was talking about you, dear,” Talen chided. Her eminent bulk, for a woman, seemed to become more imposing as she stepped out of the shadows, and into the immediate reach of the men’s blades and staves.

“It’s right,” Joni hissed. “You are not trespassing.” He pointed at Otto first, and then Talen. “They, on the other hand, are not welcome here.”

“They are with me, and those who are with me, sail with the Armada.” These words seemed to bring only Malachi comfort and power.

The thoroughfare darkened. The skies, eternally black with gunpowder smog swirled with depth and omen. The soot stained buildings that hemmed them in seemed to grow taller, as though they were alive, ensnaring would be undoes to their idyll. Otto and Talen had seen enough in their time to know a fight was to follow. Malachi had caused enough fights in his time to make sure he was the one to start, and finish it.

“This is Ettermire,” Joni growled. In the dark of his cavernous robes, a dagger, and a pair of fangs glinted. “No sea carries you.”

Malachi rushed forward with lightning in his limbs, and clashed blades with the rogue. The two others took this as a sign, one darting at Otto, the other at Talen. They produced equally vicious and barbed blades as they did so.

“No metaphors will carry you,” Malachi roared, over his blade, and into the white of Joni’s eyes.

Somebody, though Otto and Talen would likely never know whom, had tipped off the arms dealers that they were coming for them.

[Hysteria]

Talen's eyes widened, a wild fire burning within. The relaxed, easy smile across her face gave way to a broad animalistic snarl. Her blue eyes flashed back to Malachi. Like a trained dog she looked for the approval to attack, the command came instead from their assailants. The cruel blade flashed in the hazy light as the dark elf moved forwards. Talen lifted her hands, thin pale fingers pointed towards her opponent. For the ivory skinned woman the thrill of a fight was barely contained. With a jerk she ripped her hands outwards. A flash of darkness and huge metal war hammer appeared where none had been. The second the weight hit her hands she stumbled forwards slightly.

“You need some help with that missy?” mocked the Elf.

“Actually, if you wouldn't mind holding this for a second.” said Talen.

The wise cracking girl let the hammer head hit the ground and stepped passed it. Her arms trailed behind her, gripping the handle and ripping it forwards. The elf stepped forwards to press his advantage and sliced through the air with the practice of an expert swordsman. Talen released her grip of the hammer and let it sail forwards and herself stumble backwards.

A look of incredulousness struck the Elf's face as the hammer smashed into his chest and lifted him up off the ground and a clear two metres backwards. He landed with a sickening crunch with the hammer buried into his chest.

“Oh damn, Dehlar sure is heavy.” said Talen, her hammer weighing easily ninety kilos.

She placed her hands on her hips and scrunched up her face.

“Poop! Surely there is someone stronger?” Talen feigned a look of sadness as she looked around, “Pwease?”

“Bitch!” Shouted another Elf. His staff twirled easy through the air as he ran towards Talen. The girl crouched and side stepped the first thrust. The second swipe came and Talen exploded upwards into the air and sailed over the staff to land in front of the elf. Her fist shot forwards and cracked into the Elf's jaw sending him stumbling backwards.

“I didn't realise you spelt Elf w-i-m-p.”

[Otto]

Otto raised his hammer a couple of times during the ordeal, but to no end; Talen was doing a fine job of making the orc feel about as useful as a chocolate kettle. He watched the second elf spin with the force of her punch, then focused on Malachi's duel with the apparent leader of the other trio. Otto began to edge towards them - but Joni noticed this, and made an effort to keep the pirate captain between himself and the orc. Still, Otto was forcing Joni's hand, and Malachi was able to take advantage of his opponent's limited mobility by forcing him, slowly and steadily, up against a wall. Without an immediate foe before him, Otto found himself with time to reflect on this encounter.

It seemed a foolish move for Joni to attack them head on, with plenty of warning and without the advantage of numbers. But, then again, it had been Malachi who had started the fight; Joni had seemed quite happy to draw out the verbal exchange. Should he have more than two men with him, that would be a good tactic to give them time to circle around...

Otto whirled about, and saw a distinct lack of reinforcements emerging from the alleyways behind them. He was about to turn back to the dueling elves, but then - up atop the roof of a nearby building - he spied something gleam sinisterly through the smog-induced gloom. He looked to Malachi, only to see Joni stumble and fall backwards. Malachi loomed over the other elf, a satisfied grin plastered across his face, his sword poised to finish the duel. Otto, however, saw that Joni was also smiling.

Malachi's sword had barely begin its descent before it was swept wildly away to the side. Otto had tackled the pirate, sending them both sprawling onto the cobbles. There was a high-pitched whistle and crack as a stout dart skittered over a section of road in front of where Malachi had just been standing.

Otto quickly rolled away from Malachi. "It's me!" he shouted, as the elf raked his blade against the orc's shield.

"I should've known from the stench", Malachi growled. They looked towards Joni, who was scrambling to his feet. "It's just a crossbow - put that shield to use and cover me while I deal with this son of a bitch!"

The elf leapt up to face Joni once more. Otto clambered up with his shield held high, facing back towards the building's roof, but soon saw something that compounded their troubles.

"You'd better hurry up with that!" he yelled over his shoulder, as more figures slunk out from the alley mouths around them.

[Mordelain]

Malachi snorted. Few people in Alerar had the gall to tell him what to do. Fewer people told him precisely how to do it. All the same, he followed Otto's suggestion.

“You made a mistake coming here,” he gloated to his nemesis.

He trusted his blade with gusto. He tucked it at the last under the elf’s guard, and felt too much enjoyment as its tip pierced a ribcage. The elf exhaled noisily as the blade ruptured a lung. A deflated gasp slipped from his lips after a cry of surprise, and then he dropped to the floor unceremoniously.

“Ready then?” Talen asked a demure grin on her strangely masculine features.

“Steady,” Malachi warned. He pointed up at the rooftops, a stoic reminder, and Talen glanced skyway. She began to count the archers in tandem with the dark elf. They both sighed.

“Oh,” she said flatly.

“It’s funny…,” he began, before he let the train of thought drift into silence.

“I’m glad you’re amused,” Otto snorted. The curvature of his shield made his voice, already deep and booming, echo louder still. “But do you have a solution that won’t get us killed?” The dissension in his voice could have started a war.

Malachi stood upright, corrected his clothing, and puffed out his chest with mountains of confidence.

“The Black Sail doesn’t own Alerar waters for luck’s sake, pukey.” He unsheathed a small copper rod from a leather pouch on his hip with slow, unthreatening movements. “Fire on me if you dare killa!” He cried upward.

Several calamitous things happened in tandem.

A dozen crossbow bolts loosed.

Talen flickered with halcyon anti-thesis, and let lose an abyssal sphere at the parapets.

Discord. Chaos. Fun.

Malachi blew on the flute.

Skulls imploded, the bolts slowed mid-air, and the last remnants of the ambush party on the street level slipped into unconsciousness, or worse, endless sleep. It did not take much to unnerve Otto Bastum in the maelstrom of activity. His stomach turned a whirlpool of carrot, coriander, and beef.

“What…?” he mouthed. The condescension turned to disbelief. “Why aren’t we dead?” He almost sounded disappointed.

“Keep asking dumb questions and you soon will be,” Malachi retorted. His sly smile shone in the twilight.

That was all the suggestion the orc required to shut his mouth. He maintained his vigil behind his shield, his grey skin dancing in the twilight, eyes glistening with anticipation. He glanced at Talen, who, despite it all, remained remarkably non-chalant about the multitude projectiles floating around them threating to resume their flight at any moment.

“Look,” said Malachi, as he pointed to the nearest frozen bolt. “They’re still moving, just very slowly. I’ve only brought us some time.” He had refused to die at the bolt’s tip decades ago, when he decided crossbows were a coward’s weapon, and no way to win a fair or unfair fight. “I ain’t dying like that, that’s for sure,” he made to spit.

A flash of light broke over the northern horizon. Sunlight, a dawn of a new day in which dogs could truly thrive in the fetid squalor of Ettermire. North along the street teemed with darkness in the transition, and then, something appeared. Talen noticed it first. Malachi gobbled his phlegm. Otto, oblivious to the last, turned on heavy heels to face the intruder.

“How would you prefer, then?” Talen asked, the impending attack not cause for her curioisity to fade. “Sword to the gut?”

Malachi lifted up his top, revealing a cruel, still reddened scar.

“Tried that once,” he said softly. His eyes narrowed at the gloom, and then began to pick out unmistakable features. He swallowed a lump in his throat he would never admit had existed.

“Oh,” Talen said, dejected. It was her turn to sound disappointed. She flickered a long shadow knife into being, and then disbanded it with a sigh.

“Look, do this later,” Otto growled. He lowered his stance, dropped his shield as fire danced in the shadows, and felt his heart sink.

A cackle broke the tension.

“What…was that?” Talen rested her hands on her hips, tapped her foot, and watched the spiralling flames gather momentum. As the shadow turned into a man, or something alike a man, she answered her question in her head.

“That’s trouble…shit tons of it,” Malachi said. He did away with the copper pipe, produced a barbed, blackened, and poisoned blade from his back sheath, and bent at the knees. He wavered his blade in a loss, pirate-esque grip, and tensed every muscle in his body.

“Seems like your sort,” she clucked, as the fiery shadow turned into a quilled, cocksure, and innocuous man.

“He’s an enemy of my enemy, so that makes him our friend…sort of,” Malachi curled his lip, not certain his metaphor applied.

“Hello, cutter,” the tiefling trilled, losing hellfire from fingertips and inhaling the smoke from a dog end.

Otto roared. He charged at the plane walker in a blind, unfettered decree of rage.

[Otto]

Aur seems to have quite a bit on his plate, so he's asked me to write his introduction to the thread. So, buckle up, I guess? And Hysteria - I seem to have misremembered reading that you approved bunnies. I can't seem to find that anywhere now, though, but yeah - let me know if this seems okay.


Aur watched the orc thunder in, his inhuman eyes narrow and impassioned. He took another drag from the foul little roll-up, let the smoke curl sideways out of his mouth, and waited. A wry and very much unsurprised little smile twisted his visage, a smile that had burned itself painfully into Otto's memory. He stood fast until Otto was no more than a dozen feet away, at which point he glanced down at the lit cigarette, adjusted his grip upon it, and flicked it out in a graceful arc. The dog-end landed somewhere on Otto's face, eliciting a string of curses from the orc.

"Nar-thos baurab kurv!" screamed Otto, still charging in.

He swung blindly with the hammer, which connected with nothing, and staggered back when he caught movement in his peripheral vision. The tiefling had darted around to his side, the smile now terribly gleeful, and jabbed playfully at the orc with a fist. If Otto thought the fact that Aurelius hadn't drawn a weapon to be curious, he did not dwell on it. Instead he shifted his balance and prepared for another charge... and almost screamed when something dug agonisingly into the back of his skull. Without a second's thought, he ducked away and spun the hammer quickly behind his head. He felt the heavy iron tip caress his hair, and then it glanced off something hard and thin. There was an anguished, high-pitched mewl, as something buzzed away.

Otto looked up into Aur's approaching fist. The blow sent him reeling back, though he recovered much more quickly than the tiefling had expected.

"Touch Junior again, basher," Aurelius chirped, "and I'll ram that 'ammer up yer arsehole. Sideways."

The orc leapt forward with a growl. He swung and stabbed, and Aurelius danced around the blows. The tiefling was fast, much faster than his opponent, but the orc hefted his shield expertly and attacked with a deadly precision. Aurelius could hardly get a punch in, lest the stout hammer crush his knuckles to splinters. They fought furiously, and while Otto seemed intent on going through with a kill, Aurelius' refusal to arm himself combined with his playful grin suggested that the proceedings were little more than a game.

Talen and Malachi watched this curious turn of events from the sidelines. At length, Talen spoke up.

"This is all well and good, but perhaps we should separate them?"

Malachi nodded. "Let's put a leash on old pukeface before he gets himself hurt."

Thrust, duck, weave, parry, swing, dodge - the game went on. Aurelius fell back out of the way of a horizontal strike aimed at his teeth, kicked against the ground, and somersaulted cleanly away. When he landed, he spread his arms wide and offered the orc a mocking bow. Otto made to run forward once more, but something hooked him by the ankle and dropped him heavily upon the cobbles. He immediately tried to scramble up, and was just as quickly pushed back down as someone placed a foot firmly in the small of his back.

"I think that's enough playing around", said Talen, somewhere above him.

Malachi came in to view halfway between himself and Aurelius. As Otto looked up, something else caught his attention. His eye was dragged to a small, pale shape, which buzzed through the air on black wings and landed softly on the tiefling's shoulder. Light gleamed upon its wicked steel talons, and it opened a dead mouth to hiss balefully at the orc. Otto gazed in disbelief at the vile, naked little thing, and he smelled then a smell he had always associated with the watch house morgue; a cloying stink of chemicals and transformed tissue. Aurelius looked at the preserved foetus on his shoulder, and stroked its cheek with the back of a curled finger.

"Welcome 'ome, Junior", Aurelius crooned.



Nar-thos baurab kurv: "sackless son of a whore."

[Hysteria]

The long, dark appendage wrapped around Otto's ankle slowly retreated. The shadowy limb had emerged from the small of Talen's back; giving the woman the appearance of having a long dark tail. The tail lifted up behind her, reaching from the base of her back up past her head even with the tip hanging backwards. She looked somewhat like a skunk, the white of her skin contrasting against the black of her cloths and tail. It took Talen a few moments before she removed her foot from the Orc's back.

“We might as well do this together,” Talen's blue eyes lifted to Aurelius, her long lashes flashing towards the Tiefling as she pressed her lips together. Almost as an afterthought her arms across her chest, very purposefully framing her low cut top. The Tiefling smile widened as their eyes met.

“I'm going to enjoy beating the shit out of you” said Talen.

Aurelius's smile only got bigger. The sadistic streak emerging like so much waste the night after the famed Akashima fermented squid eating competion.

The dark woman took a step to the side to let Otto stand. She did the opposite, dropping to a crouch and letting her tail lift into the air in a stance oddly resembling a scorpion. Her dark hair hung down around her head her face lifted up plastered with the nearly a mirror image smile to her opponent. The tingle tail flicked wildly around, splitting and breaking into two, then four and finally six. Talen 's tails flicked the whipped around, turning into a mass of wriggling darkness. The dark woman lunged forwards. Her hands and feet pushed her body across the ground. The stone road flew beneath her, the woman skidding to a stop just before reaching Aurelius. The tails lashed out to attack the Tiefling. The moved in freakish unison, a cascade of attacks as they shot outwards. Each one stretched far passed its original length with enough damage to take out a normal man in a single hit if he wasn't lucky.

[Aurelianus Drak'shal]

Aurelius chuckled, fangs displayed in a rictus grin of pleasure.

Otto dragged himself back to his feet now that the chit's foot wasn't on his back and both of them squared off against him. It was almost adorable. The tiefling finished petting Junior and sent the horrific little creation airborne with a wave of his hand, before turning his attention back to his would-be enemies.

"It's almost like you ain't 'appy to see me, basher," he smirked at the bruised orc, running his forked tongue over his fangs.

He let his serpentine eyes flick back and forth between the pair, ignoring Malachi for the moment. The warlock shrugged his coat higher, the myriad buckles jingling softly, but still made no move to draw a weapon. He could see Otto was slightly puzzled by that one - at their last meeting, Aurelianus' blades had tasted the orc's blood many times, but here he was outnumbered and possibly outclassed, and he was leaving himself empty-handed. But judging by his nonchalant air, and his casual stance, the half-demon couldn't care less. Indeed, he ignored the orc and the woman as they started to prepare for combat, finally letting his soulless gaze alight on the dark elf.

"Might want to rein in the pups, Malachi. Wouldn't want 'em gettin' 'urt now, would we?" he grinned viciously, cocking his head slightly, black veins worming under his marble-skin. He gave his neck a quick twist this way and that, releasing some tension in a series of audible clicks before he turned his horned visage back to the berks, flexing his fingers down by his sides.

The plane-touched raised an eyebrow as the shadowy limb extending from the girl's back shuddered and split itself into six sinuous tentacles, all swaying in eerie unison - it reminded the guttersnipe of something, but he didn't have time to try and place it as she launched herself at the arrogant half-breed. But he saw the move coming; the way the woman's muscles bunched right before the leap, the sinister gleam in her eye mixed with the obvious pleasure she was taking in the opportunity to hurt him.. all of it told the insurrectionist what was coming, giving him more than enough time to react.

As soon as her body left the ground, Drak'shal threw his own weight backwards, kicking off the ground again as he had only a few moments ago with the rampaging orc juggernaught. The agile tiefling flipped gracefully out of the space Talen landed in a moment after, palms facing the girl and her lashing tendrils of darkness.

Even as his heavy hobnailed boots hit the cobblestones, the dozens of piercings and accessories he wore rattling all over his bladed frame, the warlock unleashed two roaring gouts of black Hellfire from his hands. The unholy conflagration scorched across the cobbles, eating into the tentacles that would have pulverised him had he stayed still, and headed for their maker.

[Otto]

It was a poor soldier who couldn't look after his squadmates. Otto lunged in and fielded his shield against the hellfire, most of which spattered thickly onto the scarred oak disk. The orc promptly slammed the shield face-down onto the cobbles - there was a short-lived hiss and a puff of smoke - then raised it back up. A freshly scorched flower was distinctly visible, lightly etched into the woodwork and still trailing thin streamers of smoke. Some of his own fire had been banked, too, though not extinguished; Otto stepped away from the woman and began to circle around, so that Aurelius would be forced to present his flank to one of his opponents.

"They gave you your hand back, then," Otto remarked. "Pity. I'd have liked to hold on to it."

"Yeah, well, keep at it," Aurelius quipped back. He did his own slow and cautious dance, a delaying action to Otto's advance. "You might get lucky one of these days."

With rage abated, unease started to creep into Otto's breast. This meeting hardly seemed coincidental - but the mission had been confidential. Hadn't it? Had Aurelius somehow managed to steal classified military intelligence? As for his motives... was he here just to sabotage everything, again?

The orc's iron-shod shoes rattled over the cobbles. The dead street and its silence was also something that worried him, but he couldn't afford to take his eyes off of Aurelius. You couldn't trust him. Surely anyone who'd met the bastard knew that. Aurelius couldn't hide what he was, not really, and he hardly seemed the type to try. Ruthless, bloodthirsty, cruel, in that terribly obsessive way of humans and their ilk. He got a kick from that, but it was also a performance, a way to show off. Otto knew the type, though not so far gone as Aurelius. He'd met enough of them in the ranks...

Oh, gods. Surely the CAF didn't trust him?

[Mordelain]

Malachi was not impressed. Lately his plans had been going swimmingly. His business was profitable. His infamy virulent. His iron grip over the rebellion unbreakable. The moment he agreed to something nice, it all went tits up.

“Right you ‘orrible lot!” he roared abreast a wind from the south. It was almost as if he himself had conjured it.

Talen turned just in time. He saw the hellfire, swallowed his pride, and rolled…no, collapsed out of harm’s way. Wherever or not his maneavours would serve to save his skin, Malachi was not paying attention.

“Me?” Otto balked. He turned to the Drow, arms steadfast, and defence still raised in case Aurelianus tried anything (which he would).

“All of you,” lashed a black tongue. The power behind the words was palpable. It cracked against the bloodied stone, stayed sword hands, and abated anger. Even the tiefling, anarchic deity, had to pay attention.

“What?” the three recruits said in disheartened union. Shrugged shoulders and slack jaws, for a brief moment, held peace.

“Either we all get out of this alive, or some of us give up that life for a master’s whim.” Though here, Malachi was the master, even he had superiors that were happy to dispose of the pirate king for profit and power in circles none in Alerar could ever understand. “Savvy?”

Otto ‘got it’ immediately. He eased up to show willing, but not weakness. Talen stood upright, singed but alive, and nodded with a feminine swagger uncannily like a man’s gall. The tendrils of hellfire faded into darkness, nothing more than wisps of disappointment and failure.

Predictably, the tiefling was not convinced. He let his quills, and his wit quiver. He let…Junior shuffle at his feet, a non-chalant and statuesque detritus. The hired help, those that still lived, dropped their weapons and/or died/fainted/faked defeat. The upended crate, still filled with vomited stew, seemed almost inviting to Malachi.

“I. Said. Savvy?” he barked again.