Round 1 Part B-2v1

[Solar Haven]

Quentin Boone, Callan vs Aurelianus Drak’shal

Begins March the 15th at 12:01 am EST. The fight ends March the 29th at 12:01 am EST.

[Aurelianus Drak'shal]

The cold was biting, even inside the small woodcutter's shed.

Flurries of snow were coming down outside, piling up against the small door even as Aurelius watched, the light slowly getting dimmer as it piled up against the walls. The wind cut right through the wooden walls, shrieking through the pair of bodies sitting inside like a knife. The tiefling bit back a shiver, perched on the edge of a small pile of cut logs, his coat buckled closed, collar turned high against the icy gale. His inhuman eyes scanned the room for the thousandth time, picking out every minute detail as he tried in vain to warm himself up with a smoke. It was a small shed, only about eight feet square, located not far from one of the Eiskalt lumber yards. The camp itself had been abandoned early on in the face of the encroaching war. The insides were black with damp, the ever-present snow soaking into the wood when it melted, on those rare occasions the sun dished out more than the barest whisper of heat.

Aurelianus' hand shook as he brought it up to his lips, taking the roll-up between two fingers and exhaling a coiling cloud of thick smoke. From what he'd seen of Eiskalt so far, such times were rarer than unicorn farts. The cigarette returned to his pale-lipped mouth, the ember on the tip the only real source of light within the hut.

The half-demon pulsed two flashes of Hellfire up his hands, instantly filling the small space with the stink of burning blood as he rubbed them together and stamped his hobnailed boots on the floor as he fought off the incipient, creeping cold. He wasn't a fan of the cold, as he had discovered often enough during his work in Salvar, but this place made it seem cosy in comparison. It had been fouling his mood since he set foot in the damned country.

"I don't know what Blaze or Ulroké want with this pikin' 'ell'ole, but the sooner they take the soddin' place, the sooner I can piss off back to warmer climes," he snarled, his black tongue lashing his fangs.

He finally returned his attention to the only other occupant of the shed.

"So what do you say, cutter? We'll 'urry this along, and I'll be on my merry way, eh?"

The man spat an unintelligible response, his face a bloody ruin, the rest of his body not faring much better. He was human, though it was getting increasingly hard to tell under the heinous damage Aurelius was heaping on his flesh. The man was tied down to a workbench the half-breed had dragged into the middle of the room; the bonds were, by this point, unnecessary as the tiefling had broken the man's arms and legs near the start of his playtime. He leaned in close, his serpentine eyes locked to the human's, his quilled visage barely a fingers-breadth away from the piteous sod.

"Sorry mate, I didn't quite 'ear that," he smirked, cocking his head and turning a pierced, tapered ear to the human's mewling.

The man gurgled out another string of thick, liquid syllables, tears rolling down his bruised and cut cheeks.

"Bloody 'ell, you're right!" the malcontent sadist chuckled, slapping his forehead with a bloodied palm. He reached into a pocket on his buckle-laden coat, and drew out a thick strip of pinkish meat, scorched black at one end, waving it at the man. It was.. it had been a tongue.

"You won't be able to tell me much without this."

Of course, the human didn't need to tell the smiling devil anything else. He was a courier, in the service of the Ixian Knights. His name was Jermien. Not that the cruel bastard had ever bothered to find out. Aurelius had caught him about three miles from here, running messages to some of the generals and field commanders that had been brought in to Eiskalt to stave off the hostile forces. Sadly for them, the hostile forces had been in the country before them. The monster had tracked him through the forest, like a cat toying with a mouse, teasing and prodding him for a while. Eventually, there had been white-noise and pressure and pain.. and he had woken up strapped to this table with his head ringing and one eye gummed shut with congealed blood.

The warlock turned his back on the mangled courier, tossing the tongue off to the side of the room. There was a happy squeak from the shadows in the corner, and then the unmistakable sounds of.. feeding. Jermien clamped his eyes shut, not sure he ever wanted to see what madness followed this inhuman bastard around. Tears continued to slide down his face, stinging the wounds as they trickled salt into the raw, open flesh.

Charms and talismans bound around Aurelius' wrists jingled and chimed together as the warlock rifled through the papers in Jermien's haversack again, picking out various notes, orders and letters meant for the Ixian armies. He read through them all, smoke still coiling from the corners of his mouth as he worked through yet another cigarette. The courier tried to crane his neck, to see which ones the fiend was reading, but every movement was agony and deep down, the man knew he was never getting out of here to tell anyone their orders had been compromised. Even if the gloating bastard had untied him and told him he was free to go, his arms and legs were maimed, the pale, bloodless flesh pierced with bloody shards of bone - Aurelius hadn't even laid a hand on him to do it. The horned horror had gestured at him as though bored, and his bones had been smashed as though by unseen hammer-blows. It was vile sorcery. But, then had come the hands-on parts. The half-fiend had taken great delight in picking out the wood-workers tools, and turning them onto the man's flesh.

He hadn't even asked any questions.

He had just.. revelled in the agony he was inflicting. The creature had whistled as he slid awls under the man's fingernails. He had told jokes as he forced the plane across Jermien's chest, peeling long, coiling strips of bloody flesh away. The files, saws, chisels, hammers... Jermien didn't even know how long the misery had lasted. It could have been hours, it could have been days. The only indication any time had passed was when the half-breed would take a break to enjoy another cigarette, and lap the thick, red vitae from his hands with that disgusting, black tongue, or to throw another scrap of Jermien to whatever lurked in the shadows.

Drak'shal, stubbing out his cigarette on one of the logs, swung his horned head back to his plaything, tucking a handful of the letters and sheafs of paper into his satchel. He could sell these on to any of his "allies" for a nice little sum. Or, he could use them to his own advantage. The Anarchist was still not sure where his loyalties would remain in this conflict. That was, in his eyes, the only drawback to a war like this; there were too many possibilities, too many rubes to take advantage of, and too many angles to play.

It was like his name-day celebration, come early!

The tiefling adjusted some of the straps holding his coat closed, the buckles rattling as he moved. The courier hadn't seen what was under the coat, but every now and again a blade forced its way through the leather, slicing a neat little line before the gash sealed itself again, like water. The human could only try not to imagine what sort of monster lay beneath the leather. The horns, the eyes, the fangs, and the quills crowning his head.. if this was the sort of beast fighting against Eiskalt, what hope was there?

"Well, looks like I 'ave everythin' I need from you, mate."

The smile cut through him almost as keenly as the cold.

"Tell you what, though, I'll make a deal with you. You tell me what these letters say is true, and I end this for you quick."

Jermien would have laughed if he could. But, when he tried, he only succeeded in gurgling some blood from his mouth, down his chin to pool in the hollow of his neck. What difference did it make? It probably didn't matter what he said, he was going to die either way. He didn't even feel his wounds anymore, and he knew enough to know that meant the end was close.

Aurelius seemed to sense the thoughts in him.

"Aye, you're right. Doesn't make much of a difference, does it? Even if they are bollocks, nobody would tell the messenger boy."

He seemed to ponder this for a moment, running a hand over the tattoos sliding across his scalp. The hint of a cruel smirk never once left his alabaster face.

"Tell you what, 'ow about you promise not to tell anyone I was 'ere, and I'll pen you in the dead-book right now."

Was the devil mocking him? If he agreed, the bastard would kill him, and he couldn't tell anyone anyway. Was he mad? Considering the state of his flesh, Jermien knew that was likely the case. He forced a weak nod before his head slumped back to the table, his energy almost gone. He could see his weak breaths misting in the air before him.

Aurelius smiled, almost amicably.. or it might have been, if not for his utterly inhuman features, splashed with stark streaks of crimson from his casual torture. He pulled the sleeve of his coat up, exposing a series of bladed armour segments running up his left arm and with one quick motion, opened his palm on one of the barbs. He took up Jermien's own hand, the one he had slowly sawed the fingers from and pressed them together, their blood mixing in the bizarre handshake.

Maybe it was just his approaching death, but Jermien swore the shadows in the room deepened in that heartbeat. But before he could think anything else, the tiefling was there, as intimately close as a lover, his hot, smoke-sour breath brushing the other man's face like the grim hand of death. Jermien never saw the blade that slid through under his jaw, never felt the razor-edge part his flesh as it rammed up through the soft part of the roof of his mouth. The knife sank to the hilt, the blade buried in his brain and that was it for Jermien, loyal servant of the Ixian Knights.

There was a vague shimmer around the body as Aurelianus stepped away, wiping his knife clean on Jermien's jerkin. Then he realised that was just as bloody, and gave up. He stepped back, a shiver running up his spine, but not from the icy cold this time. Something rose up from the courier's ruined flesh, hovering in the air for the briefest moment before it drifted over to the warlock half-breed. Drak'shal leaned closer, taking an unnaturally deep breath. The heat haze slowly climbed its way inside him, worming up his nostrils and down his throat, almost burning his flesh where it touched. It wracked his senses, knocking him to his knees in what were almost seizures of ecstasy. He could sense the sheer relief and release of the tortured soul escaping the agony of living.

It only took a minute.

The warlock shook his head to clear it of the pleasure-addled fog, feeling more alert, his senses prickling, every sound and sight popping to him, every caress of ice-cold air on his skin like knives. He felt like every nerve ending was crackling with electricity, every beat of his heart sending liquid fire around his veins. Nothing compared. It was always different, when he took someone's soul. It would always affect them differently, but much more than that, each different soul would affect him in a unique way. It was as if each had its own distinct.. flavour.

He savoured the sensations for a while, basking in the afterglow. But eventually, the feelings dulled, his senses returned to their norm, and he was left feeling slightly empty without it.

Still, the tiefling knew exactly where to go if he wanted more.

He took one of the letters from his satchel, reading over it again as he slid another cigarette into his mouth. The note was a short list of various mercenaries the Ixians had brought in to Eiskalt, and their last known locations. A wicked, razor-edged grin split his gore-streaked features as he imagined the havoc he was going to sow for the poor berks named on the sheet. His hungry gaze lingered on the two names at the top of the list.

Callan Blacksnake, and Quentin Boone.

[Quentin Boone]

Snow had been falling for days and the thick blanket of cold dampened Quentin's boots with every crunch-inducing step. As the flurries whipped around the camp in Unum, Quentin felt quite at home; the warmer climes of Corone were oft-times too much for the brawler to handle, so he welcomed the wintry storms of Eiskalt. They reminded him of home, in Salvar, where he hadn't been for over five years.

The camp was a uniform grid of tents in various colours from brown to red to turquoise. Narrow pathways provided routes around the camp, that was once a training ground for Eiskalt's army. Gone were open yards for weapons practice, wooden storage shacks had been demolished and new fences erected to contain the many foreign soldiers and mercenaries brought into the country by the Ixian Knights. A cacophony of accents and languages filled the the air, accented by the swooshing of blades being sharpened and the clangs of smiths mending weapons and armour in their tents. Small fires were lit in front of each tent, some were used for cooking, others purely for heat as those from Southern countries struggled to tolerate the cold despite being wrapped in thick pelt coats and blankets and scarves. Quentin shook his head at each person who professed his amazement that the brawler wore only the leather vest he always donned.

Quentin made his way through the camp, and as he looked around, columns of smoke could be seen in the distance from all directions. This was a common sight for the Salvaran, and he sighed as he remembered the civil war that very nearly brought his country to ruins. The brawler had never been a soldier, unlike some of the men in camp, but he was a veteran of war nonetheless. He had seen the destruction and chaos war carried with it, watched as the poor fell into squalor and those in squalor started to die. He'd seen families ripped apart from death, children left as orphans and forced to survive on their own. He had also seen the rich benefit from much-needed trade, improving their positions in social hierarchies. The bearded brawler hated war. He hated being poor more, though, and that was why he was walking between tents at far too early in the morning.

Quentin was being patched up following another brutal Citadel fight when a pimply ginger-haired kid walked into The Empty Hand brandishing the insignia of the Ixian Knights on his left breast. The inn's common room fell silent and the boy wasted no time in stammering through the announcement he read from a crumpled piece of parchment.


"By order of the Ixian Knights, I hereby proclaim a reward for assistance in defending the country of Eiskalt. The island country is currently under threat by two forces, and the Ixian Knights have pledged their forces in defence of the realm. We do not have sufficient numbers to provide ample protection, however, and require more soldiers. As such, any who can wield a sword or fight that serves us is guaranteed recompense of three thousand gold each. Ships will leave the port at dawn three days from now. Register and board on that morn and you will be taken to Eiskalt to serve under the Knights. Gold will be paid upon your return."

The promise of money had piqued Quentin's attention, and though he was hesitant to leave the others behind, especially with the fat bastard of an inn keeper leering over the young'in at any opportunity, the money would pay for their rooms for at least a couple of months, with enough surplus to feed them for several weeks, it was an offer he couldn't let pass. He also figured that he was sneaky and street-wise enough to actually survive to receive his payment.

It irked him slightly that Callan had also decided to come along. Sure, the boy was a much more capable swordsman than Quentin, but the brawler would have preferred a fighter staying behind to protect the others. "Where's the whelp anyway?"

Quentin was searching for his friend inside the camp; the two were taken here on different ships, but the registration list said they were both in the same camp.

Boone continued his search through the camp while taking note of some of the others who had signed on to the war. It saddened him that not everyone even had a chance of getting home. The grizzled veterans who sat smoking pipes or sharpening their blades had a fire in their eyes that spoke of war being their native environment; these fighters would at least have some chance of survival. Every now and then, however, boys just starting to grow sparse, blonde beards sat with fear and hesitation painted across their faces, some alone trying to rationalise their foolish decision, others talking to their more experienced elders and seeking advice. One boy was being shown by a grey-haired man with an axe across his broad shoulders where to strike with a dagger. That he didn't already know told Quentin he'd be dead within a few days.

Sub-consciously, the bearded brawler checked his own weapons. The throwing knives at his wrist, dagger at his waist, and Berevaran bear hide wraps for his hands. The steel spikes were sharp, and would have given several fighters in the Citadel horrific scars if not for the Ai'Brone monks. Almost, Boone wished they were here, he wasn't coming out of this unscathed, that was for sure and the healing power of the monks would help ensure he would at least get home alive. It almost tempted him. Quentin hated anything to do with religion, and that included the benevolent monks that made the Citadel in Radasanth their residence.

He donned the hand wraps, flexed his fingers a few times to make the hide fit perfectly, and near instantly regretted doing so. An Ixian Knight appeared from Quentin's blind left side and prevented the brawler from going any further. The knight wore a full suit of polished armour and looked threatening with a frame as tall as Quentin's and nearly twice as wide. Cold blue eyes peered through the slit in the helmet as Boone was assessed from top to bottom. "Boone, right?"

The knight barked the question, clearly expecting a swift answer. There was clear disdain in the tone of his voice and Quentin surmised the commander of the camp was the type who thought fighting for money was dishonourable or some other crazy notion. "That'd be me. Wha' can I do fer ya?"

"What you've been paid for, mercenary. Find Blacksnake and patrol the streets of Unum proper. We hear there's trouble brewing and need a forward scout before we send in more forces."

Quentin pointed to his right leg. "Ya know tha' gives me a limp, right? Scout's should be quick and agile."

The knight snorted and his eyes drifted to Quentin's wrapped hands. "You look ready for some action. You are in the employ and service of the Ixian Knights now. Follow your orders."

The knight was right, of course. Boone had no choice but to follow orders, and he was itching for a fight anyway. He stood at attention, and gave a mock salute as he replied while trying to hold back a slight laugh, "Sir, yessir!"

The knight simply nodded and walked away. Quentin growled, he had hoped to get some reaction from the man with a stick up his back. Soldiers were far too often arrogant and viewed themselves above others; something the bearded brawler had learned from the Salvaran civil war.

"Tha' bloody boy be'er be 'round 'ere somewhere or I'll box 'is bloody ears!" Quentin was frustrated. Not at Callan, really, but at the situation he was in. The war, The Empty Hand, having to live in Corone, scraping a living by putting his already-battered body through more punishment twice a week at the Citadel, having no choice but to let the girl fuck that fat bastard, the smell of unwashed bodies and the blurred darkness in the left of his vision.

He stalked through the camp with a nasty scowl creasing his face, growling at everything and nothing. Young and old alike turned their heads to avoid eye contact with the clearly angry bear of a man as he made his way through the camp towards the armoury.

"What do you need?" asked the man behind the table blocking access to the largest tent in the camp. He too avoided eye contact with Quentin, and a nervous shifting of feet muddied the snow beneath him.

"Gi' me an eyepatch if ya have one. The blur is distracting."

The armourer disappeared into the tent for a few minutes and came back with a black leather eyepatch hanging from his fingers. "That should do you, I think. Is there anything else?"

Quentin took the patch and looked at it. It was a solid enough leather, with an unknown pattern etched into it, painted red and white. The brawler donned it and turned from the tent to continue looking for Callan, ignoring the armourer now he had what he wanted.

The brawler decided to make one more trip of the camp to find his friend. If he couldn't find him, he'd go into Unum himself. Staying here for much longer would drive him insane.

[Aurelianus Drak'shal]

Quentin Boone wasn't the only one stalking the Ixian camp with thoughts of bloodshed dancing through his head.

Aurelius strolled softly through the assembled groups of men, all of them either chatting nervously with their friends, or sitting in sullen silence, victims of the nagging doubts every man had to face before a real fight. The half-demon turned his eye over them, sizing up the veterans and the rookies, the war-born and the walking deaders. So far what he had seen hadn't impressed him much. But, what the force lacked in discipline, it more than made up for in numbers.

His lithe frame was hidden beneath a heavy fur cloak he had lifted from an unattended tent, the hood drawn up over his head to mask his obviously inhuman features from casual scrutiny. Technically he had the right to walk through the camp unmolested - the Ixians had paid him for work before, but he was canny enough to know that didn't mean he was welcome. Arrogance aside, Aurelianus knew if he drew too much attention to himself, trouble would find him soon enough - even his mighty ego quietly admitted he didn't stand much chance against the two or three hundred soldiers and sell-swords stationed here. And he had no intention of having his fun ruined today.

He drew the cloak tighter around himself, his coat and armour underneath still not enough to ward off the vicious chill in the wind. He had spent the first hour or two in the camp sizing up what sort of strength the Orlouges had brought with them from Corone, his Anarchist training telling him to know everything he could about the enemy. He could sell on information like this to any of the hostile forces for a nice sum; like the copies he had made of the orders and missives taken from poor, dead Jermien. His tongue lashed across his fangs slowly as he finally decided he had a good enough idea of the camp and its occupants to finally get to the real laugh - skinning the mercenaries on his list.

One of the other names on it was already dead, burned alive on the ice-plains while out on an ill-fated hunting party, about a day's journey between here and the logging shed he had occupied with the courier. Three other men had accompanied the sod, but none of them had seen Aurelius coming until two of them already writhed in gouts of roaring black Hellfire. But he had been hearing more of the two he had marked at the top, and now had his black little heart set on penning them in the dead-book personally. Sitting at various campfires long enough to grab a few tin mugs of thin broth, the tiefling had already heard the chant on the two bastards; one was young, apparently handy with a sword. But his sort were hardly rare among a force of this size. No, it was the other one - Boone - that had made an impression. Some of the men claimed they had seen him fight in the Citadel on occasion. A brawler and a brute by all accounts, preferring to get up close and dirty with his opponents; the warlock had liked what he was hearing.

If I'm lucky, the wanker'll gimme some sport before 'e's a deader, he thought with a smirk.

No-one paid him much mind as he walked through the shin-deep snow, weaving between campfires, tents and men. He knew what to look out for, but he was having little luck finding anyone with any sort of authority so far. There was a soft squirming in the satchel against his hip, but he paid it no mind. Junior was nestled within with a few choice strips of the courier to keep him sated. The half-breed could probably talk his way around the features gifted to him by his demonic heritage, but an animated foetus hovering at his shoulder was another matter entirely. He slid a hand under the cloak to pat the satchel reassuringly, as his eyes finally found what he had been hunting for.

A man stood in the middle of a small group of soldiers - actual Ixian troops, instead of the rabble the Anarchist had marked all over - barking orders and gesturing his plate-armoured arms angrily.

The guttersnipe sneered softly to himself as his serpentine eyes scrutinised the human. He had never liked heavy armour, knowing from experience it made it that much harder to hit a fast-moving target, and against an opponent who knew where to strike - neck, under the arms, elbows, back of the knees - it was simply a steel coffin. His slender fingers unconsciously caressed the rough demon-hide wrapping the grips of his green-steel blades as he watched the group disperse, leaving the man on his own. The tiefling was moving before he could even think about it, and had to rein himself in as he remembered he wasn't here to murder the Ixian. He slid the hideously serrated blades back into their sheaths and continued striding towards the addle-cove.

"Commander," he called out, putting on his best Coronian accent.

The knight paused, turning his considerable bulk to face Aurelianus. His eyes, barely visible inside his all-enclosing helmet, clearly didn't think much of what they saw.

"I'm busy," he snapped, "what do you want, and make it quick!"

Inside, hidden from his reaction by sheer willpower, Drak'shal bristled at being addressed like some bloody servant. But that's exactly what you 'are', he chided himself, letting the mantle of subservience settle on his shoulders.

"Apologies, my lord. I come to deliver your orders," the malcontent said, his voice soft and stripped of all his usual accent.

He rummaged under the cloak and brought out the courier's haversack, stuffed with the orders he had decided to leave in and take copies of. The canny Cager had also removed any of the more important letters, regarding how the war fared for the Ixian forces elsewhere. Sowing misinformation and interrupting lines of communication were ploys as old as the planes themselves, and the Anarchists had drilled their use into every member from their first days. Aurelianus Drak'shal was no exception, and he played the games of intrigue well.

He held the courier's pack out to the knight, waiting patiently. There was a deep metallic sound from within the helmet, and the half-demon's keen senses picked up several curses and less than pleasant adjectives before the huge steel fist snatched the sack from his pale hands. Aurelius made no move to leave, and the commander towered over him, eyes glaring down at the top of the hooded head before him. The tolling of bells heralded his battering-ram arms being folded over his siege-tower chest.

The tin-man didn't deign to speak, but the question was implicit in his posture.

"I.. uh," the half-breed stammered, perfectly feigning intimidation and fear of the knight-commander. "I have other orders here, sir," he finished quietly, his voice trailing off.

"Well, hand them over you simpleton," the metal giant boomed, his patience wearing thin.

"Sir, they.. my apologies sir, but the orders aren't for you. They are for.." he made a show of fishing out a sheet of parchment from under his cloak and reading the name from it, "for Callan Blacksnake and Quentin Bone, sir. Direct from General Trask."

No stranger to deceit, the insurrectionist has read the name signed at the foot of most of the orders. The devil really was in the details.

"Boone, you fool."

Again, the tiefling's tapered ears snatched the muttered words from the air.

"Bloody sell-sword scum."

"Sir?"

"Nothing. Get moving then, messenger. Boone. You'll find the sell-sword heading for Unum. Hurry and you might catch up to him, I just sent him off myself to patrol. Thayne know where the other one is."

As the walking scrap-heap turned on his heel, he swore under his breath a final time: "But when I find him, I'll whip him bloody myself."

Bowing his head low, Aurelius backed away from the behemoth and ducked away through the camp again heading for the city. A contemptuous sneer crossed his lips at the idea the anthill could even be considered a city, but he couldn't hide the smirk from his face. Pikin' leather'eads, he thought with a wry chuckle. He wasn't surprised in the slightest how easily the commander had swallowed the snake-tongued devil's lies. After all, it was in his nature - lies were as much a part of the guttersnipe as violence. And to a man used to the strictures of hierarchy, questioning orders was as unthinkable as a servant outsmarting him.

As soon as the warlock was out of sight of the camp, the cloak was discarded and once again the witch-hunter's hat was placed atop his horned brow. A trophy, taken from a humiliated Sway operative, the tooled blood-red leather still bore the Sway's emblem, though now defaced by the item's current owner and the brim still bore the notch from Aurelius' own knife. It was with a distinct sense of irony that the demon-blooded pyromancer wore the mark of the rhabdophobic sect. He unbuckled his coat as he stalked the mercenary, freeing up his range of movement and displaying the sadistic bladed armour he always wore. The half-breed shivered as the wind sliced through his flesh, bringing up goosebumps across his alabaster skin. His hobnailed boots trudged through the snow, his pace quickening in time with his pulse. He could have kept the disguise, it was true, but so far this "war" had provided his degenerate lusts little and he was hoping to thoroughly enjoy himself.

This was the moment he lived for. The thrill of the hunt, the taste of murder-soon-to-be thrilling his forked tongue. A shiver of perverse delight crawled up his spine.

It wasn't long before Aurelius marked the basher up ahead, strolling down one of the piss-poor excuses this shit-hole called streets, his arms bare to the savage cold, metal glinting along his knuckles as he marched on his patrol.

Boone.

Aurelius bit back a stab of disappointment as he saw the human was alone.

Ah well, he shrugged with his usual twisted cheeriness, can't 'ave it all me own way.

Putting two slender fingers in his mouth, Drak'shal let out a piercing, shrill whistle that split the quiet tension in the air like a razor on flesh. It got Boone's attention, as well as the two or three people out on the street. They quickly withdrew as one of the serrated Baatorian knives slid from its sheath like a whisper.

"Quentin Boone," the half-breed's lips parted in a cruel grin, fangs bared, "been lookin' for you, basher."

[Quentin Boone]

Quentin turned as he heard the shrill whistle pierce the quiet of a war-emptied Unul. Of course, a few stragglers remained behind in the city: those who received warnings too late or stubborn old men who refused to leave their homes. During his patrol, the bearded brawler had tried to tell people to stay inside, but not one of the Eiskaltians paid heed to a foreigner, even one who was here to help them. Finally, they were forced inside and Quentin saw why, if a half-second later than everyone else thanks to his left eye.

Before him, holding a serrated dagger was Iharkav. Boone had never seen the man before but the stories told in Knife's Edge were enough for him to both recognise and fear the monster just a little further up the street. Quentin had no intentions of fighting this man, this demon, and made no hesitation as he started his retreat. Despite the stiffness of his leg, Quentin could still run at a reasonable pace and he did so into a small path between houses. As he made for his escape, the brawler sent one of his throwing daggers through the air, hoping to catch Iharkav off-guard and hit him in the shoulder to disable the arm that held the serrated blade.

Down the small path was a tiny crossroads and Boone took the left, moving further into the city. He whisked past a couple more buildings before turning right, then left again, before taking another right. Snow made getting a good grip uneasy, but the brawler had grown up in Knife's Edge where there was always snow and despite a few slips of his feet, he managed not to fall. His right leg was still stiff and after only a few minutes, Quentin had to stop. He sheltered himself in a small shack - perhaps a hawkers storeroom, judging by the myriad little trinkets piled into boxes along its walls - and kept low for several moments, taking the opportunity to draw his iron dagger and rub his leg to ease the building ache.

Quentin didn't stay in the shack for long before moving on; he knew that keeping moving was the only chance he had of survival. He took the next left and nearly fell flat on his back as he stepped into a pile of horse dung. The smell lingered to his boots and left a clear path as each of the brawler's heavy steps stained the snow a clear brown-yellow. Only half way down the narrow alley, Quentin came to a halt as he heard a hopeful sound. "Is tha' wha' I think it is?"

He tilted his head to listen more carefully then grinned wider than he had in a long time. "P'aps I'll get t'see The Empty Hand again after all!"

He bounded into the fence and crashed through into the back yard of an inn. Startled horses shifted in their stables with eyes wide at the sudden disturbance. "Shshsh."

Quentin tried to quiet them as he walked down the small courtyard, hoping one of the steeds was already saddled.

[Aurelianus Drak'shal]

It has been brought to my attention after posting this that the round ended at 5AM my time on Saturday. It would appear I miscounted when trying to puzzle out the time zones. So, I imagine that means this will not be counted for the judgement. Also, some edits made, but none to my actions. All aesthetic detail.

The dagger sailed straight and true, even the brawler's hurried retreat not hurting his aim any. But sadly for him, he was only human. As the dagger whistled through the air, Drak'shal's vicious grin widened and with a simple swipe of his cruel knife, he knocked the projectile wide. The blade thunked into one of the wooden beams of the house to the warlock's right, quivering gently. A life on constantly being wary of a knife in the back, coupled with the hell-tainted blood flowing through his veins bred reactions faster than any normal creature could hope to match.

The tiefling stood blinking softly for a moment or two after Boone fled before him. A soft chuckle bubbled up from within the half-demon.

"Somethin' I said?" he muttered to himself, glancing around the streets as the wind picked up, sending flurries of snow whipping down the narrow avenues between the houses. He didn't instantly pursue the big bastard, though, instead removing his hat and coat and dropping them at his feet; none of the sods barmy enough to stay in their homes in the face of the coming slaughters would be brave enough to pilfer the warlock's goods. And any that did.. well, the slaughters would find them all the sooner, Aurelianus would make sure of it.

The wind tore at his exposed flesh, the usual whiteness of his inked skin turning a pale blue, his black veins standing out in stark contrast, like cracks in marble. Craning his neck from side to side and limbering up for the chase, Aurelius finally dropped his satchel at his side, barking out a series of sibilant yet guttural syllables in an inhuman tongue.

From within the dark leather, a small, grotesque figure emerged. The creature looked, in the vaguest sense, like an infant elf, the malformed lumps of flesh at the sides of its head already starting to taper up at the tips. It shrieked its way out of the confines of the bag, sable-pinioned wings ruffling as the creature flapped them angrily, hovering before its master's face. Junior cocked its tiny head, sutured eye sockets turning darkly as the lipless gash it called a mouth peeled back to reveal steel needles lining it.

"Boone. Find him," Aurelianus snarled, his forked tongue hissing out the words in the Infernal tongue of the Nine Hells.

Instantly, the albino creature took to the skies, circling like a carrion bird as it scoured the streets with its other-sense. The guttersnipe followed his familiar with his serpentine orbs until it disappeared from his line of sight. He turned to make one last scan of the surroundings, running his black tongue over his fangs one more time before he dug in his heels and set off at a run after his prey. The hunt was on, and the hell-spawned murderer was eager to sink his chivs into Boone's flesh before the day was done.

His blood was.. tainted, according to most people. In his own eyes, that taint was actually a blessing, putting him so far above the poor sodding berks he walked among most days. It allowed him certain.. fringe benefits. Like the heightened senses he relied on to track down the poor bastards that got on his bad side. He could barely pick up Boone's scent over the burning cold air as it flooded his lungs, wind rushing as he ran. Luckily, the ever-present snow made it child's play to follow the footsteps of the Salvaran's heavy boots - but they wouldn't last forever. The snow was starting to come down heavier now, covering the tracks with every passing second.

Drak'shal had to skid to a halt after a few random turns, the prints too obscured for even his practiced tracking to pick out against the blank, featureless white coating the ground.

Fangs gnashed, his pulse quickening, almost hammering in his temples as his horned head swung from left to right.

Channeled by the narrow streets, the half-fiend's ears roared with the icy passing of the wind, his face numbing under the bitter chill. The flesh exposed by Aurelianus' sadistic armour was goose-pimpled and discoloured, but he shut out the almost painful bite of the weather.

"Bugger it!" he snapped, eyes blazing with irritation as he realised he might already have lost th--

A piercing screech from above snapped the eerie quiet of the streets like thin ice on a lake. The Cager's head snapped back, quills skrtching together, as his profusion of earrings clinked and rattled against each other. Junior circled overhead, gesturing crudely with its scalpel fingers, shrieking a cacophony down at its master. Aurelius glanced in the direction the foetus was guiding him, his inhuman eyes squinting against another gust.. it took the malevolent hunter a moment to realise what his senses were telling him. His nostrils twitched for a second before his lips split wide in a wet, feral grin.

He could smell horse shit.

His feet were moving in a heartbeat, hob-nailed boots digging deep into the powdery snow underfoot. He slipped a few times, but he managed to keep his balance, the strong reek of manure and warm straw almost stinging his nose the closer he got. Junior guided him from above, his eye in the sky. As he closed the distance between the two, the boot-prints in the snow re-appeared, this time filthy with dung, melting yellow-brown holes in the frozen ground.

The wolf-lean assassin turned a corner, his fingerless gloves gripping the corner of the building to his left for purchase, and he barely had time to slow down before he hammered into the wooden gate, his spiked and blade-lined armour tearing gouges out of the snow-dampened wood. Quentin was in here, though the tiefling couldn't see him yet. The boot-prints led into the small coral, and then abruptly vanished as the layer of snow dwindled; the heat of the stables, and the steady traffic of hooves turning the snow underfoot into slush and thick mud. Aurelius instantly went on high alert, his weight moving to the balls of his feet, tattooed head cocked as he strained his senses for any telltale sign of his prey.

"Come out, basher," he called amicably. "Save us both the trouble, and die with some pikin' dignity."

The warlock whistled low, three sharp blasts like he was calling on a dog.

"Come on out, sweet'eart, and I'll even give you the first swing," he mocked, his voice betraying the pleasure he was taking from this.

After a moment, there was no reply.

"Alright, mate. Your choice. If you ain't comin' out willingly.."

The tiefling turned to the closest stall, his eyes meeting the docile gaze of the animal within. Without pause, he raised a gloved hand, palm facing the horse, and released a torrent of roaring, nightmarish Hellfire.

The temperature screamed higher instantly, the wood and flesh within bursting into flames after a few moments. The snow on the roof of the stable flash-boiled into a coiling cloud of steam. Horrendously pained, agonised braying screams ululated into the air as the horse's flesh cooked, blood turning to stinking red steam under the baleful torrent.

The black flames took hold of the stables, slowly coiling around the wood and licking at the thatching across the roof. Horses screamed and kicked as the smell of smoke carried to them on the rapidly-warming air, flames already spreading to the other wooden huts.

".. I'll 'ave to smoke you out."

[Silence Sei]

Quentin Boone and only Quentin Boone advances on account of his partner never posting, as well as the gap between his posts and Aure's. There were other factors, and if either of you are curious, feel free to PM me.

Congratulations!