Eiksalt War Round 2: BlackAndBlueEyes Vs Flames of Hyperion

[Silence Sei]

A battle for the ages? Can Althanas self-proclaimed best brawler take down one of our favorite oldbies?!

Matches will begin Tuesday, May 13th at 12:01 AM Central Standard Time and last for two weeks. Good Luck!

[Flames of Hyperion]

Chaos consumed the hillside camp. The thinnest veneer of desperation only barely dammed the tide of hopelessness swelling in its wake. Murmured rumours grasped hold of clustered conversations like kindling-fuelled wildfire. Terror clenched like a closed fist upon the gnarled roots underfoot. The piercing wails of infant children soared as the shrieks of hunting eagles, drowning out desperate cries for medical aid. Biting cold lashed upon forlorn faces, driven through the empty weave of branches by an unforgiving and merciless boreal taskmaster.

By now every citizen of Eiskalt, from rugged peasant to disillusioned noble, knew of the overwhelming overt threat to their embattled homeland. The armies of Alerar tunnelled beneath the towering heights of the Ringwall Peaks and pressed forth in relentless advance through the ruins of the Stahl Gate. Their allied agents – abomination, malformation, horror, and more – infiltrated Eiskaltian society with the sole aim of tearing it down about their heads in an avalanche of diabolical discord. Encircled and besieged with no hope of escape, the terror of the refugees coloured now with grim resolve. Like prey cornered by a pack of predators, they realised that the time had come to turn at bay and sell their lives as dearly as they dared.

But for all their die-hard determination it was their covert enemies, those they could not simply stab to death upon a bloodied battlefield, which incurred by far the greater toll. Frigid mountain gusts nibbled at their extremities through layers of thick fur, reducing them to huddling in the lee of heartless granite rocks for shelter. Hunger gnawed at their innards like an infectious parasite, sapping their strength for even the simplest of tasks. Eating dirty snow to quench their burning thirst merely coated the insides of their throats in a grimy greasy film of fever and sickness.

Of all, the plague killed in greatest number and with least mercy. Grown men collapsed in tears as their daughters, throats too swollen to draw breath, suffocated upon pestilent air. Mothers sobbed in hollow grief as their death-frozen sons fuelled the great bonfire at the centre of the clustered hide bivouacs. Lesser pyres, arranged in asymmetric precision about their superior, mingled in the shadow of the spirits of the fallen. Distant heavens watched on in silent sympathy as lost souls travelled into the mountains in search of rebirth.

Fleeing from the intermontane tablelands, the refugees had escaped certain death with but precious little to aid them in their predicament. Were it not for the nameless wandering foreigner, they might not have even been able to light the fires necessary to mourn their fallen. The gaunt young man’s skill at conjuring flame had proved useful in other ways as well. Beacons of light drove away the horrors of the night, and crackling warmth protected huddling hide-clad forms from the worst of the treacherous cold.

He now sat on his own, keeping watchful sentinel by the outermost of the protective bonfires. Darkened slopes reached down from his feet towards the abandoned bluesteel towers of Unum. The snow clouds of the past few days had given way at last to diamond-speckled velvet. The distant sheen of Lake Peaceful quavered in the faint starlight. But the latest coughing fit wrought merry hacking havoc upon his hapless lungs, and the wanderer saw all through a tear-stained veil.

“Bloody end of the world, this is. Of all places, you could have chosen a better one to end up at.”

Addressed for the first time in what might have been hours, the young man somehow managed to flinch in surprise between desperate wheezes. The coarse baritone belonged to the erstwhile mayor of Unum, a burly ex-woodsman who went by the nickname of Gaffer and who had lost an eye to a stray splinter some twenty years ago. One broad hand slammed with resounding force into the young man’s back, swatting the worst of the runny blockage from his chest. The other grudgingly offered a cracked clay mug, scrounged in no small desperation from a dead man’s pack, brimming with some form of beverage too hot to taste.

“Why not?” Nanashi replied, hoarse and soft, once he’d somehow regained his breath. Cold-bitten fingers cradled the clay in gnarled gratitude, savouring the warmth as it diffused through the ache of his sprained right wrist. But his parched lips dared not sip of the watery liquid. He dared not run the risk that the slightest of provocations would bring upon another attack of the violent, heaving spasms.

“You say that.” Lines of laughter and worry creased the Gaffer’s brow in a frown of intensely perturbed thought. “I dinnae believe you came here by chance, though.”

The Gaffer’s scrutiny burnt through the top of the young man’s scalp. For the fleetest of moments Nanashi found himself debating whether to tell the Eiskaltian of the Corpse War, of his part in it, of the horrors he fled and the redemption he sought. Even as the thought formed in his mind, though, he chided himself for seeking to burden others with his own troubles... what right did he have? How dare he even contemplate such folly? Didn’t the poor man have enough on his plate to deal with?

“I’m a wanderer,” he said instead after the briefest of pauses. Hollow black eyes fought the blood pounding noisily through his head, reaching out from behind hoarfrosted spectacles to comb the snowy penumbra. When satisfied that the night held no danger, they returned to the mug balanced upon his knees. “I’m afraid my feet carry me where they will.”

“And we’re grateful for that,” the Gaffer nodded with far less reluctance than he otherwise might have shown. Nanashi inhaled sharply at the unexpected honesty, and the mingled stenches of sickness and burning flesh set off his plague-addled lungs once more. His world dissolved again into teary blackness as the convulsions threatened to turn him inside out.

Seconds stretched into countless eternities, each one as chest-wracking as the next. Precious hot soup spilt in a mess upon his grime-soiled trousers, steaming in sibilant hisses as it splashed into the hungry pyre. Jarring impacts resonated through flesh and bone, hammering home the pain in his wrist and the throbbing in his head. No matter how he fought, no matter how his throat spasmed and his lungs convulsed, he could not dislodge the blockage from his airways. His face burned in feverish flame, even as the Gaffer’s rough hands on his back attempted awkwardly to soothe away the worst of the paroxysm.

The other’s presence gave him strength. Strength enough to kick-start his frozen thoughts, to reach into his mind for the might necessary to drive back the pestilence. He focused in particular on one bright, brilliant thought, holding it dear to his chest as he doubled up upon the cold snow with rock-hard tree roots digging into his shins.

At length, the worst passed. Panting, breathless, weak, he slumped where he lay.

“That’s not right.” The coarse baritone fought valiantly through hazy murk to reach his ears. In his mind’s eye, Nanashi could picture the Gaffer’s frown once more. “You’re not getting better?”

Debilitating though it may be, the plague was only strictly fatal amongst the newborn and the elderly. The strong of soul could fight off the early symptoms of the disease: the fever, the headaches, the coughing. In the worst case, the infection degenerated within the week into nausea, diarrhoea, and finally fatal internal haemorrhaging. By this point, there was little that anybody could do except ease the patient’s passing.

What few healers who accompanied the refugees had spent long hours in search of a cure. Though they had not yet been successful, they had managed to significantly reduce the mortality rate at the first stage. A simple injection of greenmold extract helped reduce chest inflammation and prevent patients from choking on their own swollen throats. Bitterwater worked wonders in countering the unquenchable thirst that accompanied the fever. But their supplies of the all-important greenmold extract were starting to run low. And of late a greater proportion of those infected were starting to advance into the nausea stage…

Even so, most healthy young men rarely suffered for more than a couple of days before their stronger immune systems fought off the infection. Most. With a few glaring, soon dead, exceptions.

And then there was Nanashi, who represented an exception but not a dead one. His symptoms had manifested over a week ago now, almost ever since he had fought off the abomination in the nixstella-lit streets of Unum. Though he showed no sign of degenerating into the second, lethal stage of the disease, neither was he noticeably recovering.

To be fair, he privately believed that none of his luck had survived Unum in the first place. How else had he lived to tell the tale against such a honed killing machine, with little more than a fair few quick-healing flesh wounds, bruised ribs, and a sprained wrist? Not to mention a vicious headache that spiked in intensity every time he reached for his powers?

He certainly didn’t want anybody to know just how vulnerable he felt at the moment.

The nasty part of his mind, not preoccupied with contingency plans and logistical solutions and desperate last-ditch efforts at getting the most vulnerable refugees clear of the fighting, worried that it was all an elaborate trap. To what end, he could not even begin to speculate. Common sense warned that not even the most amateur of strategists would rely on a plan that hinged on their enemy doing exactly what they wanted him to do. But the second-guessing doubts still niggled in the back of his head.

Or maybe that abomination had just been toying with me…

A sudden chill raced down his spine.

Lost in thought, only belatedly did Nanashi realise he’d allowed himself to stew in the aftermath of his fit for far too long. The Gaffer’s concern showed in the set of his bushy black eyebrows, the further deepening of the frown-furrows upon his brow as he regarded their young saviour. It persisted even after the young man righted himself and salvaged the remains of his soup with a look of abject, contrite apology.

Then the older man shrugged sadly. The Gaffer possessed only limited knowledge in herbology and the reading of humours. No doubt those city chirurgeons who’d survived Unum’s fall, alongside the outlander apothecaries who accompanied the Ixians in their waxed full cloaks and bird-beaked masks, took as good care of their charge as they fought to save the lives of every last wounded soldier or plagued child. If it was the wanderer’s destiny to succumb to the same strife that sundered his ill-fated homeland, then doubtless he would not be the last victim. Just like his own wife and son had succumbed in defence of the Stahl Gate. Just like his young daughter lay on her deathbed in the shelter behind him, choking on her own runny blood.

“The mountain gods take care of their own, sonny,” he spoke in paternal comfort, giving the wanderer a far gentler pat on the back than he had done before. It didn’t matter any more that he aimed the words equally at his own heavy heart. It only mattered that he needed to speak them.

The Gaffer’s quiet conviction touched something in Nanashi’s mind. Not guilt that he couldn’t share the older man’s faith. Rather admiration that the venerable leader could still hold to his beliefs, after suffering and losing so much.

Silence hung over his pursed lips as he fought to decide how best to bridge the gulf between them. In the end, he decided that the only way to understand was to know, and the only way to know was to ask.

“The mountain gods?”

“Aye,” the Gaffer replied after a long moment, his good eye gleaming as he glanced to the shadows that obscured his devastated home. "Dragons, sonny. Dragons."

He allowed his thoughts to linger a heartbeat longer on his beautiful Hatha. He had named her for the hardy snowflowers that somehow blossomed even after the deepest and darkest of winters. Dearly he hoped that she would cling to this world as her namesakes clung to the barren-most cliffs and sheerest rock faces of the Ringwall Mountains.

May the ancients of the Rimewind Weyr grant her strength. And, should she not live out the night, may they watch over her soul when it returns to the snowy peaks for another, better life.

Something rumbled in response to his prayer, deep and dark in the forbidding heights.

Then he shook himself, and turned back to the young man. Nanashi’s gaze fixated on the tallest of the mountains from whence the distant call had come, narrow and thoughtful.

“You wanted me to look at the food stores?”

Taken aback once more by the sudden change of subject, Nanashi’s mouth snapped shut.

“Please,” he answered at last, regathering his thoughts. A hint of a wry smile played about his lips, the first sign of true humour he’d shown in front of the Gaffer, though his eyes remained hollow, distant, and inscrutable. “I do realise that dried elk is better than nothing, but unless we can somehow find fresh fruit and vegetables for our patients…”

Nanashi didn’t notice when he, a nameless wandering foreigner, grouped himself with the refugees. In another day, another age, the Gaffer might have taken offence at the gall of the man. Here and now, he felt only gratitude.

“… I’ll see what I can do.”

The older man nodded, touching his forelock in a rare gesture of respect before retreating from the perimeter of light cast by the flickering pyre. Left behind in its fierce protective embrace, Nanashi watched him go, sad with shared pain and flinty with desperate resolve.

Too many had perished already. He could not allow it to get any worse.

Not if he could help it.

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

A thin smile crossed my lips. Moments later, it grew into a full-blown smile. For the first time in as long as I can remember, I laughed. Well, it was more of a cackle, really; but you get the picture. One coughing hah! at first, but slowly it grew into a nasty fit of gleeful noises that unnerved my companions.

One of them, a heavily scarred, pale twig of a man with a healthy salt and pepper beard and full head of hair--Hedge was his name, I think--leaned in close. “Are you alright, Madison?”

I wiped a tear away with a gnarled, vine-braided finger. “Yes, yes, I'm quite alright, thank you. I'm just... Just remembering something.” I waved my hand in dismissal. “Don't worry about it.”

Hedge muttered a word of acceptance, decided he had nothing to gain by inquiring further, and went back to walking in silence.

What had crossed my mind wasn't just a single thing, but a long string of events--28 years' worth of 'em--that led to me being here in this backwater country. Most of these events were of the unfortunate variety, of course; deals with demons gone horribly wrong, swift and complete changes in my personal biology, nervous breakdowns, several business ventures going under due to arson, my family looking to end my life in a most horrific manner due to a simple misunderstanding...

But for once... Everything's coming up Madison. And that's what struck me as funny.

I had been provided with a small contingent of mooks and thugs in order to carry out the second phase of my wartime plan. We numbered twenty one as we made our way along a road that led through the lush valley, following the rumors and scouting reports of a sizable refugee camp that was going to be the Ground Zero of a fresh, even more dangerous plague: My own personal plague, which had begun brewing deep inside me over the course of the past couple weeks, after... Well, I can't remember the events leading up to my changing, or why I was inexplicably accepting of what had happened to me.

(Normally, it'd be quite a shock to wake up one day to discover that you're now half human, half poisonous houseplant, yeah?)

I quickly composed myself, and fell back in step with my other compatriots. All around me, I could hear the crunch of boots, horse hooves, and wagon wheels as our future funeral procession continued on its merry way.

We traveled under the guise of government-contracted aid workers. We had loads of supplies, from fresh food and water to clean clothes and blankets--not to mention medicine. Thanks to the research notes I had in my makeshift laboratory before I lost all proficiency in the sciences and became a walking dirty bomb, we were able to cook up several big batches of cures for the disease that was slowly but surely tearing its way through the countryside.

The plan was simple: Roll into the refugee camp, cure some sick people, feed and clothe a few more, and then let all hell break loose by poisoning their food stores and spreading the new infection among the survivors. If everything went as it should, then the few unlucky bastards who would survive our little visit would make it to the closest camp or settlement within days and pass on the second disease to keep the Eiskalt government guessing and straining their resources even further.

I held a hand up above my eyes and squinted in the midday sun. Off in the distance, I could see several rising pillars of smoke. “Diggs, the map, if you please.”

A short, round, balding man with a thick pair of glasses and a permanent five o' clock shadow waddles up to me from the middle of the pack and handed me a folded piece of parchment. Scribbled on it was a rough approximation of the Eiskalt countryside, with several lines scribbled on it to designate the major roadways. We had been following one in particular for several days now, one that led into a mountainous range between Unum and Lake Pleasant, with the destination being a small X with a red circle drawn around it.

I turned towards the fat man, who we sort of designated as our caravan's navigator by default as nobody else wanted the task, and handed him back the map. “How far do you think until we reach it?”

Diggs adjusted his spectacles with a greasy sausage finger and squinted hard. One could practically hear the gears grinding in his noggin as he did some quick calculations, recalling landmarks that we passed that were marked on the map and silently mouthing a few calculations. “I-I would say possibly two hours, maybe three, Miss Madison.” His tone was polite and professional, perhaps a bit too high in tone for a man his size, but his lisp was awfully distracting. I thanked him and sent him back into the middle of the group.

We spent the remainder of the time on the road checking and double-checking our inventory to make sure we had everything we needed: Food (fresh meat, a small smattering of fruit and veggies we could gather from the farmlands we passed through), water, clothes, medicine (none that would hinder the spread of the second wave of plague, naturally), blankets, and other various things to meet the basic needs of the refugees. We also checked to make sure that the horses pulling our wagon--21 of them, one for each member of the group--were injury-free and ready to take off in the middle of the night after we had done our work.

I personally checked on a cart that lingered in the back. Inside a collection of barrels filled with clothes sat a number of cages that contained rats. I intended to infect these and set them loose in the huts that the camp used as food storage, just like I had done in the first wave of the plague weeks ago when the war started.

We were no more than half a mile away from the camp when I turned around to address those who I would trust to help me complete this, the second phase of my plan.

“Remember, everyone; we're not here to actively kill anyone. We're here to endear, to build trust... We're here to instill a shred of hope before we break these poor fucks' wills even further, and create a second wave of panic amongst the Eiskalt government when a new, more difficult to contain plague spreads.” I eyeballed Hedge in particular, knowing that he was prone to fits of violence when provoked. “Nobody is to harm anyone physically unless you have no other choice.”

I turned back around to face the camp. Off in the distance, a trio of guards made their way to greet us.

“Now everybody, remember your parts. Hoods back, concerned looks on, warm smiles up...” My voice dropped into a venomous cackle as my grin widened. “It's showtime.”

-~- -~-

Once we presented our forged documents stations where we had come from, what we were doing in Eiskalt, how we heard about the war from damn near halfway across the world, and given very brief physicals (I in particular had a fun time explaining to the camp's welcoming committee that I was half-dryad to explain the thick weave of vines that constituted my arms and hands), we were escorted to the camp.

Much like any war-time refugee camp, it was a sad little place. A circle of hastily-assembled hide tents were built around a massive bonfire that served to both dispose of the dead and warm the living. All around me, I could hear the moans of the unwell and the sobs of those who recently lost it all because of the war. The air was thick with the scent of ash from the bonfires that were lit in a circle surrounding the camp, mingling with that unmistakable odor of sick. It was all I could do not to crack a smile in front of a middle-aged man who introduced himself as the mayor of what was left of the city of Unum.

We had a short discussion about the state of things, and I gave him a quick tour of our inventory as my twenty cohorts began setting up shop in one corner of the camp. Diggs, Hedge, and the rest began circulating throughout the camp, handing out supplies while a few of my crew with fake armbands around the sleeves of their thick shirts that designated them as medical professionals began tending to the sick and the wounded. Satisfied that we were off to a good start, I turned to the old mayor as I picked up a small leather medical satchel off a cart and hooked it over my shoulder.

“You mentioned that you had a sick daughter, correct?”

There was a sad twinkle in his eye. He mentioned her deteriorating condition to me when he recounted the events that led him and the refugees here. “Yes... Yes, that's right. We're doing the best to make her as comfortable as we can, but... I'm afraid there's not much else we've been able to do.” His voice was strained, as thoughts of losing yet another family member to the Order's war efforts filled his mind like shovelfuls of dirt do an open grave.

I smiled, warm and friendly, one of the few skills I retained from my training as a little girl. “Can I see her? Perhaps there's time.”

I was led a little ways through the camp, until we came upon one of the hide tents on the far side of the roaring bonfire that served as the centerpiece. I parted the flaps and led myself inside, followed by the mayor. The interior was lit by a few candles and didn't smell terribly pleasant. Lying on a cot off in the far corner, underneath a pile of ratty blankets and what furs the camp could spare, was the man's daughter.

She was this pale little thing with matted brown hair and a vacant look on her half-open eyes. Her lips were purple from disease and cold, and incredibly dark circles and heavy bags under her eyes. Next to her, wearing a makeshift cloth face mask, was one of the other survivors of the attack on Unum, caring to the girl in her final days. Internally, I smiled as I witnessed the effectiveness of my work first-hand.

Externally, though, I smiled to try and put her at ease as I sat down on an upturned bucket next to the straw-lined cot. “Hello there,” I cooed. “Can you hear me?”

The girl turned her head slowly towards me and tried to smile in kind, but only managed to have a small coughing fit before settling on nodding in acknowledgment instead. I set the satchel on my lap and turned to glance at her father. He leaned in close, looking as sickly and pale as his unfortunate child. “She hasn't been able to speak since yesterday morning. We fear that the worst is--”

I clicked my tongue. “It's probably not for the best that you think such thoughts, you know?” I turned my attention back to the little girl in the cot. “What's your name, dear?”

“Hatha,” her father quietly answered from behind me.

“Well, Hatha,” I said sweetly, “my name is Briar. Me and my friends here are going to try and do what we can to make you better, alright?” The poor wretch nodded softly before coughing a couple more times.

I undid the brass clasp holding the flap shut and opened my satchel. One by one, I began pulling out tools and implements, giving the girl a small examination, making mental notes of how effectively the plague performed in the weeks since I had scattered my couriers around the Eiskalt countryside to deliver their deadly packages. The inside of her throat was splotchy and inflamed, her skin pale and clammy to the touch. Her forehead was burning hot enough to possibly cook my crew's morning meals on. The mayor informed me how difficult of a time Hatha was having drawing breath and sleeping at night.

Throwing my tools at the foot of the cot, I reached into the satchel once more. I produced a vial of cloudy liquid and a small syringe. I set the vial on my lap and took off the rubber cap that covered the tip of the clean steel needle. I jabbed it into the vial, pulling the plunger and filling it with the liquid.

The mayor watched my work as I addressed his dying daughter once more. “Hatha, I need you to listen to me. I can't guarantee that this medicine will cure you quickly, or maybe even at all given how far you've progressed.” The child squinted just a bit and pursed her lips slightly. “But I need you to be brave, okay? We all need you to be brave--your father, your friend here that has been taking care of you, and all of your friends out there in the camp, alright?” I tried to comfort her with another smile. My face began to ache slightly from all the use that muscles that had long lay dormant were getting. “Can you do that for me? Put on a brave face?”

Hatha, despite all the hell she was going through, managed to smile back at me and even mustered the strength to nod once.

“That's a good girl. Alright, this might pinch...”

I raised the syringe into the air, one finger on the plunger, ready to go. I raised my free hand into the air, and on the tip of my pointer finger, I produced just an imperceptible drop of my own personal poison from within the vines that made my hand. I gave the tip of the needle just a couple quick flicks; one, to loosen anything that might have gotten stuck in there, and two, to deposit just enough of the plague from my finger onto the instrument. Then, I gave the plunger a quick press to make sure that the medicine would come out. Medicine that would indeed work against the plague that I had spread around the country weeks ago, but was utterly useless against what I was about to introduce into her system.

Removing just enough layers of furs and blankets to expose her thin arm, I leaned forward and stuck the poisoned needle into a soft spot below her shoulder. Hatha winced and let out a short, pained gasp as I injected both antidote and poison into her system. I removed the needle and quickly slapped a strip of cloth onto her shoulder to staunch the small dripping of blood that followed the shot.

“Well now,” I exclaimed, “that wasn't so bad, now was it?” The sickly girl met my gaze one more, her eyes struggling to stay open, her breathing weak and shallow. Not as bad as what you've got coming over the next three days, anyway.

She would certainly die, long after me and the twenty other “aid workers” were gone. And all while, the remaining refugees were burning the corpses of the others who fell to this mysterious new sickness, unaware that by handling the bodies of their brethren they too would come down with my disease.

I replaced my tools into the satchel, preparing myself to see others in the camp. “You're a brave girl, Hatha. Don't worry, everything's going to be alright.”

I flashed a final, warm smile at the doomed wretch as I stood up to leave.

[Flames of Hyperion]

The day blurred past in a frenetic whirlwind of activity.

Shadow wolves assaulted the perimeter twice, once at dawn and once at mid-noon. Thrice more the spooked sentries on duty called out frantic false alarms, sending screaming refugees scurrying for cover. The skirmishes forced two more young men to retire to the infirm tents: one with a broken arm, the other with three cracked ribs and bone-baring lacerations upon his back. Not once did Nanashi arrive at the perimeter in time to help drive away the opportunistic beasts. The glares of those left standing by the time he showed up stabbed at him with accusations of false security and failure.

The longer we stay here, the greater the target we become. What am I doing? How can I get more of us to safety?

An unexpected aid caravan arrived mid-day, soon after the second attack. Nanashi found himself torn between unloading the desperately needed supplies, protecting them from opportunistic looter and fraught scavenger alike, and organising their storage. If he had not decided to make use of a shallow system of caves in the hillside not so far away, some of the crates would have spent the night exposed to the elements. As it was, his thin supply of manpower had to stretch even further to guard the new storage locations.

Why couldn’t I give that boy a second bowl of gruel? We have enough food now, don’t we?

Simmering tensions finally erupted over who should have priority to the new vaccines. Violence ensued as city folk of Unum brawled fiercely with highlanders from closer to the Stahl Gate. Three bloody noses and two black eyes resulted before the Gaffer could convince them to at least agree upon treating the children and the women first. Even then Nanashi felt the remnant anger and resentment smouldering in the battle lines drawn between clustered bivouacs. Though their eyes followed him through the camp with barely concealed fury and hatred, at least they no longer clawed at each others’ throats.

They vent their emotions on me because I’m an outsider. How dare I tell them what to do? How dare I meddle in their affairs?

The weather steadily deteriorated from the bright afternoon sun. Heavy snowclouds hurtled in to obscure the bloody twilight from view. Harsh winds whipped between ramshackle shelters, nearly tearing them from the ground like so much stray tumblegrass. On occasion Nanashi thought he heard keening over the howls, as if something on high mourned for their lost. Some muttered in dark despair that the dragon gods grieved for Eiskalt’s dead. Nanashi could not help but wonder if they grieved for something else instead.

They whisper that one of the ancient ones has fallen, brought down at the Stahl Gate by black powder and flame.

But in spite of the gathering darkness, the worst of the gloom had lifted from the camp. The apothecaries had arrived with a remedy, after all, one they promised would work to stop the spread of the plague. Better still, it seemed to be working. Even little Hatha had taken a turn towards recovery. The Gaffer had spent the evening in a daze, thanking his dragons for their intervention, too scared to prod himself in case the dream fell apart around him.

Not that I played any part in it, of course.

Their upturn in fortune had yet to convince Nanashi. His experiences in the Corpse War, in particular the devastating defeats at Anebrilith and Eluriand, had inured him to such optimism.

I can hope for the best. But I can’t believe in it... not until it actually happens.

As midnight approached, he sat once more by the sentinel flame on the camp’s vulnerable eastern flank. His head, cradled in aching arms, pounded with every beat of his heart. He had yet to partake of the promised cure - so great was demand, the vials had run dry by the time his duties had allowed him to stop by the sick tents. But his mind fought on, pondering the pressing problems he and those around him faced.

Most pressing of all, a sudden and decidedly unwelcome infestation of rodents. Hasty inspections had turned up entire sacks of grain torn open and gorged upon. Accusatory trails led back to the nooks and crannies used by the cunning beasts to hide from their hosts.

The nightmare had caught him flatfooted and ill-prepared. He had done his best to move the most precious of perishables to the newly uncovered caves, even at the risk of damp rot taking hold. The Gaffer buried himself in taking stock, trying to find safer places to squirrel them away. But Nanashi knew he could do little more if the rats sussed out the rest of the treasure troves.

Even with the supplies that had just arrived, the future of the camp hung precariously in the balance. Already he’d lost the argument over whether to simply burn any contaminated foods. It was all he could do to insist on keeping them separate, to not make use of them unless in dire emergency. Sullen doom poised over their heads, the threat of slow death by hunger and exposure. Helplessness weighed on his mind like manacles of cold iron.

Don’t dwell on the worst case. Think instead, how should you deal with it?

His brow creased in owlish, scholarly concentration. He had already quarantined the affected areas, baiting traps with contaminated food and what little poison he could scrounge. Unfortunately none of the refugees had fled their homes with their cats. How long would it be before the dratted rodents started to breed? The cold would decimate them again before the year was out…

So from where had they come?

Poisonous chill seeped to the forefront of his thoughts.

Chewing on ragged lips, with ginger apprehension he probed the line of thinking. The voracious rodents would not survive for long on Eiskalt’s harsh snowbound slopes. Their prodigious breeding rate would strip bare what little food was available naturally in a matter of days.

So how had they suddenly appeared?

Had they followed them here from Unum, or from some other human settlement? In which case, why hadn’t they arrived until now?

His thoughts returned reluctantly to their intuitive response.

An enemy plot?

Further shivers raced down his spine as he finally gave voice to his worst fear. Readjusting frosty spectacles against the cold, he clasped knees to chest and forced himself to continue. Why? What advantage did the Alerian armies and their agents gain by attacking helpless refugees? They’d already churned the entire nation into utter turmoil…

No. He had to be thinking too hard. He had to fall back to facts. The rats certainly had not been present before. It was as if a whole colony of adult specimens had sprung up overnight, as if…

The aid caravan!

Perhaps it had unloaded at the docks in neighbouring Tyralia before the land journey to Eiskalt. Perhaps it had arrived on the island aboard an ocean-going barge, its bilges infested with hungry… rats.

Biting chill seeped through thin cotton tunic and threadbare cloak. Dusting grime from travel-worn trousers, Nanashi made up his mind. He had to talk to the supervisor. He had to see if she knew anything about any unwanted stowaways.

The wanderer stood in a hurry from the slab of frozen stone that had been his only companion during the howling sleepless nights since arriving at the camp. But the sudden movement destroyed the precarious balance of humours in his chest. He broke down upon the muddy snow, lungs attempting to escape from the depths of his throat, vision swimming into choking constricting blackness. The harder the hands clamped across his mouth tried to hold it in, the further it deteriorated.

Yet the fit brought him crashing back to reality, surfacing from thoughts as though emerging from a lake of frigid water. The air breathed cold and fresh upon his face. Motes of diamond dust whispered through his eyelashes, and spiralling ash settled and melted upon his tongue. His mind cleared briefly of the cobwebs and the haze.

Something was wrong.

Hectic movement fluttered through the camp. Raised voices and panic assaulted the edge of his senses. His thundering ears couldn’t quite make out the words, but somehow he doubted they sung odes of joy.

Something large flitted through the shadows at the edge of the pyre-light. It coalesced into the fur-clad figure of one of the Eiskaltian highlanders he’d argued with earlier that day. The blue-black pattern of the bruising upon his right eye flared at Nanashi in accusation and anger.

“What…?”

The highlander’s right hand chopped viciously at thin air. Nanashi’s voice, hoarse and croaking, died in his throat.

“The first child that you gave that antidote to. That young girl of the Gaffer’s. She’s gone back into a feverish chill.” The highlander hawked in simmering fury, a death knell in the silent night to all respect he might once have held for the wanderer. A thick gob of spittle landed on Nanashi’s boots. “You grakkin' outsiders. Bringing nothing but trouble and death to our lands.”

Nanashi tried to answer. He tried to protest. He tried to argue his innocence.

But he could not.

The highlander gave him a long look of loathing, daring the foreigner to respond. All the young man could do was to fight in futile frustration to keep the desperation from reaching his face. In the end the Eiskaltian snarled in disgust and melted away into the growing hubbub. The image of his meaty fists, clenched tight enough to whiten the knuckles and draw blood upon leathery palms, seared indelibly into Nanashi’s mind.

Then something else echoed over the multitude of murmurs. The Gaffer’s voice, curdling blood in a terrible scream of agony and hate. From the storage caves of all places.

Have the rats… the medicines?

Fearing the worst, Nanashi took off at a staggering jog.

He never noticed the bright red blood coating the palm of his hand, drying in swift desiccation in the windy winter chill.

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

Bunny approved.

Diggs, Hedge, and I sat stone cold around one of the lesser bonfires that encircled the camp, chatting idly about how the rats we had been slowly releasing in the camp over the course of the past twenty-four hours had been doing fine work. We talked about how the refugees, while beginning to feel better, had been sowing discord among themselves due to our intentionally limited amount of vaccinations we had brought into the camp. We had ample supplies of food with us--mostly for ourselves for the coming trip back into the farmlands and forests of Eiskalt, of course--but in order to guarantee that the second wave of plague would spread across this forsaken rock in the northern seas, we had to guarantee that not all of the refugees would want to travel together. I could tell just by the idle conversation as I made my rounds that old woulds between neighbors had opened up because of our arrival. Families divided and men who used to be friends and allies came to blows over whose sick wife or child was going to be tended to first.

It was utterly, totally, absolutely delicious.

If these broken few would spit curses and slap faces over the supplies we did bring; imagine them tearing each other apart over what would remain once we were done here. Speaking of...

I checked my pocket watch, this rusty little clockwork thing with a cracked glass that I pulled off some dead farmer on our way here. Diggs and Hedge fell silent, the fatter man pausing in mid-bite with a strip of jerky hanging out of his mouth. Looking up at them as I closed the watch and slid it back into my pants pocket. “It's time. Let's make a scene. Diggs, you rally everyone on the north side of camp. Hedge, you take the south side. Destroy the tents, spill their food and water supplies, hurt some of the healthier-looking men and women--” I cast a knowing glare at Hedge. “Hurt, not kill. Tell the men that nobody is to enter the cave storage area; I'll handle that myself. Once we've caused enough chaos, tell the men to scatter on horseback in groups of threes, and be careful of the monsters out there. I'd hate to see any one of you mangled by those shadow... things. We'll meet at the rendezvous point in a week.”

Diggs impressively crammed the remaining fistful of jerky into his mouth and adjusted his glasses as he rose. Hedge slipped a small cudgel out from a hidden pocket in his fur cloak and gripped it tightly in one hand. I downed the remainder of water in my canteen and tossed it aside. “Let's go to work, boys.”

As my two trusty lackeys set about their orders, I picked myself up off the rock I was seated on and made my way over to one of the wagons that were parked nearby. I threw up the tarp, revealing a small collection of survival satchels that every one of my crew would grab one each of on their way out of the refugee camp. Also in the back of the cart were two final rat cages, each with four of the buggers in it. They squeaked and squirmed at the sight of me. I hooked one of the satchels over my shoulder--in it were enough ration bars and jerky, water, flint and tinder, and other such things that would see me through for a week in the wild--and grabbed the two cages.

I turned back towards the camp and made a swift beeline towards the cave that acted as the main storage facility for the refugees. I could hear the purposeful shouts of my men and the panicked ones of the refugees as I walked in undisturbed and unseen thanks to the chaos that had engulfed the camp.

The inside of the cave was lit by torchlight. There were several dozens of barrels, canvas sacks, and boxes that held relatively fresh food, fruits and vegetables, and clean water. I set down the two cages in front of the sacks of grains and veggies. The rats, sensing that it was nearly suppertime, began to swarm around in the cages. I could barely hear their incessant and excited squeaking over the cacophony outside. The very moment I flipped open the cage doors, the vermin spread out and helped themselves to the refugee's dwindling supplies.

While they were at work on that end, I made my way over to the barrels of clean water. A thick film of purple sludge began to secret from my right hand, the sticky blight clinging to my vine-braided fingers. I removed the tops of several of the containers, revealing that they were filled to the brim with fresh water from a nearby spring. I dipped my right hand in, and within seconds the diseased sludge began to swirl in dark purple spirals. I waved my hand around a bit, stirring the contents of the barrel. After a few more seconds, like sugar and milk in your morning coffee, it began to mix and dissolve, leaving behind no trace of the blight but would still prove deadly to anyone who drank it.

I was about to move onto the next barrel when I heard a thunderous shout from the mouth of the cave. Turning, I caught the husky form of the mayor of what was left of Unum staring me down, with a fiery rage burning in his eyes. Gripped tightly in his hands was a long, decorated blade; ceremonial, I assumed. A token of his former office.

“What have you done,” he roared. “Why have you come here? Have we not suffered enough?”

I slowly slid my hand out of the cold water and dried it on the edges of my fur cloak. The husky man took another calculated step closer to me, raising the tip of his blade in front of him and aiming it at my throat. The rats, unimpressed by his anger and bravery, continued to help themselves to their midnight snack.

“Put that thing down before I make you poke out your eye with it,” I said in a flat tone.

The displaced mayor ignored my threat. “You foreigners... You enter our lands, attack us unprovoked... You destroy our crops, our cities, our livelihoods, our brethren...” His voice cracked, and even by the light of the torches that lined the walls I could see his eyes begin to tear up. “You bastards killed my dear, sweet Ilsa and Armond... And...” His body wracked with a sob. “My dearest Hatha has now come down with something new...”

He shook dark thoughts from his mind and replaced them with a cold fury. “You promised that you would cure her! You liar! You monster! How many else will suffer further because of you and your comrades?”

“About seventy,” I answered. I knew the question what rhetorical, but I still did a quick head count anyway, based on how many vials of the vaccination we had brought with us.

Again, I was ignored by the mayor. “We've lost so much from this war already... But we will not lose it all! We will endure! We are the children of Eiskalt!”

In a flash, the man was upon me, his sword swinging wildly. The glint of firelight flashed off the steel blade as it came down upon my head. I quickly sidestepped moments before it would've cleaved my skull. A foul, purple haze filled my lungs as I pushed the man away from me. His inexperience in combat showed as he stumbled, corrected himself, and whipped around to try and cut me in two again. However, the very moment he locked eyes with me, I pursed my lips and blew out a dark purple cloud of plague from within me.

The mayor screamed and dropped his sword, clutching his eyes and stumbling backward. He nearly tripped over the tops of the barrels I had thrown onto the rocky cave floor as I strolled towards him, thin layers of bubbling acid forming on my hands. He choked, he coughed, he struggled to regain his breath as my poison began to take hold of him. He braced himself on one water barrel with a hand as he tried to regain his composure.

The poor, unfortunate soul looked up... and I was upon him.

I jammed my vine-wrapped thumbs into his eye sockets. Rivulets of blood instantly began pouring out and running down his face. I immediately gripped the sides of his face; and within seconds, the acid covering my hands began doing its work. His flesh bubbled and boiled under my ironclad grip. A horrific, inhuman scream escaped his lips as he tried to fight against me. His thick, strong hands flailed around and clawed at my hands and arms with childish ineffectiveness. He violently whipped around in an attempt to shake me loose, but I held on tight. The bastard even tried to take a few wild swings at my face, only to catch air instead of flesh and bone.

In a matter of seconds that seemed more like minutes, his flesh began to smoke from the concentration of acid it was exposed to. The damage began increase, my touch melting and mutilating flesh and muscle as the acidic burns spread out from underneath my hands. The mayor's screaming became more and more hoarse, occasionally adding a touch of defeated sobbing into the mix. The noxious smoke of burning skin and the metallic tang of blood filled my nostrils and nearly made me gag. I could feel parts of his face begin to cave in from the exposure to my acid.

After a short while, his screams died down. His body began to give up life. The mayor, with his last bit of strength, fell to his knees, my hands still firmly gripping his face. I fell onto the ground with him. His screams had fallen to rattled gasping. I could've sworn that I heard him half-sob, half-whisper the names of his family members and countrymen whom he had failed to protect in his final days. And then, with a final sigh, he gave up. The screaming had stopped. I ripped my hands away from his face, taking bits of melted flesh and muscle with me. My thumbs were absolutely soaked in his blood.

The deceased mayor of Unum and protector of the Eiskalt refugees fell over sideways to the cold, rocky cavern floor with an unceremonious thud. A pool of blood collected underneath his head, with bits of stringy muscles floating around in it. The exposed sides of his face had completely melted away, showing the bones of his skull in parts. The flesh around his wounds was still bubbling from the lighter parts of the acid burn. His mouth was open slightly; no doubt the last words still written on his lips were the names of his children and wife.

Silently, I walked back over to the open water barrels and washed my hands clean of the matter and the dead mayor. I readjusted the satchel slung over my shoulder and looked towards the exit.

To my surprise, I saw a second figure standing in the cave's maw, silhouetted by the burning chaos that was going on in the camp. He was slightly taller than myself and not very muscular underneath his layers of furs and clothes. His blackened hair was well-kept given the conditions within the camp, and his face was ghostly pale with the shock of what he had just witnessed. He stared wide-eyed from behind a pair of half-framed spectacles at me and the bubbling, bleeding, burning, smoking, melting face of the lifeless mayor, his mouth agape in utter horror.

“Is something wrong,” I quietly asked. My voice was barely above a whisper, and yet could be heard within the cave above the din outside. I knelt down to dry my hands on the dead mans fur cloak. The young-looking man didn't respond.

I took a step closer to him. “I think I've seen you a couple times around camp. You look awfully quiet and harmless. Step aside, kid, and I won't hurt you too.”

The figure took a deep breath, and his body wracked with a light cough. I smiled. He too must've been infected by the vaccines my Order squad passed around.

I took a couple steps closer to the exit, but the boy still did not budge. A sinking feeling began to form in my gut.

“Move, kid,” I snarled. “Now.”

Another step. And another, and another, and another. Still, he did not move. Rather, he slowly spread his arms out from underneath the protective folds of his thick fur cloak, revealing two swords strapped in sheathes to his belt.

I narrowed an icy, venomous glare at him. Another batch of vile plague began welling up in my lungs, ready to rip with a single breath. I clenched my fists tightly. “Pull steel on me, son. I fucking dare you.”

[Flames of Hyperion]

He had experienced his share of terror and atrocity during the Corpse War. The shrunken husks of villagers caught up in Xem'zund's advance, their last moments spent clawing at their own skin in a futile effort to dig out the necro-parasites liquefying their entrails. The silent screams of militia soldiers trapped in suppurating bubbles of necromancy, flayed alive by coruscating energies and dissipating like ash in the collapsing shockwaves. The shambling eldritch abominations in the wartrains of the Dread Lords, all vermiform appendages and yonic voids, their maddening wails shivering across the barren moorlands. The rotting corpse-fields outside Nenaebreth, packed three deep with the cadavers of living and unliving alike.

But the Gaffer’s fate vaulted swiftly to the top of Nanashi’s list of personal nightmares.

Wisps of hissing steam rose into the flickering torchlight, like the incense from a funeral joss stick. Acrid fumes clung to existence in the still air. Bleached skull and molten flesh twitched now and again in macabre memory of the life they had once held. Blistered lips lay hopelessly bare to the frozen chill. Even over the chaotic clamour of the camp behind him, Nanashi swore he could hear the dead man still beseeching his dragons to look over little Hatha. The wanderer wallowed in the knowledge that he had broken his promise again, and the taste of utter failure served only to aggravate the rising bile in his throat.

Could anybody blame him for freezing, eyes wide in haunted horror and mouth half agape?

Could anybody blame his stomach for joining his lungs in trying to escape from its frail physical shell?

Yet though his mind refused to accept what his senses fed to it, the voice of logic in the back of his head dispassionately analysed the scene. The uncovered water barrels, and the swirls of blood and flesh that contaminated at least one of them. The open cages, the glorious squeaks that echoed over the sibilant bubbling of what remained of the Gaffer’s face. The long ceremonial Eiskaltian blade, glinting in misery alongside its fallen master. The cruel curl of the caravan mistress’s thin lips, the spear of her frigid glare, and the gnarled knotted fists at her side.

The pieces clicked together, solving the puzzle at the speed of thought. His arms, spreading wide from beneath his cloak, stopped still for the briefest of eternities.

Beneath the mask of horror, behind the scholarly insight, a third emotion flared. Rage. Incandescent, roaring rage.

His eyes blanked. His hands blurred. Instead of his swords, though, they went for the scrollcase at the small of his back.

But the sudden movement proved too much for his sprained wrist. It twinged in pain, ligaments spasming beyond his control. Handfuls of rune-inscribed card spilled to a cave floor strewn with dirt.

Instinct took over. Nanashi dropped to the ground, good hand fumbling at his throat for the clasp of his cloak. The bad one reached out towards one of the fallen cards, heated agony warring with the chill of the soiled stone.

“Haigeki,” he whispered, his hoarse voice curiously flat and distorted within the storecave’s confines.

The touch of his mind unlocked the sealed magic. Released from imprisonment, a wave of pure arcane force blasted forth towards the half-dryad apothecary.

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

The first wisps of plague smoke had escaped my exhaling lips when the brown-haired man whispered a single word. The dark, hazy jet had cleared half of the space between us when there a light blue flash, and the space in the cave seemed to bend and distort in front of him. The distortion traveled in a wave that spread out as it pushed its way through space towards me. My cloud of poisonous breath evaporated as the wave hit it. I had just enough time to throw my hands up in front of my face and brace myself for impact when the whispered incantation hit me.

It felt like I had been thrown into a brick wall--rather, like a brick wall had been thrown at me. A loud thundering bang filled my ears as the spell pushed past me. I stumbled back several feet from the impact. It nearly took my breath from my lungs, and left a dull, aching sensation in every muscle as I tried to regain my footing. Behind me, I heard the rattling of barrels, the sloshing of spilled water, and the metallic scrape of the dead mayor's ceremonial sword as it rolled on the rocky floor of the cave. The rats, angry and confused by the sudden magical force that interrupted their midnight meal, squeaked and chittered intensely as they picked themselves up from their resting spots several feet away from their meals.

I whispered a curse of my own as I quickly shook the numbing feeling from my bones. My vision straightened up and focused on the boy, who was scrambling to collect the cards he had dropped on the floor.

"Son of a bitch," I muttered. I had to act fast, before he had time to pull a nasty trick like that again and stall me further. Outside, I could hear several of my men shouting at each other, rallying to their horses so they could make their escape. Diggs and Hedge would be waiting for me with my own ride out of camp. I couldn't let this boy hold me up any longer than necessary.

I reached behind me, my hands going to the twin delyn daggers strapped to my belt. Thin layers of liquid poison secreted from my vine-braided hands as two lengths of vines sprouted from the insides of my wrists. They quickly slithered around the spidersilk hilts and ripped the instruments of death from their sheathes. The vines quickly drew the flattened sides of the daggers against the palms of my hands, leaving behind a thin film of plague on the cold metal that would make even the slightest nick against the boy's pale as the moon skin fatal if it drew blood.

"I don't have time for this!" My voice was a roar that shook the cave with an intensity that matched the brat's shockwave. I threw my hands forward, giving the lengths ample room to grow. The vine that sprouted from my right arm sent its dagger flying in a beeline to the boy's chest, while the one from my left went in an upward, outward arc towards the cave wall before switching its course mid-air, aiming squarely at his neck.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Slight bunny pre-approved!

Time…

His eyes met hers for a single heartbeat. He took in her thin corvine features, her hair as black as shadow, her sunken gaze as cold as ice. He saw her slender frame, twisting sinuously beneath her hooded cape as it recovered from his mind blow. He glimpsed her briar-clad hands, still glistening in the torchlight where she had drawn them across her knives.

Only then did he realise his mistake.

Fury drained from his head. Crystal clear once more, his mind recognised the intellect behind her actions. He saw her as a human now. An evil person, perhaps, but one capable of rational thought and emotion. Not a thing. Not a monster.

He couldn’t hurt her.

The speeding blade blocked his vision. In instinct he reached for his powers, for the ward that would parry the incoming attack.

Pain. Agony lanced through his mind. Spikes of pure heat dug into his thoughts. Nanashi fell to the floor once more, clutching his temple with his sprained hand, unable to focus on anything but the flames searing the inside of his skull. Inaudible screams tried to force their way through his throat. But only a small gasp echoed like a drop of water in the still pond of the cavern air.

In the meantime, the movement saved his life.

Malformed and already dissipating, his ward couldn’t stop the incoming blade. It shattered beneath the momentum, deflecting the projectile just enough to take its dripping point away from Nanashi’s tightly clenched face. Followed by an endless length of corded vine, part of which actually did tear at the skin of his cheek, the organic whisper of its passage nearly deafened him in sibilant blasphemy.

Denied of its original target, the second dagger whipped across the small of his back instead. His heavy cloak protected him from serious injury; the keen blade sliced straight through the fur, but not deep enough to cut into muscle and bone. The blow tore the cloak from his shoulders, but his foresight in unclasping it beforehand meant that it merely bruised his throat and knocked the air from his lungs – again – as it came free. Blistering, flaring shock quickly receded in the face of cold, numbing paralysis. Whatever liquid she had slathered on her blade before spearing it towards him, it wasn’t healing cream.

Time…

He didn’t have the luxury of time, either. Using the new pain as a fulcrum, bracing against the effort, fighting the waves of scalding agony, he reached into the depths of his mental reserves and gasped out a single phrase.

“Jikuu… Kasoku.”

Time slowed. Or, rather, his own body sped up in relation to the world around him.

Blood hammered through his ears, streamed down his cheeks, pooled above his lips. His eyes watered blearily as he forced them open. His hands trembled as he forced them away from his head.

One.

Too many innocent people in too close a proximity. And the supplies in the cavern were too valuable. He dared not unleash the full extent of his powers. He had to focus them. He had to sheathe his flame.

Two.

Furthermore, he had to suspect every action the caravan mistress had taken since arriving in the camp. Especially the ‘antidotes’ that she had given Hatha and the other children… the same antidotes that had made them sick again.

His sight settled upon the card that he needed.

Three…

“Kaenben.”

Thin ribbons of fire, encased in a layer of scything wind, lashed out from both of his now-outstretched hands. Mimicking the sinuous grace of the knife-tipped vines, the flaring white pyrowhips wound about their withdrawing arboreal counterparts. He expected them to shear through the frail foliage; when they did not, he could barely suppress his surprise. But the proximal heat was more than enough to set the vines on fire instead.

His head throbbed. His ears sang. His lungs burned. He couldn't see clearly through the miasma of time-distorted agony. Could he somehow distract and disable her? Did he have the time?

Four.

No. The ache in his head grew with every ounce of effort he threw into pushing his body onwards. He had to make the point. He had to do so now.

Screaming with rage, tendons tearing as he forced his fingers through air as thick as treacle, he redirected his whips towards the half-dryad woman. Once again they locked gazes. He caught the dawning comprehension as her stark blue eyes opened wide.

Five.

With an ear-wrenching snap the timelines re-synchronised. Blood flowed freely from every possible orifice upon his face, splattering in a fine mist upon the inside lenses of his spectacles. Every muscle ached with the effort of a thousand lifetimes. His head felt like somebody had stuffed it through a meat grinder and then wrung it out beneath a rolling pin. But there was nothing wrong with his mental acuity.

His pyrowhips struck home.

One carved a jagged path across the open water barrels. All three promptly exploded in a hurricane of wood splinters and hissing steam. Nanashi promised himself that no refugee would drink water that had any possibility of contamination. Not if he could help it.

The other landed in the midst of three rats, only now trying to scramble out of the way of the duel. One of them made it. The other two didn’t. Their shrill death-screams soon dissipated beneath the hissing steam, but the stench of charred flesh remained. Nanashi promised himself that none of the bloated pests would survive the fight. Not if he could help it.

Unlike his previous spell, the shockwave of the popped time bubble rebounded against the shallow cave wall. It drove back at Nanashi’s crouched form, out the entryway into the stormy night beyond. Rocks rattled, drifts of dirt cascaded from the ceiling, braziers flickered in rebellion, and every last supply sack and barrel trembled in fear. It bought the nameless foreign wanderer a single moment of silence in which to speak his demand.

“Antidote,” he croaked through the blood clogging his throat. The chilly numbness in his back had spread in caressing slowness to his shoulders and hips, and he had the vaguest inkling that he didn’t have much time for negotiation. But he also knew that she wouldn’t have run the risk of accidentally infecting her own men, or the Alerian armies even now advancing upon their position. There had to be a true cure to whatever she had infected Hatha and the rest of the children with. And she, as bearer of the plague, had to be carrying it. “The real one. For your freedom.”

He paused for breath, slender chest rising and falling visibly. His voice emerged again as a level, indomitable whisper.

“Now.”

The shimmering heat of the pyrowhips bracketing her position reinforced his final word.

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

It all happened so... fast.

I heard the collision of metal and flesh. I saw the bastard blocking my escape fall to the ground. I witnessed the second dagger tear through fur, nicking his skin and sealing his fate. But then... I don't know what happened. He rose to his feet as if nothing had happened, and two long tendrils of flame shot from out of his palms. My eyes went wide, I felt the blood leaving my face, and my mouth fell open in a grimace of sheer terror.

Fire. No. No. Oh gods above and below, NO.

Plants burn; trees burn, grass burns, underbrush burns... Briarhearts burn.

Shit shit shit shit shit. Fire was the last thing I wanted to see tonight, especially if it was aimed at me.

Before I could retract my vines, the two lashes whipped through the air with an incredible burning brilliance and wrapped themselves around the lengths of plant matter that held my knives tightly. My eyesight flashed white and my screams echoed along the cavern walls as the twin lengths burst into flame on contact.

But it was almost over as soon as it had begun. The bespectacled boy withdrew his fiery grip on my vines and aimed his sights elsewhere. Barrels exploded into piles of splinters and poisoned water evaporated with an incredible, steamy hiss as I drew my burning extensions back into me. The bits of fire that the boy's burning lashes left on the vines were snuffed out as they re-entered my body. I could feel the dull, tingly ache from the damage deep inside my body as another brilliant red flash passed by the left side of my head. There was a crack and several screeches as the fiery ribbon found several of the rats I brought into the cave.

And before I could finally collect myself and react, it was over. The brown-haired boy stared intently at me over the blood-specked rims of his glasses and demanded an antidote to the fresh round of plague my daggers had inflicted upon him.

To either side of me, he had laid out his two flaming whips, trapping me where I stood. I took a deep breath and tried to think of a way out of this situation. Every obvious plan would see me going for broke and rushing in to knock this fucker out with a swift punch; and every obvious outcome saw me lying in a writhing, burning, smoking, screaming mess at the mouth of the cavern.

It looks like I had no choice.

I took a deep breath, letting the tension hang in the air for a brief second, trying to buy as much time as possible in case my sickness wanted to act just a little bit quicker than usual. He was already breathing heavily, his voice raspy in his chest. Blood had been slowly trickling out of his nostrils and the corner of his mouth between anger-pursed lips. I could tell that he was sick--but the progression would be too slow for me to capitalize on. So, without much of a choice, I acquiesced.

“I'll give you the antidote,” I said flatly, without emotion, my steely gaze meeting his. I pointed at the burning lashes that were dancing on the rocky, dusty floor of the cave by my feet. “But you have to put those out first.”

He took a few seconds to think on the matter. A cough rattled its way out of his chest. A few specks of blood hit the rocks at his feet as he finished hacking up phlegm. He wiped the corners of his mouth with the back of his hand before extinguishing one of the lashes.

I eyeballed the second one, still acting like a fiery snake slithering by my feet, making me feel really uncomfortable. I took a small shuffling step away from it. “Both of them, stupid.”

“Not until I get the antidote.”

“You're going to die soon. I don't think you're in the position to negotiate here,” I spat back.

The bastard jerked his arm, and the ribbon of flame danced closer to the heels of my boots. I took a reflexive step away, glaring at the brat as he said, “I don't think you are either.”

A long, unbearable silence that made seconds feel like hours filled the cave. He had a point. With that fucking fire whip at his command, and with the incredible speed, skill, and grace that I saw him command it, he could very easily drag me into the depths of hell with him.

I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and exhaled. I made a half-hearted gesture towards the opening of the cave. “Cure's in the wagon.”

The boy stepped aside from the entryway, giving me a full glimpse of the simmering chaos that engulfed the camp. The Eiskalt refugees were scrambling around, trying to make sense of what was happening to them. I saw one of my Order goons on the back of his horse, chasing after two men with a wooden club in hand. “I keep a small supply on me when I travel, in case... in case someone who shouldn't get infected does. Keeps me from dealing with awkward situations, you know?”

He gestured to the open cave mouth with his free hand. “Let's go then, shall we?” Silently, I nodded and quickly made my way out of the cave. The boy followed me as we skirted the ring of wrecked, burning tents that the refugee camp was now made up of. The entire time, the one flaming lash he had summoned trailed him, just waiting for me to try and make a move so he could incinerate me where I stood.

We made it to the wagon in short order. Diggs and Hedge were at the wagon, grabbing their survival satchels and making sure everything was set for their departure. They turned around, spotted me, focused on my escort, and immediately drew their weapons--the sharp ones, of course--ready to defend me in a moment's notice. I cut them off with a quick shake of my head and a wave of my hand. “No,” I said, “it's alright. We're just here for something.

I approached the wagon and jumped onto the back. I kept the antidotes to my plague in a small stained oak box near the front of the wagon. I flipped up the iron latch and cracked the box open. By the fires of the camp, I could see that there were only three antidotes inside; far, far less than would be required by the camp to cure all of those who were infected anew over the past twenty-four hours. I grabbed one of the glass vials and gave the sky blue liquid inside a quick slosh.

I turned around and jumped off the back of the wagon, kicking up a small cloud of mountain dust as my boots hit the ground. I handed the bottle to the brat who coerced me with fire into curing him. He gave the bottle a quick shake with his free hand, and then shot me an inquisitive look.

“It's not fucking poison. That's the cure, I swear to the gods,” I shot at him before he could ask me about the bright-colored contents. He nodded slightly, his eyes hollow and weary with sickness as he popped the cap off the vial and raised it too his lips. I watched on as he pressed the glass to his lips, hesitated for a second, and then downed the liquid in one gulp.

The brat lowered the vial from his mouth. I took a couple steps toward him and reached out for the bottle. When he put out his arm to return it to me, I made my play.

“Diggs, Hedge, run!” My body shuddered and spasmed as it released a cloud of acid droplets that enveloped me and the glasses-wearing bastard who interrupted my business in the cave. With any luck, this nasty surprise would severely burn his face and hands, giving me ample time to follow my two henchmen to our waiting horses that would lead us into the Eiskalt night and away from this wretched place.

[Flames of Hyperion]

What had he to lose?

Yes, she could have lied about possessing the antidotes. She could have falsely acquiesced to the negotiations as a ploy to barter her freedom. If so he would have come out the fool, but he would still have protected the stores from her sabotage. He could live with that.

Yes, she could have lied about their effectiveness. She could have filled the vials with syrup, or a further poison, and he might not have been any the wiser before she left. But at least he would not have had to endure anybody else suffering false hope or further tragedy. He could live with that.

Yes, she could have conveniently forgotten to mention that she didn’t carry enough antidotes to heal all the damage she had done. In fact, given the manner in which the wagons already lay empty, Nanashi already suspected that such was the case. He had to hope that the remaining apothecaries in the camp could synthesise the serum from a sample. He could live with that.

Yet without her help, no matter how grudgingly given, he stood not an icicle’s chance in Haidia of saving any of the children she had already infected. He would not be able to prevent Hatha’s soul from journeying into the depths of the Ringwall Peaks to reunite with her father and her family. He had to gamble that she was at least telling some modicum of truth.

So he had nothing to lose.

That didn’t mean he had to trust her completely.

She snarled, raven-sharp features contorting in fury and frustration.

He reacted, survival instincts braced against the familiar pain in his head as he reached for his defences.

She dissipated into a fine green mist, and his wards snapped up. Acidic droplets fizzled and hissed, casting prismatic ripples as they destabilised his protective sheen of magic. Some burnt through, and he panicked as they made burning contact with his face. Blood-encrusted skin hissed and sizzled. The dual stenches of smouldering flesh and singed cotton infiltrated his clogged nostrils. Nightmarish visions of the Gaffer’s mutilated corpse paralysed his thoughts.

Flinching, eyes scrunched tight, he back-pedalled clear of the stinging fog. He ended up on his backside by the wagon, sharp rocks digging into his legs and a hub cap jammed against his back injury. The shock of steamy air escaping from his lungs cleared his mind of dread. By then the cloud had dispersed beneath the wintry gale. He only had to nudge the winds in the correct direction to ensure they didn’t further threaten the shelters.

But the thunder of retreating hooves let him know that the caravan mistress had used her distraction to make good her escape. For a long harrowing heartbeat he could do naught but watch her leave, the flowing line of her cape reflected in the icy frames of his spectacles. Shadowy night closed in her wake to veil her from sight.

All the adrenaline, all the blood and thunder, seeped from his fists like water leaking from a broken flask.

So be it.

Acutely aware of the dying din as the refugees regained a semblance of control over their camp, he returned his attention to his duties. Coughing wet blood from his broken throat, fighting the burning ache in his head and muscles, he leveraged himself upright by the spoke of the wheel at his back. Then at long last he moved to retrieve the precious box of antidotes.


***

They worked wondrously. The rolling thunder in his head soon subsided to a resounding but manageable drumbeat. A hazy semblance of focus replaced his blurry blood-stained vision and the beat of his heart in his ears. Warm soothing hands wiped away the worst of the numbness from his neck and hips, working their way towards the flesh wound across the small of his back. Blessed, stinging pain flared once more as the touch of cold death receded.

He regretted downing the vial in its entirety. So many had needed it so much more than he. He would have gladly suffered for a short while longer if it meant...

No matter.

What was done was done, and no amount of self-recrimination would bring back the dead.

He stood by the great bonfire at the centre of the camp, surrounded by an empty circle of solitude amidst the milling crowd. His cloak still bore the keen tear where the half-dryad’s blade had come close to ending his life. Acid burns pockmarked his clothes where the fine mist had penetrated his wards. Unhealed raw blisters scarred his cheeks, but he had at least cleaned his blood from his thin pale features. And he no longer coughed as though attempting to expel his entrails at every passing opportunity.

Two days had passed since the caravan mistress’s betrayal, two long torturous days of which he remembered little. He had delivered the antidote to the Eiskaltian apothecaries without further delay. Lacking a comprehensive list of ingredients and instructions, they had found it impossible to replicate. But it hadn’t take them long to recognise the active ingredient, a rare mutant strain of greenmold, from his description of the distinctive pungent aftertaste. They had divided up the remaining vials as best possible amongst the most vulnerable patients. Then they had set to work synthesising an alternative serum with what limited resources they had available.

Their swift action had saved many young, innocent lives. Even a sip of the antidote proved enough to ward off the first vicious fit of headache and haemorrhage for those whose condition had yet to degenerate. In the long desperate vigil of the night, as Nanashi and the other fit men of the camp laboured to secure their perimeter and rout the rest of the rats from the stores, only two other children followed little Hatha into shivering fever and rasping nausea.

None of them had made it out again.

Three tiny bundles now journeyed upon the shoulders of their fathers and their kin towards the roaring flames. The same bed linen that had failed to keep them safe and warm in their last hours wrapped about their malnourished bodies and stick-like limbs. Wind howled from the looming heights of the Ringwall Peaks, keening a sorrowful dirge to their passing. Frigid motes of snow bit at Nanashi’s nose, dulling the all-too-familiar stink of too many unwashed bodies. Multitudes of stares dug into his person, some of them bared daggers of hate and accusation, others veiled glances of sympathy and respect. It all paled in comparison to the hot tears rolling down his acid-burnt cheeks.

It was bad enough when war stole away the lives of the brave and the honourable. It was bad enough when fathers perished in defence of their homeland and mothers stood their ground to give their children a chance of escape. But worse still was when the same indiscriminate conflict claimed the lives of the young, of the bright flames burning with so much unrealised promise. No military precision, no strict formality, could ever hope to rule over the funereal proceedings. But everybody present united in their grief and their guilt, their pain and their devastation.

Everybody except one.

Nanashi grieved for their loss as much as any Eiskaltian. But the empty space around him resulted from a barrier more substantial than mere physical repulsion. No matter how diligently he tried to place himself in the shoes of the refugees, he could never aspire to their ranks. No matter how desperately he tried to find sanctuary and redemption in their midst, there would always be those who spurned his efforts and his ego. To them, he would always be the nameless, the foreigner, the wanderer. They would always remember him as the one present and responsible when it all went wrong. The one who could not protect them from assault or from war. The one who had let the plague-bearing murderer slip through his grasp.

Salty lumps lodged in the back of his throat. He bit down on his tongue to strangle the urge to scream away the pain. After all, he had only himself to blame. His impotence. His ignorance. His inexperience. His inadequacy.

His failure.

Tearful eulogies swept over his bowed head, ruffling coarse black hair in skin-deep sympathy. Juhani’s mother choked on how the young boy had lapped up his father’s tales of guarding the Stahl Gate. He had always dreamt of travelling beyond the borders of Eiskalt into the mythical lands of Salvar and Corone. Hannele’s elder uncle remembered the girl’s love for cooking. She would always show off her latest creation when he stopped by Unum to trade away his furs. The bruised highlander who spoke for Hatha reminded them how her father had drawn on the strength of his love for her to hold the camp together. Parent and child would now reunite in peace, in spite of the vicious outlander apothecary’s best efforts.

“Ancients on high, we commend these souls unto your care,” the big man intoned into the silence that followed. “May they journey safely beneath your watchful wings into rest. May they be reborn in fire and ash, and may you grant them the strength to journey back unto us again.”

“Amen,” the assembled crowd murmured back at him, releasing pent-up emotion towards the twilit horizon. Only Nanashi failed to add his voice to the benediction. If the ancients held such power, why had they allowed such devastation to occur in the first place? Why had they abandoned their watch over their sacred highlands?

Who of us can truly comprehend their will? the wind whispered in his ears. Somehow, the words sounded like something the Gaffer might have said. Certainly their quiet, simple faith reminded him painfully of the deceased mayor. Life grants us challenges for a reason, though we may not understand why until too late… or ever. It is up to us as individuals to determine how we respond.

For long hours the flames burned, feeding in indiscriminate hunger on raw firewood and lifeless flesh alike. For long hours the tiny bundles of hollowed flesh and inanimate soul breathed the last of their existence into the frozen wasteland. For long hours after the last of the linen had diffused as flecks of black ash, Nanashi watched the orange-red heat searing the night sky.

Dimly he registered the arrival of another aid caravan, this one far larger than any other before and emblazoned in the livery of the Ixian Knights.

Vaguely he heard stentorian voices giving orders, inquiring about the state of the camp, learning about the recent outbreak and how they had fought it.

Gradually they subsided into silence around him, carrying away the worst of the injured and ill to neutral Tyralia and the safety of its ports.

Fitful sleep claimed those who remained.

Only then did the nameless wandering foreigner turn away from the pyre, a lone shadow of movement in the gloaming half-light. With little but the clothes on his back and the satchel on his belt, he slipped past the exhausted perimeter sentry. His feet led in measured pace towards the tallest of the pinnacles in the distance, the one the Gaffer had stared at in longing prayer for his daughter.

He would see for himself what the mountains held that made them so attractive to those who violated Eiskalt’s sovereignty. He would find out if the Gaffer’s dragons truly did exist, and if so, why they cared not to aid those who entrusted them with hope and life and death alike. He would not allow another Juhani, another Hannele, or another Hatha to perish in the war-torn eddies of selfishness, power-mongering, and greed.

Not if he could help it.

Susurrant snowstorm soon swallowed him whole.

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

A short length of vine hovered in the chilly Eiskalt air, bobbing and weaving with the horse's steps along the snowy path, turning in place as I inspected the burns it suffered from my scuffle days ago at the refugee camp. That bespectacled bastard's burning lashes had charred the plant matter. Dead bits of briar had been blackening and flaking away, replaced by fresh threads and tendrils. I withdrew the length back into my arm and took up the reigns in both hands.

The path ahead was clear. All around us, we were surrounded by rolling hills, abandoned farmhouses, and vast stretches of plains. A fresh layer of snow clung desperately to the ground, remnants of a storm that passed through several nights ago. I took a deep breath. The crisp, chilly air filled my lungs and sent a small shiver down my spine. The bright midday sun filled me with an energy that I wish I had back in the supply cave. If only I hadn't been so rudely interrupted in my work...

I cast a casual glance over to Diggs, who was perched upon a horse that didn't seem to mind the considerable weight on its back. He, predictably, was munching on one of his ration bars. "How far from the rendezvous point are we?"

Without missing a beat, the balding man flipped open his satchel and pulled out the tattered map with a dirty mitt. He crammed the rest of the ration bar into his mouth, brushed the crumbs off the parchment with a spare hand, and then began calculating the distance we had traveled in the days since we made our dramatic exit. He looked up frequently, searching out mountain ranges and settlements in the far-off reaches of this war-torn country, comparing them to the dots and dashes on the map. He swallowed hard, clearing his throat before speaking in that lisp of his that's somehow both endearing and irritating at the same time. "W-we should be there in three days."

I nodded. "We're making good time. The others should either be there by the time we arrive or shortly thereafter. We didn't lose anyone at the camp, correct?"

Hedge glanced sideways at me. "Not by my count," he said gruffly.

"Good." I reached into my own survival satchel and produced a strip of jerky to munch on.

"It would've been better had the mission been a success," the more ragged of my companions muttered.

I crumpled the piece of wax paper my snack was wrapped in at whipped it at Hedge's head. It tweaked him right in the temple. The mercenary flinched. "What do you mean, had it been a success? As far as I'm concerned, it was a rousing success. Good job, good effort, praises and raises for everyone."

He glared at me from the saddle of his own ride. "We left your extra antidotes behind, in case you forgot. Maybe even enough for everyone we've infected. We would've been better off just killing the whole damn lot of 'em."

"This isn't about killing people," I shot back, irritated. "It was never about killing. When you kill someone, you achieve nothing. They're gone. That's it. But..." I paused for a second, searching for the words to say that not only would've explained it to this goon who apparently only liked money and death, but would let me justify the mission as a success in spite of the hiccups. "But when you present people with a shred of hope in their worthless lives, then you snatch that away from them... You kill their trust. You destroy their will. You teach them fear. Just remember, the worst thing you can ever do to someone is break them mentally and emotionally. That's when you have true power over someone, Hedge."

The merc cocked an eyebrow. "Do you think Lichensith cares about fear?"

I thought about the reports I heard of the assassin and Master Hand of the Order of the Crimson Hand, and his bloody encounter with Jensen Ambrose in the tunnels of the mountains up north. "I'm pretty sure he's occupied with more pressing matters at the moment. Like trying to stay alive."

Hedge turned away from me with a solemn nod, dropping the matter completely. After a few minutes, he spoke again. "So what do we do now?"

"Simple," I said matter-of-factly. "We regroup and debrief. We find out how many of our operatives are still in the war--as far as I'm aware, Max Dirks and that girl with the goat legs are the only major ones--and we try to establish contact with them. Failing that, you two and the other eighteen will be under my command. We continue the war effort. He hit fast, we hit hard, we disappear. We tear apart the Eiskalt government's supply lines, the factions supporting them, and anyone else who gets in our way--be they lowly farmers and vigilantes or the Ixian Knights themselves. Despite our own glorious leader's failings, I will not let our efforts here go to waste."

[Silence Sei]

BaBE
Flames


Story
9
9


Setting
8
8


Pacing
5
4


Communication
8
7


Action
7
8


Persona
8
9


Mechanics
9
9


Clarity
8
7


Technique
7
8


Wildcard
7
8

Total
Total
76/100
77/100



Quick bullet points;

Flames- your pacing was unfortunately not as great as the other areas of this battle, and BaBE suffered from this as well. Please keep in mind guys that you don't need to write 3 pages in one post to have a good, well placed post, and sometimes putting so much into your posts at once really detracts from the flow of the fight.

Both Stories were incredible, and BaBE's communication from his hired thugs to his opponent to the concerned citizen were all believable and heartfelt, and really made my gut churn knowing Maddy's true intentions.

In the end, it came down to the fact that while his pacing was not up to snuff, Flames wrote an incredible story with details pretty much put into every word he typed. I could tell this fight was a labor of love for the both of you, and you guys made it absolutely a wonderful read. Nanashi's own feelings of self worth, or rather lack thereof, shone through in the closing moments of this fight, and in the end, that's what won it for him. This is how you do battles. Well done you guys.

I'll have Lye do the exp in a little while.

Flames of Hyperion Advances
BlackAndBlueEyes is eliminated.

[Lye]

Flames of Hyperion Gets:

3,438 EXP
125 GP

BlackandBlueEyes Gets:

825 EXP
65 GP

EXP & GP Added!