Eiksalt War Round 2: Enigmatic Immortal and Roht Mirage Vs Requiem of Insanity

[Silence Sei]

It's a 2 on 1 showdown! The Knights take on the Daughter of the Demon!

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

[Roht Mirage]

Astarelle gripped her warm teacup in two hands and took careful sips. She had been told that it was boiled from the bark of some mountain tree, also that she was absolutely mad -even by local standards- for taking it unsweetened. Sugar would just steal away some of the heat, and she needed all of it against the wintery chill that permeated the thick walls of her tent.

“We've searched this section of the city thoroughly,” Doron said as he drew a rough finger across the map on Astarelle's small camp table. From the western edge, a wave of symbols seemed in the midst of overtaking the map; secure outposts, stubborn survivors, encounters with dark agents. One of their mercenaries had barely been able to flee by stealing a horse from a burning stable. Others, Ixian and Unum local alike, were simply found dead. Mutilated.

Astarelle set her cup down. “I lost track of Leila and Nety here,” she said. With her right hand, she pointed to an intersection that was well within the area already searched. “Then Nety and her were separated here. If she continued going that way...” Astarelle's finger continued into the heart of the city, a place with no markings and only one word, 'ruins'.

Doron sucked on his teeth. “With all due respect, Miss Set'Roh, we should focus on the areas with a greater likelihood of survivors. It's been two weeks, and there is still not a single person in camp who witnessed what happened there.”

“If she is there, we need to find her now rather than later,” the fallieni woman argued as she reached for her tea. She missed. The handle passed right through the space where the first knuckles on her left hand should have been. Stupid, she thought with venom, two bloody weeks and I still-

“She's one girl,” the camp master rumbled without his earlier pretense of respect, “and there are so many who haven't been accounted for.”

Astarelle shook her head. “I made a promise to her father, and to her, before we lost her,” she said without looking up from that ominous place on the map.

“Have you spoken to her father since that night?” Doron probed.

She shrugged deeper into her coat. “No.”

“We find him wandering at the outskirts of the camp, some nights. He constantly talks about his regrets; how little time he spent with his family before all this. I have a man watching him, now.”

Astarelle nodded. “Good. We don't want an accountant going back into that city. Just one more person to rescue.”

“That's not what we're concerned about,” Doron said curtly.

Astarelle frowned, finally understanding, but his tone marked the conversation as over. She didn't speak anymore, only parted her lips to sip the bitter tea. The elderly soldier pointed to other districts of poor, shattered Unum, marked the points of interest from his most recent reports, and generally rambled about the lack of manpower for their seemingly impossible task.

A reprieve finally came in the form of a messenger. Astarelle hurriedly waved for him to enter before he let all the cold air in. “Any news from the city?” she asked as she set her empty cup down.

“No, ma'am,” the young man said with a bow, “I bring orders from Kyla Orlouge.” He fished an envelope from the bag slung on his back and offered it to her across the table.

She glared at it as one might glare at a gnat just out of swatting range. “I told her I'm only here to help these people. This isn't my war.”

“It's nice that you have that option,” said a voice as cold as the air that entered with it. Nety left the flap open for a moment or two longer than necessary, then stepped all the way inside and lowered her hood. She was young, with a plain face, dark hair, and the reddest of red boots. Or, they would be if not for the soot that stubbornly clung to them. She took a seat on the small stool that was the tent's only other furniture and lay her impressive crossbow across her lap.

“No sign of her?” Astarelle asked, disappointment already tinging her voice. Nety nodded as she drew back the string and brushed ice crystals from its length.

Doron assumed his diplomatic airs as he offered, “I assure you we are doing everything we can to find your daughter.”

Nety choked. The string twanged into place, almost biting her fingers. “Oh no. I'm just their neighber. Was their neighbor. Leila's mother is...”

Astarelle drew Doron's eyes to her own. A smoldering glare conveyed the message “too soon” as she tapped a finger to the place on the map that had only gained the name 'ruins' two weeks ago.

Doron coughed uncomfortably, then took the letter on the end of the messenger's very tired arm. He nodded in polite gratitude, which the man took to mean that he could leave the tension-filled tent. Without even a farewell, he did so.

“What in the...” the camp master said, agape, as he read. His bushy, greying brows climbed ever higher.

Astarelle sighed as curiosity got the better of her. “Fine. What is it?”

Doron refolded the letter and dropped it on the map. “You are to collect one Jensen Ambrose. He hasn't been responding to orders. He was last seen coming this way.”

An exasperated cry (or perhaps laugh) escaped Astarelle as she slumped forward to brace forehead against palms. “Bury me, Kyla. Is Jensen barhopping in a war zone?”

“Barhopping? Now?” Nety asked, if only to vent the bizarre notion.

“You do it,” Astarelle said with a wave toward Doron.

He recoiled, then reached for the cane laying at his side. “How do you propose that I,” he rapped it against the side of the table, “catch up to Mr. Ambrose?”

“Easy,” Astarelle chuckled bitterly, “You take a big crate, prop it up on a stick, and put the 'driest fucking martini' you can find under it. Hide until you hear swearing. Then, just throw a lid on the crate and send 'im home.”

Doron snorted. Nety, with the same bewildered tone, asked, “What's a martini?”

“Almost forgot,” said the messenger as he burst back into the tent with a light dusting of snow on his shoulders. He hitched his bag forward and pulled from its depths a long handle.

“Did she-,” Astarelle began to ask, then vaulted over the low table to find out for herself. She gripped the handle and drew the object out, almost falling back when it proved to be even lighter than she remembered. “This isn't Crozius,” she said dumbly as she stared at the handle that, in ages past, might have been topped with a war hammer, but on this day bore only disappointment. “Is she playing a joke on me?” Astarelle asked the courier accusingly.

“No! I... don't think so,” he said with palms raised in submission. “I was told that it would help you if he was -what as her word- uncooperative? It's not going to explode or anything, is it?”

Apparently, Kyla's particular flavor of magic was well known.

“I hope not,” Astarelle said as she tossed it from hand to hand, then slipped it into her coat. Her brow was still furrowed, and she fidgeted from foot to foot. “Doron, I'm going to search that place we talked about,” she finally announced.

He sighed and said, “I can't give you any reinforcements.”

She gave him a wink. “I'll be fine.”

“I know,” he said with a nod.

Astarelle stepped between the messenger and Nety, who looked up at her with eyes still wide. “Martinis. Handles. I don't get any of your jokes,” she said as Astarelle opened the flap for a face full of Eiskalt chill.

Instead of explaining, Astarelle just muttered, “If this handle had been what I thought it was, I'd level every inch of that city to find her.” She stepped out into the falling snow, leaving Nety speechless in her wake.

[Requiem of Insanity]

The air smelled like the blackened stench of fire. Even two weeks after the initial invasions between Misery Business and the Ixian Knights, the stench remained. Black clouds choked the sky like giants snuffing out the sun itself. The wind was heavy, demanding in its attention that it forced of those who could whiff it. Even near the sea ports the wind carried that burned charnel stink of incinerated flesh, wood, and stone. Many villages had to be evacuated into the refugee camps to flee the harmful atmosphere.

"There is still no sign of him, Lady Remi."

Catherine Remi’s wings curled around her shoulders, her axe upon her hip tapping her inner thigh. Her joints could feel the cold nip of Eisklat’s winter upon her flesh. Her eyes looked out into the land from the perch of the cave mouth she rested in as of late. Her gaze turned slowly to look back at the man who brought her news, clearly one of the few who drew the short straw. Even in the best of conditions Catherine's mood was dour, and the information that she was given did nothing to change that.

She turned away from him, watching him slink backwards like a cowed dog into the shadows. Her eyes narrowed upon the villages she had not recently terrorized as she thought about the past two weeks. She had completed her first major military action with the Cult of Blessed Torture and stood triumphant. So now it was time for her to reunite with Draug and destroy any high priority threats to her mother’s rebirth as a Goddess. Yet when she arrived at the agreed upon location she found no trace of her brother. The Abomination left no signs of even passing through. She began to think the worst immeadietly. Had her brother, despite his prodigious skills, finally been killed? Despite her major victory at sea, if word got out that Draug had been defeated her work would be for naught. That would never do. She needed evidence of her brothers demise.

In hoping to drag out Draug, Catherine decided she would unleash a monster upon the people of Eiskalt. She heard rumors of such a thing already existing in the villages, snatching up children and killing anyone in their way. So Catherine added her own terror to the growing tales of the Eiskalt Eviscerator. She ensured people saw silhouettes of her angelic wings in the fading light of the sun, and upon the dancing flames of the lanterns. She flew past windows swiftly, beheading random citizens in the streets with a swift chop of her axe. When finally roused to act, the avatar of blessed torture let the local authorities chase her. One by one destroing them until they broke, screaming into the night back into their towns to spread word.

She had hoped eventually Draug would grow interested in these rumors and come find her, but in so far he had shown no signs of his location or that he even arrived at Eiskalt. She didn’t know what else she could do at the moment. She couldn't leave the theatre of war, for there was still work to be done. Yet not kowing where Draug was conscerened her on a sisterly level as well as a professional one. He was the Cult's strongest asset next to her, and if he went missing she would find him.

"Break up this camp, prepare to travel south. I shall continue to search for my brother," Catherine ordered to the Cultists in the cave. There were mutterings of dark prayers to her mother for safe passages, and a painful smirk crossed her features. As if mother really cares...

She let her wings span out at the lip of the cave mouth, feeling each cold carress of the wind against her flesh and armor. She fell forwards in a trust fall, looking to the village ahead of her. Her wings caught the drifting air with ease, moving her swiftly towards the ground until she leaned up, letting the motion carry her up into the sky. This was the last village in the area to check for her brother. She could see the still smouldering ruins of a small hamlet off in the distance, a refugee camp further down the road. Perhaps she could really make the fears of the Eiskalt people real. A rueful smile crossed his lips as she beat her wings towards her destination.

[Enigmatic Immortal]

"How many members are left in Eiskalt, Lye?" the Immortal asked the robed companion behind him. His hands shoved a body off his daggers, a wet splorth of noise ringing in his ears as the burbling man let out a few last whimpers of life. Jensen flicked his blades clean, returning them to their homes upon his belt as he looked back to the leader of the Crimson Hand.

"Hard to say for sure," Lye spoke casually, moving through the trail of dead bodies in the broken street. "New Cultists are born each day, and new events triger desires to flock to her banners." Jensen narrowed his eyes in silent warning that this was the last chance Lye had to answer. The assassin grinned, amused that he could push the immotal so easily into the abyss. "There were over sixty Cultists in the Eiskalt nation. I'm awaiting information from one of my men to bring me news."

"What news?" Jensen asked, his tone harsher than the cold that nipped at them. He moved towards Lye, his jacket tracking small glints of snow behind him on the rim. His flesh was covered in blood up to his short sleeved shirt, his trenchcoat steaming from the warm blood that fought off the frigid air. "Why didn't you bring this up before?" Jensen began to pull at a dagger on his chest strap, but Lye calmly raised a defensive hand to quiet the loudmouth immotal.

"It was about the reinforcments for the Ixian Knights. They hired the Black Sails Armada to transport them and a weapon that would have made things rather difficult for myself and our allies to win this war. Last we heard there was a solitary ship sent out by the Cult of Blessed Torture to sink the five vessels."

"I don't know much about Naval warfare," Jensen admitted. "But I think that's bad odds for the Cult."

"Suicide," Lye admitted. "At best." The man seemed distracted as he looked up into the sky. Jensen turned his gaze to look for what he saw, spotting a tiny black bird flapping towards them. Lye's hand reached out and the tiny creature landed. Nimbly he tore the note off the birds leg, letting it take off into the sky again. Jensen's blood boiled as he waited to hear the news. Lye's face, much to the Ixian's chagrin, was perfectly hiding his feelings. "I'll be damned," he whispered, almost inaudibly.

"What?" Jensen spat. "Out with it man, or i'll-"

"They sank the Armada." Lye said flatly, his tone even, but despite that Jensen could hear the twinge of shock. "Two of the four are at the bottom of the sea, two more horribly crippled beyond repair, and most likely destroyed in the weather. The crew of each ship is reported Killed in Action. The reinforcments from the sea are not coming. They even managed to destroy the secret weapon."

Jensen's heavy breathing was the only indication he processed what he heard. The leather of his gloves creaked in the still air as the tension became tangiable.

"My spies, all one left in the employ of Torin Rekhari, was luckily on the flagship. It turned and broke away in time. Apparently they infilitrated the ships easily and attacked all at once. The Black Sails never recovered from the shock." Lye dropped the note at Jensen's feet to show he wasn't lying. "They had someone attack that I didn't know was arriving."

"Who?" Jensen seethed.

"A member of the Dark Family," he muttered. "And I know where they are..."

Jensen was freezing. The jacket he wore never offered him warmth, for it was designed not to. But that still didn't mean he regretted that choice at times. Teeth clattered against one another as he continued to walk through town after town. The past two weeks had been hell on the immortal, and he wasn't sure how to proceed without getting lost on the road to damnation.

His brother in arms, Adolph, had fallen in the batle against the leader of the Crimson Hand. After snapping, the immortal made a deal with Lye when he offered information in return for a favor. Jensen ordered the Ixians with him to take Adolph immeadietly to Aislinn Orlouge, and spared the assassin's life. Turns out, his knowledged had been very helpful.

The two men moved from town to town, killing members of the Cult of Blessed Torture in their sleep. Jensen didn't care how they died anymore. They just needed to die. They always struck at night, without warning. Infilitrating homes and watching mother's put their kids to bed, returning to their room to pray to Cassandra made the immortal's stomach wretch. He prayer was answered with the softest carress of his dagger across their throat. Confused husbands would die next by the Crimson Hand, helping Jensen achieve his goal of removing the filth of Cassandra's verin from the world.

Their reputation began to spread and Jensen felt remorse for his actions, but Lye, ever the one with words to say no matter the situation, assured Jensen that by letting the people grow afriad, they would rumor and spread word. This would draw out more Cultists, and in the end get him to his final goal.

"Catherine Remi," Jensen seethed despite nobody being around. Lye had returned to his men to aquire more intelligence and promised to meet Jensen back in Corone when he was done here. Sure enough, the man was right; the people spread their rumors and eventually Jensen heard of a winged monster slaying innocents at night. He fed off those rumors and moved towards the source of them, eventually taking him near the refugee camp occupied by Ixian soliders protecting the Eiskalt citizens.

Jensen had been ignoring Kyla's return to base orders, sending the few messengers who could find him back with a black eye and missing teeth as his reply. Not even Sei Orlouge himself could stop Jensen now. Cassandra had to pay, and if killing her daughter was the only way, than killing her he would do.

And the immortal drew himself within as he scowled thinking clearly.

And if anyone gets in my way... he thought darkly.

[Roht Mirage]

She rode along what passed for a path in the snow-covered forest, upon a beast that was much more suited to the climate than she was. It had been called a horse, but she knew of no horse as shaggy, as broad, or wide in the hoof as this one. Nonetheless, it responded as a horse. It took the directions of heel and rein as well as any oasis steed, and it could not be stopped. Where the path was covered, the horse ploughed it anew, sending up a spray that made Astarelle hunker down in her coat that, now white, was formerly the vibrant green of a very different forest.

The trees all around were spires of needles, beds of snow on every bough. Where their passage shook the branches free, the light flurry immediately set to work rebuilding. It was a forest of eternal sleep and sap-sweet dreams – and silence. Not a whisper but the wind.

Risking her grip, she twisted the reins around one hand and reach down with the other to brush shortened fingers along the staff lashed to her saddle. Aside from herself, it was the only piece of Fallien in this frozen land. Oh, the places it had travelled... even before her exodus; all the corners of her dessert home. It seemed like such a long time since she rode the sands with Akashere at her side. She wished for him, now more than ever. It wasn't that his guile would dispel the snow, nor for amusement of his inevitable complaints for the temperature. She just needed proof that, aside from her and the dire-horse, there was still something alive and whole and healthy out there.

When the treeline finally broke, it delivered on only one of those three wishes.

The homes on the edge of Unum were intact, if empty, and rank with the stench of fire that had hopefully run its course. Though, the simple fact that the fabled city of stone had been set alight, had even burned for days in some sections, seemed a dangerous omen. Astarelle nuzzled her nose into the fur of her hood as her horse charged through the empty streets of a city that had survived its own cremation. Just.

In accordance with a second wish, she heard life ahead. She continued at the same pace, though. It was a scene that neither surprised nor pleased her.

“You have to leave,” bellowed a man in Ixian colors as he bashed on a door. The contingent in the street behind him shivered in their saddles. He tried again. “It's not safe here!”

Astarelle passed, too slow to avoid the reply.

“Safer than with you! Go away! Take your monsters back home with you!”

A throng of twenty people filled the street ahead of her. They had a familiar gleam in their eyes. She had seen it after a devastating sandstorm, when people still clung to that last hope that their former lives could be salvaged and their rummaging through dead neighbor’s homes would be forgiven as a fleeting, necessary evil. Some of them held cudgels made from the wreckage. Head down, she continued through them. They parted with hushed comments at her coppery skin and the mark over her brow, followed by questions of her allegiance. She was already beyond them.

“Not my war,” she breathed, mist catching in the fur.

Their noise faded behind her, as did the stability of the city. The road was strewn with the dark stone that had once seemed invincible – a bigger lie than even she ever told. Whole sections of buildings were scorched and shorn clean off as if death himself had set to work with flaming sickle. Here, there was still enough smoke to turn daylight into dusk, as well as enough soot to supplant the drifting snow. Rubble piled higher and higher, until even her snorting shovel of a horse could go no farther.

“Good boy,” Astarelle soothed him as she swung down and reclaimed her staff. The reins, she held for a moment, looking about for any post that remained upright. Finally, she tucked them under the saddle. “If anything comes this way, run home.” The quaking white rim in the horse's eye told her it had already come to that conclusion.

Astarelle turned and gingerly stepped up the hedge of shattered stone. Her staff was clasped tightly to her chest, though it did not warm her as Akashere would.

Just to let you know, I am going to be absolute MURDER on your PM boxes. Or, I would, if they weren't already full. So, PM is here. Anyone who's not Paul will get filthy filthy spoilers if they peek.

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[Enigmatic Immortal]

The immortal trudged through the heavy snow into the refugee camp with a grimace upon his face. He saw the multiple pairs of eyes look back. Some in awe, others in concern. One man holding the messenger bag of the Ixian Knights looked right at him as if he was ghost, his mouth gaped in a stpor as an accusatory finger lifted to him. He approached the messenger and gave him a devilish grin.

“Gonna shit your pants if you focus hard enough,” Jensen said, eyes cast down upon the smaller man. “You got a message in your little knapsack for me, soldier?”

“Y-y-yes sir,” he stammered, gaining control of himself.

“You’ve seen the others I sent back, right?”

“Y-y-yes sir,” he whispered in concern. “But I have a duty to perform to Lady Orlouge…” His lips vibrated in fear, eyes on the verge of tears as Jensen brought the full intimidation of his being upon the man. “She’s concerned for you, sir,” he said as if this news would suddenly break the immortal of his scowl and make the world a better place. Jensen lifted a hand up, his finger tilting the man’s aside as he continued to walk forwards. He had to scurry from being shoved out of the knights way.

“Tell Kyla that I am hunting monsters,” Jensen snapped loudly so the camp could hear him. “A task that one of our new captains seems to suck at, and William Arcus left for me to do. Tell her when I’m done cleaning up the messes of her father’s sins I’ll return back to warm her bed, and that until then she can learn to run army without me.”

A few ixians approached the immortal in a group, a trio of two men and a woman. They looked like they had seen hell first hand, and for that look alone he didn’t bring his scowl upon them. Instead, he made a displeased face and narrowed his gaze. “News from the peanut gallery?”

“Captain Ambrose,” the woman started. Jensen cut her off quickly raising a hand to her mouth, the flesh of his body tapping her chapped lips gently. She made a face of irritation, attempting to swat him away, but he removed the offending finger and turned to the other two.

“It’s been one hell of a two week period. The only reason you three aren’t knocked out is because it looks like you had one of those weeks too.” The men let out a half smile as did the woman. “Be smart for once, please?” Jensen begged. “Step aside and just say you never saw me.” They held ranks, but Jensen saw their resolve wavering. He stepped forwards again, pushing them all aside with the brunt of his shoulders and they muttered curses and other things he didn’t care to listen to. He had no reason to justify his actions to them at all.

That was when he met a half pint lady with an ugly look on her face. It wasn’t that she herself was ugly, but she half snarled, half peered into his soul. He gave her a confused glance and she motioned for him to come to her. He shook his head and kept walking, but he got only four steps further before she stood in front of him. His patience flared dangerously close to ending, but one calming breath allowed him to look at the woman with irritation.

“You the martini guy?” she asked with no pretenses of care or military décor. Jensen spotted the strangest shade of red in her boots against the white backdrop of snow and took a moment to process what she said.

“The what?” Jensen blurted, completely off guard. The woman gave him a once over, impatiently shuffling black hair behind her ear.

“Yeah,” she said eyeing him up and down. “You’re that martini guy Ms. Roht was discussing.” Jensen mouthed the word ‘Astarelle’ to himself, shoulders lifting in a shrug as he gave her a sideways glance.

“The fuck is she doing here?” Jensen said hotly, looking out to the village in the distance and thinking back to the last time the two met. It was back in Corone when Jensen was drinking and bar hopping in search of the driest martini, but instead of joining his revelry she was ordered to come collect him. He fought with her, shared some words and secrets, and bonded with the Champion of the Cell, reminding her that this was what being an Ixian Knight amounted to now a day; babysitting. Could Kyla have ordered her to retrieve the immortal? The woman lifted both hands to calm him down as she spoke.

“Looking for refugees off in that town over yonder,” she lifted her thumb and motioned behind her. “Not too far on horse, but I’m more concerned for her safety.” Jensen suddenly gave the woman her full un-divided attention.

“What danger?” Jensen snapped.

“Well aren’t you a ball of sunshine?” she muttered under her breath. “There’s been rumors of a monster striking villages. Killing innocent people and what not,” she added as an afterthought rolling out a small map of the area and showing the knight her scribbling. “Each of these towns have been struck in a unique order. If there is a monster, it’s going to come this way and sometime soon. We hopped to evacuate everyone by then. Now what’s a martini?”

“If you have to ask, you’re too young,” Jensen sassed pushing her out his way leaving her map in her arms. She gave him a dark look, but said nothing. Instead she mouthed some Eiskalt obscenities and gave him the bird, walking off. “Hey, girl,” Jensen shouted walking away. “Did this monster have wings?”

“Yeah,” she replied looking to see his gaze in the skies above. She strained to see what he saw, but couldn't make anything out in dwindling light. “So the rumors say.” She went to look back at him, but was surprised to see him already several yards away in a short span of time, jacket whipping the air behind him as if he suddenly had somewhere very important to be.

Jensen pushed himself as fast as he could, not liking what he caught moving in the sky in the distance.

If you want spoilers, ruin the thread yourself then...
YOU HAD TO PUSH THE BUTTON DIDN'T YOU? YA YOU! FEEL ASHAMED! FEEL FUCKING ASHAMED THAT YOU COULDN'T WAIT TO SEE WHAT WILL HAPPEN NEXT.

you're the reason people touch themselves at night....sick moo cow.

Oh, and PM box is empty!

[Requiem of Insanity]

She could easily see the ruins of the village before her. Each smoke choked piece of wood and mortar charred blacker than the void of night. She felt a sense of satisfaction in the devastation, a certain joy. Destruction, desolation, it was all something that invigorated her tortured soul. Yet even that emotion paled in comparison to the nihilistic high she got from shedding blood.

Such was her compulsion to shed the life of another, showering the sky with rains of blood that she felt the need to constantly sate her ever growing thirst for it. Like a hungry vampire she pined for spilt blood. To see, feel, or know that it was flowing freely. It was her mother’s gift to her when she became the Cult’s Avatar. The Crimson Angel was how she was known, but what truly defined her was the red thirst. Without the shedding of blood, she lost more and more of her control. The longest she could go without spreading what she craved all over the floor and running it through her hair was two days. She couldn’t physically handle it any longer than that.

To sustain he beast within, she would cut her own flesh, bite her tongue, and lacerate her lips or hand. But even that was no longer working. She wanted to be drenched in the vitae of her foes. Each urge was getting harder and harder to suppress. It was probably more of a motivating factor to act like a monster than in finding her brother.

She swooped low in the sky, wanting to be seen as she drifted towards the ruins, spotting something moving upon the rooftop. It was small, a human of some kind. It spotted her too, and looked at her descent before scurrying into the wreckage of a two story home. There were lines where her coat dragged across the soot of the building. Had she remained perfectly still it was possible she wouldn't have even spotted the thing.

Nearing her destination she felt the beating of a heart. It was heavy, thunderous even. Her ears perked and twitched like a feline, and her gaze turned to see someone riding upon a beast of burden. It managed to push through several obstacles of snow and minor wrecks, but at a point it had stopped. The rider dismounted and began to look for something, heading ever closer to the ruins.

Catherine let her wings drag against the breeze, slowing her as she cautiously hovered upon her own power in the sky looking at her. She looked down the road and found an alleyway mostly covered in fallen slate and torn wall portions. It was the perfect hiding vantage to spy upon her and assess just exactly how she wanted to kill this one to start her night.

A wrathful grin broke her lips showing bloodstained teeth as she felt her blood begin to rumble. The sudden feeling of being parched stole her throat, drying it as she felt an immediate desire to quench it. She forced herself to keep her inhibitions in check, curling her wings and landing in a stride at the back of the alley. Her hands swiftly pulled the string that held her axe to her waist, the other hand gripping the handle as it fell free. A feeling of completeness washed over her to feel a weapon in hand, a target to hunt, and pray to stalk. The cotton ball like feeling in her mouth was replaced with the wet saliva of a predator about to jump their prey. The wind shifted blowing her hair back, the golden locks allowing her vision to be clear.

Like a panther she walked, nimbly, slightly crouched as she hugged the wall. She kept the woman’s back to her at all times, moving slowly and surely. There was no need to rush a perfect kill. The blade in her hand, Hope’s Requiem glimmered from tip to tip like a hunter licking their lips in anticipation. She reached the edge of the alleyway, completely hidden by debris. Her leather armor made no noise as she leaned forwards, testing the rubble with her hands. It would require an act of a strong man to push the debris aside. Good thing she had the strength of ten.

She counted in her head, eyes focused intently. Her ears could hear the steady heartbeat of her prey. It was calm, quiet, but every now and then it beat erratically. She pushed it out of her head, realizing it must have been the horse she heard. She was ready now, wings furled at her sides, ready to open to lend her speed to catch her off guard. Her blade would come up, ready to strike, and one swing would take this one’s head.

She reached the final moment, and with a deep breath she exploded outwards. Her hand pushed on the wall sectional, shoving it up where she grabbed a hold of the wooden support beam, and tossed it out of her way. It was an obnoxious noise, and dust foamed out in a concealing mist. One beat of her wings pushed her through the hole and a few feet above the ground. Her body was titled as if she ran at an angle upon the air. Her axe head lifted upwards, the target turning.

She knew her instantly. It was the face of Astarelle Set'Roh. Sei had seen to it the Champion of the Cell was properly promoted. Draug had mentioned she was strong, and while presently a small threat to her mother, would one day prove to be one. To kill her would be divine! She would avenge her brother’s loss in the Cell, take the head of an Ixian Knight, and traumatize them all by letting her intestine’s hang her body on a street post, her head tied into her hands.

She knew she was too fast. Astarelle knew it was over. One perfect strike…

…Was ruined by the sudden appearance of a blade. It was a scythed blade, aimed right at her head. Someone had the same idea as she had. Her blade came down in a frenzy, voice echoing in the ruins a cry of shock as blade met blade. Sparks illuminated the face of the one who blocked her, and her heart suddenly raced.

Jensen Ambrose! she panicked. Her blade managed to push his scythe upwards and away, Catherine’s body pirouetting int he air settling into a skid across from the Cell champion, Astarelle and the Ixian Captain, Jensen.

Jensen’s face was a mask of pure rage. Astarelle’s a look of bewilderment, but now she was prepared, her staff before her ready to strike. Catherine let her wings fan out behind her, standing broadly before them with axe in a white knuckle grip. For once, the immortal loudmouth wasn’t chuckling. No, Catherine could tell he was different this time. His body heaved like it was holding the tide of fury inside. He was enraged, in a berserker state, but he fought, spit foaming out the sides of his mouth as he attempted to keep his wits about him. She too breathed heavily. Not from exertion, but from desire as well.

She knew what Jensen felt now. To hate something so strongly it was impossible to keep still. The question was, who would start this battle? It never occurred to Catherine to turn and fly away. That was not an option to her as her vision began to haze, the edges of her sight staining red. Her mouth was dry, and she needed to fill that need.

She opened her stance, showing she was ready for both of them, the flesh between her knuckles splitting as tiny rivers of blood slacked her fingers.

“Glory to the dark mother…” She spat.

[Roht Mirage]

Her breath caught, its mechanism forgotten, as shock washed through her. For one of the new arrivals, she thanked the goddess. For the other...

Catherine Remi. Her mind dissected and parcelled the realization, working faster than her body could respond.

She had heard the story from Jensen on multiple occasions, at varying levels of inebriation. Yet, even his drunken embellishments could not prepare her for the Crimson Angel in the flesh – in the radiant, impossibly beautiful flesh. She seemed a reflection from a higher plane, sent here to stand (hover, rather, on ephemeral soles of manifested malice) as a reaper amidst the rubble. Astarelle had seen Draug in the same frame during the Cell. Though, he was deformity to Catherine's perfection, rampant hate to her focused, despair-hungry grin. It was the horrid smile of fate as everything was stolen from you, even the chance for revenge.

Her fingers wrung tight around the staff. “Jensen,” she breathed, risking a glance of sympathy and shared pain.

His face was twisted in frothing madness.

"I'm going to clip those pretty little wings," he foamed, flicking the scythe into sword mode and back again, "right off your back, one feather at a time." He lunged forward so quickly that Astarelle recoiled. His scythe cleaved toward Catherine, catching and rolling over her axe to lock it high in the air as his foot shot out to her midsection. Astarelle blinked. In that blind instant, the kick had been countered. Catherine pressed the offensive, forcing him to catch her strikes on the scythe's shaft and recoil step by step as she circled on crimson wingbeats.

Finally, feeling as if her feet moved at the languid pace of a dream, Astarelle rushed to join the spinning fray. Sand poured from the pores of her reed staff, forming a wickedly serrated point as still more sand in grey and gold billowed from under her flapping coat. Three unstable steps along the rubble and she threw herself into the dusty spin of bodies. Her arms heaved upon the staff-come-spear, its point longing for the taste of Remi heart's-blood.

Jensen's shoulder caught her's as he kept pace, halting her thrust and throwing wide his own slash. “This card is full,” he growled, “Get off the dance floor.” She was already complying, violently, and by no choice of her own. Somehow, she kept upright as her feet skittered to a stop on a low abscess of rubble below the battle proper. His next cleave followed a second later than it should have, giving Catherine a chance to take to the air in one elegant push, then dive back upon him. Her blade scraped and sparked down the scythe's flat edge as he hastily guarded. She barely slowed in her descent upon the waves of metal. Yet, she found a frozen moment to look through her beautifully splayed blonde hair and lock hazel eyes on Astarelle's grey.

“Good girl,” her gaze said mockingly as one of her hands clenched, dripping a profuse amount of her own blood, and reaped the air in Astarelle's direction.

The next steps in their deadly dance, she lost track of as air and rubble alike were torn open from the ethereal, crimson slash. She kicked high and spun, losing half of her flapping hood to the immaterial blade. Her staff, trailing, took the brunt of the strike in its center and was ripped from her hands with a distressing creak of iron-hard reed.

Astarelle landed on her knees and palms, then gestured in a frenzy for the staff to return. It clunked against some shard of Unum's shattered skeleton, but did not comply. She couldn't even see it in the haze that had been ripped from a vicious, four pace long divet in the street. “Bury you,” she cursed quietly as she squinted toward the clash of battle and swept both hands over her head, gathering her scattered sand about her. With a push to each side, she sent it rippling over the rubble like high tide on a rocky beach. Thousands of grains relayed their path to her, charting the area in her mind's eye; looming architectural wounds, her staff locked against a half-collapsed wall, the impossibly fast steps of Jensen and the light brush of hovering Catherine, as well as scurrying feet in the soot-clogged shadows to her right. “You brought a friend,” she mouthed bitterly as she freed a pendant from the neck of her heavy shirt. Its sapphire inlay immediately broke into a trail of gemstone flakes and snaked low through the waves of sand, calling out for their pendant-mother to follow. In an instant, the pendant did, and Astarelle with it, in a flickering flash of blue that stole her away from the world just as another bloody slash ripped open the rubble she had knelt upon.

In the shadows, Astarelle flickered out of the sooty air like a ghost. Her hands seized the shoulders of a dirty creature and spun it around, pinning it hard against the uneven shrapnel of a home's battered and burned interior. A small voice gulped, brewing a wail that would have escaped if not for a coppery hand closing over the lips. “Leila,” Astarelle whispered harshly, too surprised to feel relief, “Why are you-”

Irises as blue as uncut crystal looked up at her from bloodshot, tear-welling eyes and a face so caked with soot that the poor girl looked like a charred, emaciated corpse. Sound tried to escape Astarelle's hand; maybe words, maybe shrieks. She let go just long enough to squeeze the girl, planting her face into her chest. “You're safe. Just shush. Please.”

Leila could not be shushed, not totally. Muffled words welled from Astarelle's coat-padded bosom. “I saw an angel. She led me to you.”

“That wasn't an angel,” Astarelle snapped with far more volume than she intended.

“I want to go home.”

“You will. Just-”

“I want to go home to mommy and Nety.”

Astarelle stroked the hair that she could not believe had once been blonde and tried to make the comforting, soothing sounds of a mother – a task she was hopelessly underqualified for. “What about your father?” she asked, just to speak over the child.

“Daddy works. Mommy and Nety are at home. She lets me wear her boots. Are her boots okay?”

The street outside, so dark with soot that the windows might as well have been half shuttered, suddenly erupted as if a wave had crashed ashore. She could only imagine a body, one or the other, smearing through the debris so forcefully as to put that Eiskalt plough-horse to shame. Astarelle opened her coat, releasing the last of her sand, and lifted one hand to mold it into a airborne buffer just as the delayed spray of shrapnel ripped into their alcove.

With her other hand, Astarelle fished a knife from her belt and pressed its hilt into the child's curled fingers. “I found it again for you. You remember how to use it?”

Leila's frightened eyes practically screamed that she didn't. It was a last, necessary, gift from her mother, and all that she had done so far was lose it in the street during their first attempt at recovering her.

“You remember,” Astarelle said firmly. It was no longer a question. She made a stabbing motion with an imaginary blade, then added, “But only if you have to.” Then, she lay her coat over the shivering child and stood. Soot quickly extinguished any color that her warm inner-layers might have had. The clash of battle had fallen eerily quiet.

“I want mommy,” Leila wept quietly, peeking over the fur.

Astarelle looked toward the street as she choked back the bad news. Not now. She stepped to the windows and gathered her sand around her. “Soon,” she promised, “There's still a little boy I have to bring home as well.”

She ran and vaulted over the sill, just a dark figure in the shroud that was rapidly losing its golden hue.

[Requiem of Insanity]

Catherine released a wet leopard like growl of frustration when her rending slash didn’t kill the Fallieni woman, Astarelle. Her wings beat against the soot soaked ground turning her sideways as she looked for her prey. However, it was not Astarelle she caught rampaging towards her. Instead the black weighted coat of Jensen Ambrose flapped in the wind behind him like the leash of an unchained wolf. His hands moved across his body lifting up throwing knives and he released them with perfect accuracy.

Catherine managed to spot them all, and lifted her axe parrying one weapon, turning to dodge the next, but the third one cut her collarbone dangerously close to her neck. Pain lanced through her shoulder of her weapon hand, sagging a bit as she touched her feet upon the ground and stumbled, clenched teeth seething. He was already steps away from her, his speed insanely fast. Draug had mentioned if there was one thing he couldn’t figure out about the immortal, it was his speed. The man was too fast for even the divine eyes of Cassandra’s avatar to follow. But that didn’t mean she was helpless.

Bunching her fist into a ball she struck upwards in a fierce strike directly above her. Blind herself and full of rage she didn’t even know if her attack would work at all. Cold fingers clasped around her extended fist, and in a moments time she felt Jensen’s hip slide into her stomach, tossing the angel over his hip with a violent lurch. Her wings felt the impact of the ground first and her eyes flashed white from the impact. Her teeth bit her tongue and caused it to bleed as slowly she opened her eyes. Jensen was already bringing his boot down and she barely managed to avoid the front of her face being stomped. His disgusting snow covered foot pounded her ear hard enough her face bounced off the cold floor, a rock scraping flesh away to reveal the blood underneath.

Her ear rang as she rolled to her knees, looking up to see Jensen already swinging a dagger for his throat. Damn his eyes! she cursed to herself, lifting the bracers of her wrist up to catch the weapon. The red tinted blade struck deep into her armor, but it held the weapon in place. She glared to him, and he glared back, but his eyes told her all she needed to know.

I’m caught.

Her foot lifted to the dirt, letting his blade ride along her arm as she took advantage of the moment. Her other hand rose to his throat, releasing her axe, and she beat her wings shunting sand and snow away. They took off into the sky where she gave him a rueful smile. Jensen gnashed his teeth as she fought to be free, but one stiff punch to his gut knocked the wind right out of him. She rose to thirty feet in the sky swiftly, bringing the immortal in as she found a suitable space to drop his body like a sack of potatoes.

He looked down, then back to her, then back down. She smiled.

“You’re…a…bitch…” Jensen wheezed out between his gasping breaths. She looked to him, seeing that really was the best he could come up with, and decided upon her own course of action. She brought him in, smiling, and let her lips cross his. She held him in the air kissing the hated immortal of the Cult, and when she broke it, they both gave a startled look.

Catherine instantly lifted her hand up above her head, her wings flapping as she turned and threw Jensen towards the rubble of the village, a chuckle accompanying his decent. He let out a scream of alarm and rage as he body flailed in the air like a fish out of water. Catherine hovered above the ground, letting the blood of her battle drip down her flesh. She gave a twisted smile as she watched the impact of the immortal, debris lifting a cloud of dust, soot, and snow up into the air with a satisfied pop.

She turned her gaze to the ground below spotting the woman from earlier. She dove after her, eyes filled with malicious intent as she licked her lips in anticipation. Her axe head glistened in the light and she lifted her hand out, fingers gently grazing the ground. When she met leather her grip hardened and her axe was with her once more. She lifted out of her low dive, hovering before the woman ten feet away from the Cell Champion.

“Tell me,” Catherine spat. “Does an over glorified street rat fear death?”

Astarelle’s eyes narrowed to the Cult Avatar, and her reply was tart and succinct, “I'm from Fallien, jihta. Death is just death, and you're just a monster.”

“So I am,” Catherine mused as her wings pushed her forwards, charging after the woman. She stood her ground, defiant to the last moment Catherine thought with sadistic pleasure. Her eyes never once betrayed her motive. The Crimson Angel saw her features as she prepared a killing blow, ready to bisect her when something triggered in her mind.

Her eyes glanced at the ground. I should have seen it! She chastised herself, wings faltering in their pace as her feet kicked in the air to stop herself. Yet the smug laugh of Astarelle told Catherine she had fell for her trap. Sand kicked up from the ground, the Ixian’s hand reaching forward grabbing the spear in her hand from earlier. It just came to her like it had its own consciousness. Catherine knew this was not going to end well as the sand carried her forwards to her doom.

“Bury you,” Astarelle spat. “Jihta.”

[Enigmatic Immortal]

The immortal’s head swarmed in pain, his body feeling fragile. Slowly he awoke, eyes fluttering and the dawning realization that he had died came over him. The fall was brutal, and he could see the bloody impaled parts of his body where he landed, but the Breath of the Undying shook him free, sealed the wounds, and patted him on the arse to get back into the fight.

Painfully he closed his fingers, feeling the numbing sensation flee, replaced with needle like daggers piercing his flesh. His father had always said agony was just an alarm clock saying you’re still alive, and so Jensen knew he was alive. Viciously aware, but aware. With a grunt of exertion he felt the memory of free falling from the sky try to swarm his thoughts, but he pushed those aside.

“She fucking kissed me,” Jensen commented angrily. Normally not one to turn down a kiss, especially from a beautiful woman, he still felt…violated by the act. It was more than a moment of two hearts caught up on a moment. No, he could tell exactly what that kiss was for. She mocked him. The bitch daughter of Cassandra Remi was mocking him. Blood began to run down his veins as he felt anger return to his being.

(EDIT IN LATER, EMERGENCY POPPED UP.)

He spotted Catherine making a run for Astarelle, who stood defiantly at her like someone who knew their time had come. Aside from having a great rack, the immortal had grown genuine friendly tinglings towards her. Drunkenly she carried him home, listened to his sob stories, and made sure he was safe in bed. The way he treated her was less than gentlemanly. So either she was inherently a good person, or like him, knew what the other side of pain felt like.

You will die a thousand times, Jensen Ambrose, without my knives coming anywhere near your flesh. But you will feel them plunge deep into your heart every time I kill someone you care for. Jensen felt a pain of guilt come over him. It was about to happen again. The Cult of Blessed Torture was about to kill another person Jensen cared for.

He moved like a swift gazelle in flight, stomach knotting at the feeling of losing another. His body pushed itself to full combat readiness, breaths laboriously fueling him further. He brought all the power of his body to bare, his determination to save Astarelle his only focus. Even after two weeks of constant hatred and bitterness, this moment broke through the old Jensen Ambrose. Here, he knew he had to save her. The energy within him whispered the siren song of the wind in his ears, and with both hands pulled behind him he clapped them forwards, the dust in the air swirling around his body and pushing outwards in a vicious torrent.

The tornado moved faster than even Catherine could fly, but as he looked up heaving, a grin on his face, it turned into utter despair.

The sand in the air; He noticed it way too late! Astarelle’s sudden confidence changed in his mind. She baited Catherine perfectly! She was with weapon in hand prepared to end the name of Cassandra’s kin. But as the wind flew forwards, Jensen willing it to stop, the damage became clear. His tornado pushed the sand away. Catherine fought the wind as she landed in a low stood. Lifting herself up with a dark grin full of malice.

“Jensen Ambrose, bury you!” Astarelle’s voice screeched the name, and he felt guilt was over him as his cheeks flushed. Her spear whipped around to be ready, eyes filled with sudden true fear as Catherine stepped into the reach of her weapons range. Her axe came up and easily parried the staff head now that she was firmly in control. She let out a weak curse as Jensen went to help her, but tripped on a piece of overturned wood from a ceiling railing. He collapsed hard on the ground, his chin scraped and mouth oozing phlegm. He pushed himself up in time to see Catherine close the gap with ease.

Her hand grabbed at the staff, her foot lifting up and kicking Astarelle in the stomach. She took the staff for herself, twirling it up into the woman’s chest knocking her up with a trail of blood filling the air. Catherine’s body checked Astarelle away, letting the Fallien blood land in her blond locks with a nihilistic chuckle. Jensen scrambled to stand but was on all fours when he watched her so easily use the staff to lift Astarelle’s head so she could watch her next move.

“Let me show you fear,” Catherine whispered. She brought the staff forwards before her horizontally. Like a blacksmith she lifted her axe up behind her, and instantly Astarelle’s hand reached out to grab her weapon. It was too late.

Like thunder the axe head came down and broke the staff into two.

Jensen felt his anger come to the fore again as he watched Astarelle’s eyes glaze over for a moment as shock gripped her. He placed his hand on his belt, unclipping the one weapon he knew could break Catherine in twain. Her pain needed to be amplified, her fear needed to be realized, her suffering needed to be prolonged.

Blunt, physical, pain.

Jensen unleashed the full power of Crozius the blue glowing tip of the strength enchantment covering Jensen’s face like a demon of the deep. He ran at Catherine, using his full speed to close the distance. She turned her head, her satisfied grin turning to a look of terror as she tried to prepare herself, but it was too late. Jensen placed the maul firmly between both hands and aimed for her stomach.

“Goodbye,” Jensen whispered to her.

[Roht Mirage]

The two halves of her staff tumbled languidly through the air, trailing faint streamers of sand where they had been severed. Akashere. The name rolled in her mind as time stalled; the last grain in an hourglass falling to silence.

”For you,” he said simply, retrieving a length of reed he had secreted in the wagon. “You know how to strengthen it with rizak?” Sand welled at his will, pouring upward toward the staff. It drank as if parched.

“That's a warrior's weapon,” Astarelle muttered with an uneasy step back, “I'm no warrior, Akashere.”

He chuckled and tossed it at her. She juggled it out of the air just short of braining herself. “You're not much of a priestess, either. Set'Roh.”

Astarelle held the staff at arms-length and stuck out her tongue. “Blasphemy,” she pouted.

Suddenly, he stepped closer and pressed lips to her forehead, kissing her not upon the divine mark, but through it. “Akee,” she breathed, longing to tilt her head back and offer more.

He broke her pucker by gripping her hands over the staff and pressing it to her chest. “I want you safe, Aster.”

Her heart swelled...

... and resumed beating. With fire fierce and molten. Her teeth bared as if fangs. Her throat shook with the birth of a sound feral. She lunged, shrieking, toward Catherine as Jensen closed in a blur of dust lit by Crozius' elegant glow. Catherine's wings beat once, an attempt to extract herself from his range; too slow. Her axe flashed to meet Crozius. Astarelle flashed to meet her. Mindlessly -perhaps by mystic inspiration- she gripped the ridiculous oak handle under her shirt, affixed by sand down the line of her back, and cranked it overhead. Her whole body, weeping innards and battered limbs, sang with the strength to plant the blunt wooden haft into the woman's skull, or so she wished in her madness. She didn't realize that Catherine's arcing counter would not land in time, but would cleave her in two as a point of inconvenience; an afterthought. The handle came down ineffectually. Yet, in the last moment, she felt a familiar strength burst through her.

Metal crashed as thunder in their soot-laden storm. The axe was viciously ripped from Catherine's hand, baring her for Jensen's strike. It landed, following the thunder with an enfeebled slap of wood. Jensen's eyes boggled at the age-battered, headless shaft in his hands. So did Catherine's as she brought a knee up and into his stomach. He curled over her with the entire force of his momentum, rolling to land hard on his back. She staggered, fluttered, and braced her transcendent feet into the charred, unclean earth a few paces away.

Over their gaping breaths, a crystal clear laugh chimed from Astarelle's blood-dripping mouth. In her eager fists was a familiar crossed hilt of solid dehlar and a heavy, glowing head that ground Catherine's axe into the rubble like a spent cigarette. “Hello, beautiful,” she sang.

Jensen curled and moaned, “...ello. What?”

“Not you,” Astarelle snapped. On any other occasion, she might have apologized to the poor fool, but not today. Not after Jensen's interference, her staff split like kindling, and not with her dehlar lady of war watching.

Sand returned from its estrangement to wreath her hands, sealing her to Crozius as surely as if they were a single creature. She eyed Catherine, unnatural strength drawing her pretty face into a manic smile. “Run, jihta, just like your brother in the Cell,” she hissed. With the maul screeching on Catherine's axe, Astarelle leaped over it, clearing Jensen's body and ripping the weapon with her. It moved unnaturally, towed by the strength that it imparted to her muscles, and pivoting about her slender frame as if her -their- center of gravity lay near the wrists. It should have pulled any warrior straight onto their ass.

Astarelle was no warrior. She was a dancer.

Toward the Crimson Angel, she spun. A large blade, dehlar to match, and as cruel as a butcher's knife was unsheathed. It moved to counter - as if the path of Crozius in Astarelle's hands could be predicted. With a flick of the wrist, she stopped short, pirouetted on slender legs, and flitted to the side like a ribbon aflutter in the wind. A wall -or most of one- loomed from the soot. She met it with her boot, gripping through a layer of sand, and pounded Crozius high in the stone to cartwheel her whole body up the face. A single wingbeat sounded below, but so did the torrential, howling rush of her sand. She leaped from the wall and plummeted through it, feeling the shape of the angel ascendant. Cloying grains passed the too-perfect beauty and clung to Astarelle, in plates and spikes, to weaponize her legs. A night devil's scream left her, emboldening a dance for every life the Remi monster had stolen and every memory she had sundered.

[Enigmatic Immortal]

Jensen’s body ached from the beating he received, and his headache was more caused by the confusion of the chaos all around them. While Astarelle was clearly going to town on Catherine, the Crimson Angel had proven a different opponent than Draug Remi. She was fast, but brutal and cunning whereas Draug was direct and violent. It was like different parts of Cassandra’s psyche were represented by separate members of the Cult’s Dark family. If he wasn’t in so much pain, and not feeling anything but hatred for Catherine Remi, he would have been astonished at the findings.

The confusion of losing Crozius to Astarelle and having her snap at him as if he was the enemy only made the pounding in his skull worse. He didn’t even know how the crest of his war maul was taken from him, let alone in the sandy grip of the Cell champion. It was just another fact to add to his list of things he learned today. More importantly though, the woman had interrupted his kill shot on Catherine. Astarelle and Jensen weren't on the same page, she dancing the desert wind, and Jensen flowing like a brute tornado. They both were on their own accomplished warriors, but together they were not the dream team many had thought.

Punching the ground caused shooting pain to lance up his knuckles as he reminded himself he was still very much in this fight. Even if he and Astarelle were stepping on each other’s toes, they were still fighting the same foe. It had seemed when she lost her staff a darker, more malevolent streak possessed her mind. She danced just like before, but now the tempo had changed. He watched her dart, weave, cartwheel and move in a rhythm of pure loss and feral temperament. Blood boiled within him as he stood up, dusting the soot from his shoulder and charging after Catherine. Her wings carried her around as she moved after Astarelle, trying to keep the woman’s weapon in place but finding her movements sporadic and nearly impossible to follow.

Jensen pulled out one of his throwing glaives releasing it at Catherine’s head. She hovered in place for a moment and then moved right in an attempt to behead his colleague. The glaive spun past her, cutting locks of her fair hair and nearly impaling within Astarelle’s eye. With a cry she stumbled backwards, barely avoiding a killing blow as the glaive grazed her temple with the most gentle of caresses, hooking her flesh and tearing a gouge out before landing sharply in a wooden beam.

The immortal made no apologies as he leapt over a fallen beam onto a collapsed part of wall. He nimbly darted up the broken mortar and jumped at Catherine, ready to strike when the blue glow of the war maul passed by him. Catherine’s blade shot upwards parrying the blow, turning Astarelle’s body in a pirroutte right into the path of Jensen. They collided with a loud grunt, both toppling over the other as Catherine rose in the sky away catching her breath.

“Bury you,” she seethed.

“Shove it up your sandy cunt,” Jensen shot back with venom. “This isn’t your fight anyway.”

“That Jihta made it my fight when she snapped my staff,” her voice was a low rumble of painful emotion. She was smoldering with rage that her muscles all twitched. Her sand continued to follow her, pooling around the grip of Crozius. Jensen shot her a glare as he snapped at her.

“This fight would have been over if you didn’t steal my possessions.” His eyes sparked with anger as she looked to him.

“I would have finished this,” Astarelle replied hotly. “If you hadn’t huffed and puffed my sand away.” Jensen lifted his body in time with hers, both still giving each other looks that sent daggers at one another. The knights looked back towards Catherine, but both were taken aback as the Crimson Angel flew right into them. Her boots kicked Astarelle in the chest knocking her flat on her back, and her ax dove into Jensen’s space. He barely had time to register the attack, pulling back two steps. The Cultist flew at him, her wings blocking the sky as Jensen fought to draw a weapon up to his grip. He flipped the switch upon Lawbreaker and brought the sword mode of the gunblade up to cross paths with Catherine’s blade. Her other crossed his face smacking him with the back of her hand making stars cross his sight.

Her wings flapped the debris and soot into the air, making his eyes water with irritation as he stumbled to the side, the Crimson Angel moving upon the two knights like a bully in a playground. She hounded Jensen’s steps, pushing him off balance and swiping axe and sword at him. He used all of his battle prowess just to keep himself alive as she moved on him, forcing him over the terrain in the hopes he would trip up and fall.

That moment came when he fell backwards, unsure what it was as the heel of his left foot flared with shooting pains. He fell hard on his back, eyes shut from the impact as he fought to keep his weapon at the ready. A sharp swipe from the sword Catherine wielded parried it aside. The immortal looked up to see Catherine’s eyes swelling with tears, bloodshot from the debris and sand in the air.

“Today an immortal dies…” She whispered.

[Requiem of Insanity]

She was about to do it. She was going to take one of the many lives of Jensen Ambrose. With him out of the way she would handle the child Astarelle. Maybe she would drag her by her hair to her mother’s lair and take her time watching Draug rip her apart piece by simple piece. Jensen moved his hands but she managed to land with her boot pushing hard on his wrist. She leaned over him, grinning from ear to ear as she placed the Butcher’s Bill against his throat.

The anticipation of blood being shed drove her to an edge in her mind. She felt the heart of the immortal pumping furiously, his panic setting in as he struggled to stop his death. He was trapped though, nothing he could do. His anxiety of his actions made her shiver with delight as she closed her eyes, prepared to let his life drain all over her from his severed neck.

Yet her pleasure was once more put on hold. Astarelle screamed as she let her weapon come for her. One hand lifted the axe up, catching the maul’s base in the groove between blade and shaft. She parried Astarelle forwards, forcing her to dance aside. Her boot kicked Jensen hard in the chest, turning as her wings beat against the ground letting her hover. She apprised the Champion of the Cell, looking to her before she spoke with a sense of smugness.

“I see now,” she commented casually. “You won the Cell because you survived. You are no great warrior, no great fighter who bested my brother. You hid behind Joshua Cronen, Kyla Orlouge, even my brother and all the others who actually fought.” She giggled with spite, laughing obnoxiously as she tilted her head back. “You are nothing to fear. It seems even your accolades are all just part of who you are. The Roht Mirage,” she chastised.

Astarelle flew at Catherine, her words lost in the ringing of steel against enchanted metal. Her sword once again caught the tip of the mighty war maul, but she had gained the measure of Astarelle’s use with it. As she prepared to counter the parry, Catherine simply rushed her, pushing her blade up and running along the metal and cutting into the leather hilt sending sand away. Hope’s Requiem came forward hitting the woman in the stomach, knocking her back as the metal head came up with a fierce uppercut. She hit Astarelle hard in the mouth, blood once again spitting out her mouth as she ungracefully twirled and fell to her knees, scrambling to stand again. Catherine walked forwards, her wings shifting with each wolf like step as she grabbed the Fallien native’s hair and wrenched it back.

“You are not aware of how deep this sand trap goes, street urchin.” Catherine tossed her backwards, tripping her into the wall where her body collapsed upon itself, held up only by the mortar. Catherine’s eyes flashed with deadly thoughts, her tongue darting out to lick the blood from her fat lip. She lifted her boot up and kicked, knocking Astarelle through the wall with a large clatter of noise and billowing dirt.

Catherine watched her still frame in the fading cloud of dust, her demeanor not unlike a cats. She stepped forwards, a saunter to her walk as she stepped over the idiot knight. She gently placed her axe upon her cheek, tilting her head so she could look up at the Crimson Angel. There would be no words this time. There would be no cute ending. All Catherine wanted of her was to see her face within those precious last moments. She lifted her sword for the swing.

Astarelle’s last action caught her off guard when she let out a wad of spit. The action itself was nothing special, but it was her unique aim. Catherine was blinded by the sudden slime, her irritated eye spiking with pain. She lifted herself back to wipe the phlegm out of her face, feeling feet tap her chest and push for all they were worth. Catherine caught the ankle of Astarelle’s foot, sliding back with her, but not losing her grip.

“No you don’t,” Catherine snapped, pushing herself to crawl atop the struggling Astarelle. “You have no more tricks, now it’s time to-“ Her stomach felt arms grip around her waist, and with a grunt of exertion she was pulled up to her feet, then tossed backwards. She landed hard on her shoulders and rolled painfully out the hole she made into the frozen night. She looked up to see Jensen standing in front of Astarelle like a feral mutt protecting a master, his weapon switching between sword and gun mode.

She pushed herself to her feet, bringing both weapons to her sides as she prepared herself once more to combat the two. “There it is again, Roht Mirage,” Catherine spat. “Hiding behind someone else.”

[Roht Mirage]

Even a scorpion hides when it has to. I will sting you yet, jihta, Astarelle thought listlessly, breathless even in her mind.

She let herself go limp for a few precious moments as she collected herself. Her lungs gorged on dusty air. Her eyes watered against the soot and her own indiscriminate sand. Her heart pounded in her ears, slowly settling until she could hear the wounded stone behemoth over them creaking and the faint chime of sapphire chips settling in the rubble. She had tried to move them during the beating. She had tried to form them into the shape that would steal her away to their location. It had been like solving a blacksmith puzzle during a landslide.

“Leave her alone,” Jensen growled out into the street, “You'll have to go through me first. Over and over again.”

Astarelle could just imagine his cocky smile. She coughed out a single note of laughter, then braced upon the head of Crozius and scraped over onto her sand-encased knees. “Jensen, I-”

Catherine interrupted her, cut away her words on a scalpel of sarcasm. “I hear that did her a lot of good.” The immortal's back tightened. Dust fell from him, loosened by a sudden shiver of madness. Catherine tensed as if she could sense their standoff drawing to a close. The gunblade wavered. Her wings flexed, ready to dodge.

Astarelle's hand, having uncoupled from Crozius, pressed gently into the small of Jensen's back. A twinge of self-awareness radiated through him. “I am also the child of a goddess,” she called out to the angel as she stepped around him. Her face was streaked in tears and blood, and all of it caked with so much soot as to look like a gothic makeup disaster. “I struck out from her long ago. I grew up.”

“You told me you were a spice farmer's daugher,” Jensen snapped, his attention tenuous.

She could hear his rage bubbling under every word, ready to erupt in an explosion that the Crimson Angel was all too ready for. She gave Jensen her most winning smile, not a hint of pain, though -by the depths- it was there. “I suppose one of those is a lie.”

“How like you,” he grumbled with less venom than he could have. The corner of his mouth lifted just slightly. She, too, recalled those evenings; each one a game, a tactical extraction of one very drunk Jensen Ambrose from the collective black eye of the Radasanth bar scene.

Catherine's face soured.

Don't you dare think that you can manipulate my Jensen, monster. You don't have the soft touch for it.

She glared toward Catherine, fused her hands to Crozius's hilt once more, and kicked off her boots. Sand coalesced around her feet, shifting from hard pack to grainy wisps and back again. In the cold of Eiskalt rubble, the desert priestess walked the familiar sands of Fallien.

Crozius swayed with a silent tempo, and she raised it to the ready. “Dance with us, Jensen,” she said softly, her voice reaching out to him in a gentle caress.

“I keep telling you that the war maul is not a person,” he retorted with that comfortable snark.

For one nearly-imperceptible moment, Astarelle's face slipped. She betrayed pain, sympathy, and a reluctant apology for the guile that Akashere had instilled into her. “I can feel her in it,” she said in the gentle whisper of a dream; the secret words that one so longs to hear made real.

“I can feel Stephanie.”

[Enigmatic Immortal]

The name brought back a swell of memories to the immortal. He gave Astarelle a jaded glance, his eyes slightly fogged as he whispered the gentle name of the woman who was so violently stolen from him. Instead of black hair, red wisps darted his vision. Instead of olive skin, it was as pale as the moon. For one fleeting moment, in the glow of Crozius, she was back. Jensen’s hand started to lift, but as he blinked the image faded back to the Fallien woman. He shook his head, warily looking back to see Catherine hovering with weapons at the ready.

“She is dead, Jensen,” Catherine said with spite. “Mother made sure Stephanie’s soul was cut into tiny pieces, lost forever,”

“That Jihta doesn’t understand the connection you two had; still have!” Astarelle burst out, cutting off Catherine and making her voice heard in Jensen’s ear. He looked back to the Cell winner, giving her a casual glance. Astarelle looked back at him, all her best intentions as she nodded to him, showing her trust. Then, for the first time in two weeks, the immortal smiled with enough warmth to melt the snow around them.

“I still don’t think that maul has a pretty lady in it, but I suppose you’re in luck, Astarelle,” Jensen mused looking back to Catherine, narrowing his body and preparing for combat once more. “I just so happen to like the crazy ones.”

Catherine gave him a rueful stare, eying him as her blades crossed one another in front of her, metal scratching against metal with a soft ringing echoing in the still air. Her eyes were filled with battle lust, and he could see she was chomping at the bit to return to her favored form of state; fighting. Jensen didn’t feel like making the woman wait any longer.

“Let’s dance,” Jensen said, his stomach gurgling as his blood sang once more. In a flash he was forward like the harsh start of a violin. He sprinted forwards, weapon behind him like a dragging note as he fought the burbling sensation within him. He darted sideways, rolling under the swing of the ax as Catherine turned to face her. Her sword shot forwards in a lunge, but he brought the edge of his gunblade up catching hers across the dehlar surface. He easily twirled around her, the rhythm building into a crescendo as weeks of silence finally ended.

Laughter rang out from his mouth. In the haunting chorus of gibbering, Astarelle added her own, moving behind the immortal in a shadow of his movements. Catherine glared to the both of them, eyes never leaving theirs as they moved in a frightening pace. Both were in sync, both dancing in tandem around the ruined floor of their current arena. Jensen’s arms were constantly in motion mirrored by the desert woman’s. They were perfectly aligned as she moved the sand around their feet, Jensen’s wind bringing more of the desert grains spilt in the battle to them. Then, with a wild screech of excitement he advanced on his target.

Catherine’s eyes widened by the sudden violent explosion from him, his body shifting like a coiling snake. The Crimson Angel beat her wings back to make room, but Jensen was on her too fast for her to make space. She brought her foot up, kicking where she thought he would be, but he whooped a mirthful note ducking the attack, sliding on his knees to a halt. Catherine looked to him confused, only to catch too late Astarelle following in his wake, using his back as a spring board. Sand drifted along her legs cupping her feet and enclosing them. They hardened like stones as she flew in the air, landing a drop kick upon the metal breast plate of the Avatar of Blessed Torture. Jensen whooped with glee, moving over the fallen woman to protect her as she rolled aside to let him forwards, his weapon licking the air as he twirled it effectively creating a bubble, and still his free hand moved in the air. He rolled next to Catherine, forcing her to turn abruptly, only to be blasted in the back by a powerful blast of wind and sand. She collapsed forwards, arms flailing as her wings beat to be free of the grit of the sand. She cursed loudly, roaring in rage as Jensen knelt to a knee, hysterical laughing drifting in the wind storm.

He flowed in his movements, body lucid and free as he returned to a standing state. He flash kicked upwards, digging blade into earth, his dirty boots kicking her hard in the chin. She rose like a stumbling ogre, body tip-toeing as she turned away. In her face was Astarelle, her fist covered in hardened sand punching her square in the nose splashing blood onto the ground.

She collapsed onto her feet, back pedaling and falling in a tumble. She righted herself, the dirt chewed up from her greaves as she lifted herself to her full height. The immortal was moving again, his giggling haunting her every step. She brought her weapon up to bare, breathing heavily as she glared to his form.

“What’s wrong pussy cat?” Jensen mocked her, eyes alight with righteous fury, but he was focused now, more so than ever before. Somehow, someway, Astarelle lit a fire within the belly of the Knight, and he fought once more for those he loved. “Is the silly willy Jensen Ambrose schooling you?” Catherine gave him a one word response, her eyes narrowing, but the immortal expected that. Instead, he dug his feet in the sand, feeling them harden around his ankle. Silently he thanked Astarelle.

With all the sass he could muster, all the dryness in his voice he spoke in a crass, insulting manner. “Can’t touch me…”

[Requiem of Insanity]

She knew his game. She had heard the stories from her mother over and over. Jensen is a fool, who will take a hit to defeat a foe. Do not play his game unless you know it will kill him. William Arcus, Seth Dahlios, even I have fallen prey to him. Do not play Jensen’s game, her mother warned Catherine. She was still growing into being her mother’s avatar and swore to her on bended knee she would never fall prey to Jensen’s inane tactics and silly taunt feint.

But in the heat of battle, blood rushing through her so fast it sounded like a coursing river, her judgment was wavering. Behind Jensen’s smug dripped words was the most antagonizing, incorrigible, asinine smile she had ever seen. Teeth splayed in just the right way, a pompous rictus of self-satisfaction. Every desire within the Crimson Angel brought her forwards on wings as fleet as a bird. She let out a defiant scream of anger, her weapons held to her side ready to behead him. His eyes widened, his laughter billowing in the breeze before him. It dogged her every movement, driving her forwards as her mind broke.

“Must kill…” She gritted through clenched teeth, eyes full of a hatred to see him dead. “I will break you!”

More laughter met her battle cry, and with all the force she could bring forth she brought her hand up and punched him, hilt and all, in the mouth with a vicious flying punch. Jensen was hit hard, eyes glossing over as he tilted in the blow. Blood came up and splashed Catherine’s face, a tooth flying off into the air never to be seen again. He wilted from the blow, falling backwards as she hovered to stop her movements, breathing heavily taking in his blood and relishing over it.

Then like the snap of a slingshot he rose again, wildly screaming in her face a laugh so obnoxious it burned into her soul. One hand balled into a fist, hitting her in the stomach doubling her over as she landed on her feet. He clapped his hands over her ears, boxing them as the world went deafly silent for a moment, replaced by the haze of his laughter. She woozily looked up to see his thumb brush against her eye making her falter backwards, blinded as he somehow managed to shove more sand into her iris. She turned in pain, whimpering as his foot touched her buttocks, shoving her forwards where Astarelle kicked her in the face with an extended leg.

The force of the blow was enough to make her lift off the ground tilting in the air and landing sideways on the floor. She rolled around in pain, groaning as she lifted herself to her knees. Her ribs felt a hard whack as Jensen’s stiff boot kicked her in the chest, causing her to roll to her back. She watched as Astarelle moved gracefully, almost sultry in her movements, towards her. The two Ixian suddenly felt in control now, and Catherine could think of no reasons for them not too.

Spitting half blood, half soot over her ruined face she fought to grab Jensen’s foot as he went to kick her again. Her wrist guards absorbed the impact, but the sting of the strike momentarily paralyzed her fingers from gripping him, which left her weaponless for the moment. Jensen went to kick again, and this time she grabbed his foot and pushed back. With a hoot of surprise and a giggle to accompany it -Always a giggle she thought darkly – he fell onto his back. And like clockwork the Cell champion moved to defend his fallen form, diving at her with another leg stomp. Her feet were blackened from the dirt, but they were swiftly covered in sand. Catherine pushed herself back, avoiding the leg entirely.

She pushed herself upwards, her fist balling into her waist line grabbing the cloth and using it to push herself upwards. Her wings lifted around them, enclosing them as sand beat against her angelic gift. In the enclosed space Catherine’s forehead collided with Astarelle’s, and suddenly, abruptly, the sand stopped. Catherine pushed Astarelle out of her closed wings, grunting in irritation as she stupidly grabbed for her weapons.

Feeling her grip upon both blade and ax she beat against the ground rising. She sheathed the Butcher’s Bill back into the scabbard, her mother’s sword no longer of use. She needed to be flexible now, be able to grab at a moment’s notice. Jensen was up again, his arm lifting with a greedy round of bubbling crackled laughter. She was confused until she could hear the audible shwing of sword going into gun mode.

“You’re a bastard,” Catherine muttered.

“I know,” he mouthed back, laughing insanely as he let the darts loose. Catherine dive bombed to the ground, narrowly avoiding shot after shot as Jensen’s aim was true. She barely avoided and barreled off to the side to avoid another strike when she caught something blue in her gaze. She followed it, finding sand creeping behind her in the air, but couldn’t focus anymore upon it as Jensen’s aim struck her cheek and created a red line of his deadly intention.

She focused upon him, lifting her ax up and swiping the air, a red line of dark power shooting forwards. Jensen swore as he rolled backwards to his feet, flipping just in time to avoid the strike that chewed into the ground. Catherine dove at him, prepared to strike when a shadow formed overhead. Catherine had not a moment to realize Astarelle was suddenly above her, and she landed on the Crimson Angel like a speartip, feet pressed to the small of her back. Both awkwardly fell from the flight, Catherine’s wings brushing the air trying to right itself but it happened too late. She landed hard upon the ground, her back screaming agony, shooting pain jarring up her leg.

Astarelle free fell without a care to her danger. Easily as the wind blew from Jensen sand formed a slide she slid down to the floor to stand next to the immortal once more, both looking at the avatar with confidence. Catherine screamed in hatred, rage, and incredible frustration as she concluded something she refused to believe.

Alone, they were able to be dealt with. But together...Catherine actually worried she would die. But she refused to die here. She placed her hand on the ground, her scrapes irritated by the tiny grains of sands she pushed into her open wounds. She seethed wrath with every breath, heavy and hot like a rampaging bulls. She let a growl build within her to an explosive roar, her fingers curling upon themselves as pent up aggression was released. She looked back to them, eying them like a savage beast as her tongue licked her blood slicked lips. Her grip on Hope’s Requiem intensified as she limped forwards, working through the pain. Soon she found herself in a full stride, her wings starting to flap in a nervous twitch as they cleaned themselves of the soot, dirt, and sand.

She knew that Astarelle could use those blue crystals now to teleport. At first she was confused earlier when she struck air with her rending blast. But the second time was one too many and now she was on to her. The jackass immortal was distracting her, giving the weaker Astarelle time to set up her attacks. She would take this knowledge, and she would know when Astarelle struck. Then, the champion of the Cell would lose her precious head…

Covered in blood, blond hair dirtied and nappy, face a miserable wreck, she no longer looked like the beautiful angelic woman who started this fight. Now she looked like the monster the people feared, fat lipped and profusely spilling blood. She grinned to them, feeling alive as her wings beat faster and faster.

In moments she was charging them once more, beginning the cycle of violence anew.

[Roht Mirage]

Astarelle, breathing hard from exertion and laughter, braced her shoulder against Jensen's back for that small moment of safety as Catherine collected herself. “Ready for act two?” he asked without looking from the battered Remi. She gulped and nodded hard enough for him to feel it. Breath was too precious at the moment.

He stepped forward -with that impossible speed of the madman Jensen Ambrose- and she followed. Crozius shifted with her, still fused to one hand as a counterweight. The fair lady of dehlar, too cumbersome to risk another strike when Catherine might counter, was content to merely anchor her movement as her trained feet did the work. So courteous.

“Bury me,” Astarelle balked quietly, “I really am crazy.”

Jensen was too far away to hear, nevermind his adorably-mad cackling. She ran in his shadow as a point of theatrics, for the gem chips of her pendant were once more cast into the cloud of sand and soot swirling above.

With that distinctive click, Jensen's weapon became a sword again. He wasted no time in striking, but Catherine dodged wide –very wide- letting the immortal's own speed carry him clear. The caution didn't match the rage on her face. Her eyes looked skyward from bludgeoned sockets. Clever jihta, Astarelle thought with a laugh; almost sympathetic.

The angel watched for Astarelle to teleport from the air once more, her current position an afterthought. In the lee of that distraction, the priestess charged on her own two feet. Crozius smashed into the rubble ahead, vaulting her forward as sand hardened into boots of dirty plate. She stomp-danced into the angel's shoulder, spilling her sideways so hard that her wings cranked uselessly askew. One blood-drenched hand jerked into just the right position to grip her ankle. Sand strained and cracked.

“Fly away,” Catherine hissed as she whipped Astarelle and Crozius in a full circle, scrapped her against the rubble, and released them skyward.

Astarelle wretched from the force. Soot and sand screamed by. Then, a gust of wind shepherded her to a stop and her sand marshaled below, cushioning her descent. “Roh bless you, madman,” she whispered, preserving her breath. In the haze of her own sand, she strained her senses to anticipate the next strike. Her gem chips were still astray. If she had to-

Somewhere nearby, a memory tickled at her. It's beat was faint, but so blessedly alive. A shout of joy escaped her cracking lips and tears welled for reasons beyond simple irritation.

“Jensen,” she shouted as she burst from the cloud, trailing streamers of sand and blood, “Catch!” With all her strength, she hurled her arms forward. Crozius, enshrouded in clinging golden veil, broke free to fly to her true owner. Catherine tensed. Her damaged face screwed into a mask of madness as her eyes hungrily tracked it.

Just close enough.

She lunged, hand grasping. It found the weapon's haft. A shriek of blood lust shook her entire frame, then stopped dead. The head of Crozius -this Crozius- puffed into a cloud of sand. She was left holding one half of Astarelle's broken staff.

“In memory of my beloved trickster,” Astarelle sang cryptically as she charged with the real Crozius in her two-handed grip.

Catherine, face an inferno of rage, hefted her axe to carve open the dancer. The staff jerked in her hand, pulled by a caress of Astarelle's will. She staggered just slightly as the soot and sand parted behind her.

“Almost fooled me, too,” Jensen laughed uproariously. He crashed into the angel's back, pinning her wings with his chest, and wrenched her axe to the side. She released the half-staff to make use of her free hand. Blood well for a crimson slash, but it was too late.

Astarelle planted her feet before the seething monster, fused herself to the rubble. All of her momentum surged into the gloriously-bright upward arc of Crozius. “Your turn, my lady,” she cooed as the weapon crashed upon Catherine's chest plate.

[Enigmatic Immortal]

There was nothing she could do. She was trapped in the demented arms of the immortal, his hot stinking breath chuckling darkly in her ear as they both watched Astarelle’s sprint end with a swing to fell a tree. Catherine’s arms couldn’t raise fast enough as Jensen released her, falling backwards onto the ground with a guffaw of elated joy. Her wings furled around her shoulders involuntarily, turning in the air, one leg draping the other while her hands list-fully drifted to her side like a meteor falling in reverse. Blood trailed her ascent into the sky, her body colliding upon the back wall of the ruined district of the village. She bounced back from the wall, body rolling with a loud clatter of noise as she fell in a heap to the ground below.

Jensen rose up and looked back to her, eyes alight with childish excitement. Astarelle’s sand dislodged from her feet back to a pool around her ankles, her breath tired and strained. Jensen gave her a nervous glance, like a little one on the morning of the celebration of the Winter Solstice. Was it enough? Had they finally downed the monster of Cassandra Remi? He turned back to her, licking his lips, before he suddenly dropped his demeanor in favor of a new one.

Catherine was breathing, fingers twitching, legs moving. Her wings still unfurled, her head shaking as she fought to stand. The immortal bellowed with rage, eyes alight with frustration and anger that even after all of this she was still alive. Catherine looked up at him, spitting out blood and smiling to him lazily, like a drunk the morning after. She lifted her hands to her side, beating her wings feverishly to fly away.

He moved swift as the wind, Astarelle’s outstretched hand left in the dust as he chased the Crimson Angel. Catherine’s body moved slowly, full of pain and aches. Her feet drifted side to side like they had a mind of their own, but her hand upon her axe was still white knuckled. She struck the air with another rending blast, the red magic flashing outwards towards him. He ran full steam at it, flipping tightly just over the impact and landing in time to bring both his hands up, dragging them back.

Wind howled at his direction, the shift sudden and abrupt. Catherine’s wings were too achy and her body too tired to compensate fast enough. She fought to take flight, to escape, but the wind pressed against her beating wings and eventually she caved in. Like a bird shot out of the sky she free fell, cursing loudly as she landed towards the ruins of the village they fought in. Her impact was thunderous, wood tossed upwards from her crash landing followed by soot. The building –if it even could be called that anymore- groaned audibly that Jensen realized it was about to collapse. He turned to Astarelle, grabbing her head and shoving it into his chest as he whipped his jacket up over her face covering her from the fallout of the dust storm.

It felt like eternity, but it lasted mere moments to have the ruins wreckage shift into their new state. A hollow wind passed through the air, and slowly Jensen titled his soot laden head up, black streaks falling like rain from the once red tips of his hair. He slowly released Astarelle, his jacket flapping behind him as the weighted plates anchored them to the ground. He turned, looking at the devastation and gave a wary glance to his companion.

“Do you think-“ Jensen whispered.

“Knowing our luck?” Astarelle interrupted, giving him a concerned glance with a dry, humorless smile. “Probably not.”

Cautiously, both Ixians strode forwards to find the Crimson Angel.

[Requiem of Insanity]

The air was cold. Somehow in the battle, Catherine had forgotten that. It nipped her joints, and each one that ached were amplified in their irritation. She blinked over and over, mouth gaped open in a stupor as she took several deep breaths. She was automatic in her motions, not processing the world around her with any speed. She was beyond exhausted, her muscles bellowed their hatred for her, and even her wings stubbornly refused to do any more than twitch. Blood dripped down the sides of her face over her left eye, irritating the sand, soot, and dirt within her vision. She winced, salty tears straining down her face cascading to her chest where it pooled. She managed to feebly twitch a finger after intense concentration, and with that she felt herself slipping.

She was not Draug, who could regenerate himself quickly. He slowly recovered her wounds, healing faster out of the combat high. Painfully she lifted herself upwards, fighting the stinging agony running up and down her spine. She managed to prop herself to an elbow, surveying the damage. She coughed heavily, blood and phlegm escaping her lips in stringy tethers like the drool of an ogre. She shook her head, the motion itself alerting her to the pounding headache she had. She managed to look upwards again, seeing she had fallen through a two story building and brought the whole place with her crash. Wooden floors of the second level were ruined chunks of their former selves, and even the place she landed had an impact crater forming around her frail form.

She fought to push herself to her knees, wincing in pain as she stood on all fours, dead muscles fighting her own indomitable will. Regardless of what she wanted though, even she knew she was done. She couldn’t fight anymore. Her body was spent, her spirit was waning, and her mind was cloudy. The damnable Ixians won this day. That hatred of the thought of Jensen sharing stories with all his comrades that he defeated her gave her the strength to slowly stand up, limping heavily towards the shadows leading back to the southern area of Eiskalt. She would have to abandon her search for Draug, trusting her brother could handle himself. It was time for the Cult to leave this miserable nation and continue to ascension of her mother.

She realized she was leaving footprints behind her. Cursing her broken frame she collapsed against a slab of ruins, fighting hard not to cry in exasperation. Her ears perked, and she could hear the heartbeats of the immortal and Astarelle approaching. They moved slowly, cautiously, which would give her time to flee, but there was just no hope of getting far enough. With a busted leg, no flight, and wounds this bad they would track her before she could heal. Her foot tapped something heavy, stubbing her toe in her boots as she snarled kicking the offending object across the floor.

“Oh damn it all!” She spat seeing her axe land off in a corner of her room. She fought to walk, every other step a stumble that made her drag across the soot leaving lines. She grunted in pain, moving herself to bend over and grab her weapon when her ears perked again. She stood as still as a statue, eyes focused solely on her blade.

She could hear a third heartbeat.

It was faint, not from distance, but from size. It was no bigger than the palm of her hand, beating irregularly with fear. She dragged her blade, scraping the metal against the floor creating an eerie noise like the shifting of chains. The heart spiked in terror and she turned to the source tilting her head. She moved to the beating heart, at last standing before an enclosed area covered in several layers of ceiling. She placed her axe face down in the dirt, using it as a crutch to kneel. She peaked into the rubble, and was a bit startled to see two eyes look back. They looked at her, scared and confused as her wings finally twitched.

Mother always did say that victory comes in the strangest ways, The angel mused.

“Hello little one,” she whispered, a vile grin spreading across her face. “What is a young thing like you doing in these ruins?” The kid made no motions as Catherine looked around the area. “Are you trapped?” Slowly, the head of the child tilted in a nod. She tested the weight and found she had just enough strength to perhaps help her. “I got a very short time to make this work,” she said irritably. “Be quick.”

“O-ok,” said the little girl. Catherine counted quickly, lifting up the baseboard of what was once a support beam, and out crawled the little child, her body filthy and covered in nothing but soot and grime. With an exhausted grunt she tossed the board down, creating more noise than she wanted to.

“I heard something over here!” the loudmouth immortal shouted not far away. “Wakey Wakey, hands off snakey kitty cat!”

Catherine cursed as she looked in the direction of the voices. The child looked to her, frightened as she fidgeted with a weapon in her hands. Knowing time was running short the avatar swiped the dagger from her grip. Then things escalated rather quickly.

“No! Release her you monster!” Astarelle shouted first. Catherine grabbed her by the arm, forcing her to her as her axe came up under her throat. She released her to grab her by the hair, wrenching her face up to expose more of her neck.

“Let her go!” Jensen shouted a hairs-breath after the Falleni woman’s cry. Catherine grinned to them both, lowering her hand and easily lifting the child up to her chest where she held her awkwardly, axe head still holding her head aloft.

“Isn’t this a familiar sight, immortal mongrel?” Catherine cooed.

“You bitch, you so much as-“ Jensen seethed. The axe head tipped across her throat, a tiny river of blood trailing along the blade’s edge. Astarelle let out a wail of despair as Jensen gripped his hair and pulled, his nose exhaling fire if it could as he let out a roar of anxiety.

“Put her down, Jihta!”

“Shut your mouth, Roht Mirage!” Catherine barked, glaring daggers to both of them, holding the child hostage and teasing her axe against her skin again. Astarelle gave her a dark leer, but she said nothing. “Throw your weapons away, behind you, as far as you can. Do that and we’ll discuss if I feel like letting her live!” Jensen’s eyes were filled with madness as he frothed at the mouth, fingers flexing and balling again in one hand, the other switching his gunblade from one mode into the next.

“Do it, or else I’ll take this one's life before you end mine!”

[Roht Mirage]

Crozius sailed through the air, flipping lazily end over end, until it planted itself in the sooty gore of the fallen building. The heavy dust settled upon it, smothering the light of its enchantment until it fell to darkness.

“Please,” Astarelle begged listlessly. She wobbled and pressed a hand to the side of her head. Without the maul's blessing of power, pain lashed every inch of her as if a suit of barbed wire was being drawn tight with incredible force. I forgot. How did I forget her? Sand-brained fool, she scolded herself. It felt like a voice from far away. She reached toward Leila. The girl's eyes were so wide; crystal pools in which she could drown with her guilt. If she had just taken her in the beginning... If she had finished the bloody angel off... Even deeper, a rancid guilt welled from below, fermented from two weeks of neglect. Her cracked and bloody lips parted, letting spill the damnable lie of omission.

“The girl's already lost her mother.”

Catherine, monster that she was, guffawed in spite of her hoarse throat. “I could see them reunited,” she promised darkly. The axe twitched.

Leila visibly broke. “Mommy,” she squeaked as her eyes seized and forced tear trails down her dirty, sunken cheeks. Her whole body shook. Grieved beyond pain, she opened her jaw in spite of the axe blade and wailed like a ghost of long-dead Unum.

Astarelle shrank in upon herself, tears flowing unbidden. As Akashere had once taught her to read a conversation in a single glance, she found she could hear words in a scream – if only this one.

Cold. I need somewhere warm. Mommy will come.

Hungry. I need food. It tastes like ash. Mommy will come.

It's been so long. I just want to sleep. Mommy, where are you?

“Jensen,” Astarelle pleaded as if the immortal had some hidden miracle up his sleeve. She turned. Her breath caught. His weapon clicked faster and faster, in tempo with Catherine's euphoric, echoing laughter. His eyes glazed over in madness, layer upon layer deep. No ploy would reach him. No memory would shake him. He didn't realize it yet, though the tensing of his body made the premonition certain. To destroy a monster, he would become one.

It was all the she could do to slide a sand-wreathed foot against his. Jensen Ambrose. Don't you dare.

[Requiem of Insanity]

Catherine drank the well of despair emanating from Astarelle. She grinned in pleasure, her eyes wide as she took it all in. She disarmed the war maul, tossing it away from the fight as she wanted. She let out a bemused chuckle, but then her eyes narrowed in shock.

Jensen hadn't backed down.

Her breath lurched to her throat, holding itself as she contemplated some harsh reality. Was Jensen A,browse willing to let a small child die just to get to her? She was once assured that he wouldn't, but now he was salavating at the mouth. She could see the swirling hurricane of choices wearing him down. His fingers itched, his body language was clear as day.

He was going to do it.

Catherine Remi was going to die.

Death strangely didn't scare her. The notion of her life being snuffed out had been something she expected, relished in even. An end to Her life wasn't the worse thing in the world. But what had scared her was Jensen was going to go through the kid to do so. He had embraced a darker path, prepared not to walk it, but sprint down these mind destroying tunnels. She had no more ace up her sleeve, no more tricks to hide behind. She was wrong about the immortal.

She prepared to strike her axe across throat, slitting the whimpering child's almost in a mercy kill. Her life was over, just like hers was so long ago. Better death than to live a hollow life...

Yet when it happened, when the time came that Jensen couldn't hold himself back any longer the knight tripped and fell. Catherine had to straight her eyes to see the block of sand grounding him. Astarelle had saved the girl's life, and by proxy, the Crimson Angel. Jensen's body whipped upwards with an abrupt roar like a boiling volcano. He had erupted, screeching so much hate it shook the core of the Avatar. Even the tiny child stopped to stare at the scary immortal, seeing him froth at the mouth as he hacked away at the sand bellowing obscenities.

Catherine was mortified by his deathly scream, unable to process that with his howling wrath the wind turned into a tornado of fury, lifting sand, wood chips, and rubble. Her eyes blinked when suddenly she caught it. Blue crystals in the swirling breeze. The teleport trick! Catherine was too late observing it. Sand formed over her head, and she was paralyzed, awaiting her descent.

But one loud crack brought the swirling disaster to a close. She looked back to see Jensen's fist break off from Astarelle's jaw. Teeth flew from that impactful strike, his eyes full of betrayal and hurt. The Cell champion teetered and fell, eyes glossy as she collapsed in a heap.

Catherine felt the wind break, and using her last reserve of strength, all of her willpower, and the moment of distraction she rose in the air with her wings. They beat heavily, every flap a strain, but she ascended quickly and away. Jensen shrieked to her fleeing form, cursing her name as broke free for. The sand prison, only fast enough to watch her fly away with the child in hand.

[Enigmatic Immortal]

“Get back here!” Jensen shouted as he bounded in the ruins after the fleeing angel. He prepared one of his throwing glaives, locking his sights upon the woman and let it loose. It fell wide off the mark in his haste filled throw, spinning off into the unknown lands of Eiskalt. Silence prevailed, interrupted only by the hollow whispers of the wind and the animal like breathing of Jensen who fumed glaring daggers into the fleeing Cultist. He clenched his fists into tiny balls, white knuckled and cracking letting blood trickle between each digit. With a dark, boiling growl his eyes shifted, body turning to look upon the slow rising form of Astarelle.

He bounded forwards in a few steps, hopping over fallen debris and landing near her on bended knee. He gripped her by the hair, wrenching it so she could see his hatred as he released a screamed at her. “Why?!? Why did you let her go, you bitch!” Jensen shoved her back, throwing her onto her back as he stood up dragging in a lungful of air.

“I had her!” He seethed, eyes filled with madness. “She was in my grasp! I was going to kill that vile thing!” He brought his hands forwards, curling each finger slowly into themselves. “Why did you stop me?”

Astarelle leaned up, looking to Jensen with tear filled eyes. Either she was in incredible pain, or having an emotional breakdown, but the immortal could see something ate her. “The. Girl.” She coughed. Jensen continued to glare at her, but said nothing as she regained herself looking up to him. She gave him a certain, pained look, like she wasn’t sure how else to explain herself or that she felt she needed to.

“Do you even realize the opportunity you just blew? One of the Dark Family! If we killed her, Cassandra’s Avatar, we would have dealt a serious moral blow and show the world there is nothing to fear!”

“But is killing a child worth that!” Astarelle shouted, not phrasing her parched throat words in a question rather more in a statement. Jensen looked at her, then turned his back looking back into the sky as if he could see the Crimson Angel. His body shook in the code, the wind drifting the hem of his coat side to side.

“You don’t get it,” Jensen urged. “They always pull this! Just when you think you’re going to kill one of the Dark Family, they change the rules. They pull innocents into their grasp, threaten your family!” Jensen turned again, whipping quickly as his eyes were once more filled with madness. “Do you see it now, Astarelle?” His voice cracked in the realm between sanity and insanity. She peered to him, and then the world made sense.

Jensen’s very soul was split in twain. The noble, self-centered, egotistical warrior she had grown to know over the past few months was seen clearly in his left eye. In his right, she could see the dark temptations of a maddened Jensen Ambrose. There was no humor, no laughter, just blind rage dying to be focused on killing. He was struggling to keep himself together and the fact of the matter was he was slipping further and further. A swell of tears brimmed his eyes, mouth trembling as he choked on his own emotional breakdown.

“No matter what we do, they will always pull this stunt! Someone innocent is always going to die, and I can’t do it anymore! I can’t sit idly by and let them escape! Every time they do, the one life we saved ends the lives of so many more!” He growled in his throat, words forced through clenched teeth. “No more, no more playing by their rules!”

“Think about what you are saying, Jensen!” she implored him.

“I’m the only one who has been thinking!” Jensen screeched to her like a brat child. “I’m the only one who is getting it! If I have to kill a one hundred kids to destroy the entire Cult of Blessed Torture, then I’ll look their parents in the eye when I do it! I’ll do it with a damn smile on my face, shit eating grin and all if it meant Cassandra’s eyes go hollow after choking the life out of her! I’ll become what nobody in this war against them has the balls to be! I’ll become a-“

“Monster!?!” Astarelle shouted with force, her voice echoing in the ruins. Jensen looked to her, prepared to speak when he suddenly caught himself. The events came at him in clearer focus as he thought about what he had said, what he had done, what he almost did. A strong grip of reality grabbed his collar and shoved him back, the immortal collapsing on the floor looking up at the sky in a dazed state.

“By the horsemen,” Jensen whispered. “I’m…” Astarelle moved closer to him, sitting next to the immortal as he just looked up into the sky. She said nothing for a moment, before she dug her toes in the sand and sighed. Jensen looked back to her, a moments reprieve in the storm of chaos within his mind. His fire had burned out, the embers cooling as he let fought back a sob.

“I’m losing this war,” he choked. “I’m fighting a battle I can’t win.”

[Roht Mirage]

She was scared of Jensen Ambrose. Really scared. Though her words had been powerful (as expected of any finely-honed weapon) she had wielded them desperately. She had been clawing for the better half of him –the laugher, the boyish charm, the protective nature- before it could be overtaken by the other. That Jensen was a nightmare. That Jensen believed every day would be worse than the last, down and down into eternity, so much that he valued nothing but the bitter-sweet memory of happiness.

It was only when that storm was past and his demon quelled that she could breath. She could feel the sand around her toes, the flare of pain in her cheek. Her eye felt like it was swelling, and her tongue fidgeted against the gaps in her mouth. So many emotions stirred, forcing from her a quiet sob. She had pity for the man who, even without Cult manipulation, would likely torture himself for the whole of his long life. She despaired for the lost child, undeserving of any of this. Yet, she also felt a heat rising from her gut, a fury that had hidden from the madman. It was no longer threatened by his broken form, and Astarelle -try as she might- could not contain her own savage nature.

“You are losing,” she said with a quiet anger that rose to tip every word in venom, “You're falling right into their trap.” The chips of her amulet returned to her over the rubble. They were smudged with grime and blood. “If you had just waited a moment longer.” She held the chips before him, her palm shaking with weakness and rage in equal measure. “I almost had her.” She closed her fist and drew it back as if to strike him. “Bury you, Jensen Ambrose! I almost had her!”

He looked her dead in the eye and said, “I don't believe you.” It wasn't just a matter of him not wanting to believe, though that much was true. He honestly doubted. She could see it in his wounded gaze.

“You think I'm lying?” she seethed.

He looked down, choked back his own cooling emotions, and muttered, “It's what you do. You're a liar, Astarelle.”

She let loose a single breath of a wretched scream -all she could manage- then turned sharply away from him. The sapphire chips fell from her hand and glittered weakly against the blackened debris. So did her tears. “You're right,” she sobbed so quietly as to be inaudible but for the heavy silence. “Nety. Leila. You. Bury me, you. I've lied to you so much.” She felt that deep-set armor, that comfortable wall of half-truths and omissions, shaking within her.

“Astarelle,” he said carefully. Carefully! As if she was the one on the edge of violence. “I still trust you.”

“Don't,” she snarled, then clamped her mouth shut to hid the painful twisting of her voice.

“I trust that you lie to me for my own good, that it's because I'm being bone-headed or insane or just drunk off my ass.”

She choked on what might have been a bitter laugh. It sounded like a hiccup.

He continued, sounding hollow and drained. “Even when I can't figure it out, you have your reasons. You always do your best to make it right in your own way. I don't know why. Maybe I shouldn't... But, I trust you. I really do. More than I trust myself.”

Sobs that could no longer be contained shook her whole body. She looked up to the soot-clouded sky, the dark ribs of buildings, anywhere but at him. It would take no special skill to read her flooding eyes.

That old armor broke, and fresh air rushed in.

“You know what?” she asked as if petitioning the ruins, “I can't do it. I can't fight a war. Eiskalt or the Cult, it doesn't matter. I can't trick a war. I can't reason with it. There's no right thing to say to make it all end and keep everyone safe. I'm not cut out for it, so why bother?”

“You fought Catherine Remi and lived,” he offered.

“One monster does not a war make,” she snapped, or tried to. No matter how deep she reached, the fury of moments ago was gone. She found only a dry well. “I thought- I thought that if I could just do one thing, if I could save a single girl when nearly everyone else had given up on her, it would be something. I almost did. I could have saved her... if not for you.”

She found enough of a spark to spin around and plant a feeble fist against his chest. He didn't move. He just looked at her with his own puffy, tear-streaked eyes and sent an apology that no words could do justice to. Her sobs returned anew. She fell forward, planting her face next to her fist on his chest. His arms encircled her with all the solidity and permanence of a mountain. Someday, she knew, everything that was Jensen Ambrose would erode away. Someday, he would be cold, nothing but 'the immortal'. Yet, in this moment, she felt the strength and warmth to last a hundred of her lifetimes. “If not for you...” she said so weakly that he had to lean his head down to hear, pressing his jaw to her dirty hair.

“If not for you, I would have died. She would have, also. We have to find her. We have to find her before...” Most of the words were real. The others were lost in a dream.

[Enigmatic Immortal]

The immortal’s bones ached in a way he hadn’t felt since the Night of Debauchery. His very soul was pushed past the limits of mortal endurance. His emotional scars brought deep grooves on his dirty face, eyes red from crying so much. The physical scars of his confrontation with the Crimson Angel were even more apparent. He had lacerations that covered his face, wounds filled with sand and soot. His pockets, pants, underwear and boots all had dirt rumbling around inside them, and not an inch of his flesh was clean.

He would worry about the odor another day.

Yet in his arms was someone who had fought by his side, just as hard as he had. Her eyes were shut, head tilted against the torn shirt he wore. Her body was draped in his trenchcoat, covering her legs so she would keep warm. And for once, he mused, she didn’t speak. Just a gentle warm breeze from her sleeping form was the audible cue she was still alive. Her hair, much like his, was matted and filthy, and her face was almost black save the lines where she had cried with him.

This was what war looked like after battle. He had fought in many wars before, and took place in many battles. The Cell was not this violent. The wars he fought were not this violent. Even the battles with Draug had not been as violent as the one against the Crimson Angel. Cassandra’s daughter had proven herself a capable warrior and he silently brooded about the time it would take for the two to meet again.

“Jensen?” a mumble from his chest brought his head snapping down, seeing Astarelle’s still form move gently to nuzzle against him.

“Yeah?” he muttered back, his voice hoarse and strained.

“Where are we?” she whispered, opening her eyes slowly to look up at him. He sighed, a wet raspberry escaping his lips. He searched for a sign, or some kind of post that named this village. After a few moments of silence she just laughed lazily, moving towards standing. Jensen fought with her, still keeping her in his arms.

“So I don’t know,” he mused loudly, a fake tone of venom in his voice. Astarelle pretended to roll her puffy eyes. “I do know I see the Ixian flags up ahead. Lucky for you, as a member you get full access to the medical tent. And as I am a Captain, you’ll get the VIP treatment.” She opened her mouth to speak, but Jensen just held her a bit tighter. She nodded, saying nothing as she retreated into the warmth of his jacket.

He carried her towards the outpost, a little alarmed to see several people moving rapidly. He could notice the lines of medical teams moving bodies from one area to another in triage. Two soldiers ran up, bandages over various parts of their body, slightly stained by the colored of dried blood. They at first were prepared to strike when they noticed who was approaching.

“It’s Jensen Ambrose!” one said to the other. “Told you he wasn’t abandoning the knights!”

“Praise the thaynes!” The other muttered happily. “I was worried the rumors of him going rouge were true. Oi, what’s that in his hands… is that the Lady Astarelle?” The first soldier nodded his head, and swiftly they tossed their spears to the ground, prepared to take her away. Jensen spun to prevent them from touching her, growling more forcefully than he intended. They backed off, reluctantly, looking for the immortal to explain.

“Who’s in charge of this Outpost?”

“Orders come and go directly to…well, Lady Astarelle, sir.” They both pointed to the woman in his hands. “However, since the revolt by the citizens to deny Ixian protection, we’ve needed a leader. Lady Aislinn Orlouge has stepped up.”

“Ais is here?” Jensen said in a stupor. He poked his head up looking for the familiar red hair when something bumped his leg. He looked down to see a tiny black feline rubbing against him, purring uncontrollably as it did figure eights around his ankles. “Hey Felicity!” Jensen said with genuine relief.

“Well, well,” a voice tisked from behind him. “Jensen Ambrose, the great rouge of Eiskalt, and traitor to the Ixian Knights.” There was no malice in those words, but a warmth of friendship in them. Jensen sighed in relief as he spoke in his usual dry humored manner.

“Just a short list of my many titles, but we can gloss over them all for the medical emergency, Aislinn.” He presented Astarelle to the medical chief of the Ixian Knights. The red head instantly bounded forwards, her skirt shuffling in the wind as Felicity hopped up onto Jensen’s shoulder, peering down at the near lifeless woman in his grip. Aislinn’s hands gripped her head in a gentle manner, turning it side to side and looking into her glossy eyes.

“Some slight head trauma, but nothing overly concerning,” she said to nobody in particular, her voice stern and full of confidence. “She’s bleeding badly, perhaps a few cracked bones. I will not have a full medical analysis until she’s awake. I am sorry Jensen, but her wounds are pretty significant. It will take me a while to properly tend to her.”

“Give her your ‘A’ game for me,” Jensen said with a pleading fashion. She nodded, snapping her fingers and pointing to the two soldiers.

“Stop acting like stupid statues and get me a stretcher, now!” she barked. The two quickly saluted the woman and ran off to grab what was required of them. When they were out of sight she sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “Stupid girl. First chance my dear niece has to prove her competency as a leader and she flings herself into the fires of war. I had thought Kyla may have been more tempered about this, but…”

“She’s still young, and she feels she’s doing the right thing.” Jensen replied, watching the two men return with the stretcher. Jensen slowly placed the woman on the stretcher; one hand cupping her face while the other held her hand. With a nod of consent, the two carried Astarelle away. He let out a sigh, watching her go.

"Jensen, there is a serious matter I wanted to talk to you about," Aislinn's tone was firm, but her breath came out for only his ears to hear. "Regarding what happened to Adolph." The immortal's face went pale as he looked to Aislinn, seeing a lot of pain behind those blue eyes of hers. She was composed, as she always was, but even her icy demeanor couldn't shake the feelings she had for the Reclussiarch of the Ixian Knights Chaplins corps. When last Jensen saw Adolph, he had fallen in battle. Realizing what an ass he had been in not returning with him, leaving her alone in the dark made him ashamed to even look at her. Catching his gaze adverting, she narrowed one eye on him, using her witch magic. "Look at me." Compelled to do so, and having little in the form of will power left to give, the knight did just that.

"I can see you are aware of what a terrible friend you were not only to me, but to Adolph," Aislinn said sternly, like a mother scolding her child for his hand being in the cookie jar before dinner. "And when he sees you, he'll expect Crozius back as well." Her mouth caved into a grin as Jensen blinked a few times. Then, as if a weight left his shoulders, Jensen sighed with a single tear running down his face.

"Thank the Horsemen," he whispered. "How? I was sure he was-"

"His spirit is not that easily snuffed out. He was gripping a necklace tightly the entire time. He said he had been trained to go into a trance like state when he suffered severe wounds. So, in his calming meditations, hypothermia kicked in. It took me hours with Pierce to save him, but he is alive and well. Even in his bed he's bellowing orders, which is a good sign he'll recover just fine." Jensen nodded to her, thanking her with a tight hug that she warmly accepted and returned. They broke off the hug for a moment, looking off into the distance.

“What do you think?” Aislinn asked finally. Jensen felt Felicity’s weight shift as she nuzzled her nose into his cheek, purring softly. He lifted a finger to the cat’s chin and scratched gently. He thought about her question. Jensen wasn’t sure how to answer her question.

“I think,” he said, his eyes narrowing off into the distance. “That I still have a job to do. Out there, somewhere, is Catherine Remi. Draug probably as well. I cannot just let them terrorize this land."

“No, I suppose you would not.” Aislinn said walking next to him, planting an accusing finger on his chest. “But it is Wednesday, and that means it is our weekly dinner. The mess tent will have to do for our venue. There is no point going back into the cold wastes, smelling like a putrid dead skunk, just to die in a fetal position, huddled in a undignified position for warmth.”

“So, what’s the doctor’s orders?”

“One hot bath, one hot meal, and one night’s rest.”

“A hot night's rest?” Jensen asked, winking to the doctor. She gave him a sardonic look, but cracked a grin.

“Just a warm night, Mr. Ambrose, all alone,” she said patting his arm and moving past him. “Though I suppose I could have a cot arranged in the medical wing for you. There’s the most fires in the tent to keep the wounded warm. The only place would be by Astarelle’s side, so you will just have to make do with that.”

“Thanks, Aislinn.” The red head nodded, moving towards the medical tent, before Jensen turned back to the great land of Eiskalt. A hot meal, bath, and a good night’s rest did sound wonderful, but out there in the frozen lands was someone who wasn’t sleeping or eating so easily. Jensen wanted to rest, he truly did; be there when Astarelle awoke, but he knew deep within his heart he couldn’t.

“Aislinn,” Jensen called out, his tone rather serious. Felicity looked to the immortal, before it purred and hopped off his shoulder, seeing he was back to being a soldier. Aislinn turned, eyes curiously looking him up and down. She knew already that he had made up his mind. “Give her this,” Jensen said tossing her one bundled package. It was made from ruined cloth, and the doctor nearly fumbled it. “Tell her I said that trust can easily be broken, but in time, it can always be repaired.”

“Anything else?” she asked, a bit confused on the words he spoke. Jensen gave her a strange look, before he nodded asking for quill and parchment.

[Roht Mirage]

The breath of midnight in the Eiskalt forest chilled Astarelle to the bone, warm layers or not. She wished for a second coat, maybe a third, and wondered how many she could festoon herself with before the plough-horse under her crumpled. It was the same beast that had taken her from the refugee camp days ago, retreated at the chaos, and found its way -demonstrating an intellect to match at least one madman- back to the outpost beyond Unum's fringe.

Astarelle may have stolen away in the middle of the night, but due to it being her horse, she hadn't technically stolen anything in doing so. It was a small moral comfort to balance the impending anger of Aislinn when she found her patient had discharged herself well ahead of schedule. She couldn't help but giggle, which quickly turned to a wince and a hissed intake of breath. The cold pulled at all of her aches and pains – too numerous to count.

Ahead of her, torches winked atop the camp's palisade like firebugs amid the trees. She heeled her horse faster through the path that no longer bore the signs of her earlier passage. In and out like a night devil, she told herself. However, as she breached the treeline, she let the reins go slack. The horse dropped to a walk, snorting irritably.

“Bury me,” she breathed as she looked to the side. Along the outer edge of the palisade, like a row of sunken sentries, were graves; far more than she remembered. At the far end of the line, two dark figures were digging another. She could hear one of them coughing wetly. “And bury them,” she added sadly, drawing a finger across the mark over her brow.

She kicked her horse toward the gate, schooling her face to announce “official business” wordlessly at the two Ixian soldiers standing guard. They braced themselves, hands to sheaths, then recognized her. Whether it was her demeanour, or the fact that her business was deemed official merely by it being her's, they let her pass with only silent salutes.

Through the tents, she moved as quickly as she could without drawing attention. The very air seemed to cough sporadically, as if the palisade was the shell of one large, sickly beast. A few refugees moved about near their tents, restless in spite of their exhausted gait. Better to move, perhaps, when one feels their life ebbing. To lay still would only ease the reaper's work.

Without making eye contact, or drawing too close, or breathing at the same time as they thunderously coughed, she entered her tent. In the dark, she found what little she could claim without seeming a criminal: an extra coat, some rations, a well-worn pack of her personal items. The map on her small table twitched from a cold wind that fluttered the tent flap, dragging in the smell of manure and nausea. She gagged, but did not leave. From her personal pack, she pulled a sealed tube of reed and opened it gently. A force of will, much like controlling the sand, ensured that the ink and documents within remained at rest. Akashere had helped her collect all of the dry pigment. Half of the forged documents, keys to a dozen bureaucracies, were created by his rizak. They would do her no good in the shadow of Eiskalt's collapsing government; but they were nonetheless precious.

Risking exposure to the cold and -as rumors were proving true- plagued air, she opened her coat enough to extract a note from the inside pocket. She knew its contents even without sensing the position of the ink, for she had read and re-read it an obscene number of times.

~
Dear Astarelle,

Look at your fat lazy ass now, huh? Don’t get too offended. You clonked out pretty hard when I picked you up. I’m terrible at these things…saying emotional crap and what not. So, I’ll just do it in my normal way. You really helped push the breaks on my soul back there. I was headed right for a pit of no return, and you, of all people who barely know me, fought the hardest to keep me from becoming a monster.

That’s why I trust you, Astarelle Set’Roh.

This dance isn’t over,
Jensen Ambrose.
~

The cold in her tent was so potent that her cheeks reddened. And on remembering the back of the note, the color deepened. Blasted cold.

~
PS: Yep, I totally felt you up. Couldn’t help it. Nice legs, firm ass, work on those tits. Consider it payment for carrying you to the Outpost. Hugs and kisses, Jensen.
~

She gingerly slid the note into the tube and recapped it, the whole time muttering, “Hugs and kisses, my rump.”

“I don't get that one, either,” came a muffled voice from behind her.

She spun, sand welling from the sleeve of her coat to wreath her hand. The intruder wore a scarf up to the bridge of the nose. It glistened with oil; little use for warmth, but a decent effort at filtering the air. A thick coat and hood shrouded the rest of the form, all but the red boots.

“Nety,” Astarelle hissed, “What are you doing here?”

The local woman pulled down the scarf and stated smugly, “Even at night, word spreads fast in camp this small.” Her attitude faded, however, as she leaned in. “And it's getting smaller. Every day.” Her eyes gleamed in the dark, asking questions that she knew the fallieni woman had no answers for.

“It's about to get smaller,” Astarelle said, jamming the tube back into her pack and slinging it over her shoulder. “I'm only grabbing a few things, then I'll-”

“I'm coming with you,” Nety interjected. She moved her feet in a premonition of Astarelle's own, effectively leading her from the tent to where two horses now waited. Her face was finally visible in the light of the stars and distant torches, and it bore lines of worry. “I heard you were injured.”

“I'm fine,” Astarelle responded curtly. Another lie. Habit.

Nety took the reigns of her horse, little more than a dark shape against the snow, and turned. She looked at Astarelle intently, making no move to mount up. “Leila?” she asked quietly, bracing herself for any answer.

No more lies.

“We found her.”

Nety exhaled sharply. “You and martini guy, right?”

The bad news froze on Astarelle's tongue. “Martini guy? Oh, bury me.”

“Is she safe?” Nety asked in a cascade, “Was she hurt? Is she at the outpost?” Her breath puffed in hot, excited clouds.

Astarelle raised a hand and made a piteous face that locked the words in Nety's throat. “She was taken... by a monster that followed us from Corone.”

Nety took a step back, jostling the crossbow strapped to her saddle. “Is she- alive?” She forced out the word as if her throat tore in forming it.

The Fallien knight could only say, “I hope.”

“Dammit, Astarelle!” Nety shouted, cracking the sickly night air, “I am done with your war and your monsters!” She kicked up into the saddle and jabbed the beast forward. It whinnied, then bolted away, kicking dirty snow into Astarelle's face as she shouted for the woman to wait.

“Yay honesty,” she mouthed darkly, then clambered onto her own mount and gave chase. She blasted between the sentries, unconcerned with what they thought and quite certain that she would not see them for a while, if ever again. “Wait!” she called to the dark, snow-flaying shadow ahead. Branches batted away by the woman's body whipped back to throw their snow in her face. She put her head down against the onslaught, trusting the beast to keep on course. “You don't even know where to go!”

“I know well enough,” Nety called bitterly, sounding at first certain, then unsure, “I'll figure it out.”

Astarelle's horse pivoted under her. She looked up as it came upon Nety's walking slowly, then stopping, and jerked sideways to avoid a collision. It danced to a halt on a tug of the reins, mane flying and nostrils flaring. Astarelle patted its neck, but said nothing as silence fell between them, interrupted only by the crisp crackle of too-sweet trees in the wind.

“This is our punishment,” Nety finally said, staring straight ahead. One hand drifted to her throat.

“We've done everything we can,” Astarelle insisted, “And me and Jensen... the Crimson Angel. Bury me, Nety, what I did to save her life-”

“Not you,” the woman said in a voice so disconcertingly soft that it brought a new wave of silence. She turned, fingers playing over a short necklace that held a crystal of the fairest blue against the curve of her throat. It was the same color as Leila's eyes, and by extension (so far as Astarelle had heard) her mother's. In a quiet voice almost lost against the creak of trees and the huffing of the horses, she spoke. “At least Lorelle doesn't have to suffer it.” Her face was tight with grief.

Astarelle's hand, of its own accord, drifted down to brush against the two staff halves tied to her saddle. She knew intimately the pain that broke mountains and mortals alike; whether it was knotting her own chest or mirrored in the dour gaze of another. “Lorelle is her mother's name,” she said gently; not asking, just acknowledging. “I'm sorry. I didn't know that until now.” She looked down, debating. The trouble with honesty was that you never knew if they would receive it by the hilt or the blade. She sighed. “Leila asked about you... before she asked about her father.”

Nety looked sharply forward, focusing on a great big nothing in the trees. “That's wrong,” she said sourly. Shame colored her pale skin.

“Love doesn't care about right or wrong,” Astarelle mused, her words so heavy with experience that Nety's eyes were drawn to her curiously. She just shook her head and continued. “She needs you. You're the only mother she has left.”

Starlight beaded in the woman's eyes. “I need her too,” she said, voice cracking.

Astarelle turned away. If you make me start crying again I'm going to wither up, she thought with impotent venom and a girlish crinkle of her nose.

“We will find her,” came Nety's voice; resolute, passionate, and far more honest than it would sound from Astarelle's lips. “The scouts reported the monster flying this direction. If we continue...”

“The Crimson Angel,” Astarelle intoned, her eyes narrowing.

Nety looked at her askew. “You mean the angel of death? They saw it in that way as well. I meant the bigger one.”

“Bigger one?”

“Much much bigger,” Nety said with a slow nod. “Which one will lead us to her?”

Astarelle looked over the trees, toward the stars, on through the plumes of smoke that still lined the horizon. Eiskalt continued to suffer, and though the sun would eventually rise, it would not mean an end to the nightmares.

“With our luck...” the priestess said softly.

[Requiem of Insanity]

Catherine’s fingers flexed outwards, her muscles pulling taut as she stretched her healed body. Upon reflection, while she didn’t heal instantly like Draug, being able to share her mother’s divine spark to fully heal after battle was a perk. Aside from feeling disgusting with all the sand, dirt, and soot in her wounds and scattered throughout her garments, she was one hundred percent again. A desire to fly after Jensen and Astarelle tasted sweet on the tongue, but practicality and logic prevented that fool’s errand. Those two would have to be dealt with another day.

This left the Crimson Angel to ponder about the young child sitting in the corner of the cavern they hid in. Her eyes looked to the fragile, frightened child who sat in the corner of the cave. Her knees were drawn to her chin, arms lapped around her ankles as she fought not to make a peep. Catherine studied her for a moment, looking at her eyes as she peered back. Her raggy hair draped over most of her face, but she could see those orbs looking to her, unsure of her future or even if she would have one.

“I know that look,” Catherine admitted. She released the clasps on her dented, scratched armor and let it fall to the floor with a clatter. One of the mongrels would tend to it later. The tunic she wore was loose, hiding much of her succulent flesh and shape from prying eyes. She was no object to be ogled by the Cult’s depraved minds. It was not uncommon for one member to jump and rape or kill another member, simply stating they felt like doing it. Worst still, her mother encouraged such debauchery so long as it wasn’t to a member of the Dark Family. Not that any of them needed to worry. One swing of her hand would kill dozens of these fools.

She released the straps across the back of her thigh, letting the leg plates fall forwards in a heap. She stepped closer to the child, and knelt down. One hand gently rose, grabbing a few strands of her hair and she let her fingers dance through them, careful not to tug on the tangles. The child whimpered, and Catherine smiled. “You have the look of one who lost the only thing they cared for.”

She remained silent, and Catherine sat in front of her, taking her tiny hands into hers. “I lost my mother a long time ago too,” she admitted. “She walked out on me, left me to die in the world all alone. And guess what?” she said with heightened secrecy. The girl, despite her better judgment, poked her head up higher to inquire. “I was no older than you when it happened.”

“Really?” she whispered. Catherine nodded as her wings furled around her shoulders, her eyes flashing red once more as she fought a desire to shed blood. The curse of her angelic gifts made her contemplate darker thoughts as she fought them back. Even after the battle she just had, her thoughts turned to violence once again. The girl looked to her with confusion, but Catherine pushed those urges aside as she fought to keep her cool.

“That mean lady lied to you, didn’t she,” Catherine spoke, her words a bit harsher than she intended, but the child seemed not to notice. She looked down again, her toes wrapping around themselves as she fidgeted in her spot. “She told you horrible things, knowing the truth. Didn’t she?” Catherine moved from across her, sitting next to her, placing her back against cavern wall. To her surprise it was warm to the touch.

She noticed for the first time that the air in the cave was rather heavy, and warm.

“She did,” the girl admitted, softly. She sniffled. “She was a nice lady, I thought.” The sorrow in her tone was heavy as she took in a heavy breath.

“That’s what people do, child. They lie to get what they want. It’s not right,” Catherine admitted. “But I know of people who don’t lie.” The girl looked back to her, eyes teary. “I can’t bring your mother back. But I can bring you something else. I know who it was that got your mother killed.”

“You do?” She whimpered, looking up to her, eyes filled with wonder as Catherine could feel a dark presence take root within the girls psyche. Ever since becoming her mother’s avatar she had been more keenly aware of these subtle changes. The child was beginning her journey, and with right motivations, the right push, she could easily become a new pawn of the Cult.

“You remember the woman who lied to you, right?” The girl nodded, wiping her face to get a better look at the angel. “Who do you think was there when she died? How else would she know unless she was there? If not physically, then by being there she didn’t stop your mother’s death.”

There it was; the wonder in the girls eyes as she processed the words. Had Astarelle, who promised to protect her mother and failed, been responsible? Was it possible that she had been the reason her mother died? It made a twisted form of sense. She promised to protect the mother, and the mother died. When the child, scared and alone, asked Astarelle for her mother, she lied. She smiled to her, like nothing was wrong, and said that her mother was waiting back in the camp. Bitterness gripped her tiny heart, and it began to beat faster as anger washed over her.

“I can help you,” Catherine said softly. “We can look for that woman together, find her, and make her pay for what she did.”

“She said you were not an angel of good.”

“Oh? The person who lied about your mother? Let me clear something up,” Catherine suppressed the vile grin she wanted to show. Instead, she bit her tongue, drawing blood to sate her desires, and spoke clearly. “Who searched for you, came to find you, and rescued you from that rubble? Who was the one who picked you up, carried you, and defended you from the mean lady and the scary man?”

“Y-you…” she whispered, understanding the events in a new light. There was a moment of silence, processing the news as her heart beat faster. When she came to a conclusion she spoke quieter than a mouse. “D-d-did my mommy send you from heaven?” Catherine’s wings flew outwards, her body rising to float before the kid, a radiant smile on her face as she looked down upon the young girl.

“I have been sent to find you, my child, for I am an avatar of the truth of humanity!” The girl was lost in her commanding and demanding aura, feeling a sense of fulfillment as she looked upon her. She nodded to Catherine, basking in her glow as she felt carnal desires fill her little heart. The mean lady had to pay for lying to her, had to pay for killing her mother.

Catherine landed before her, smug smile upon her face as she wrapped her in her wings. The air in the cavern was humid, and the Crimson Angel was about to call for one the Cultists to investigate when a solider came running into her room, his breath labored and heart pounding. She could hear him coming from a mile away with that racing heartbeat and her eyes narrowed upon him.


“Mistress, I would not dare interfere if it were not the most gravest of reasons!” His speech was fast and he opened with an apology, knowing to risk Catherine’s private sanctum had meant death for more than one Cultist. She opened her wings, releasing the girl and she gave her a smile.

“I have things to tend to, why don’t you go with this man and find a place to clean up and eat. You, see to it she’s taken care of and protected. One hair on her head is missing and I’ll take a stand of your veins to compensate, is that clear?” He nodded quickly.

“Of course Mirstress, but please understand this is Urgent!” his voice was forced whisper, knowing to compose himself when dealing with the avatar, but fighting his crippling fear of whatever it was the spooked him.

Then she heard it.

Her eyes widened in alarm from the enormous beat of a heart. It was loud, full of a heavy bass like an instrument. It was slow to throb, but it was slowly building up. It had been background noise before, but as it built up to a crescendo there was no confusing it now. Catherine felt her hand being gripped by the child’s and she had to repress the need to instantly pull it away. Instead, she gripped it tightly to show support.

She could feel the spiked hearts of her Cultists rising in tempo, their scurrying loud and echoing in the cave halls. The fires that lit the catacombs faltered as a powerful wind pushed through the air, nearly extinguishing them. The soldier looked to her and spoke quickly.

“We were exploring the caves as ordered when one of the men found an opening to the outside world. We thought it would make a good escape hole, and so I ordered it to be cleared and opened. The men did so, but as soon as the rocks tumbled away revealing the sun, there was a foul wind crossing with it. Some of the men lost their stomachs, but what-“

Catherine shoved the girl into his hands, passing him quickly. “Remember my orders,” She barked. She pulled the Butcher’s Bill from her scabbard, the oiled leather slick across the Dehlar surface. It made a soft scraping sound that echoed for a brief moment, before it was drowned out by the rumble of something dark and malevolent. The Crimson Angel narrowed her gaze at the darkness, looking to where her warriors and Cultists retreated in a frenzy. She stood at the mouth of the cave, the pearly moonlight cast upon her as she lifted the blade up in challenge.

“Whatever monster lurks within the depths, you better beware. For I am Catherine Remi, the Dark Daughter and Avatar of Blessed Torture. You will not have an inkling of the notion of mercy from me. So show yourself!”

There was a tension filled moment, the air hot and heavy, until the clouds passed by the moon clouding the cavern in darkness. Many of the Cultists whimpered and some prayed to Cassandra for guidance and strength. Catherine merely kept her cool as she gripped her blade tighter. When the moon was revealed again, the wind swirled around the Crimson Angel in a heat wave. What Catherine saw made her eyes widen in true terror as she was shoved aside by a rampaging force even she was powerless to stop on her own.

It took to the sky, screaming in pain and rage, powerful wings that blocked out the sky opening and beating the air with mighty gusts. The beast rose higher and higher, moving towards the inhabitants of Eiskalt with a roar of challenge, and at last in the silhouette of the moonlight Catherine could see the source of her men’s terror.

Like a tyrant of the night the Dragon took flight, fire dousing the very air itself as it cried to the sky.

[Lye]

Thread Title: Eiksalt War Round 2: Enigmatic Immortal and Roht Mirage Vs Requiem of Insanity (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?27384)
Judgment Type: Full Rubric
Participants: Enigmatic Immortal & Roht Mirage vs Requiem of Insanity



Plot: 18 & 21 --- 18.5



Story- 7/10 & 8/10---7.5/10


Overall, the story incorporated many factors. There was the missing girl, Leila, Astarelle's back-story to her reed staff, Catherine trying to find her brother, and reasons for being vested in the war. These elements were well orchestrated into a coherent, full circle thread. Roht received a slight upper hand due to her ability to emotionally evoke the reader and pull character into not only one inanimate object, but Crozius as well. Roht's posts covered a much wider spectrum of emotions and action versus the rather linear perspectives of Jensen and Catherine. Catherine took a miniscule lead over Jensen for the insidious manipulation of the little girl. Though in the scene where Catherine had the axe to Leila's throat, if she had killed the girl just after Astarelle stopped Jensen, it would have caused the fragile Immortal to teeter over the edge against his ally. This would have strengthened the story since that scene took a turn for the cliche and the bad guy got away with the hostage. Jensen's plight existed, but lacked a certain luster to really shine as a story driving mechanic. The hatred was there in droves, and the thin line between insanity was clear. In order to exploit these, a larger attention towards the opposite side would have pulled the reader in. The scene where Jensen sees Stephanie for a brief moment was exceptionally strong. If it could have been pulled out for at least another paragraph, the impact would have driven Jensen's pain, purpose, and emotional hurricane that much stronger.



Setting- 6/10 & 6/10---6/10


This, and a few issues in mechanics were the weakest points of the thread. A majority of the thread occurred in the ashen ruins of an Eiskalt village. The details of which were repetitive, bland, and lacked variety. Unfortunately, rubble and wreckage lack a strong opportunity to play off setting. Still, the words "soot", "sand", "debris", and "rubble" were used over and over. Overall, the battle seemed to take place in a rather decent sized clearing - town square perhaps. Aside from the occasional plank of wood or stone wall, the setting seemed open.

If more details were lent to a few standing alleyways, a few charred wrought iron fences, or looming shadows of a place that once was, the thread would have been a little stronger. Although Hollywood is a poor reference for realism, consider movies set in a post apocalyptic setting. In those settings, a few small fragments of past still remained unscathed by the indiscriminate destruction. If Jensen crashed through a wall and while he struggled to rise, looked over to a charred bed to see the blackened remains of a spooning couple, it would have driven the theme of war home. Variety, even in the most desolate places (such as a desert or ruins), is the key to a good setting.



Pacing- 5/10 & 7/10---5/10


The major weakness here lied in the little details. The opening posts flowed well enough and did fantastic to hook the reader. However, this pace ground to a halt when excessive adjectives, metaphors, and similes began to riddle the more intense scenes. Though they were added to emphasize the mood, there were too many to appreciate each individual one. When dealing with details in a face paced scene, less is more. Include a colorful adjective or metaphor at a key point in the action to drive a concept home. Another minor error which injured pacing was the few OOC notes that were left in the thread. Though not necessarily a crippling factor, removing these prior to deadline or submittable helps refine the thread and removes a visual blockade from the reading experience. In post number 10 (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?27384-Eiksalt-War-Round-2-Enigmatic-Immortal-and-Roht-Mirage-Vs-Requiem-of-Insanity&p=229380&viewfull=1#post229380), one of these notes was left square in the middle of the action. In post number 9 (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?27384-Eiksalt-War-Round-2-Enigmatic-Immortal-and-Roht-Mirage-Vs-Requiem-of-Insanity&p=229377&viewfull=1#post229377), the sentence structure did not vary much at all and used the "ing" conjugation repeatedly. In certain sentences, this required a secondary read.

This paragraph illustrates the above point:


Catherine instantly lifted her hand up above her head, her wings flapping as she turned and threw Jensen towards the rubble of the village, a chuckle accompanying his decent. He let out a scream of alarm and rage as he body flailed in the air like a fish out of water. Catherine hovered above the ground, letting the blood of her battle drip down her flesh. She gave a twisted smile as she watched the impact of the immortal, debris lifting a cloud of dust, soot, and snow up into the air with a satisfied pop.

For Roht, the sentence structure varied and used more active voice. However, during some of the action scenes, it became difficult to decipher what exactly Astarelle was doing. The below is a good example:


Finally, feeling as if her feet moved at the languid pace of a dream, Astarelle rushed to join the spinning fray. Sand poured from the pores of her reed staff, forming a wickedly serrated point as still more sand in grey and gold billowed from under her flapping coat. Three unstable steps along the rubble and she threw herself into the dusty spin of bodies. Her arms heaved upon the staff-come-spear, its point longing for the taste of Remi heart's-blood.

Luckily, these were less common, and the overall flow of Roht's writing waxed and waned with variety. The occasional run on or long winded sentence often preceded several more concise sentences which gave a decent balance between the two. Carefully choosing words to describe actions during pivotal points would strengthen the overall pacing.



Character: 19.5 & 21 --- 19



Communication- 6.5/10 & 7/10---6/10


Overall, the communication seemed strongest in the non-verbal actions between Jensen and Astrelle. Roht tended to up-play more of the subtitles than Jensen. Catherine also utilized body language into her posts, namely in the wing movements, but lacked the impact of Jensen and Astarelle. Their silent struggle for control in the battle played a major part in the development of the story as well as framing the character's persona. in order to strengthen this area further, Catherine and Jensen could have used more active voice in describing body language. Unfortunately, since both of those characters were primarily fueled by rage and hatred, the many subtitles of tonal inflection, facial expression, and posture get overwhelmed. Astarelle did well to display and convey emotion in tandem with spoken word. Unfortunately, during the more heated portions of the thread, Astarelle became a flatter character. All writers could have used a little more desperation in their writing to fuel the intensity of the battle. The scene where Leila was held hostage was perfect and by far, the apex of the thread.



Action-5/10 & 6/10---5/10


The meat of this thread was in the action. Unfortunately, it lacked the clarity and flow to truly make it shine. Strikes and blows became difficult to discern at times, and terminology such as "insanely fast" (Post 9) failed to provide the intended impact. Much of the actions on Jensen's and Catherine's posts included "ing" conjugations which border lined on tense confusion.


Her blade managed to push his scythe upwards and away, Catherine’s body pirouetting int he air settling into a skid across from the Cell champion, Astarelle and the Ixian Captain, Jensen.

The above is one such example which could have been made better if "pirouetting" was "pirouetted". Regardless, the over use of "ing" conjugations heavily injured the action potential. Additional usage of passive voice served to mottle the flow of the action more. The second paragraph of post 7 is another area where the description could have been stronger. Instead of going into her need for blood and explanation of it, a more active approach would have engaged the reader. Even removing that paragraph and showing her elation when injuring her enemies would have conveyed a similar message without the segue.

Roht earned a slightly higher score due to the usage of more active voice. Though there were certain fragments and clusters of detail that similarly detracted from the fast paced action. One such fragment being:


It wasn't that his guile would dispel the snow, nor for amusement of his inevitable complaints for the temperature.

Repeat offenses were less likely but present. Astarelle also received a bonus for mentioning her fatigue and "prescious breaths of air" in the later portions of the thread. Signs of fatigue were less present in Catherine and Jensen which could be explained by their demi-god abilities. Still, some mention towards fatigue after such a taxing fight would have been useful to pull the reader into believing the reality of the story.



Persona- 8/10 & 8/10---8/10


Personalities flared throughout the thread. Jensen mainly held on to his anger and hatred but as the thread progressed, quips of his usual cantor emerged. This dynamic blossomed with the ever serious Astarelle. The two, with their contrasting personalities, played well off one another to show off their unique individuality. Catherine lacked the ability to play off an ally but effectively switched between bemusement and insanity. Not much can be said to improve in this area aside from the previously mentioned issues in tense, flow, and passive voice.



Prose: 16.5 & 21--- 15



Mechanics- 6/10 & 8/10---5/10


First off, sentence structure and comma placement harmed both Jensen and Catherine. A majority of their sentences were structured with a leading statement, an "ing" verb, followed by additional descriptors. Though these tend to string two separate actions together well, their overusage staled the progression of the story. Overall, all players used similar words in close succession (Post 7, 7th line break)(Post 9, usage of "her" in second paragraph and "struck/strike" in the third paragraph)(Post 10, Usage of "blood" paragraph 10) (Post 13, Paragraph 5, Usage of "mouth"). These tended to be more prominent with Jensen and Catherine. There were also rather obvious misspellings or capitalization errors early on in the thread (Post 2, Paragraph 5, "fallieni" not capitalized)(Post 4, Paragraph 3, "immotal" Paragraph 18, "solider")(Post 5, Paragraph 3, "dessert")(Post 6, Paragraph 1, "stpor"). These continued to be peppered later on, but were less frequent. Fortunately, Astarelle had cleaner grammar and punctuation. She did tend to suffer some awkward fragments or unusual usages of technique. Overall, varying sentence structure, lessening adjective usage, checking comma placement, and proofreading for flow would have made the weaker posts that much more robust.



Clarity- 5.5/10 & 6/10---5/10


A majority of the errors in clarity have been mentioned in the above commentary. A majority of the problems resided in sentence structure, tense change, passive voice, and over use of descriptors. These were slightly less evident in Jensen's posts versus Catherine's. Astarelle had much better clarity, but did fall into tempo with the overuse of descriptors and weak usage of metaphor/simile.



Technique- 5/10 & 7/10---5/10


For this section, Jensen and Catherine had a few instances of confusing descriptors, metaphors, or similes. One such example was, "Catherine released a wet leopard like growl of frustration..." (Post 9). The usage of the wet leopard does not fit well, specifically the "wet" adjective. The same sentence would have had the same effect minus that one descriptor. It also seems that the attempt of foreshadowing in post Jensen's and Catherine's posts didn't come full circle and fizzled out. Catherine mentioned her desire to find Draug which seemed to completely fade into the background by the end. For Jensen, it had almost seemed as though Draug was the one responsible for sinking the incoming armada. Either way, that information (though well orchestrated) had little impact on the story other than to give an excuse to drive the two towards one another.

Astarelle, on the other hand, brought her posts full circle. The initial set up in her opening posts returned later on during Leila's capture. The reasons why Astarelle was at camp came to light and her driving purpose for being there was explained. Then, upon her return, she revisited Nety about the missing girl as though changed by the events. While this is more of a story element, the technique of setting up for a complete come around was well executed.

Moving on to the weaknesses, some metaphors such as "irises as blue as uncut crystal" (Post 8) The crystal statement poorly reflects the color compared since crystals come in many colors. Plus, uncut crystal is typically dull and flecked (with some exceptions). These were less frequent than Jensen & Cathering, but were present.



Wildcard: 7 & 6 --- 7

For wildcard, I want to say that I really enjoyed the fight. Aside from some of the errors in pacing, the context was strong. Catherine and Jensen really clashed and Astarelle provided a great addition. Astarelle gets a point less than the other two for one reason: Her character didn't take the spotlight as much as I would have liked to see. She did play a strong role in the war of the gods, but I felt she lacked a presence which made her well known in the Cell. Overall, the thread was a pleasure to read. So long as you two (technically three) pay attention to how your descriptors impact the flow of high action scenes, you'll be popping out high 70's in fights like this. I honestly feel that if you had just a few more days to refine, this thread would have been golden.

Solid effort.



Final Score: 61 & 69 --- 59.5

Team Average: 65 vs 59.5

Team IKWins!:

Enigmatic Immortal (http://www.althanas.com/world/member.php?14249-Enigmatic-Immortal)


4,125 EXP!
125 GP!

Roht Mirage (http://www.althanas.com/world/member.php?16048-Roht-Mirage)


2,588 EXP!
135 GP!

Congratulations!


Requiem of Insanity (http://www.althanas.com/world/member.php?13479-Requiem-of-Insanity) Receives:


1,125 EXP!
63 GP!




Requiem of Insanity is scrubbed from the war!

Enigmatic Immortal and Roht Mirage advance!

[Lye]

EXP & GP Added!

Enigmatic Immortal Levels to Level 15!

Roht Mirage Levels to Level 6!