No Longer Me [Featured]

[Hysteria]

The barracks were quiet. Barracks shouldn't be quiet. The normal din of the military, shouts of orders, the crack of men training, even the laughter that follows a difficult session, they were all silenced. The lone sound of hurried footsteps echoed down stone walls as a soldier draped with a blue cloak hurried along. Trylien reached a small wooden door and entered. Inside five faces turned and looked at him, before resuming their gaze on the series of maps spread around the table.

“We are all here, let us begin.� The elf speaking was the general, and the one that would be leading the mission. His sharp elven features called a grim shadow. The other gathered elves were sky marshals, responsible for the famed Alerarian airships.

“You've all been briefed on the situation, so I will skip the small talk. We plan to intercept the dragon before it can cross over the mountains into Alerar. Without the mountains acting as a choke point the dragon could go anywhere, and we will be left chasing its tail. We've arranged for scout class ships to lay out floating anchors to try and slow the beast, this should allow your ships to get close enough to drop the strike force onto its back.�

“What about another round of cann-� Another marshal started, but was silenced.

“Its been done Elthain. Trust me, its been done. Arrows, cannon fire, even burning pitch; it doesn't work. Whatever that Thayne awful slime is that coats the creature, it seems to protect it. Given that and the dragon scales, nothing has worked.�

The general placed his hand on the ridge of his nose and took a breath. Trylien thought their commander had aged several years in the last month. This was going to be the third attack against the creature, and each one had taken a significant toll.

“Elthain,� Another marshal spoke this time, he was younger than the general, but his elven features just as stern, “There may be time for your toys to pay a part, but not now, not over the mountains. If this creature crosses the border, then I'll be glad to fight beside you.�

The words seemed to calm Elthain, but he carried the same weight as the others. As little as two weeks ago none of them would have considered relying on outsiders to help them. As it was though they simply didn't have any other choice. They would happily sacrifice twenty outsiders to save one elf's life.

The general lowered his hand and pointed to the map again.

“Here we will launch the first wave. The ships will drop ropes, and the strike teams will land on the creature's back. We want them to focus on the creature's weak spots. Its wings, eyes and under its neck. Close range magic or weapons should work. If the Thaynes smile upon us, we might be able to disable a wing.�

The general lifted his eyes up and scanned the marshals. “Questions?�

The room was silent.


* * The Calm * *

“I get it, I get it. Outsiders are a dime a dozen, and worse comes to worse we sacrifice a few outsiders and learn more about this plague dragon. But surely our troops would be better suited?� Elthain fiddled with a lighter and a cigarette with shaking hands. He and two other marshals were in his quarters.

“I don't like it either,� Tashin, the marshal that had calmed Elthain during the meeting lowered his voice slightly, “word is there is something keeping the army busy. Did you here about the train robbery?�

“I thought that was thwarted, and the robbers escaped with nothing?� Trylien ventured.

“Pft, that’s what the government has been saying. I don't trust those soft backsided bureaucrats one bit. They'll say anything to keep the government looking good. This dragon is just the same. Throw a bunch of money around, send some fools to their death and cover the fact they are incompetent.�

Elthain took a drag of his cigarette and lent back, the shaking in his hands slowed and then stopped. He'd never let his nerves show to his men, but in his quarters with two other marshals he was able to drop his guard.

The three of them sat in silence, letting their minds run over the plan for tomorrow. The elves were professionals, and this was by no means the first time they had seen combat. Even so the air was thick with tension.


* * The Storm * *

Aleran airships were marvel to behold. Their bodies were not quite as streamline as one would expect from elfish design, but function forced certain forms. The top of each one was a thick leather canopy, filled with hot air from a giant furnace below. The hull was crafted from steel and wood with much more of the latter to limit weight. Each ship required a highly trained crew to ensure it maintained flight. One miscalculation of power and thrust and the ship could flip or fall from the sky.

Seven of these machines left in the early hours of the morning towards the mountains and once there hours of preparation and work ensued. Smaller scout craft used hydrogen rather than hot air to fly, but as well as being liable to explode, they traded speed for manoeuvrability. The teams worked quickly, laying the hydrogen balloons attached with hooks and scouted the area. It was two hours into the flight that the dragon made an appearance.

“Hromagh's rage...� Tashin uttered before he could stop himself. The elf turned from the window of the bridge and started barking orders. The other marshals were doing the same, and the ships started moving away from the dragon.

The dragon, nicknamed Stinky by the crews that piloted the airships was something to behold. The creature was some three hundred feet from wing-tip to wing-tip. Around seventy five feet of which was his scaled back. The once red scales that adorned his body had mostly turned back, with a few pockets slowly being tainted by the foul ooze that seeped up from the cracks in his scales. Stinky's face was ravaged by the same disease as the rest of his body. His two large eyes were white and unblinking, numerous sores and boils oozed from the lines in his once proud face. His mouth was slightly agape, with a trail of green flames dripping from the sides.

From head to tail he was at least five hundred feet long, although much of his tail seemed to have rotted away. Beneath his body hung his four legs and each maintained much of their muscle and scales. The thing that struck Tashin more than anything were the large white bumps that raised like pox across the creature's back, especially nestled along the row of spikes that rose out of his spine. The elf had to force himself to focus, but the thought that his creature might reach one of his country's towns frightened him.

The airships formed into a rough line formation. Each one used the slip stream of the ones in front to conserve fuel. Rather than the back one dropping off, the first in line was to lower and fall back towards the dragon. As the ship leading had to burn more fuel to keep the line going, this ensured that no one ship had to lead the group for too long and risk running out of fuel.

“Prepare to lower! Ready doors!� Tashin's voice boomed through the bridge, and elves rushed to comply.

His ship dropped towards the dragon as the beast ploughed through row and row of the balloon anchors. The dragon seemed obvious as the large hooks snagged against its wings and scales, though its speed dropped considerably.

Trylien watched through the large windows of his airship as Tashin's readied to drop the strike force. The young elf clenched his fist as his watched his senior.

“DAMMIT!� Trylien's voice strained as he watched the dragon push its wings down and lunge forwards through the air. He couldn't tell if the creature sensed the ship, or if it was trying to maintain speed. The airship dropped in quickly, but couldn't adjust for the sudden change in location. The dragon's head reared forwards and exhaled a huge cloud of green fire that engulfed the airship.

Trylien's fist pressed against the glass as in seconds the non-metal parts of the ship were stripped bare. The shell of a ship dropped quickly, but the dragon's head lurched forwards again and bit the ship clean in half. The other airships could only watch as screamed echoed through the mountains, to be silenced by a dull thud into ice capped peaks.

“Next up! For the sake of a Thayne don't drop too low!� The sound was the general over the ships intercommunication, a mixture of Alererian technology and ancient magic. Trylien's ship was next. The elf gave himself a second to grieve, and only a second.

“Get ready! Drop engines by ten percent, lower by ten degrees. Keep a safe distance!�

The temperature dropped suddenly at the back of the airship. Large bay doors, normally reserved for loading goods when landed were opened. From the exit the dragon loomed, his white unblinking eyes focused somewhere below the ship on the horizon. The crew threw out the rope from the back and it whipped and flicked in the air. The first thing out were the weights that trailed down the ropes and anchored it just above the dragon. The person's weight was needed to allow it to touch down on on the creature's back.

An elf crewman pointed out the cargo door. The men, women and creatures that had volunteered had been given a harness to click onto the rope and lower themselves. They had also been given the special cloths designed to protect against the indirect danger of the dragon's breath. They had even been given a steel sword if they for some reason didn't have a weapon.

“Alright you bastards! Time to make history!�

[Philomel]

Holy sky-hells, mother-of-whores, Drys almighty, fuck me inside out, cows flying, above! was her first thought. And what a thought it was.

This dragon was not well. That was clear for all to see. From its black oily scales to the oozing mass of pus and other ungodly excretions coming from its body, there was nothing healthy about this beast. Hundreds of feet in length, hundreds of spikes in defence, hundreds of death in attack; this was a creature sent from hell to wrought plague-like epidemic destruction. Knees were meant to shake in sight of this monster, and many did. Whole bodies did upon seeing this behemoth rise in front of their horizon. Blank white eyes, a much-destroyed tail ... Philomel looked around at her compatriots likewise bribed, or perhaps like her encouraged, to attempt to slay this monster, all for the glory and the gold.

Though gold, in her case, was always better. That and influence over the entire world.

Turning her head slightly to the side, the faun-whore eyed up her direct associates. They were all humanoid, at least in appearance, a few female, a few male. Some were elves, that was clear, but otheres were more vague as to species. The nearest, one well-dressed male, was some form of glory hunter in appearance, with one of those boom-bangs called "rifles" and another shorter one, as well as a wicked-looking spear in tow. At this first appearence of him Philomel wrinkled her nose, knowing then and there that he was going to be some form of hero, seeking the better in people and being lawful, yadda, yadda, yadda. Not her type.

Dumph. Shhweee. The fucking airship burst into flame.

Sighing somewhat, Philomel cursed under her breath, leaving her associates to decide whether to survive or not. For now, she was concerned with herself, and of course her closest ally. She felt him, like a soft scarf around her neck, huddling tight for all he was worth. His claws, fine and sharpened for this fight, dug tightly into her hair, the straps of her breastplate, the leather of her shoulder guard - whatever he could get a hold of, and he buried his nose into the nape of her neck.

The faun tilted her head as all havoc broke loose upon the ship and elves scurried to find their lives. Ropes dropped, down to the massive dragon below and from somewhere in the depths of the hold, where the company stood. Rushed commands suggested to buckle on the harnesses to begin descent, and Philomel shrugged, knowing that it was a good idea before they were burnt out of the sky.

"Hold on," she roughly said to Veridian, as if he were not already. The cold press of his black nose pressed closer to her chin and she knew likely that the fox Earth Spirit was closing his eyes. "Hold on, and prepare for one heavy landing." She paused, threw a stare at a nearby elf, "No that is not a joke about my breasts."

Hitching herself tightly in the faun removed a suitable steel throwing dagger from her fine set, shoved it between her teeth. Placing one hand on the rope, and another on the hilt of her shiny mythril sword she held her breath. And counted.

Three. Two. One. Grung. Hrg. Shar. in Faunish.

"Hey, you there with the giant-"

Letting out the bleat of a lifetime Philomel threw herself from the airship like a bolt from a crossbow. Leaping for all her goat legs could carry her she sailed through the air, teeth chomping down hard on the blade, tongue well enough curled back into the mouth, eyes widening as they aimed for the middle-back of the beast, right where the mighty leap should not miss.

I hate this ... Veridian said, very clearly, into her mind.

Oh shut up, you'll enjoy the fight, his beloved companion-for-life retorted, and tensed her muscles for the landing.

All for one simple plan; Brace for impact, hard hit, let the energy ride up through your bones and fur, upwards along your spine. Then break the rope with the knife and get to bloody killing.

[Leopold]

Castigated by responsibility, torn by loyalty, Leopold Winchester looked down at and met his maker. As dragons went, this was a fine specifim of reptilian rage. It was as corrupted as the land it threatened, and yet more honourable and fearsome for it.

“You’re really going to jump?� Jeren enquired.

The man servant leant over the railing and peered down at the dragon’s bac. A rope whipped after the ship, along which brave and foolhardy peers would absail to an uncertain, and likely fatal end. The captain of the Winchester Rose guard had little faith in the ability of the Aleran forces. He had less faith in his employer.

“Pussyfooting over to it gives Davina little force behind her. One fell and piercing blow should anger it. When angered,� Leopold set a boot on the bottom railing, “it will be unable to focus.�

“When angry,� Syrian chimed in, “it will be unable to do anything but focus on you.�

Leopold frowned. His favourite ombudsman of reason was, as ever, quite correct. With the clouds and vespers of a cold morning swirling overhead, and the shouts of desperate men roiling below, he chose to pretend he did not hear. He undid his military jacket button, and let the coat tails flap in the wind.

“Should I tell the captain of this vessel that you chose to ignore him?� Jeren pulled away from the railing. He upturned the collar of his coat, not as immune to the bracing chill as the immortal Mr Winchester. “He will not be pleased.�

Leopold ascended to the second rail, and stood upright and foolhardy. He held Davina up, cocked it over a shoulder, and then straightened his back. He took each end under a wrist, like a milk maid, and bit his lip.

“Tell the captain that,� he replied erstwhile, “although I took his advice under consideration,� he climbed another rail, and brought his right foot up to both feet were balanced on the top rail, “this lady’s not for turning.�

All Jeren saw was a spear tip drop from view, followed by a lanky piss-streak of a man and a wisp of bourbon vapor. He did not wait to watch his employer make the day or miss and fall several leagues to the farrowed ground below. He had more pressing matters to attend to, like ensuring the military did not issue a warrant for an idiotic pasty faced upstart from Scara Brae.

“Always the bridesmaid,� he mumbled as he dropped down the blood-stained stairs below deck. “Never the bride.�

[Enigmatic Immortal]

Jensen was moving in a flash from the back of the airship, his eyes focused on the world before him and nothing to his sides. He sprinted into action, a blur of motion that tossed the wind around as he gripped the clip in his hand and grabbed the rope in one fluid motion, with an audible click he turned and fell backwards letting the tether grind against the rope as he free fell face first towards the one so affectionately (and oddly appropriately) called Stinky.

He fell with the grace of a bird in a nose dive, hands at his sides as the trenchcoat he wore whipped in the air, the metal plates within clinking against one another like wind chimes. The immortal counted in his head, his smile unwavering in the drop assault as he turned in his flight to a flat plane. He lifted all his limbs out like a star, the drag on his body instant as he rose upwards, the chilling touch of the frosty air tickling his unshaven face. He calculated a few things quickly in his mind, hand reaching out to the rope and touching the repel gear.

Well shit, was his first thought. Coming in too hot, was his second.

He went to touch the gear and pull on the brake, but as he moved his fingers another new predicament jolted the immortal’s senses. A snag, a sudden shift in his descent to a halt, before a snap and Jensen began to fall end over end. He tumbled like a bird that forgot how to soar, his jacket coming up over his head, the metal plates whacking him in the head disorienting him. He fought to regain control, corkscrewing in a wild collapse as he tried to right himself. He fought to unbind the trim of his jacket, at last freeing himself and looking to see he had scant seconds to figure out how to either be a gooey stain on the dragon, the mountain below, or another passing airship.

With a kick of his heels he brought them together, the boots he wore angling themselves upwards. Jensen fought with his own mind, calming his own thoughts as he turned to side, leaning as he came at the dragon at an angle across its wide back. He rolled, body lazily turning to avoid his jacket from tripping him up as he felt all the forces of nature prepare to splat him into the scales of the beast.

Yet Jensen was a master of the wind, and with all his skill he turned his body to an upright standing position like he had jumped off a diving board. He kicked the air, below him, hands darting to the sides and palms flat against the air. He pushed all his energy into the wind, the freefall decelerating as he collapsed into a kneeling position right upon the back of the beast. Wind swirled around him, kicking up layers of dirt and grime from Stinky as they broke away from the immortal, his fist clenched upon the ground, the other held aloft to his side, clenched as well. He rose slowly, his feet easily finding balance on the living floor. With a nod of satisfaction he began his trot to the nearest wing, lifting up two bladed weapons into his grip. Lawbreaker and Cancer’s Pincer rolled through his fingers, his knee coming up to hit the adapter off his belt. It popped into the air, where Jensen slammed each end of his two weapons to the piece, a click snapping the air in a comforting way as he activated the scythe mode of his Zodiac weapon and the sword mode of his dart gun.

“Enigmatic Immortal moving into position,” Jensen said more to himself than anyone around him. Not that there were people nearby. He had assumed he would meet them at the base of their objective. Until then, he was assuming he was on his own. A living mission, evolving as the battle raged on. After everything the immortal had gone through, a little anarchy seemed more than appropriate.

His lips curled at the sides of his mouth, a rumbling mirroring that of the beast he fought upon echoed from his stomach, before he began to chuckle darkly to himself.

((Assuming Muri is out, and thus I am next. ))

[Hysteria]

Trylien watched the first strike force go. His face was stern, the memory of his friend dying before his eyes was fresh. Now was not the time to grieve; that would have been an insult to his friend. His mind now focused on the problem at hand. What drove the creature onwards? Had it been driven mad by the pestilence? Was there a nefarious hand that guided the creature? Deeper thoughts hung around the back of his mind. Why had they adopted this strategy? Was there more to this that Government knew? He pulled his mind back to the present. The need in that moment was for him to monitor the reactions of the dragon.


* * * *

On the beasts back the air was cold; chilled by the altitude and the ice covered peaks. A slipstream formed around the dragon, mostly protecting those in the strike force from the wind that would normal fling them off the dragon in seconds. Unfortunately not everyone realised the physics of the launch. Two men that slid down the ropes unbuckled too early and found themselves shooting across the dragon's back. One failed to make contact and fell towards the snow covered caps with a shriek that echoed around the peaks. The other struck the dragon far down its back, sliding across scales and slime and slipping off. His fall was silent as he choked on a mouth full of ooze.

To those that made it, four men, an immortal, a faun and a fox, the scene looked alien. A landscape crafted from obsidian scales, oozing slime and white bulbous growths. The ground underfoot, or hoof, moved slightly. Part of it was the network of muscles twisting and bending under the skin, part of it wasn’t.

The wind kicked up a mournful howl, but a sound cut through the din. Click. Those with sharp eyes might have seen one of the white growths shudder.

Click Click.

More.

Click Click Click Click.

Even more. The howl of the wind was now joined by a chorus of clicks. The white growths that dotted the giant dragon's back were vibrating at an alarming rate. The first one to burst forth was some distance from the group. It pushed itself out of the flesh of the dragon, a twisted corpse, mostly covered by thick white fungal growth and slime. The face, if indeed there was something that could be called a face, was a twisted and gnarled visage. A mouth caught in a permanent silent scream. Eyes that were bloated and white stared vacantly outwards.

More and more of the growths pushed themselves out of the dragon's flesh and revealed their once human bodies. They had been curled up in balls in silent wait for the inevitable attack. Thick white fungus on their back was stronger than leather. Their chests vibrated and from within emanated the continuous clicking.

It would have been enough. The clicking, the feted and rotting limbs lifting towards those that had disturbed them. It would have been enough to end it there. To hide that inhumanity that grafted itself to their bodies and ate away at them and pretended that these creature were dead. It would have been if some of them hadn't started to moan. Their voices were shallow, dry incarnations of their original ones. They no longer had control of their limbs, but some voices remained.

“k-k-kiill...”

It melded with the clicking. Almost overwhelmed by it.

“Kiiiillll meeee”

“kkkkiiiilll meeeeeee”

Dozens of the creatures stumbled and staggered towards the main strike team. Another dozen moved towards Jensen, cutting him off from the others in the group. The creature's were slow, but their fungus coated feet easily gripped the slimy scales beneath. The parasitic growths removed the normal limiters on their strength. Such pesky things like stopping the muscle from tearing and bones shattering did not apply.

[Philomel]

Pure white, like the blankness of snow and the calmness of a storm's eye, was the colour of the beasts. As soon as they blossomed as deadly blooms Philomel knew that this mission, this quest, was beyond anything she could have comprehended. Slaying a dragon was one thing, and getting rid of spores and mushrooms was another, but watching dead humans merge from infected cocoons was beyond forethought. To think she even had adopted a dragon recently. To think her cowardly half-brother was an expert in fungi.

As soon as she had landed the faun-whore had ducked down to be low to the dragon. Hard ground was beneath her hooves, something solid and stable yet curved and rhythmically moving. She could plant herself firmly there and grit her teeth in frustration as the creatures rose from the dead. The infection that had poisoned this mighty glorious god-of-sky-and-fire now moved these corpses like a puppet master moves his marionettes. They popped out and gasped in horror at their own condition, flailing arms as they began to form an army. The faun readied her stance on the ground that was a single scale as large as her own body, and raised her hand with her dagger clutched in the palm. With the tip of her fingers she poked the fox around her neck, and whispered to him low and coarse.

"We have a battle to fight before the war, my dear," she said to Veridian.

The broken rope that had allowed them to descend from the sky fell below them and was forgotten. The knife that had cut it was tucked away into the sheath for later use. And the hands that were now both free swooped down to pull the shining blade of mythril purity into the air, ready to carve these monsters of unholy essence out of existence.

They slumped towards the faun and the fox, unblinking eyes hungry for compassion and freedom.

"Kill me!" they begged.

The faun-whore nodded, grinning, and let her spirit fly. As she did so Veridian bared his teeth, forming a ferocious growl in his throat. Philomel's hands tightened on the hilt of her sword and he unwound himself from the protected place around her neck, seeing now that they were on a firm large space where they could tumble and still be on a relatively flat plane. Like an island in the sky.

They threw themselves into the fray, screaming like ghouls in the night. As two paladins on a holy mission they spread with claw and blade and swept forwards. Planting one hoof flat on the edge of their scale where it met the next, Philomel launched herself into the air for a few feet. She landed, square and smart on the chest of one zombie, causing him to crash into the next infected victim behind him. At the land Veridian threw himself off from her shoulder, determined to take one on his own and ran to the closest spike jutting from the dragon's back. He could feel the movements under paw, effortlessly contracting and curving as the muscles carried their host through the air. When he gained the spike he turned back to his beloved companion-for-life and was proud to see her to return another two corpses to lifelessness.

Hack, hack, hack. Heartfully she removed arm socket and head from shoulders, or as close as her sword would allow. Pus and gunge flew out from the bodies, blood having long gone from many of them. Some of the creatures grunted in thanks as she gave them peace once more, others just shrieked in pain as the hacking wasn't quite enough to release their souls.

Still, however, she kicked and sliced, grinning as she danced across the beast's back, calling out to her goddess. Veridian was more proud than any lover, more proud than any father, and he threw himself with like passion at his own nearest foe.

[Leopold]

Leopold, bracing against the rising torrent and the coming impact, narrowed his gaze on a white figure next to the unmistakable Jensen Ambrose. He was on a direct course, and weighed up the options. Either he drive his spear’s tip into the joint between spinal column and left wing, or he help the immortal. Forty feed of maelstrom later, he arrived at the conclusion most men who knew the laughing lunatic would: he never needed help.

“I’ve every faith in you Davina,” he said admiringly, though his words whipped too soon from his lips. They screamed away and upward feebly, whispers on the wind, leaves in a storm. He entered a delicate series of maneuvers.

Tumble.

Spin.

Roll.

Smash.

The impact was torrential. The grunt from the merchant, almost sexual. At least, it sounded ecstatic until the force of the descent recoiled along his spear, and doubled when his hobnails slammed into the dragon’s postulant walking corpse. The scale half gave way as muscle and rotten flesh disintegrated and oozed.

Leopold Winchester rose. Like a ragdoll, he flung away from Davina’s coup de grace and rolling into a heap ten feet from Jensen. A faun, a soldier, and a soothingly suave king of fools continued their assault around the fallen waif, assuming his efforts spent.

“Ahroo!”

The sound that emerged from the dragon was haunting. As Leopold rubbed his forehead, checked himself over for wounds, and pushed himself upright he could not be sure if he or their prey had let out the cry. He trudged forwards. He stumbled back. He stood upright with a click of his spine and a rib twinging. There would be much bourbon come sundown, and much regret come sunrise.

“That better have brought us some time,” he grumbled. Another woman friend emerged in his hand and he loaded a bullet to the chamber. Joyfully, he skittered to Davina to retrieve it. Testing it, he felt it resist his pull and knew whatever it had hit, it had hit something worthwhile. He cocked his boot against the cross guard of the sabre and wrenched it free.

With a triumphant spiral, pistol in one hand, spear in the other, he examined his surroundings. Fearing Jensen’s wrath for getting in his way, he half charged, half limped towards the faun all too gleefully culling the weak. The smell in the air was overwhelming dire, and only the prospect of a drink kept the merchant all too eager to help others and see the day through.

“Need a hand?” he roared over the dirge; smile broad, approaching Philomel from the east over cracked, morose remnants of fungi and once gleaming dragon scale.

[Enigmatic Immortal]

Jensen's body shifted with the minute movements of the dragon, his boots weighed in deep in the fungal spores that caressed the scales of the titanic beast. His grin never faltered as the spores produced a new challenge for him. Barring his path they shambled forwards, fingers lifting up to claw at his flesh. The immortal eased himself into a fighting groove, shoulders rolling in a rhythmic time that matched the quickening pace of his blood. The softest trace of a giggle escaped his lips as he moved into combat range.

"Killlllll usssssss..."

"Thought you'd never ask!" Jensen quipped, his staff firmly placed in his right hand. He moved two more steps forwards, letting out a howl of mirth as he engaged the foe with all the raucous and vigor that had made him a legend. The scythe of his spear swapped back into blade mode with a metallic click, the edge of his weapon forging forwards as he slid in the pus of the foiled foliage. With ease the sharpened sword stuck in, like a knife through hot butter. Jensen let the his body glide as he turned to the side, bringing his left elbow up and colliding it with the jaw of the creature he stabbed. It jerked back, and with its flailing Jensen too made a quick movement, ripping his blade free and tripping the beast with his right foot. As it fell the spear twirled in Jensen's hand, a riotous chorus of laughter following the death knell as Jensen impaled throat and severed tendons leaving the head a rolling mess of fungal goop.

He turned in time, swapping his blade into scythe mode and sweeping the air, catching one hand in the blade's path. It went flying away, sailing into the unknown as Jensen pulled the staff back, rotating it to Lawbreaker and switching to dart mode. He took careful aim and let loose three darts. Two in the eyes - one each- to fell the first one he amputated and the third striking into the throat of the one behind him. The first collapsed gurgling blood and fungus. The Knight charged the falling corpse with a whoop of sadistic glee. The blade returned over the dart gun and Jensen stabbed hard into the exposed gut of the zombie like thing. He pushed with all his might and tossed it to its back, using the body as a counter weight as he brought himself up like a pole dancer kicking the dart further into the impaled throat of the wounded beast. Jensen put his boots to the ground and yanked the weapon free from its prison, the scythe swapping back into blade mode as Jensen began a whirling dervish of motion.

First a finger went flying, then a thumb, then the top half of a hand. Jensen never stopped screeching in a fit of giggles, his body moving with uncanny speed. He managed to chunk bit after bit of the zombie fungus away until he stopped placing the spear behind him in a ready position, bringing up his other hand in the symbol of prayer. He placed the palm end of his hand outwards and used the slipstream of the dragon to channel the wind to him. A powerful gust flew past him, nuzzling his neck, teasing his hair, and caressing his face as it passed, the tresses of his coat flapping in the breeze as the creature was blown backwards, toppling end over end until it rolled dangerously close to the end of the line. With no fingers to grip with, it desperately pawed the scales only to slide to its doom at the mountains below.

Jensen was already moving again, turning in a roundhouse kick, catching one in the jaw and snapping it. The beast hollered, moaned, screamed, but one hand lifted up and managed to gut punch Jensen in a feeble attempt to grab at his shirt. No matter how ungraceful the hit was, Jensen's world suddenly changed.

Bile and blood came up as he felt his insides rumble, his tongue bitten into by his own teeth from the shock of the blow. Jensen felt the wind leave his lungs, rushing out in a file wheezing fit of ironic joy. The immortal blinked multiple times to clear the cobwebs, the white stars vanishing in a blink as another hand grabbed at his staff. He pulled, but it pulled back, and with more force than he expected. He nearly lost his grip on the weapon and felt his muscles pulling taught from the sudden exercise. He moved his boot to kick the beast, but another hand gripped the agile warrior. His eyes shot down, glancing to see the hole in the beasts chest full of pus and blood, but its dead like eyes glaring to him.

"Kill usssssss..."

"I'm trying!" Jensen replied with growing strength. He turned his body inwards, bringing up his free leg in a very complicated inverted flip. His heel caught the offender in the face who gripped his weapon, and the motion wrestled his leg free from its bonds that shackled him. He went to sprint away, but his arm didn't budge. HIs fingers lost the grip of his weapon and the immortal suddenly panicked as he felt his jacket tearing in the back. "GET OFF ME!" Jensen screeched.

Feebly the immortal fought, wrestling with the creatures as he used his free hand, his other limbs all being gripped in vice like hands that never stopped pulling. With a yelp of pain he managed to find the weapon of his choice, and blue illumination crossed his face, glowing as the Heraldic cross of Crozius glowed upon the dragons back.

With a yell to fell titans Jensen swung his club down in a barbaric motion, snapping the arm of the creature at the elbow. He swung again and smashed the wrist, the enhanced strength fueling his body from the war maul aiding him in his time of need. He freed his right leg, turning and tossing one over his hip. Arm freed he did a two handed swing into the face of the one who tore at his jacket and watched as it's face con-caved and popped like a zit spreading goop everywhere.

He wiped his face clear of the gross substance, using his free foot to kick in the teeth of the one at his other boot. Completely free the immortal rolled his shoulders cracking them, bringing the maul around for a few test swings. "Astarelle said you are a pretty lady," Jensen said to the weapon.

"Yes, I'm a pretty lady, will you dance with me?" Jensen's voice changed pitch, mocking a female's voice. "You're so sexy and suave and so much better looking than Joshua Cronen!"

"Well we all know that don't we?" Jensen mused back to his own game. He grinned, allowing the laughter within him to build to a crescendo. "Alright then Crozius! Let's dance!"

[Hysteria]

A deep rumbling sound came from within the dragon's stomach. It grew, toppling over itself in a symphony of rage. The beast's head lifted into the air, bellowing with a volume loud enough to shatter ear drums. The mountains caught the sound, echoing it around their peaks as haphazardly stacked snow broke and avalanches ripped down the sides of the mountains. The crescendo rose, reached its debilitating peak, and broke.

Trylien's hands covered his ears, but he could not keep out the sound. It pierced his head, racked through his mind and scrambled his brains. Beneath his feet it he felt his ship start to list to the side, and he knew his crew were effected just as much as he was. It was his determination that pushed him back to his feet. He couldn't see, it was memory that gudied him across the bridge towards the ships wheel. He half fell, half collapsed on the wheel and with all the strength he could muster he released his ears and straightened the ship.

The glass windows where he had been standing shattered and the cold air whipped through the ship. His hands fought the sudden change in aerodynamics and he battled to keep straight. The sound ended, but Trylien couldn't tell. His head felt like it was going to explode, his mind clouded with pain and thunder. It was the hand of the navigator that turned his eyes from the windows, but he couldn't hear the words the other elf spoke. All he could do was follow the elf's finger and stare at the line of airships off their side. One ship twisted dangerously and slipped out of the line. Without the proper momentum the slipstream around the other ships struck it, and it bounced back into the line sideways. The ship tried to pull up, the one behind tried to dive, but the first ship caught the top of the other and sliced along the air balloon.

With a shatter of metal and wood both ships fell towards the dragon. As they got closer small forms could be seen diving out of the plummeting ships. Some managed to land on the shoulders of the dragon, others missed or plummeted towards the icy peaks below. A lucky few even managed to grasp the ropes from the floating balloon anchors.

The sound didn't effect the fungal creatures across the dragon's back. Indeed, more seemed to lift out of cracks and holes in the creature's skin. The dragon itself didn't completely close its mouth. Instead a dark green gas started to ooze out. At first it was a trickle, then more and more billowed outwards. The gas was pushed backwards by the air passing as it flew, trailing down its shoulders and making its way down its back. A few of the survivors of the air ships were caught in its grasp and started to choke and collapse. IT was hard to see what was happened to these men and elves, as the thick gas obscured sight.

Things to take into account:
Dragon Sound attack
Two airships will crash into the dragon (in your posts)
Toxic Gas
More Fungus Zombies

[Philomel]

In a twist of passionate slicing Philomel caught the appearance of the man who spoke. Her eyes widened slightly as she saw the same one she had judged in the airship - him with those explosive boom-bangs and the military garb. She had dismissed him as a poorman's hero, the type that would glow with chivalry and be the token face once they returned and smote this creature.

But her eyes sung with glee, and her lips turned into a grin. She completed her pirouette of killing, then twisted again a half-turn to face him. Descending in the most rudimentary elegant way she knew, she curtseyed and beat a fist against her steel chest plate.

"I would be honoured, fair knight," she said wickedly. "Bring your mechanised weapons to this -"

A raucous sound, as terrible as a child waking from a nightmare, and as haunting as a widow's vengeful spirit, filled the air. It was the bellow of sorrow and suffering, of fury and energy, of horror and ageless vivacity. Already low to the ground Philomel found herself being thrown even lower. As the roar from the behemoth they rode upon expanded across the scope of the sky, cries of pain and fear rose up from the elves and men and other warriors. Philomel felt a great beating in her ears and a sudden agony in her head as the sound rebervirated around inside her skull. Gritting her teeth she barely kept herself from screaming as she quivered on the hard scale of the dragon's back.

The thunder of the noise continued on for some time, weakening the entire strike army. As Philomel glanced up, however, she saw that the maligned corpses staggered on, unaffected by it. Their mouths remained open, groaning and begging for release, reaching out to the soldiers for love. She hissed, darkly, trying to ignore the audio and concentrate instead on keeping herself alive, but slowly, slowly, this was turning her insane. As her heartbeat began to rise in panic she clawed at her hair, harshly and boldly, releasing a fresh feeling through her body. Raw red torment flashed through her systems, providing a single moment to gasp a breath and try to claim some sort of peace. Her eyes flickered over to where the polite gentleman hero stood, watching him likewise suffer. She tried to find reconcilation in that. At least she was not a strange one.

A russet-ginger nickering form released itself from the periphery of her vision and burst itself into the scene, clawing at the zombies that begged her for release. At a similar time behind him, almost directly following his path, an airship tumbled, fire and sound having eaten it all, sent it all to ruins. The corpses that were lumbering towards their group were much scattered, some squashed under the broken metal contraption, some thrown off the side, and others launched forwards, right on top of the faun and the fox. As the crashing noise and the smell of ash took over the direct pain of the roar Philomel found herself with a moments peace before she was made to try to protect herself once more.

All for the sake of survival, all for the sake of life. To take another's life.

Firstly she grabbed Veridian from where he nipped at the crowding walking undead. Then placing her hooves beneath her she bound as high into the air as she dared, away from the infested corpses and back to where they began. Straight up and down in a low, short curved, she allowed herself to land heavily, and right onto her stomach. Glass and debris rained, like devilish snows of a volcano, but as they tucked in they protected themselves from the worst of it. She shoved the fox under her, her heart longing to save him far more than save herself. Her head bent in, her legs tucked, and as the dragon's ferocious thunder fell to naught the bodies of slaughtered corpses and men fell behind them, caught in that cloud hopefully in the distance and past. One by one, whether killed by machine or each other, mauling at themselves to flee from the airship.

"RUN!" she yelled, far too late, at the boom-bang gentleman, closing her eyes tight. "RUN!"

The hailstones clattered around them and the fire began to die, but still on the ruinous adventure continued.

"RUN!"

[Eli]

The stocks were a bit much Eli thought. The chains, guns, and Psions sure, he was after all a dangerous criminal, but the heavy wooden stocks chafed like nobody’s business and frankly lacked style. Mercifully they had settled for a lidded basket for Snakey. Eli had immediately seized upon the idea of snakey using his superior and unaccounted for intellect to break out of the basket, assassinate the swarthy elves and break Eli out of his predicament. Unfortunately for Eli, and fortunately for every other prisoner of the imperium, one of the guards was a bit soft hearted and had put the basket near the engine where it would be warm even at this altitude. Needless to say Snakey would be of no help whatsoever. The little hedonist.

“You know the stocks are probably a bit much.” Eli said conversationally to one of 11 extremely over armed and armored guards surrounding him outside the eight layer thick circle of anti magic runes around Eli. His guards, knowing only that he was a level five prisoner of the imperium knew better than to respond. Eli wondered when exactly guards had gotten so savvy. Time was your average guard would let you go if you told him his boss had said to. But now? No. Now they had “training” and “policy.” It was enough to turn a man’s stomach.

The Psions spoke and thought/broadcasted/that-weird-Psion-thing-with-the-many-yet-one-voice-what-Psions-do-when-more-than-three-of-them-link-up-to-do-something-monumentally-stupid: “We are ready. Break the circle!”

Eli hated that-weird-Psion-thing-with-the-many-yet-one-voice-what-Psions-do-when-more-than-three-of-them-link-up-to-do-something-monumentally-stupid. It never boded well for him.

The 8 Psions, some of the greatest minds of their generation, were spread across two ships kept relatively far from dragon. They did not even notice the distance. They felt every mind in the fleet and bent their collective consciousness towards the one they had come to wrangel. It was unaware of them but expectant. Waiting, coiled with furious tension along it’s serpentine and seemingly infinite length. Memories flashed along it’s surface and the collective ignored them. It was too easy to lost in such a mind. Even with 100 Psions a memory search would take too long to be useful. Instead they would meld with the mind and direct it to their ends. To the ends of the imperium. They made contact.

“You will assist us.” they thought to the mind.

“Well that depends on what you want me to do.” Eli thought back. They showed him. “You id-” and his mind was not his own.

But it was. Very few, outside the close knit ranks of the gifted Psions, know what it was to be part of a link. He knew, somewhere that he was still himself and that somewhere, outside his conscious mind the Alerans were directing his thought and action like the dingys of a whaling ship. But they had a point didn’t they? The dragons mind, though vast, was not as deep as his and although it was brighter, it was fading. It was a winnable fight, he reasoned, and once it was won he could ferret out the elve’s mind-hooks and crush them for their insolence. He reached out for the dragons mind, confident that his agility and willpower born of millennia of lifetimes would see him through. Somewhere the part of him he had given to Snakey so long ago cried out in warning and terror.

“-iots!” Eli spat. His ears rung. The dragon had done a disorienting roar thingy because of course it had. They’d come at it with his mind like a battering ram made of razor blades. So all it had done was sever the link with a well tuned sonic attack. No doubt the psychic numbskulls were bleeding into their own brains already. Why did every psychic ever always forget about getting punched in the face? Just cause you see it coming, doesn’t mean you can dodge. The ship began to list. The guards stumbled about like drunks. Somewhere an engineer tipped into the engines override throttle setting it to full speed ahead. Straight toward the dragon. Because of course.

“Hey! Hey you! With the keys! How about you help a guy out?” Eli shouted to the soft hearted guard. The guard stumbled over to Eli. He was bleeding from the ears. Deafened then. Eli noted the man’s altruism. He fumbled with the keys for a subjective eternity. Finally Eli was free. He rushes to the helm pushing stumbling elves out of his way but he is too late. The there isn’t time to alter the airships course enough to miss the dragon. Plan four rears it’s ugly head and Eli pushes it down. He could aim the ship at the fighters on the dragons back, remove Alerars last hope. He had to admit the idea had a certain vicious appeal. Eli pulls the collar of his protective suit down just long enough for Snakey to slither in. He’d aim for the crowd of undead ahead of the commandos then.

“Brace for impact!” Eli shouts to no one as he takes the helm, “This is gonna hurt!”

---

Eli sprints past the group away from the burning airship, stuck by the force of it’s own engines and tangled rigging to the dragon’s hide.

“Get down!” He shouts desperately, “She’s gonna blow!”

The pressure wave from spectacular explosion of the airships formerly hydrogen filled gas bag hits the group just as Eli dives for cover behind Philomel.

[Enigmatic Immortal]

Jensen had found new life through the light of Crozius. The War maul evened the tables as the fungal zombies poured from the scales of the beast in unending numbers. Their sticky pus covered feet never slid off the dragon, and Jensen had to be careful not to slip and slide off the side of the beast to his doom.

Jensen's least favorite way to die was falling. So boring.

He rolled to the side, lifting to one knee and swiping the maul horizontally knocking the hip of an approaching beast hard sending it scuffling to the side in collapse as the bones within shattered. He rose in a vertical two handed swing, taking another by the jaw and launching it several feet upwards and away. Still more came, but the laughing riot that was the immortal never stopped moving and swinging.

What had happened next however drowned out even his inane chuckling. A rumbling roar from the dragon bellowed against the mountains, the powerful screech of rage changing the air pressure around them all as it dove and snapped its massive jaw. Two airships had done an aerial dance that few could match, but it was all for not as one misstep took them into proximity of each other. Jensen's eyes went wide as they collided, only once in his life ever seeing two ships at sea actually collide. They held each other in suspense, his own breath holding as the giggling stopped from his lips. Held in awe he watched them in suspended animation, before wood yawned loudly, metal groaned, and glass fell like the winter rain. Two sky giants fell afterwards, their descent terrifying to behold as Jensen brought his weapon back and looked to the area around him.

He spotted something rolling, and his heart beat quick as he let out a moan of agitation watching his switchblade spear roll towards the abyss. He chased after it, feeling the first pitter-patter of glass fall on his shoulders. He covered his face using his coat, whipping the tail up to his hand and covering the top of his face. He fluidly placed Crozius back into the holster, pumping his body to grab at his weapon. He had to slide to dive after it, fingers stretched out as he watched it bounce up and over the dragon's side.

Too late.

Jensen cursed as he turned his dive into a roll, letting his body tumble over the last few scales. He lept up with his momentum, grabbing onto a zombie warrior like a pouncing cat and knocking it down, pushing himself off it with a deep grumble of joy. He laughed like a hyena on the hunt, over the edge of the dragon and like an arrow loosed from the bow of the heavens he dived downwards after his prize. To his credit the zombies followed, though they were far less graceful in their plunge. A heavy hail of wooden debris and metal chains collapsed around him, the torrent of air ship parts making the dive suicidal in nature. With a beat of his heart he called on the wind around him, feeling its caress yet again as he pushed himself towards a large chunk of what looked like the barracks of the airship. He flew through the open wound of the ship, passed by doors still tumbling, touching his feet on the ceiling and sprinting towards the end of the hall jumping back out into the sky and lifting his hand outwards grabbing hold of his switchblade spear. Laughing wildly he disassembled the pieces and returned them to his waist securely.

He grinned triumphantly, then turned and cried out in alarm as the maw of a hungry zombie thing closed in on him. He kicked outwards, pushing himself and the beast away as they tumbled. He rolled with it, and kicked off sending it plummeting deeper down. He opened his jacket and rose a few meters upwards, looking to see a ruin haft of a desk. Using all the wind he could he pushed himself up just high enough to run across the rotating surface and launch to a new desecrated part of the falling ships. He landed with a thud, saw three Alerans look to him with absolute fear, and without even a word he ran up the steps to what would have been a new deck level but was now the open sky. He kicked off the deck upwards, pushing the wind around him to vault him to another section of broken ship. He rolled onto the surface and moved as fast as he could, keeping the dragon in sight. He witnessed the titanic beast begin to ascend and he cursed loudly as he moved to keep rising in the falling debris.

He reached the edge of his rocky tomb and jumped again, the wind lifting him upwards as he reached for the next level of broken ship parts. He calculated it quickly in his head and knew there was no possible way, even with his skill, that he would catch the dragon in time. He turned to the other pieces of wreckage and found a bolt thrower tumbling to its demise. He raced towards the broken weapon and jumped for it.

"Misjudged!" Jensen shouted with a haunting laugh as his arms flailed side to side in hopes to swim him closer to the bolt throwers deck part. It was sailing to far away from him, like a child keeping a younger sibling from touching his toys. Yet with a crack of metal on wood the bolt thrower section began to lazily return to him. He looked to see the second ship crash into the hull piece and thanked the Horsemen for their boon. He dove and landed with a harsh crash nearly losing his grip. He pulled onto the railing of the cannon deck, feet floating all around him, jacket whipping in the breeze. He fought to regain control and monkey barred his way to the bolt thrower. He kicked his feet around the bolt thrower and used his leg strength to hold him as he looked around the machine. "Oh thank you bush humping elves and your 'everything has its place' mentality!" Jensen cooed as he grabbed a hold of bundle of rope attached to a grappling hook, no doubt the thrower was meant to hook and catch monstrous prey.

He loaded up the hook onto the bolt, using all his skill to aim the apparatus. All was perfectly aligned when the entire deck portion collided with another section. He shook and used both hands to keep his grip, but the rope unraveled like a snake just past his grasping fingers into the sky away from him. He violently cussed out the horsemen as he checked the bolt. With no other options he laid flat against the ballistae and with eyes wide shut he kicked the trigger. With a loud twang the immortal bolt flew upwards. He raced into the sky like a cannon, whooping in excitement and the thrill of terror that chilled his spine from the adrenaline rush. He looked to see he was up and over the dragon and let his grip loosen as he free fell back to the beast. He rolled his feet in a slipstream, rolling like a ballerina as he turned his thoughts inwards, letting all the wind in the air surround him. When he was close to his landing point Jensen brought forth both hands upwards and the wind howled around him, slowing his descent as he came to a rolling stop back upon the dragons back.

Unable to contain it, Jensen let out a riotous chorus of laughter, gripping his body to see if he truly was still alive. As for the growing noxious looking gas creeping upon him? Well, he would deal with that threat after a moment of relaxation.

((All this hopping around and Sky Diving has used 3 uses of his Leaf on the Wind, in addition to the two from previous posts, Jensen has used 5.))

[Leopold]

In the midst of the madness, Leopold Winchester followed orders. The faun shouted atop her lungs to run. So, he ran. He had paid little attention to the ongoing bedlam as they had danced together a swathe of blood through the creeping, lonesome, and deranged creatures. Now, with certain death looming towards his expensive cotton lapels and engraved hip flask, neither partial to acid, he very much paid attention.

“Not that way!” he bellowed to two all too eager to die cadets. Weary and bloodied, the soldiers scrambled to run immediately the other way. The gas cloud born from the dragon’s mouth loomed – like a gout of flame, it began to swirl ad whip along the dragon’s titanic form, a cleansing poultice for the ‘corruption’ along its spine.

He slipped a hand into the aether, piercing the veil between world and wherever with ease. He rummaged. Lip bit in chagrin’, he searched for something stowed away that would lend itself to the preservation of the people around him. Sadly, his only preoccupying thought were the faun and the fanatic – lunatic and malice in horns. The soldiers, screaming, enflamed, and dying in their droves would have to suffer. They would not win this war.

“I can’t let a pretty face like yours die in this wasteland,” he shouted triumphant. He produced a set of Fallieni goggles and sandstorm mask, last worn a decade ago on him and his wife’s honeymoon to the xenophobic isle. He had half-forgotten he owned it.

“Oh, you shouldn’t have!” Jensen shouted.

Leopold’s face deadpanned and he nodded to Philomel to correct the man’s error. He advanced, spear tip trailing behind, and feet trudging through the increasing flows of ichor that crept about them.

“Put this on and for the love of the old gods, don’t take it off until the air’s clear!” The offer sounded awfully like a threat, but Leopold did not wait long enough to see her kindness or objection. The mask trailed towards her through the air, salvation on wings, and he turned and made for a group of soldiers beleaguered by fungi. If he could not save them with machinations, he could guide them to cover and keep the sway of the conflict swinging in their favour.

“Make your fucking self-useful!” he roared at Jensen. I need a scale or twelve,” he commanded. He was not sure Jensen would listen, but he barked with enough conviction to drive the point home. Scales torn from the dragon’s back would make excellent channelling devices. His breath burnt his lungs. His ageing form creaked with fatigue.

The dragon beat its injured wing, and roared once more as Leopold’s opening gambit reminded the beast that it was on borrowed time.

Unwitting, he made to save a group of soldiers who were making their way towards a man with spent chains and an air of psychic latency about him…

[Hysteria]

The airships broke across the vast back of the dragon like a wave on a beach. Strewn parts of the ships cascaded off the side to be danced upon by an immortal before crashing into the snow peaks below. Part of the one of the ships stuck fast against the spines rising from the dragon's back, providing an unexpected break in the poison gas washing pass on either side. The dragon's back resembled more a battleground now. Chunks of metal and wood were strewn across its back, between which bodies, both fungal zombie and not, lay interlaced.

A dozen elves and men were alive on the creature's back, not including the intrepid quartet, fox, and questionable status of the white zombies. Most of these survivors had made it to the cover of the wreckage and a make shift defensive line had been formed. Out of the nearly opaque green gas stumbled the bodies of their comrades that had succumb to the effects of the gas.

The crashing airships at first glance seemed to have little effect on Stinky. From the higher vantage point of the four airships in formation things looked a little different.

Elthain held his chin as he looked down on the dragon. He had watched his mentor die a firey death, then two more comrades die. It was his respect for Tashin that kept him in formation, but that had its breaking point. As he watched through the cracked glass he could see the dragon lift one of its wings slightly. The effect seemed small, but it was changing course. The mountains walled in the creature, and Elthain could only think of one possibility.

“BREAK FORMATION! Bring us above the creature and ready to make drops!” His voice bellowed, silently he asked for understanding from his mentor. He would not stand by while he watched this plan come to naught. Government be damned!

[Philomel]

The mask was thrown from seemingly nowhere, yet as soon as it came into her vacinty Philomel knew its purpose.

She now looked like some engineer-of-tomorrow, with wide goggles protecting her eyes and a mouthpiece over her jaw. Glancing down at Veridian she cursed for a moment, then did as quick a decision as she could as the greenish gas began to flow towards them. Mind-to-mind connection meant she barely had to think the idea and he knew what she was meaning. Grabbing a corner of her loincloth in his teeth the fox pulled away from her arms as she kneeled there, on the edge of survival, and ripped a fair piece away. It came away with a fresh tear, beautiful and the sound glorious. Taking it from him the faun-whore rushed to drape it around his muzzle and tie it behind his ears as a makeshift mask.

"It will do," she said, hurriedly, tweaking it up so it also covered his eyes. From behind her new face gear she sounded like Mister Draak on a bad day. "Just trust me for clearer sight."

Veridian just let out a muffled nicker and moved until his side aligned with her hoof. Now more prepared Philomel fully got to her feet again, looking around at the destruction and debris. One look around and she could see her mythril blade, lying about ten feet away near the corpse of the airship. She gritted her teeth, and told the fox to firmly stay.

She glanced to the young rogue who had used her as a shield in the crash. She smiled, vaguely at him, then looked up at the other men and elves, those that were still alive and able to fight. Her armour would protect her so far and she only needed to get past the zombies, around or over the ship, and to the wing that was teteering on broken muscle. One rip, a few adjustments and this beast would be down.

Calling to the men around her she attempted to raise their spirits. She cried, "Advance, if you give a fuck! Get through these undead and batter the wings like you want to live another day!" and threw herself into the air.

Swift and rising with the air was easy, as was landing. Her hooves caught the groin of a flesh-made-live and smashed him back to the ground. Sweeping down her arm she was satisfied to reunite sword with palm, and begin this fight all over again, dancing through the mangled remains of a flying vehicle. On a flying behemoth.

Dance, was her only thought, Dance and slay.

Behind her Veridian could barely see through the complicated weave of the fabric but he tried his best. He thought, then settled down and came with some idea of use. Snuffling, quietly, he searched around with whisker and paw until he came to the edge of the scale. Allowing Philomel to keep back the tide of undead he set about digging into the crevice with a claw. Scrape, scrape, scrape.

He knew. He knew he could find dirt and dust, and then this fight would become real.

[Enigmatic Immortal]

With cackling and bravado Jensen moved to try his best to get to grips with the dragon and lift the scales and do as he was instructed, but that had done him little good. The first scale had a zombie warrior beneath it, begging to end its life as it tried also to end the immortal's. He managed to finish it off before he was tossed backwards by a sudden shift in the flight path, hitting his rump hard on a scale and squishing a fungal head beneath him like a spoiled fruit. He stood again, grinning like a fool as he debated on what was currently unfolding.

Jensen turned his body fully, hip rotating to catch the sight of the drawing battlements. The immortal looked upon the foes that encroached, watching as good people had changed within the green fog. He could feel the Dragon’s aching, noting the dip in altitude every fourth wing beat or so. It was trying desperately to shake off an injury, but it just couldn’t ignore it. Still, several airships and hundreds of men were now dead and the best the rag tag group had to show for it was an irritating wing injury.

The immortal walked forwards, lifting out his dart gun and twirling it around his body switching the weapons modes more in a habitual tick than to be flashy. With each click from sword into Dart mode, Jensen whispered the words “pew” to a zombie many yards away from him. There was an elf next to him, and the man turned his face in confusion as he watched Jensen complete a small flourish, repeatedly whispered the same words again, before lowering his weapon and giggling to himself.

“Really?” The Elf scoffed. Jensen stopped moving and tensed his shoulders. He tilted his head back to indicate he was listening. “Lives are being tossed into the grave like coin, homes of the innocents threatened, valuable resources wasted and destroyed, and you have the gall to giggle like an inane child? You dare to make light of this situation?” He stood taller, gripping his sword tightly as he watched the knight kick the ground and turned, the hem of his trenchcoat whipping the air with a snap. He gazed at the elf, eyes narrowing darkly and giving him a once over that made the veteran’s spine shiver in intimidation. To the elf’s credit, he did not quiver before Jensen.

“Really.” Was the immortal’s painfully long awaited answer. He turned again back to the horde that was growing in number, looking up and down his battle line before he lifted one hand out and pointed to the scene. “What exactly in your head do you think this situation is something I should take seriously?” Jensen cocked his head irritably to the side, as if waiting for the elf to explain. When the elf gave him no reply, Jensen growled like a leopard, throaty and wet with anger.

“We are assaulting a titanic dragon here. We are sitting upon the very beasts back, and all around is death and destruction. Several lives were tossed into the grinder, lives your government happily promised to pay after the dragon was handled,” Jensen grinned like a jack ass, smiling brightly. “Saved a pretty gold coin on that contract deal.” He chuckled again, turning to the mass of fungal foes. “Your very countrymen and the mercenaries you hired are begging for death, compelled like zombie freaks to shed us apart and save this bastard’s hide while it plays like a kid in a bathtub with your fleet of airships. So where in all of this, in this impossible situation, should a sane man take it seriously anymore?”

Jensen walked to the elf, grabbed him forcefully by the shoulders, and brought him with him. “Fear is hesitation, fear is lashing at comrades in the dark, fear is crying and lamenting. You can wallow in despair bush humper, or you can join me, and laugh in the face of death.”

Jensen kept forcing the elf forwards, towards the enemy, his grin growing wider and wider as the fey creature began to quiver now being closer to the enemy. “If you shit your pants, leaf licker, I’m going to gut you from groin to throat. I really don’t like cowards.”

“You are insane,” the elf at last managed to say, his sword in hand held at the ready. Jensen laughed again, wildly, insanely as if to prove his point. But there, in that moment, the elf felt something inside him spark. Something deep and primal, and suddenly the world around him…changed. He watched the enigmatic man waltz forwards, his blade lifting up, swapping to dart mode, and this time each time he said ‘pew’ his weapon made a rapport, the dart weapon taking eyes and throats. He moved into the enemy with a laugh, dark maddening chuckles and rolling, mirth filled guffaws. By the gods of all Althanas, the Elf watched the man with a sudden longing.

His stomach had unknotted. His shoulders were no longer tense. His mind was not aching, eyes seeing the full clarity of the situation. He too watched, nervously letting his body tremble, before a giggle escaped his own lips. Jensen snapped like a twig, turning to look at the elf. His companion looked to the approaching madness, and then with absolutely nothing left to lose he roared to the heavens his own twisted knot of boiling laughter. Jensen joined him, relishing in the madness as he turned back to the frey.

“That’s it you pointy eared twit! Give into the madness! Laugh with me, laugh until you could die!” Jensen’s blade took a head, turning inwards, switching the blade mode back to rifle, shooting twice, and flourishing upwards to gut another white Zombie. The sticky insides made little difference to the immortal. The elf joined him shortly, hacking away and fighting like a deranged hyena, relishing in the turmoil and feeling his fears slip away. This was perhaps a hopeless situation. Perhaps they would all fail. But this crazed, lunatic of a warrior was onto something. Oblivion came to see him to death’s door. He would not soil himself before his maker. Instead he would meet the afterlife with song on his lips, and a smile in his heart. If this was the end…he truly felt there were worse ways to go.

Yet the doom he sought never came. The man who had shown him true courage was a whirlwind –no! – a tornado of movement! He hacked, slashed and killed all in his way until there was not much left for the two to do. But where they fought and succeeded, the rest of the lines began to get battered. Jensen turned and stopped next to the elf, both giggling and wheezing as their chests heaved and brows sweated.

“You dance so vibrantly,” the elf said between breaths. He noted the knight had caught his again quickly.

“You move like a drunken fat man who’s trying to hump a doorknob.” Jensen quipped back. Both snorted into giggles like children.

“Tyros,” the elf said lifting his hand out.

“Jensen,” he said looking to the hand and slapping it aside. He lifted his weapon up and pointed to the rest of the fight. “Come on, we got a lot of work to do. Who’s that strapping old fart over there? The one barking orders and pretending to be a knight in shimmering armor?”

“Aye, that one?” He pointed to the same spot Jensen had. The immortal nodded. “That’s Leopold Winchester.”

“Isn’t he married to Ruby Winchester?” Tyros nodded as they began to move forwards again, both keeping their enthusiasm in check. Jensen giggled a bit. “Hope he won’t mind me, but we should probably start being his enforcer. Spread the word down the lines and rally to him. He’ll have a plan.”

“You don’t?” Tyros chuckled.

“Do I look like a man with a plan?” Jensen retorted swiftly. Both laughed again as they began to trot towards their target.

“You said he may mind you, why is that, Jensen?”

“Well he sort of gave me an order, but I ignored it. Someting about scales or being a pussy. Not sure...oh and probably because his wife made me a sandwich,” Jensen replied winking.

((Jensen and his new friend Tyros are moving towards Leopold and becoming bodyguards for the Lord. Huzzah! All bunnying of Jensen is hearby approved.))

[Hysteria]

Leopold and Eli are goo-ed

Leopold lifted his hand towards wounded wing. This was going to be their time to push towards the limb and attempt to finish his earlier work. His voice never came though. He doubled over as a fit of coughing erupted from his mouth. A hand lifted down from his lips, blood ruby red was dotted with black. The infection had spread. Was it when he threw the mask to the faun? Had he taken in too much of the toxin by his selfless act? Leopold grabbed a hand that was trying to lift him to his feet. He turned, meaning to thank the man, but his actions were not his own. He jumped into him, his mouth clamped down on the surprised elf's neck, a scream, a tear and a spurt of blood. The elf stumbled backwards as Leopold spat out the flesh. His face twisted into a grin, wide eyes and red teeth.

Eli had survived the crash, but luck always made sure the dues were paid. His back straight, he moved with odd composure for someone in his situation. That was, until he felt his foot fall from under him. The scale his foot pressed on shattered underneath and he sank waist deep. His smile slide off his face as he felt the teeth take their first bite. The butcher slide down further into the hole, his screams were washed away by his own blood.

Elthain was doing his best to maintain his composure as he watched his brethren slaughtered on the dragon's back. His ship had reached the position above the dragon and he gave the word for his 'toys' to be deployed. The bottom of Elthain's ship had been fitted for special circumstances by the master craftsman. A dozen latches flicked open, and with a hiss of steam and a burst of pressure each fired a thick steel spear. Each one was tied to a thin cord of steel. The harpoons struck around the bastion of troops and into the dragon. Most bounced off the scales like all the previous attacks ship attacks, but three struck flesh and held. Those that didn't stick were wound back up, and fired again.

Those that stuck made for the perfect lifelines. The elves high above attached steel spikes via a small loop of metal and let them run down the lines. The spikes were another one of Elthain's inventions, albeit much simpler than most. Inside the spike was gunpowder, with a fuse attached at the thick end with a simple one, five or ten second timer. One needed to push the spike into dragon flesh, then set the timer. The explosion would turn a metre or so of flesh into mincemeat. While the ring-ins might not realise what the devices were, the elves would.

Trylien's ship had moved to the side and was trailing behind the dragon. The deaf captain could only watch as the next ship in the line slipped out and moved into position. Like his ship before the back opened and ropes trailed out into the air. Whomever the next drop was, he prayed that they would have the strength to end the suffering.

[hoytti]

Sorish looked down from the back of the airship and saw the disease ridden dragon. It was full of fungus and the air round it was covered in a smog. Sorish round but then smiled. "If that smog is like the morning fog, it should dissipate if it rains," Sorish thought to Roxi, his Coral Worm companion.

"I believe so," Roxi replied, "but you will still have to deal with whatever is inside that fog once you get to it."

"I'll deal with that soon," Sorish answered before he made a water bubble next to him. Sorish was a tall creature about 16'. His hood on his white fishscale robe was up and kept his face from view, however, the hood looked like it had water in it. Well not just the hood, if you looked at the end of the sleeves you would have noticed the water there as well. Out of the water you could see hands made of blue & green coral.

The coralian king then grabbed the rope and jumped, as he slid down a small creature appeared and began to dance around him as rain clouds began to form above the dragon. As soon as the creature landed on the dragon's back, the creature returned to a bubble state and the clouds released the rain. As the rain fell the drops absorbed the smog as it fell. This in effect cleared the air of the smog and revealed the disease ridden creatures that protected the dragon.

Sorish smiled and shot a water gun at one of the creatures before he turned towards his companions and said, "Well, aren't you going to join in?" He then turned back to the hoard and pulled out his sword and shield put his left foot forward, his shield in front of him and his sword held up pummel in front of right shoulder blade pointed backwards a little as he charged forward and started to desecrate the horde of zombie like creatures with quick and effective swordsmanship.

[Roht Mirage]

From the ship that preceded the newest drop, the cables that had found no purchase swung wildly about like birds surprised in the sudden storm. They retracted upward, aching to try again. Those lines that had found flesh with their metal teeth hummed taut with such force that raindrops vibrated off the cables and formed celestial auroras. Down one such tether to Heaven, a golden comet descended.

It pitched away from the assembled fighters, riding to where the anchor lay amid an approaching throng of vanilla undead. The head of the comet was formed by one of the strange mechanized spikes, and behind it was a slim figure, almost visible as the rain tried to steal away the comet's sandy tail. With a grotesque and heavy chomp, it buried itself in the center of the swarm. A rattling rush of grit -still refusing to acknowledge the rain- pulsed outward. Then, there was a mechanical click. Neither sand nor sound seemed to startle the zombies. In fact, it took them all of five seconds to reorient themselves on the new distraction in the center of their legion.

They had a perfect view for the explosion.

For one moment both glorious and horrible, a span of rain fell upward, white and gristly. The lucky undead at the blast's perimeter lolled under a short burst of elf-made thunder. Then, a line of them started to fall. The furrow in the pale ranks travelled toward the coral giant's formation, sinking bodies one by one like a mole with its tunnel collapsing in its wake. At the point where they were about to meet, a great swing of the giant's sword swept three zombie aside, and two zombies at the throng's new front ranks slumped backward, jaws gaping as if to drink rainwater.

Astarelle Set'Roh bolted out from between them as they fell. Her torso, armored in wetly glistening leather, was hunched low. On her palms, two spikes of sand dripped ivory viscera and brain fluid. Around her feet, the remainder of her sand that braved the storm had been formed into thick pads for adaptable traction on the wet scales. “Oh bury me,” she cursed with all the pleasure of a cat in similar soppy circumstances, “I knew it just had to be you.” Her spikes dissipated into clouds of sand that hung about her wrists; all their accumulated filth fell to the dragon's back.

She backpedalled warily from the giant and right toward the line of zombies. One of them lunged with a gait most inhuman. “Kill me,” he begged wetly. Astarelle turned, her own steps wobbling in mockery, or perhaps an ode, to the dance of the zombies. In time with the undead's footfall, she pushed her hip against its leg and swivelled her upper body to the side. The cloying arms continued through the space her shoulders had been, towing the unbalanced zombie over. Still with her hip practically in the monster's lap -or as close as possible while standing- she grabbed its head and jerked downward. Her knee came up with a sandy plate already half formed on it, hardening just in time to burst the cranium like an overripe melon. Pulp splashed the front of her leather ensemble before she could pull away.

“Whatever you have against me,” she shouted to the giant as she tried to dislodge herself from the crumpling corpse, “We both have a much bigger issue to deal with!” The corpse caught her leg as it fell prone, making her spin in the midst of her escape. Her bottom slapped wetly onto a massive scale and her hands scrabbled for purchase as three more zombies tried to crawl over their brother with neck agape. Astarelle kicked herself away as forcefully as she could. By the depths, these beasts were tenacious when they had her in their sights.

“Help?!” she scream to the giant, hoping that there was either compassion or forgiveness in his coral heart. Their first meeting, rife with cultural misunderstandings and unintended mating attempts, had been ages ago.

[Philomel]

Fighting zombies was the easy part. Keeping alive as she was cut off from the rest of the army was much harder. As she clambered up the incomplete mangled ladder of the airship, that was usefully there to give her higher ground, Philomel was horrified to see the suffocating of her hero friend. She had never asked his name, never even taken the opportunity to thank him. Instead she had just screamed one word in their interaction - "Run!" - and now she was left to batter this intense army alone.

She had been lucky to see the ladder. It was the same colour of the charred remains of the airship, and looked almost indecipherable from the rest of the chewed metal. Broken and mostly black, the pieces themselves could have pierced skin. Though they had no flames much, as there was not anymore material for the fire to feed on anymore, only metal shards, it was still a difficultly for a human to climb.

Though, of course she wasn't a human. She was a faun. And could jump a direct three metres into the air to get to the angled fourth rung.

She twisted as she gained to the top, sneering down at the zombies. In their intoxicated stupor the mangled sick ugly things clawed at the rungs of it behind her, trying to remember how to use such a climbing construct. The faun-whore found herself able to stop and gasp for a breath. In that moment, however, as she had the opportunity of pause in the chaos, she saw someone she had never expected to. Behind a giant cloak was the girl, that beautiful being of the kingdom of Eiskalt. That female of Ixians, that goddess in human form who had saved Philomel's life, then been with her another time again.

"Hells, my lesbian lover," Philomel muttered under her breath, and sliced down with her sword, taking off the tops of the fingers of the toppermost zombie, and sending him away again to fall onto the dragon's back.

"Back down you," she tutted, "I need ..."

At this point her lonesomeness finally proved not to be. A bark, as high as the night and as loud as a marching band, filtered across the world. Her ears pricked up as she swung her sword, pausing before the grin came. For the sound very quickly was followed by a single thought, and in the beauty of it all that thought was ... I found dirt.

Bring it here, Philomel said, bring it and we'll finish this thing.

The fox at the end of the mental communication gave an affirmative and she could feel the scurry of his claws as he took out as much of the dirt as he could that was caught in the gap between the scales. Quickly, he liked his forepaws and much of his front legs to the shoulder, and then covered them in as much dirt as possible.

I come, Philomel! he responded, and he took to his lithe paws. She knew he would come fast, for his small form was never noticed by the fighting hordes. He was as invisible in a shadow and could duck under leg and spine.

Her eyes darted to the left, and she smiled as she now saw a clear view of the wounded wing. It was something like fifty metres away, and a leap with a few deft strokes with a dance would get her there.

All she needed was the dirt and her blades. And she didn't need the zombies. She growled through her mask as one slid its clammy hands over her forearm.

"Get off!" She shrieked like a automatic machination, pommelling it with her sword hilt. "Get off ..."

[Enigmatic Immortal]

“Oh, that’s not pleasant at all!” Jensen muttered as he watched his elf companion Tyros attempt to help Leopold only to get a neck full of teeth. Jensen lifted his dart gun, the last shot left in the chamber, and aimed it carefully.

“Don’t,” Tyros wheezed, still attempting to giggle. “Miss.”

“Don’t move two inches to the left and we’ll be okay.” Jensen said as he pulled the trigger. The shot landed dead in the elf’s left eye, imploding the orb and sticking deep within. He tipped over and collapsed onto his stomach, arms splayed out to the sides as he slowly drifted into a firmly dead position. “Later, bush humper,” Jensen said saluting the dead comrade as he turned towards the new threat to their operations. What he saw lowered his spirits as he felt his heart spike with two equal but distinctly different emotions.

To his right, standing near a creature Jensen had never seen before, was Astarelle Set’Roh. Her body was languished in leather, wet from the sudden rain from the previous moments of the battle. She too zombie lives with every stroke of her weapons, attempting to repair some kind of slight she had done ages ago. You pick the worst times to clear your name, Jensen thought as he turned to his left.

There was the faun-whore he knew all too well from Eiskalt. Anger boiled within him, fingers curling around his weapons. After a long period of healing between Eiskalt’s events and the train heist the immortal and the Cell Champion had become…he wasn’t sure. With Astarelle he was never sure. Maybe that was the exotic quality he admired in her. But the wrench that nearly made them the bitterest of acquaintances was Philomel. She had used the woman in Eiskalt to get home, pretending to love her so that Astarelle would protect her life. For good cause, Jensen was ready to end it had she not intervened. But a thanks for the ride was all Astarelle got, her heart carefully placed in public to be smashed. Jensen knew it would happen, warned her, but it happened anyway. Not even the night of drunken fun many moons ago could fix the situation.

However there was a third problem besides seeing someone he couldn’t rationalize his feelings for and someone he already came to terms with emotionally with. The dragon’s zombies had suddenly swelled in ranks when the fog was finally stopped, several new additions to the force lumbering forwards. Astarelle was safe for the moment, but Jensen knew Philomel was becoming the new buffet option with each passing second. He debated, hard, what to do. He wasn’t sure if Astarelle would enjoy watching her die, or still feel a twinge of whatever they had to rush in foolishly to help.

What did she always say? Bury me? Yeah, that’s it. Bury me, Astarelle, you made this more complicated than it needed be. Jensen pushed his body to sprint faster than the eye could follow, his shoulders leaning in and shoulder checking the zombie that gripped the faun’s arm. It went flying away, tilting into a rolling tumble taking out another zombie by the knees, both collapsing into a pile. Jensen spun and whirled his switchblade dart gun into sword mode and took the head off another one coming right for Philomel’s face, his boot lifting in a stiff kick shoving it away. He danced around the faun-whore, a blur of motion as he laughed like a jackass, taking out the droves of the enemy until they had a moment to breath.

Jensen turned to the creature, eyes boring holes in her like he wanted to melt her, but he bit back the full hatred he wanted to say. Instead he gave her a nod, saying not much else as he blocked the view to Astarelle. “You stay the hell away from her, and we get this mission done. Do a good enough job and maybe I’ll toss you a coin to go fuck yourself!” Jensen’s grin returned, motioning for the faun to lead the way.

((Jensen has chosen to escort the professional escort. Feel free to bunny Jensen, he’ll be compliant and helpful. As for the new comers, feel free to bunny Jensen as well.))

[grim137]

Xanbata Grim didn't care about the fate of Alerar. He didn't care about it's people, it's culture or it's progress. He didn't care if they flourished or if they were all wiped off the face of Althanas. However when word of the nations unique plight reached the Ixian Knight headquarters and the higher ups asked for help from any able bodied member willing to volunteer, prisoners included, Xanbata couldn't help but accept. He didn't care about the elves, not one bit but an opportunity to hunt a dragon. That was something a predator like him was willing to risk his life for.

The vampire had been pacing back and fourth with inpatients and anticipation down in the cargo hold of one of the ill fated air ships when the dragon roared. Next thing he knew the ship had crashed into the giant dragon and he was being buried under a pile of rubble.

Moments later the vampire slowly got up and pushed the debris off of himself cursing like a sailor all the while. He had no idea how long he'd been knocked out by the fall but it couldn't have been more than a couple of moments. His ears rang and his body ached but he moved forward doing his best to ignore the considerable pain and trusting his healing factor to fix anything that might have been broken as he tried to get his bearings.

“Well I'll be damned....” said the vampire in awe as he took in the water logged, gore soaked, zombie infested living battlefield. Even for somebody so accustomed to war and death it was quite a sight to behold.

If he didn't have more pressing matters he could have admired the view all night but instead he decided to help out his companions and thin the ranks a bit.

“Commander Jensen!” he yelled at the famous immortal, doubtful that anybody would actually be able to hear him over the rest of the chaos “Tell the others to keep their heads down! This might sting!”

Xanbata grinned from ear to ear as he felt his dark energy surge through him. It glowed brightly, crackled like lightning, and sparked in the air. Soon looked up at the sky and opened his mouth wide before thrusting his palms in the air. From his eyes, lips and hands blast after glowing blast erupted, ten in all, arching like mortar shots before crashing down into the various groups of fungus zombies around the other fighters and exploding violently.

When he as done the monster let out a satisfied sigh, feeling like he'd just had an intense orgasm. He hadn't killed all the creatures, not by a long shot but he had done his part to thin their ranks. Slowly he drew his blade and let his dark aura creep lazily over it as he looked around and spotted the harpoon embedded in the dragon's flesh. Xanbata had overheard the drow talking about it, he knew about the explosive mechanism. He also figured it was about time they stopped playing with the plants and did some real damage their prey.

With a loud war cry the vampire charged towards the harpoon.

[Hysteria]

Explosions fell like rain drops across the dragon's back. Scales were dislodged, skin torn and burnt and the dragon roared. Its voice was raspy, not the grandiose roar of earlier, this one was pain filled. The dragon could do little that it had not already tried. High above the mountains, caught by their jagged peaks it was forced to endure. At least, that was the belief of the elves safe in their ships. From their perspective the tide had turned. The explosions, the powerful fighters, things were looking up and the horde of undead greatly thinned.

The dragon beat its wings again in long fluid strokes, but favoured one. The shift in weight tilted the dragon further, though barely noticeable to those on its expansive back. The dragon's course had altered further as it headed towards a huge snow filled valley. The distance was still some way, but it would not take much longer to reach.

[Philomel]

She gasped as she turned, seeing the lunging diseased corpse. Too late, was the phrase that struck into her mind, and her eyes grew wide with the realisation that her blade was not going to catch up with the leap of the beast ...

And then Jensen Ambrose, appearing from his arrogant grave, appeared and saved her soul. She twisted, paused as the zombies were knocked back a step for that singular moment, and then shivered at his audacity as he nodded.

He bloody nodded. That god-forsaken bastard who had tried to kill her and accused her of raping the very open and desiring Astarelle. A guttural grumble alerted Philomel back to the matter at hand. Swiftly turning once more in a tight circle she shattered a skull and then severed fingers from a hand. Like a ballerina in the last movement of a final recital she danced like none other had danced before, singing her own particular praises.

Of course she had noticed he blocked her Ixian lover from view. And she heard the words. As she fought and stabbed back-to-back with the man she hated, Philomel snarled an answer.

"I'll go where I want boy. I'll see who I want and when, when the time comes. Now move for the fox."

The Jensen immortal bastard, the handsome once-stranger, seemed to pause for a moment in his fighting. He stood alongside her on this viaduct of victorious metal methologies, fighting alongside in purpose and spirit, but no where near beside in ideologies. Confusion came into his eyes for a moment as he tried to decide whether to laugh in his annoying way or shout at the assassin-whore. Philomel just looked at him, raised brows and took a hoofstep to the left, further to the wing.

"Let my fox through. You dare to kill him again and I will kill you I promise!"

She was unsure, naturally, if she could kill the man, in fact she doubted it very much, but truly she meant it. As Jensen stood there, fighting half-heartedly, trying to guard his own temper and Astarelle at the same time, the nicker came. A fleeting moment and the russet form bound anyway, right up to the metal. It leapt from zombie back to zombie head, barking as it went.

I am here, my love, the Earth Spirit declared.

"Good," Philomel replied out loud, "At least I have an actual ally."

She swapped her sword into one hand. The other, now bare, she held out beside her and slowly she breathed in. Veridian came beside her, snarling and biting at all those came, the dirt still on his forelegs, though it was majorly soaked from the sudden downpour. Philomel searched, however, and found those remains that had been hidden between shoulder and belly, the drier dusts, and it was these she kindled into life.

Naturally, they came to her aid. They swarmed and raged despite the rain, gathering up from the body of the fox in one quick surge. Swarming to her hand they became a cloud almost two feet in full diameter, swirling in a storm of their own. Philomel grinned and savagely growled at the immortal.

"Watch this for beauty!" She said, then pulled her wits about her.

She jumped. And she flew. She spasmed, directly into the sky, right towards the broken wing. And the dust cloud - magically ensorcled it flew from her hand to where she pointed, right to the wound. Where by Drys' blessing it would slam into it and either cause more damage, or go into the he veins and poison the beast from within.

Philomel fell back to the dragon after her leap. She slammed, down deftly, into the arms of infected beasts, right on top of them. Whether someone wanted to rescue her, that was their decision, but at least for now her storm cloud would start the end to this battle.

[hoytti]

Sorish looked at the woman who had caused him to enter his reproduction cycle three years ago. Not only did it mean he was unable to enter it again for a full year but it also made both him and Korra make an egg and they had to send their first born son out into the world with little combat knowledge and a small body. However, even a one year old Coralians was a natural survivalist. And Sorish expected that with the adventure gene that has been passed down through the generations of his family, Alexander would be fine. Sorish and Korra would see him again on his 40th birthday when they would initiate the Right of Adulthood on their son and Alexander received his coral worm.

Though the birth and loss of their son had happened thanks to the woman who stood in front of him, Sorish had no choice but to think about the fact that Coralian mating rituals were unknown to the "Kings of Above" and thus the initiation of the mating cycle was an accident. And this meant his protective nature overruled his bitterness to the woman. Thus Sorish sprinted forward and saved Asterelle from the monsters that tried to consume her. He got rid of the ones in her immediate vicinity before he spoke, "After this is done and over with we will have to talk about the consequences of you rubbing my crown," Sorish said with a stern, no exceptions tone. "But for now, let's take this monstrosity to its grave, shall we?" He gave a slight smirk to her, just barely visible through his water filled hood. A bit forced but enough to show that he didn't blame her completely for the problems that followed. His face then returned to that of a man of focus. As the monsters attacked them again, Sorish’s sword in constant motion as it bisect zombie after zombie. The blood of the creatures flowed around him and pooled at his feet as more corpses joined their fellow infected all while he watched the back of his ally who he hoped also had his back.

[Roht Mirage]

“... consequences of you rubbing my crown.”

Don't say it like that!

Astarelle turned beet red as she looked up to her savior. She felt like quite the child below his protective arm, and she almost felt guilty. Her plea had not been the life-or-death situation she implied. (First rule of dragon fighting: Always have an emergency escape ready.) The giant had passed the test with chivalry and more compassion than she found in most humans. Also, he had cleaved away the undead that would have, if not killed her, at least removed her from the fight.

“Thank you,” she said, and she bloody well meant it. She stood diminutively at his side, weapons ready even though the rain slowly stole them away and into the necrotic mix at her feet. The rest of her sand shifted under her clothing as if scared, but she steeled herself with one image: that of the giant's hood filled with water. They each carried their element with them into unfamiliar territory. It was an oddly specific bond, perhaps even an omen of budding friendship.

Platonic, hands-off friendship.

She was about to step out from under his shadow and aid in his undead harvest when a body rising above the melee caught her attention. She had seen it before, but against the burning frescors of an Eiskalt church instead of this rain-soaked nightmare. “You're joking,” she breathed, addressing no one in particular. Though, if some god of happenstance was listening, an explanation would have been appreciated. Perhaps a prayer to a healing goddess was in order as well, because Philomel landed amid the legion with cringe-worthy force.

“I'm sorry,” Astarelle shouted to the reaping giant's ear, “But I really have to go.” She cut through the line of elven reinforcements that rallied behind the massive warrior. “I swear, we'll talk after,” she called, “And if any of you bush humpers.” She had been spending waaay too much time with Jensen Ambrose. “Let him get so much as a scratch, I'll kill ya.” With that, she was off.

The fight had become real. Gallivanting around Alerar, fighting ever more ludicrous battles with Jensen at her side; it had been a lovely dream. She barely had time to think of her mistakes in Corone, her selfish failure in Eiskalt. On that doomed island, lives had been lost. She remembered in horrid detail one of the smallest going still in her arms. Jensen told her it wasn't her fault, but she -of all people- knew a half truth when she heard it. If she had tried, she could have made a difference. A stronger person would have taken on the weight of war instead of running to the arms of a goat-harpy, a creature that, aflame, she normally wouldn't have spit upon. Yet, the faun had been a panacea. She seemed immune to the heartache of walking in death's shadow. She knew the importance of self, the supremacy of it, when everyone else made demands and cast blame for their own misfortune. Most enticingly, she didn't bother to hide her venom, and -by the depths- she had as much of it as Astarelle.

Like a mirage in a wind-swept night, the Fallien beauty stole through the thinning horde. Only out of necessity did she dispatch them on her there-then-not spikes. They were just incompetent dancers on her stage; their steps obvious, their hands greedy. Many clutched at the passing wraith only to seize fistfuls of sand that turned quickly to mud. Others caught hold of armor that, with the whisper of laces, was surrendered to their grip.

By the time Astarelle neared the faun, her elf-gifted protection only protected her torso and one leg. Her loose sleeves, now bare, snapped against the dragon's flight as a trickle of sand escaped near her wrists. All the better to lose the dead weight, because this was her time to truly dance.

Spikes and swords, hooks and claws, a butcher's selection of blades formed from her hands, served their purpose, and dissipated into her ever-shrinking cloud. All the while, she writhed among the twisted forms, her steps a pre-emptive play upon their anguish. “Kill us,” they sang. She obliged until she was face to face with the faun in a pocket of calm; a mere inhale before death's chorus crashed around them again. She caught her breath as well. Her form shook under the splotchy second skin of puss and blood, some of it her own that ran in crimson streaks. Inside, venom boiled.

You used me. How could you? Have you no soul? No heart? I gave you more of myself than you could ever deserve, he mind railed faster than she could speak. It was an old litany. She had imagined its counter-thrust long ago. I also used you. I was just as much an animal. I acted like a bloody fool!

In the small span of their reunion, she only managed to say, “You broke my heart.” Her words sounded old and worn; a tiresome burden.

Philomel's response carried all the bile that Astarelle expected. “You had no right to give me such a frail thing.”

Astarelle spun away from the faun and faced the closing, shambling ranks. The motion hide her own unexpected smile. I'd be surprised if you said anything else, she thought with humor almost on par with Ambrosian madness. She couldn't help it. Perhaps he really was rubbing off on her.

“Fair enough,” was all she said in response, then exhaled as if dropping a heavy pack after a long march. Though the faun's words were vile, there was a telling undercurrent in her tone that made Astarelle present her back so easily. Philomel, fabled lover and leaver, was glad to see her... maybe. She thought she caught a hint of it, but just because she felt a similar confusing knot of emotion bounce around in her own head.

The zombies closed rapidly, and Astarelle tensed for the duet.

[Enigmatic Immortal]

Jensen’s body was getting tired. He had been exhausting his stores of energy, pushing himself to fight faster and where needed harder. He managed to keep the Faun alive long enough for her to enact her plan and in the midst of it all one of the members of the Wetwork team had arrived to help thin the heard. Of course between all the ecstasy, orgasms of bloodletting, and emotional heartstrings being plucked like a harp, the immortal was hitting the end of his sanity. He fought to keep the rag tag group alive, but at what purpose was soon becoming his most pressing question.

The dragon still wasn’t giving up.

Not that he could blame it. The bigger, taller, and stronger you get, the more room an ego has to grow. Even with all the death and destruction, the Drow weaponry pulping its tender flesh and the magical dirt and sand finding purchase where it was needed still had not yet seemed to bother the creature enough to care. He had to change that opinion of the beast and quick to ensure they could stop it from collapsing in a town or worse.

I would really hate to go back into the Red Forest a third time, he thought as he ran towards the giant Corallian. The beast of a humanoid was absolutely wrecking the zombies, his body and strength knocking them aside like wheat to a scythe. Jensen moved closer to him and fought to keep his giggling in check. He failed of course. He maneuvered himself to jump on the shoulders of one of the zombie creatures, then jumping to land on the undersea King’s enemy, holding himself like a piggyback rider as it flailed around. Jensen took two of his daggers and lodged each into the sides of the beasts neck, laughing wildly before leaning in and speaking quickly.

“Look, chicken of the sea, I need you and my man to keep the flesh buffet eaters off our back just long enough for me to land this thing! Thanks darling, send me the bill later!� Jensen casually patted the mount he rode on the top of the head, boisterously whooping and rolling under the king’s wild arm swing. The backhand collided against the fungal flesh walker with such ferocity that he blasted its head clean off.

With haunting chuckling he moved forwards again, pulling out both pieces to his Switchblade staff and the adapter. He tossed his switchblade sword up and grabbed it by the hilt, plunging it deep into the chest of one creature, turning sideways and lunging with the gunblade into the stomach of another. Both teetered forwards in an awkward shuffle, and Jensen placed the adapter on one end, and slammed home the other end. He clicked sword into scythe mode, removing an arm of the one behind him. He swapped the dart gun back into play, disemboweling the other. With a quarter twist and a yell of effort he dislodged his freed weapons and took the head of both, rushing towards Xanbata. He slid through the fungal creep, keeping his traction loose as he took a passing zombie at the knee, turning and jumping in the air to finish it off as he pierced the right eye of the creature he tripped.

“Work with giganto over there, keep the crew of the airships safe, and for the love of god get these damn zombie freaks off my back.� Those were the only words he said to his subordinate, already laughing again and on the move. As he reached closer to the location Philomel was his heart suddenly shifted into his throat as he watched Astarelle save the flying faun from falling. He came to a halt, capable of hearing their words, and he growled lowly as Philomel once again made it clear that all Astarelle was good for was a doormat.

Jensen moved again, pushing all his feelings behind him. He had no choice as he began to chant to himself, lowly, in a whisper, panting as he moved and wheezing a few mirth filled guffaws out. “I am a leaf on the wind…I am a leaf on the wind…I am a leaf on the wind…� The mantra never broke as he took pseudo living lives like the grim reaper, his scythe cutting a path to the Cell Champion and the faun-whore. He moved past Philomel, nearly kicking the fox spirit, but never breaking his chant as he moved, lifting one hand out and clawing at the sky. He felt the slipstream through his fingers, the howling gale of a tornado caressing his fingers, trying to grip his back. He kept running, past Astarelle, a soft chuckle on the back of her ear as he moved like the very thing he sought to capture.

Jensen lifted his staff upwards, twirling it with him feeling his coat flap around him like he faced the very force of the sky itself. His eyes stung but he kept up his mantra. Philomel turned to hack a zombie away and turned to the immortal, belting out, “What the hell are you doing?� Jensen, despite all his concentration, lifted up a middle finger to the faun, and kept his focus as he let his mantra drop, his staff falling to his side and whipping near Philomel’s feet. He used both hands to free Crozius, letting the maul gently roll to Astarelle.

With great motions he began to roll his whole shoulders, elbows extending out and bending in a rhythm like he was pulling on a very large rope. The slipstream that kept them all on the dragon began to rumble, and Jensen roared his laughter to the sky as he continued his motions, becoming the controller of the wind itself.

Then, with a sudden pop, the slipstream collapsed, pooling upwards and towards the immortal as he willed its very essence to blow where he directed it. The dragon had suddenly dipped, the wind that helped keep it aloft changing course, making it harder for it to keep its flight. Jensen continued to roll the wind around him, rolling it into a tornado as he fought to keep the elements in check. He was sweating, his muscles ached, and his throat was dry but he still laughed, still struggling back and keeping himself in this fight. Despite the pain, despite the fire in his shoulders and the racing beat of his heart the immortal continued to pull the wind to him.

“He’s going to blast all the wind onto the dragon’s broken wing!� Astarelle suddenly gasped, fully aware now what Jensen was up to. He just laughed louder, more obnoxiously, more vibrantly and full of life as he let the whore and the Fallien native run for cover. Zombie’s began to shuffle away, calwing to keep their grip but floating upwards and away. Scraps of the airship began to scuttle across the ground, bits of debris getting caught in the sudden storm. Jensen was the maestro of this concert, and he orchestrated the wind around him to become of the eye of hurricane. When he felt the last of his indominatable will begin to budge, he let out a roar of pent up stress, a cry of howling agony as he let the wind scoop him up to the top of the tornado.

“BLOW ME!� Jensen shrieked with laughter as he pushed both hands forwards and shoved the tornado right on the crippled wing of the dragon.

[grim137]

Unlike the other members of notable fighters assaulting the dragon Xanbata Grim didn't have any personal feelings to keep him from enjoying himself. He didn't care that his exotic lover had been stolen from him by some gutter slut goat woman, nor was he worried about the accidental birth of his child brought about by a misunderstanding in mating rituals. No the blissful blood sucker dashed merrily through the battlefield with twinkle in his eye and a tune on his tongue. He slipped and slid along the soaked soaked scales as he smashed and slashed through the fungus zombies that got his way as he headed toward the harpoon.

Unfortunately it seemed Xanbata's commander, Jensen Ambrose had other plans. The captain of the Wetworks Team instructed his sadistic subordinate to go help the big fish looking fucker save the surviving crew of the airships alive. Honestly Jensen couldn't have ruined Xanbata's good mood faster if he tried. He wanted to kill a dragon, not delay the inevitable for a bunch of useless, rank and file cannon fodder.

“Who give's a...” tried to object Xanbata but before he could Jensen had already flown off.

The vampire scowled and flipped the immortal the bird before turning to face the large coralian. For a second he thought about disobeying the order and going for the harpoon anyways but decided against it. He wanted to make a good impression on his commanding officer and, more importantly than that, he didn't want to have his mind wiped by his new psychic overlords, the Orlouges. So he begrudgingly obeyed. Xanbata sprinted toward Sorish, dodging and weaving his way through the mud, gore and debris that now littered the living battlefield and slapped The coralian on the back when he arrived.

“So merman, it looks like me and you are in charge of keeping these mooks alive,” exclaimed Xanbata in a desperate attempt to get his good mood back as his sword sliced through the neck of another zombie. “If you ask me I think they might be screwed.”

That was when Xanbata felt the strong wind at his back and heard the commotion over near the wing. The swordsman quickly turned around to see what it was all about and what he saw made even a jaded creature like him go wide eyed!

“You stupid son of a bitch!” he cursed loudly only to be drowned out by sound of the tornado slamming into the dragon's busted wing.

“Brace yourselves!” yelled Xanbata frantically at the crew and the coralian “This is going to hurt!”

[Hysteria]

The earthen attack had slammed into the wing, causing the dragon to roar in pain and anger. That was nothing compared to what happened next. The Immortal's tornado twisted with the fury of nature into the weakened wing. The dragon's body twisted, any anything that hadn't been dislodged by the wind was now. An ear shattering series of cracked joined the spinning maelstrom as the dragon's wing was shattered. Dragon and cargo plummeted.

The rotten tail of the beast was the first to make contact. It slide across the jagged peaks of a mountain and was shredded across the cliff face. The moment the thicker base of the tail struck the dragon flicked into a spin. Head, tail, head tail, head tail, the creature span like top against the friction of the cliff as it fell. Each strike was a splinter of dragon scale and rock. The final shattering landing was at the base of the peak in the bottom of a steep valley. Everything, or everyone that hadn't been flicked off was thrown into thick snow as the dragon came to a sudden stop and for a moment there was silence.

“Grrrrrrrrr”

The dragon's head lifted from the snow. Its dull white eyes blinked, and down its face ran thick dark red blood. It was lying on its side; wedged between two mountains. The shattered wing was underneath it, with the other pointing up in the air. The creature kicked at the mountain as it tried to right itself. The huge booms and shattering rock was met with avalanches of snow that rained down over the creature. The dragon continued unperturbed, and managed to mostly right itself. For its work it could do little else was it was wedged between the two mountains.

Stinky's mouth opened and a glowing green light emanated from deep within as a warning of what was to come. The torrent of fire burst from the dragon's mouth and licked across the snow and rock. A thick haze of water vapour lifted into the air, but mixed with the toxic poison of the dragon it was far more toxic than the gas had been.

The airships above had faired somewhat better than the dragon and its riders. Elthain's plan had proved ultimately unnecessary and his ship was caught in the storm created by Jensen. The airship had spun off early, and crashed on the other side of the mountain to the dragon. Trylien's ship broke off to assist. The ship directly in front that had dropped Sorish had been pulled into the storm and was smashed around the valley. The remaining three were hovering over the crash site but not able to land while the dragon still lived.

[Philomel]

Astarelle landed by her and Philomel felt immediately the effect of those things called emotions.

The faun-whore's back molars grated together, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood on anxious end. Her hand clenched around tight around the hilt of her sword, sending the knuckles snow white, as white as the fair bodies of the fallen proper dead. Broken heart? Philomel had broken thousands of hearts in her years of service, from her first client when she was twelve years old, to the most recent man to offer her his hand in marriage. Laird Lorallie had been so desperate and young, and his kind spirit had been granted the rare gift of Philomel's pity. She could have had been an Earl's lady once, and then another time a Duchess. She even had pretended to be a princess to bring about the destruction of another's house, and every time someone's heart had been broken. She was good at it. Gods - she was thrice-damned perfect at it! It was basically her job description. Love was for fools, lust was for the needy and it was on those that she prayed.

Shaking her head in near disbelief she joined the girl in fighting, and said nothing of these interior thoughts.

Philomel turned away from Astarelle. She ignored her completely and looked around to where she thought she had left Veridian. Fox, fox, fox ... she noticed Jensen nearby, fancily gesture around with hands and arms. Looking like some poncy dancer. He flipped her off as he noticed her, and she scowled.

But she refused to fall into his trap of rudeness, and called out wjth her mind.

Veridian, my love, she called, where art thou?

Suddenly overhead a wild wind battered, flew past with the vigour of tempest and beast, and it smashed into the same wounded wing that Philomel had beaten. Smashed like a wave on a tortured beach, smashed like an egg in a bowl, smashed like a skull on a rock. Smash, smash, smash.

She screamed, suddenly. One word fell from her lips.

"VERIDIAN!!!"

She lunged for the airship. But something lunged for her beforehand. As panic raced into Philomel's system and her body began to exceed into overload via adrenaline, a clasp seized around her swordarm wrist. It was not unlike a manacle, an iron shackle that wrapped around there stout and unbreakable. It tethered her, restrained her back and sent her futile attempt to leap and save her beloved truly that - futile.

As the dragon roared in vehement pain and the tempest ripped open enough of the wing's wound to dethrone it, Philomel was forced the opposite way. The behemoth fell to earth, and she was cascaded into the sky, yanked by that vice-like grip. An unearthly scream ripped from her throat like a miscarried mother.

"VERIDIAN!" she shrieked, watching the remains of the dragon and zombies fall to the earth below, "VERIDIAN!"

She looked up, tears blossoming from her eyes, and was horrified to see her rescuer was the Ixian goddess slut.

"Let me go!" she begged, "Let me go. I cannot bear to lose him again ..."

[Roht Mirage]

Like a child snatching up candy, Astarelle claimed the war maul. Its power filled her veins, a torrent even stronger than the one Jensen summoned over the dragon's back. “Has he been good to you, dear?” she swooned quietly to it in that way that annoyed Jensen so very much. She barely heard Philomel's cry behind the scream of the wind and Crozius' powerful pulse.

Then, the fall began. On instinct, she grabbed Philomel's wrist with all of her sudden and unnatural strength. The faun continued to scream some sort of gibberish, but Astarelle paid no mind. She was saving the fool-whore! Her legs tensed, and she scanned the careening sky for Jensen. He was limp, falling fast enough to almost, but no quite, catch up to the dragon as it began to spin to its long overdue grave.

Astarelle jumped and drifted to the immortal as if in a dream; a howling, crashing, disorienting dream. With one arm fused by sand to Crozius and the other dragging a flailing faun skyward, she could only hug her arms around him. His limbs drifted and his hair snapped about. In his coat, that silly spear of his had skewered itself between the metal plates, making it flap around like an excited tail. Other than that, he was motionless. “You're mad, you know that?!” she shouted into his ear as if to wake him with the sheer stupidity of pointing out something so obvious.

The hug also drew Philomel close, and she began to make out the screams. “-just like before! You bastards are killing him again!” Astarelle tried to focus, but her eyes drifted along the line of Philomel's anguished gaze.

With half a mind, she directed a cluster of gem chips to coalesce against her chest, under her clothing where they had been affixed with sand. She began to feel their connection to another place; somewhere not too far away, somewhere with a stable floor, thank Roh.

With the other half of her mind, she watched a brown streak skitter across the dragon's writhing back. It ran as fast as its little legs could carry it, only to become lost in the roll of airship wreckage that no longer clung to its undead host.

Veridian. She finally remembered the name. It was Philomel's fox, the one that had died in Eiskalt, the one that the faun claimed could be resurrected in Corone's forests. That had been Astarelle's bait for dragging Philomel back with her, and she had savored the illusionary affection they shared on the voyage home while the faun, no doubt, had been the whole time pining for her one true love.

The ring of sapphire chips crackled with energy between her breasts.

The fox is immortal, just like Jensen, she told herself as she tried to focus on their destination. She looked at the immortal's dumbly sleeping face, and she knew that during his numerous deaths, one after another, she had never wept for him the way Philomel did for that fox.

Bothering to save either immortal is silly, really, came a sardonic thought that sounded maddeningly calm. Her panic paused for a moment, and she made her decision.

Astarelle leaned her lips to Philomel's ear, risking a cracked skull from her horns. “That love is real,” she whispered, then pulled away. The gem chips lay against Philomel's cheek where tears would have streaked if not for the wind. They hummed, became ethereal, and spread their light to the faun. Then, to the immortal. Bodies flashed away in striations of light, leaving Astarelle alone in the air. Just her and Crozius. “Haven't danced this one before, have we?” she asked the maul that, disappointingly, never answered.

With a snap of her arms, she thrust the maul below her. It split the air and dove, towing her with a force that defied logic; too much energy for her small mass, too much momentum to be restrained. Equal and opposite reaction be damned. Wind, indistinguishable from the dragon's howl, screamed past her ears. The beast still decended. But, so did she, and she was faster. With complete faith in their airborne dance, she closed her eyes.

Mistakes had been made in Eiskalt. Mistakes that saved a few lives, cost others, and still haunted her. Even running to Alerar – even jumping onto the back of a blasted dragon! - had done nothing but bring her face to face with those she had wronged. If serendipity saw fit to pull so many threads of the cosmic tapestry together, she had enough sense to see the obvious.

When you get the chance to remake your failed weaves, you take it... not because it will fix anything, but because it might not be as wrong.

She opened her eyes as the wind softened in the trough of the dragon's body. Her fall was hastened. Her clothing billowed forth all of her remaining sand. In its embrace, she plowed to a stop down the dragon's moving back far more gently than she would have struck solid ground. And she ran. Her sand gave her grip while Crozius gave her the strength to force herself over the scales faster than gravity tried to steal them away. Wreckage sloughed off the beast like dandruff, only to crack away as she swung the maul and danced ever forward.

Finally, she found it, the metal nose of a ship that had been the last place she saw the fox. He was still there, claws fastened to the charred inner edge of the large metal-and-wood cone as it bounced like a child's toy. She dove, leading with her dance partner. Her free hand grabbed the fox's mucky fur and yanked him with her into the tip of the nose. Behind her, a wash of sand crashed in, enveloping them in a desert womb little different than the one her people believed their goddess had been born in.

“If I survive this,” she said into the noisy, bouncing darkness and over the frantic nickering of Philomel's only love, “Jensen will get me drunk. He'll ask me, again, what in the depths I thought I was doing.” The fox balled itself up against her body, shaking furiously. “And I'll tell him what I always do.”

“Bury me if I know.”

[Enigmatic Immortal]

Jensen's body felt beyond exhausted. He was broken, disheaveled, and in desperate need of a drink. He had used all his willpower to battle the elements itself to bend to his will and managed to force the dragon to land. He had accepted that from his exertion he would probably pass out. The fall would kill him, but the fight would be over for good or for bad.

Yet it hadn't. Instead he was still in the air, despite being on a solid floor, and his eyes blinked in repetitive shock as he turned. He felt something gripping his jacket and he rolled to be free as his Switchblade staff came dislodged with a metal clink, rolling to the edge of the guardrail where it rested. He smiled picking up the obesely expensive weapon and taking it apart in practiced motions, returning all but the Cancer's Pincer to a resting state.

He was on an airship, that much was sure. But the beast had not died, merely crashed, hard, into the mountains. Chances were several people had died, if not all of them. He felt a wave of panic wash over him, but one turn to the right and he noticed the faun-whore was still with him. If she lived, and he lived without burning one of his immortal lives, than there was still a good chance Astarelle had saved them both and sacrificed herself.

"Dumb bitch," Jensen muttered. "I'm 'fricken immortal, why the hell would she save me?" He shook his head and noticed Philomel was in a tizzy about her fox friend. He passed by her, talking loudly in a dark tone. "Your little mutt isn't going to die for long. So stop giving a damn and help me solve this little problem with the dragon or everyone dies."

He didn't bother to listen to her retort, if she even gave one, but made his way for the bridge. He marched with measured confidence, keeping the crew away from him. Only one had asked where he thought he was going, and in return he punched him to the floor, walked over his body, and continued on. Most just left the knight alone after that. He turned up a flight of stairs and headed into the small oval room that was the bridge, klaxons blaring, people shouting, bodies moving. He moved right past the herd of people, and looked towards the dragon.

"Fucking isn't even scratched." Jensen clenched his fists in anger as he let out a frustrated sigh.

"And who are you to board my ship without permission?"

"The guy who grounded that beast," Jensen said coldly turning to see the Drow captain regard him. They said nothing before he nodded crisply and turned to the view port. He lifted a hand out and pointed to the harpoons.

"We have prepared to launch several on it now that it is downed. But there is a little problem. We are afraid he'll catch us and capsize the ship before we can get to optimal range to ensure it doesn't get back up."

"It's nestled pretty well between the two mountains, so it may be covering vital parts," Jensen added noting the location and terrain. "This ship sturdy?"

"At one point I used to think that," the Drow said with a half grin. "Not so much anymore. You have a plan, human, let's hear it." Jensen pointed to the prow of the ship. He lifted his head in a gesture.

"Think we could line up the harpoons on the front of the deck, and blast away like mad?" The drow nodded slowly. He waited as Jensen looked around the ship for the officer in charge of damage control. He snapped a finger to get his attention.

"Fairy fucker, you got life boats still?" The drow gave an indignant huff, but the Captain's stern gaze brought in line as he nodded quickly. "Captain, get the cannons and bolt throwers and whatever the hell to the front. Then whoever feels like serving their country can stay aboard and help me fire them right into the mouth of the beast."

"But to do that would require the ship to make a head on course. That's..." The captain let the thought slip for a moment. He looked back to Jensen, who still was stoic in the face of this. Whoever this man was, he thought bitterly, he was assured of his plan. The Captain nodded in understanding.

"All hands, abandon ship. Toss as many of the weapons to the prow and prepare to evacuate. I'll stay aboard."

"Don't have to," Jensen admitted as he turned to find the communications station. The Captain, feeling like he knew what he was looking for, pointed it out.

"A Captain always goes down with the ship. Besides, someone has to steer this thing into the jaws of death." Jensen nodded. "It's a shame...we never got to give her a name and now we're going to feed her to the dragon like a baby and a bottle."

"Then we should name her," Jensen said as he picked up the speaker horn. He tested it, found it awkward, but began shouting into it. "Whore-escort! If you can hear me, either get off the ship or help me fire as many cannons as we can. Xanbata, do me a favor and keep the dragon from destroying this ship. All other airships are to flank us and cover the escape pods. All personnel, per your captain, get the fuck off this ship becasue it's about to become the meal for the cranky baby!"

The Captain watched as Jensen turned away and headed for the deck, already cannons and bolt throwers being loaded and shoved forwards. Explosive barrels of gunpowder were also tossed up to awaiting hands to be rolled to the front of the deck. The crew that stayed, that knew their families and homes were in terrible danger, stuck to their duty while others escaped with their lives as they could. Nobody said much as Jensen approached the cannons, eyes fixed on the harpoon launchers. He noted the dragon was still trying to get up, and he smiled as the captain blared a war horn to indicate it was making the attack run.

"What's the designation of this air force?" Jensen asked.

"Alerian Airforce, A-A," one replied nearby, taking aim with a cannon. Jensen nodded.

"Then I hereby dub this ship," Jensen said kicking one leg to rest upon the cannon, aiming with a grin on his face and maddened chuckles returning. "The A.A. Renegade."

[hoytti]

Sorish was not a happy camper. First, the creatures on the back of the dragon had started to overwhelm his followers and even Sorish himself had started to falter under the shear number of them. Then the dragon went into an out of control spiral that made it land sideways in between two mountains as Sorish was thrown off the back and hit the side of the mountain. Now he is stuck in the snow, where he is now slow. As a cold blooded creature, Sorish started to get sluggish as he felt the cold seep through his water filled robes. Water filled robes that had started to turn to ice. If Sorish didn't get out of the snow soon, he would be frozen solid in a few minutes. And the only way out of the snow, was down. Sorish turned his back on the dragon as he started to descend from the mountain, in hopes that he could leave the cold.

[Hysteria]

Spirals of wind slashed and whipped through the air filled with deadly projectiles. Xanbata held on with all he could muster, but the slime coating the dragon's scales proved too much and he shot into the air. He may have been alright had he seen the hit coming. A piece of fuselage struck him from behind, and dazed the vampire. A harpoon was next and struck from the side, entering in up under his ribs and through his heart. Stricken, his last dazed thoughts was on the odd large man that appeared to be coming closer.

Sorish saw Xanbata coming. His giant legs pushed through the snow, but the recently disturbed powder and the icy cold slowing his blood proved too much. Vampire and Coralian slammed into each other with a bone and coral crushing force. For a second Sorish lifted his coral head, and seemed to have survived. At least, until a wing section from an airship fell on top of them and sliced them in two. Both would have to bath in their respective liquids for some time to repair that.

Stinky was unaware of the two hero's death behind it. The creature tried to shift again, but wiggle as it might it could not move. The dragon's head lifted back to the sky, a long drawn out howl escaped its mouth as it found itself permanently stuck. More flames burst from Stinky's mouth, licking across the black mountain rock like a tide. The thick green smog built up more and more, nearly all but the dragon's head was covered by the poison.

Astarelle seemed guided by fate, or perhaps idiotic luck. Her sand encased form slammed into the newly disturbed snow and sank a good metre. Her, and her vulpes cargo were behind the dragon's head on an area of its body covered by snow. The green smog that was encasing the creature formed an island around the pair, a sea of green on three sides, a sheer rock face on the other.

Grim137 is squished for not posting in time.
Hoytti is squished for being thrown off the back of a dragon into a mountain and not getting hurt.

[Roht Mirage]

The sand-stuffed nose cone came to rest with the dull thud of an acorn landing in winter's first coat. It was still and lifeless. Snow tumbled around it as the dragon flesh below convulsed with rage. In three directions, acrid fog rose like an apocalyptic sea approaching high tide. It showed no sign of capping.

From the acorn, there came a faint scratching and a muffled screech. Was it new life sprouting? The plug of sand burst skyward, germinating over the island of snow, and from below it popped
the sprout. Or, rather, a slashed and bleeding Fallien woman with a small tornado of foxy fury held in her outstretched hand. “Stupid karuku-tal!” she screamed as she unceremoniously tossed the little devil into the snow, “Not so much as a kiss for saving you. You learned your manners from that goat-harpy, didn't you?” Blood trickled onto the snow as Astarelle slung one bruised arm over the rim, then the other, Crozius still in hand. Its weight helped to pull her past the threshold that her legs were too weak to clear. With a soft squawk, she landed on her back in the snow. Crozius' comforting grip left her hand, and she took a shaky breath on her own power. It hurt like the depths.

From her right side, she heard a low hiss. “What?” she asked belligerently as she turned her head in the snow. First rain, now snow. Somewhere, a god is laughing. A few paces from her, she saw Veridian hunkered down as if about to pounce. His body said he intended to finish her off, a reward for her charity. But, his eyes said something different. They carried the weight of human thought, or close to it.

“Why?” he seemed to ask.

Astarelle sighed. Her hand flopped about in search of Crozius. “It's not what you think,” she said to the fox, which was a conversation no stranger than the one-sided-with-a-war-maul kind. “I don't want you two to owe me anything. Collecting would be way too much work.” Her hand brushed the cross at Crozius' hilt, and her fingers traced its leather-wrapped grip. “What you two have... it's-”

Her breath caught as her and maul became one once more. There was a sudden surge of life in every muscle. At that moment, she doubted she was strong enough to wrestle a child. But, she could inhale without the sensation of spraining something, and her limbs felt like they could power through the marrow-deep pain. “I had it once,” she said more clearly as she watched a puff of spent storm clouds drift along, “But it feels like a long time ago.” The fox quieted.

With a grunt, Astarelle pushed herself to a sitting position and cursed. “Bury me.” A thick green fog closed as if an ancient and vile crypt was exhaling upon the world. She looked to the fox, saw it shrinking back from the cloud despite its cute little mask, and she understood. The beast knew that, whatever this was, it was potent. Astarelle's inferior nose could detect death on the air. She tried to breath shallowly.

“My love...” she continued, though the fox seemed to care little. The words weren't for it, anyway. “He wasn't immortal.” She wobbled to her feet. Crozius glowed with a light that seemed to hold her upright. “And neither is yours.”

From the back of her stained armor, she drew two lengths of reed. They clacked heavily together as she lifted them high, then let one go. It snapped sideways in the air and connected, end to end, with the other. A bond of sand sealed the two halves into one complete staff. Then, she began to swing it. There was no dance; no intricate steps. She simply swung it over her head as if it was a priest's incense rod, sanctifying nothing in the name of any god. It whistled like a desert wind, channelling her sand from the surface of the snow to form a slow golden current around her. A million grains sang in a singular prayer for one bloody stubborn woman.

“Go to her,” Astarelle said to the fox. Moisture beaded on her bottom lashes. “I'll keep you safe.” With that, a stream of white grains stole away from the storm. They formed a pale, featureless mask over her face; barely thin enough to breath through, let alone see. But, Astarelle needed no sight - her eyes were free to leak, unbidden, under the mask. She needed only the storm. Snow, scales, smog. She felt it all through the touch of the sand. The snow, she stole skyward. The scales, she stepped over in plodding, heavy paces. The smog, voracious and persistent, pierced only slightly through the ever-hastening barrier.

And at the edge of it, she felt the fox's small body longing to go forward, urging her to move faster. She forced a bit of dance into her languid steps, and she advanced heedlessly toward the dragon's mountainous roar.

[Zack Blaze]

As Jensen tried to usher the people on the airship towards safety, he managed to forget three little details.

The airship had a brig. The brig had a prisoner. That prisoner was Zack Blaze.

The flame fisted miscreant was in the process of being transferred between Alerar and Corone when everything went south. Turns out, the captain of his airship volunteered to take down some sort of venomous dragon alongside a few other airships. The plan would have been fine if not for some hot headed warriors ushering people away in order to enact an incredibly crazy plan. The sudden disappearance of his guards and dead silence within the brig caused alarm in the youth.

He sat on the bed of hay with his eyes shifting as the airship buckled to and fro around him. The steel bars before him would be an obstacle to get past. The situation was worse by the fact that Zack was thoroughly checked before going into custody, and his equipment seized and placed upon a table. He sighed as he reflected on this and his potential death from the unknown. “Why is getting a trial in Corone so hard? If it’s not one thing, it’s another.�

The ship shook as if it were on land during an earthquake, and Zack’s head fell onto the cold floor with a thud. His vision was momentarily blurry, with three pure white orbs in front of his face. He tried to shake the proverbial and literal cobwebs out of his mind and hair, respectively when his vision finally came to. He smiled and his laugh echoed throughout the three cell brig as he reached for the single white orb, his teleportation stone.

“Welcome back, old friend,� Zack said with a smirk as he held the magical sphere in his hand, “Daddy missed you.� He chuckled as he stood up, already on the other side of his cell. He looked around for the table that held his gear while the ship once again rocked. He stumbled a bit, but managed to maintain his balance this time. He could hear the whatever-that-is roar outside in the fresh air, and it made Zack long for that same fresh air even more.

He walked down the brig, his journey a short one as he came across the table just in front of a staircase that lead to the upper quarters. He thought of how convenient this was for only a moment before he started to place his equipment back on. He gripped his fists within his fingerless gloves and realized they were a bit loose. Just how long had it been since he committed those villainous acts in Eiskalt?

He rolled his shoulders as he casually strolled up the stairs while removing some of his blonde bangs from his face. There didn’t seem to be much commotion anymore, so he figured most of the dark elves managed to escape with little effort. The only question left was what would cause such an immediate evacuation upon a heavily armed airship built by the finest Alerar had to offer?

He stepped onto the deck and found his answer.

The winds billowed past him at high speeds, the transport a jettisoned rocket that screeched towards a gaseous cloud. He squinted to keep things from flying into his eyes, though some unfortunate bugs felt like living bullets when they slammed into his cheeks. He held his strange hat in place to make sure the material didn’t unnecessarily unravel from the gales. As they approached the target closer, his olfactory senses kicked into overdrive, and he could smell something pungent in the air. The street fighter ran to the front of the deck, his eyes not capable of noticing the two would-be saviors scurrying to release more survivors.

He examined his target and looked for an opening. Luckily, amidst the clouds was a singular spot where the gas seemed completely filtered away. He could not make out anything else on the back of the beast. He could hear the screams of the passengers as they tried to leave with their lives intact. Somebody was shouting orders, but the youth could not tell who. At this point, Zack figured he only had one of two options.

“Better on the stationary target than the flying wreckage…� he said, and instantly vanished.

He appeared on the safe spot, confident that whatever the gas around the thing was could be dangerous. He found himself behind a fox, who seemed startled that someone instantly appeared behind it. To his side was a swirl of sand that seemed to push the fog back. More importantly, he stood before Astarelle Set’Roh.

“Oh Thaynes damn it….�

[Philomel]

Philomel blinked as the orders came, unceremoniously, over the loudspeaker. Her bottom lip curled and she turned to the nearest elf, looking at the blonde-haired beaux with disdain.

"He thinks he is funny. Funny!" she spat, "Its not funny yet, you brute!"

Kicking wildly at the nearest post she let out a small portion of her anger. So many problems, so many names. That's all they ever gave her - names, names, names. No thanks, no ounce of gratitude for saving their sorry behinds. No - just accusations and names and hatred.

"Well I can hate you more!" she yelled, then turned her mind over to Veridian.

He was safe and sound. That much she had, at least, already satisfying gained in knowledge. So bound were they that she could feel the icicles between his toes as he ran towards the dragon, his cloth mask still bound around his muzzle and nose, though wet from the snow. His breath, although, was changing that slowly, and he seemed to think that it would last and still serve its use. Just as hers did.

I am safe, she said to him, Fine, my love. Now you keep yourself alive and Astarelle too.

The Earth Spirit blinked, faltering slightly in his pounding step. The Ixian girl?

Yes, she saved my life once, just do it, please. Philomel said, rather rash and rudely. Her heart still was pounding from the possibility of losing him. Everything in her was pounding, come to that - her muscles ached, her brain ached, her hand that still gripped her sword, that was resounding in agony. Its was as if the dragon was roaring again and making her ears explode.

Veridian gave no answer, just a sense of confusion. He paused, then broke the connection mostly, only leaving a general sense of where he was and that he was there if she needed him again. Philomel did not wince, she only turned, and focused her resolve. Twisting away from the fox she let her wobbly hooves carry herself over the side of the airship, where a massive artillery iron cannon machine was mounted. She ran her hand over its smooth rounded end, staring at it with vivacity. What? What did it matter that she asked him to look after the Ixian girl? It was a sense of duty. That was all. After all, Astarelle had just saved Veridian from certain death. She still was a bitch no matter what, there was nothing more in it than that.

Her wandering hands found what must be the place where the flames go. To set off the gunpowder and send the ... large boom-bang off its rockers. Philomel turned, pointed to various elves and other alive or dying soldiers.

"Get the stuff to put inside them. The ammunition, whatever you call them. I will find fire."

She nodded. They just stood for a moment, rocking with the motion of the unsteady airship. It was veering out of the sky, hurriedly descending, but the blessing of her hooves and her people's ability to hold their own gave her the stamina to keep her head above deciding and dangerous waters.

The faun-whore growled, suddenly and loudly, at herself and at them. Her hoof rose and fell, it thumped on the wooden floorboards, sending a wave of attention through the men. Avant-gardly she raised her white blade and snapped it through the air, cleanly breaking the sound barrier.

"Jensen-bastard is in charge of this ship, and he told me to fire these things. Now get to work!" she screeched. "Get to WORK!"

They scrambled. The faun-whore stood there for a moment, then grinned. Turning quickly she looked at the meagre ground until she saw a bunch of matches. It was an easy guess and not hard to suss out that there would be some near cannons. Diving down she snatched them up, and waited until the men returned with the ammunition and suchlike that was useful to destroy a dragon from the sky. Smartly, she nodded at each one of them, whipping their butts into line with her sword.

(( Enigmatic murmur, do as you like. I have set it up so you can write it as you want ... ))

[Enigmatic Immortal]

Jensen felt the wind billow through his hair, the soft touch a comfort upon his warn features. He observed the others coming, a few more Drow who all took up arms and followed Philomel's commands like obedient dogs, but he knew they did it because it would save their homes. It was what it was all about, this fight. It was about protecting the land and the families within.

A stark contrast of Jensen from long ago and today formed a thought within the immortal's mind. Once, long ago, he would never have dreamed of lifting a finger to save another soul. Never before would he consider helping, of all people, the Elven nation. Now, on a ship setting course for the maw of the dragon, he contemplated a few things. How did his life change? Surely Sei Orlouge was the start of the avalanche. Then with the adoption of his precious treasure Azza Ambrose he admitted he changed. It furthered with the love he felt for Stephanie, blossoming from years of constant companionship and friendship. His heart rose and beat no longer to support himself, but those around him.

However, he knew the catalyst for his sudden conviction. Cassandra Remi had taken much from the immortal, so young into his growing maturity. He vowed to protect those around him from that day on, protect people who were close to him, people he didn't know, it didn't matter. He devoted an immortal existence to the common cause of goodwill. He had no shiver in his spine. He had no hesitation in his thoughts. He had no heavy weight in his heart. He turned to the others on the ship, seeing their resolve waiver. They had a purpose, but they also did not have immortality.

"Stay the course, and prepare to fire on my mark!" Jensen bellowed his command, and the Drow replied as one.

"Aye!"

"Train your weapons upon it's maw, its eyes, anywhere you can find purchase! We carry the flag today!" Jensen felt the heat of confidence, the thrill of a conclusion coming. He knew full well what he was doing, and could almost see the approving nod from Adolph Gretzle, Relussiarch of the Ixian Knights, all the way back at the castle. "Those on the ground and those in the sky. From the seat of gods, to the perch of ants, all eyes will look upon us today!" Jensen lifted himself above the cannon before him, climbing it swiftly. "We show defiance in the face of adversity, stoicism in the gaze of death. Steady your hands, for those who look to us will remember our actions at this very moment!"

The dragon's roar was deafening, and the immortal could feel in the wind that it had noticed their approach. He had suspected that it would eventually. He turned to it, pointing down upon the creature. "See it's fear! It howls at us, afraid of the impending doom! It will lash at us like a cornered snake! But it will not change our path nor sway our minds! We have nobler cause, higher standards of life to preserve. We fight not to save our lives, or even the lives of those in the valley! We fight to end the beast that would conquer this whole land!"

A few shouts of agreement channeled to the knight, filling the air with a sudden tension as the elves prepared themselves. Jensen felt the moment invigorate him, letting the heat of the dragon pass him as he jumped down. The Elves all talked amougnst each other as they waited for the signal. As they waited, one elf, younger than any of those gathered, began to sing, a low, droll tone, but steady in rhythm. Jensen barely could recall the tune, an old, very old war song. Sung when a warrior's death draws near. He remained quiet as he listened, watching as the dragon perched forwards, shaking it's massive head side to side, as if preparing for something.

"Lu'vel'uss ph'dos, l'vhaid senger telanthus, nindel Usstan z'klaen b'luthyrr ji ugul?" The words were soft as Jensen felt the pressur eint he air shift inwards, the ship rolling downwards, picking up momentum. A Drow arrived to Jensen, tapping him on the shoulder. Jensen turned to see he had a unique instrument in his hand, several wires running back to the inner ship. He knew instantly it was the communications block, and it probably was now spliced into the warhorns upon the ship. Jensen nodded and took it.

"Er'griff natha murrpau d'natha endar colno', nindel's jal l'aster Usstan zhaun. Wun natha colno'd'plak'la xor natha colno'd'phish, natha Leeon k'jakr uriu claws, Lu'usst ph'verve lu'zik, ussta senger, 'zil verve lu'zik 'zil dossta." More of the Dark Elves picked up the song, their chanting vibrant, keeping in pace with each other. It was glorious, and Jensen felt the shivers of anticipation.

"Lu'ji uk Kirn', lu'ji uk Kirn', nindel Senger d'Castamere, Jhal nin l'rains niyar o'er ukt tullus, xuil nau uss gaer ulu nym'uer. Siyo nin l'rains niyar o'er ukt tullus, lu'naut natha quortek ulu nym'uer." The Drow sang on, repeating the song anew when they finished, and the immortal nodded, knowing full well what was coming next. He paused, only a moment, before he gripped the cannon tightly. The air pressure spiked, then with a sudden roar, muffled at first then growing in strength, the dragon released a volatile strip of flame, the noxious fumes in the air igniting like a trail of gunpowder. The ozone burnt around the dragon, rising up and higher.

And still the Drow sang, not missing a beat.

Jensen turned to Philomel. He was unsure what to do, how to feel about the whore, but he also knew in this one moment, on the vow he made, that he had one last task to perform. He removed his jacket, and tossed it around her shoulders. "Belay my orders. Get out of here. I don't care how you do it. If you can't get off the ship...I don't know, hide in the back of the boat and pray to the Thaynes."

Her snort of an answer was expected. "You barking more orders, Captain?" Jensen gave her a disgruntled, exhausted face. "Why do you even care?" Jensen could taste the venom from her words, but he said nothing. Instead, he looked around and spotted a lifeboat still clinging to the boat. He pointed it out to her. She turned to it, looking apprehensive.

"This is going to blow up," Jensen said matter-of-factly. "There is a chance we may not even make it to the dragon in time. I have no clue how the next few minutes are about to play out. I would like to have one promise kept before then."

"Promise?" she mouthed as he turned and walked away from her.

"I do not control you, Whore-scort. Stay if you wish, but know you are not beholden to stay. It was silly of me to ask you to take your life when someone out there cares about it."

"I don't love her!" Philomel said with more anger and spite than she probably intended. Jensen looked back to her, a very tired look on his face. He said nothing to her. There was little too say. They both had probably destroyed a friendship that could have lasted for years on end. Maybe this was his way of repairing the damage, or maybe he was caring more about another friend of his. In the end, he cared not what Philomel van der Aart had to say about his character. In the end, he kept his promise to himself. He protected one more life.

"I never said it was her." The last words Jensen had said made the faun look, longingly, towards an undescribed location. It had clicked in her head what he meant, but how he knew, she wasn't sure. Jensen wasn't sure either. But everyone's heart had one thing they loved. Be it power, money, or a relationship that transcended time. But Philomel did love something and Jensen wouldn't tear that away recklessly.

The Faun made way to escape, reaching the lifeboat with impressive speed. Jensen turned to the Drow, still singing their song of war. The flames rose higher and higher, aiming towards the ship, and the bottom of the boat was caught in the blast of the first heat wave. He could hear the snaps and pops of wood cracking, and the crew heard it too. He looked to them, then back to the cannons. On they sang.

"Our course is set!" Jensen said into the jury rigged ship communications. His words blared over the valley in a trumpet like noise. Loud and clear he came in, and the immortal took one moment before he let out a final breath, the last one this life would have. "There is no return now, bush humpers! Give the engines everything its got! Give us ramming speed!"

The ship moved forwards, lurching ever so faster as the Captain made haste shoveling as much coal into the engine as possible, the helm locked by his sword into place. He sweated like a grunt on the first day of basic, eyes bulging from the exertion. His lips moved, gasping for air that was humid and hot, and upon his whispered labored breaths he sang as well.

The dragon rolled his head side to side, clearing up his passage as he let loose another wave of fire. This blast was far more concentrated, less congested and randomly spreading everywhere. It flew onto the ship, crackling away at the wooden side panels. The prow of the ship rippled away in a heat wave, the first of the fires licking over the edge. Still singing, the Drow not assigned to cannons began to throw their clothes and anything else they had on hand to put out the flames. The concentrated blast of the dragon breached the first layer of the hull, and two Dark Elves lit up, rushing around in agony and screaming as they collapsed, trying to put the flames out. Jensen brought the device to communicate closer to him, feeling the sadistic touch of mirth build within him.

He looked to the dragon through the haze of heat, already used to the extreme temperatures. He had fought William Arcus, a living furnace if there was such a thing, and this was nothing compared to the close proximity of the demonkin. He looked right into the eyes of the beast, and when he saw it the iris slowly widen, he roared to his men.

"FIRE ALL CANNONS NOW!"

A thunderclap of noise punctuated the air with a sharp rapport. Harpoons, cannonballs, bolt throwers, and anything else launched as the dragon took an inhale of breath to release more fiery fumes. The beast lowered its titanic head, screeching in pain as the top of its crown turned into a dust cloud of impacts, trembling voice shaking the very ground around it. Jensen called for the reload, his voice hoarse as the elves went to work, his laughter returning in full force.

"FIRE AT WILL! GIVE THE BABY HIS FUCKING BOTTLE!" His laughter echoed in the canyon, interrupted only by the sudden blast of cannons, and the few shots of harpoons. The head of Stinky rose, fire billowing from it's mouth in tandem, a ring of flame catching the ship head on. Bolt throwers caught alight, the crew burned, and even the immortal felt the shirt he wore burn a hole to his skin, marking him with a sharp sting. He put the flames out, the heat making his body sweat all over. He went to touch the cannon to aim it, burning his fingers and causing him to bellow out in alarm. He folded his hands into his shirt, pushing past some pain to aim the cannon, before a return sweep of the dragon's flames hit the ship fully again.

The newly dubbed A.A. Renegade was ablaze. The sails burned like the stakes of vampire hunts, the ship's skeletal core exposed to the sky around them. Like a mighty fireball from a colossal wizard it dived, still on course for the head of the diseased beast. Jensen's laughter echoed on the war horns, a defiant shriek of nihilistic torment and defiance. He was burning alive, his skin peeling and his hair burning away. One of the cannons misfired and the blast took his arm, the immortal wailing in throes of painful fits. His wound felt like it was being forged on the anvil of life, his eyes weeping boiling liquid tears. The pain was so intense he forgot how to even speak. The Drow sang no more, their lives ended in the inferno.

Jensen moved to the only remaining Harpoon launcher, one hand cradling his wound, his boots melting to the floor as the dragon yelped loudly in shock, unable to comprehend the ship's ability to keep coming. Jensen still laughed, more from habit than actual recognition, but it was haunting in its maddened deranged chuckles and guffaws. It echoed off the mountain, all around the dragon, causing it to spout more flames at the incoming meteor.

He took what little flesh he had on his remaining hand left, finding the trigger. The only thing that kept Jensen alive was the eldritch green energy pulsing around his body from the Breath of the Undying, keeping his wounds from killing him outright. But even the power of the Storm Lord who gifted such a thing to him would not save him from this. He would surely die, but it allowed him the precious moments he needed. He waited, patiently, still laughing and wheezing, coughing up blood and smoke, for his shot, and when the dragon went to inhale again he trusted all the Horsemen of the Apocalypse to guide his harpoon as he aimed for the center of the beasts throat.

"Op...en...wide..." Jensen wheezed and chuckled into the warhorn, the fire engulfing him fully as the ship made way to collide with the beast.

[Hysteria]

Green fire licked away flesh like a child and his candy. Wood charred, metal melted and coal... well coal exploded. The dragon's mouth was open wide; flames bursting forth. Harpoons and cannons were fired at nearly point blank range and rained destruction on the creature's already damaged face. There was a break in the flames as Stinky lifted his head up in shock, the last thing Jensen saw through blurred vision was the dragon's teeth coming down on the ship. Then the coal had its moment.

A explosion ripped from inside of the dragon's head outwards. The shattered bones and muscle from the barrage of attacks simply crumbled behind the explosion and the dragon's face was ripped apart. A brief shock-wave cleared the green gas, and the dragon's jaw was easily seen tumbling through the snow in one direction and the rest of his face in the other. Stinky was dead.

From the bloody end of the dragon's throat poured a thick green liquid. The gunk had been gathering in the creature's lungs, and now poured freely from the opening and pooled on the valley floor.

For a moment there was silence. The elves in their lifeboats, the dragon, even the mountains seem to pause. Then the cheer. Elves aboard the remaining two cheered at the victory, as did those floating in the small gas filled boats.

The air was brighter, filled with elation even, as the remaining airships kicked into gear and started scooping up the adrift elves. Below the dragon's corpse seemed to continue the produce the toxic green gas as before, although at a far slower rate. The pool of slimy green sap continued to grow as it poured from the dragon's corpse.

[Roht Mirage]

The snow that cradled Astarelle's head must have been freezing her brain, because she had trouble recalling the last few moments. It came slowly. Her eyes fluttered, unsure if she was viewing a memory or a dream.

She had been on the thrashing neck of the beast with Veridian ahead of her. The fox had stopped and was looking back at her with an odd expression. Then, it was looking to the side in surprise. Astarelle turned to find herself face to face with... someone. Her mask melted away so that she could see, and her face was suddenly drawn as pale as the sand.

Zack Blaze. Zack sun-scorched Blaze! She had not seen him in a long time. But, she couldn't forget the face of the man who had once attempted to assassinate her. By all accounts, he was also the cause of the Eiskalt war. It was too impossible; serendipity turned cruel. Astarelle had no idea if she should laugh, scream, or cry. All sounded too tiring. She only managed to mutter, “This is getting ridicu-” before the world cracked open in a crescendo of fire and fury.

Next thing she knew, she was laying on her back in the snow once more. Crozius was nowhere to be seen. But, to be fair, the resistance of the snow around her ears kept her from looking far. The stench of acrid death had turned to one of char, but she couldn't even wrinkle her nose in response. Bury me, she cursed internally to save her strength.

Somewhere close, footfalls crunched through snow. They were heavy. A tall figure moved into her blurring vision. “Jensen?” she asked softly. A drop of honey in her voice was all she could muster for him, though she might have kissed him if her body wasn't numb from the pain and the cold.

“No,” answered Zack bug-sucking Blaze.

Astarelle let her eyes close. Seeing was too much strain. She exhaled slowly. If I'm going to die, I'm going to take my sweet time, you bastard. He didn't say anything. Cheers rose far away. Closer, a gloppy rush of fluid fell from some great height. Still, nothing from Zack, though she could feel his blasted gaze on her. Somehow, she found the energy to scowl, and she worked the one part of her body that she had always known would die the slowest.

“I met Cellar Door,” she said strongly as if Crozius, wherever it might be, still powered her voice, “I helped her get off the streets. She... helps me be good.” Her mind's eye drew a picture of the plain young woman, brilliant blue eyes her only remarkable feature. In those eyes, there was an ocean of honesty, sincerity, and more wisdom than Cellar would ever admit. If the old Astarelle of Fallien had been told that she would find both a sister and a conscience in a Coronian girl, she would have spit. This Astarelle, the Astarelle of Corone and Eiskalt and the undead-stricken elflands, could only smile – until smiling proved too strenuous. “We've argued... about wars. About you. She thinks you have some good in you. I think you're just a monster. Now comes the truth. What's left of me is all yours, monster. Prove Cellar wrong.”

Her voice trailed off. Her pulse pounded in her ears. If he had responded during her final diatribe, she mostly likely wouldn't have heard, nor did she care. She didn't want to be present for whatever he was about to do to her. She wanted to be a spirit like the fox, to run after him and see with her own eyes that he reunited with his love... because something beautiful just had to survive all this poison.

[Philomel]

Cascades of shadow and flame, acid and infestation, scale and flesh. The dragon blasted beneath her into a thousand flames, its throat suddenly no longer able to swallow and chew but entirely obliterated. Teeth, tongue, eyes, they were all quickly devoured by the immense power of the explosion. The wave of energy sent by it was like a wind, and it swept up Philomel's tiny loan ship with the nature of maelstrom, throwing her from above the mouth to a place near the clouds, all in the space of one gulping breath of her lungs.

Philomel!

The word was thunderous and powerful in her head. It was a shout, a cry, a bellow, designed to catch her attention, and that was perfectly and adequately what happened. Her attention switched, focusing around from trying to unsteadily drive this minature model airship in the aftermath of the explosion, to finding him. She leaned forwards, her hands grappling with the simple set of controls in front of her and the comfy seat that held her arse. Her eyes looked from the scattered blud sky, filled with smoke and ash, to the white world beneath her, trying to gain the sense of where the shout came from.

Philomel, he yelled, Philomel, come hither! The girl is in trouble!

Girl, in trouble. Immediately the faun-whore's exquisite lips parted, smeared partly in soot. Her hands worked before her mind caught up, swinging the lifeboat around back towards the dragon, heart thumping.

Where? she asked, Where are you, Veridian?

A view of white snows and falling ash came into view, coupled with the noise of destruction and the smell of burning. It could have been anywhere, really, on the entire mountainside, but his attention to detail and his very sense of presence told Philomel his location. She swung the uneasy ship around, and though it creaked with annoyance to her unskilled hand it did as it was bidden. Her eyes searched, and she saw the distinct russet form bounding over the snow peaks and troughs of the mountain.

An easy spike of bare rock jutted from the snow. The faun-whore twisted the properllor with vivacity, spinning it around in a tight circle before dropping the large lever that saide "weights" usefully beside it. A thunk sounded and the ship's bottom seemingly got heavier, anchoring it down. The clang of metal sounded against rock, and for Philomel, for the moment, that would work. She ran, as fast as she could, towards the angled side door, still open from her escape, and threw herself out of it. Landing rightly on two hooves she set directly into a charged run, her sword slapping against her back in its sheath. Her fists beat the air, defying it to stop her as she threw herself towards her goal.

He found her first. Coming as a comet of orange-red he split from the white scenery he collided with her breast. She was knocked over - hells, she willingly allowed herself to be knocked over, right into the comfort of the snow, and together they rolled, screaming through the mind and with voices loud, the joy of enternal love in their tongues.

Philomel! he howled, barking as joyful as any fox might.

Veridian! she brayed, letting out a fantastically light goat's bleat. Veridian, Veridian, Veridian!

For a while they just rolled. They just embraced. Small fox and taller faun rejoiced in the presence of one another, enjoying the time of simply being alive. One and all, all and one, they were reunited, and that was the most important thing in the universe. The most beautiful thing of existence!

"Veridian," she sighed, snuggling into his fur, "I am so happy to see you again."

And I you, Philomel, he said, But the girl ...

The girl. Ah yes, the girl. Astarelle.

Part of Philomel suddenly did not care. She did not care about how Astarelle fared, whether she lived or died. After all, what was the "Roht Mirage" but a spoilt priestess, a Farohtian bitch who had only sarcastic and rude things to say. She had no real feelings for Philomel, no real concern, all she wanted was her ego to be soothed.

Philomel?

"Fuck it," Philomel groaned, nodding, "We have to."

She spread out her arms, surrendering, and Veridian hopped out of them. He scuttled to the side, shaking his tail, then stood there, waiting, golden eyes blinking. He watched as Philomel lay there for a moment, grumbling to herself in faunish, before the assassin-whore deigned it right to roll over and get to her feet.

"Fine. Fine, fine, fine."

You said she did save your life once, Verdian said, twisting around to the direction of the dead dragon, And she just saved mine.

Philomel tensed, leaning down to begin a mighty spurt of running. Yes, love, but only reluctantly.

Hoof and paw released from the ground and they began their sprint, right across the snows. Makeshift cotton mask and mask from some other world across their faces the two of them charged in the direction the Earth Spirit had seen Astarelle fall.

Coming to the crest of a small hill Philomel saw was had become of Astarelle Set'Roh. And she saw another individual also, a man, who had the priestess in his arms. Astarelle was there, limp, ill it seemed. And there was acid slowly seeping towards them, an ugly sort of ill-timing that could have only come from the infected dragon.

Angling down her horns the faun-whore threw herself straight into the fray. Anger raged through her system, pure solid fury that was like the goat-beast. She aimed for the man's temples, which was easy as he stood at the exact same height as herself. In synchronisation, needing no words, Veridian threw himself forth also, taking the ankle as his own pain point.

As the ram horn's collided with Zack Blaze Astarelle's prone form slipped from his arms. Philomel partly tugged the girl from him, taking her willingly into her own hands, and saying nothing. She just stepped back, head-butt done and was satisfied to find the priestess now in her possession. Nodding smartly the faun turned around, leaving him to deal with his bleeding head and nipped-at ankle. The acid was still coming but by the time they got back to the ship it would be nothing to worry about. The faun and the fox left him without so much as an explantion, only glancing back around once to check he was still there.

[grim137]

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”

Jensen's tornado smashed the into the dragons wing and buffeted the the back of the large beast with icy, gale force winds. With no bootylicious Farohtian babe to save his sorry ass like Jensen and the goat girl, Xanbata Grim was forced to fend for himself. The tenacious blood drinker frantically scrambled for something, anything to hold on to. Zombie, dark elf or dragon scale it didn't matter. His desperate hands grasped at anything while his lips screamed sweat slurs in Jensen's name. The fact that he managed to accidentally drag a few creature's to their deaths was of little comfort to him.

Eventually he ran out of things to grab at and got flung into the air like so many other pieces of trash. Wind, gore and all manner of debris from the crashed airs ships whipped around Xanbata's flailing body as he desperately to right himself and gain at least some semblance of control over the precarious situation. It was all for naught. The first piece that struck him, a large piece of fuselage from one of the ships, did so in the back of his head and caused a concussion. Dazed and confused, with his vision and blurry and his reaction speeds reduced to nearly nothing Xanbata never really had a chance to avoid what came next. The harpoon met no resistance as it slipped underneath his armor and broke through his rib cage to pierce his heart.

Xanbata Grim died again.

He couldn't tell you what happened after that. He remembered experiencing a truly terrifying sense of déjÃ* vu as he spiraled through the after life and smelled the smoke and sulfur of the hells. Xanbata Grim screamed in pain as it's shadowy denizens clawed and grasped at him eager to have him back. Their horrific appendages hurting him in ways no blade in the mortal realm ever could. Then it was like he'd been tethered to a chain as he fell and someone or something abruptly yanked the other end.

Xanbata Grim woke in the mountains an unknown time later. For all he knew it could have been seconds or it could have been days. The monster got up on wobbly legs. The ice and snow that had covered him in his resting place crunched, cracked and fell away just as the memories of the afterlife faded again. His body ached and his head felt light but miraculously he seemed unharmed. Even his gear which would have surely been damaged on the tornado or the great plunge that had followed seemed not only to be all present and accounted for but in pristine condition as well.

He didn't know what kind of magics had brought him back to life or why but one thing was for certain. By some unholy miracle or another, Xanbata Grim was alive again.

As his strength returned so did his hunger. The vampire was absolutely starving now. Quickly and frantically he looked around with all six of his senses hoping to find a food source. His eyes looked on the corpse of a drow that had landed in nearby snow bank. Like a lion in a famine the hungry predator pounced on the frozen carcass of the once noble dark elf. His powerful fangs easily pierced the icy hide which had taken on a leather like texture and the crimson liquid flowed down the vampire's throat like icy cold beer fresh from the tap. Xanbata had never relished the metallic taste of blood more in his life.

Once his hunger was satisfied the next feeling to over take Xanbata Grim was anger. Not the kind blinding berserker kind that people that people so often heard stories about but the hate fueled, focused kind. Sitting himself down in the snow Xanbata Grim closed his eyes and concentrated, looking for the life force of Jensen Ambrose just to make sure the immortal was still alive. When he found it Xanbata got up, smiled and began slowly heading down the mountain in that direction.

He didn't know if the anti-healing properties of his own magic could over come his commander's world famous immortality but he felt it was a good time to find out. Jensen's actions had caused his death and Xanbata wanted to return the favor. Maybe he would feel differently once he had time to think things through and cool down. That remained to be seen. But for now Xanbata Grim was curious to see just how resilient the immortal asshole was.

[Zack Blaze]

An explosion of blood, bone, scales, gas, and pus knocked both Zack and Astarelle down the back of the behemoth boss of the battle. He slammed onto the new corpse with a loud crack; the sound of his shoulder slammed against the hard surface once known as Stinky. He groaned and stood up, his body dizzy from a combination of both the gas he did inhale, and the sudden jolt of being thrown around by his gargantuan nemesis. The boy’s eyesight focused on a singular body, one that had swirls of sand constantly around it to keep the dangerous fumes at bay.

Astarelle saved him, if only by accident. It made for one ‘death’ and one salvation caused by the sand bitch. Zack cracked his knuckles as he approached the prone form of the Fallien child, a smirk plastered across his features. He was going to Corone willingly to ‘atone for his sins’. Surely, committing yet another sin to his list would not affect anything in the long run.

“Jensen?” The down girl asked. Her vision must have been blurry to not recognize her own foe. Blinded and half-dead would normally be a circumstance that most would use their ‘honor’ as an excuse to not kill this woman. Astarelle caused Zack too much har4dship, however, and the single-word question alerted the street fighter that the more powerful Jensen Ambrose was in the area. Blaze would not be able to make this kill long and drawn out, but quick and (unfortunately) painless before the skilled immortal arrived to rescue his comrade-in-arms.

“No,” Zack replied, his tone almost solemn as he balled his fists tight and caused the limbs to ignite with fire. If he could not enjoy the kill, he would make sure there would be nothing left for Ambrose or the soldiers of Alerar to find.

“I met Cellar Door,” Astarelle whispered softly. The simple words caused Zack to straighten his posture, and his flames to instantly vanish. ““I helped her get off the streets. She... helps me be good.”

“She has that effect on people.” Zack whispered softly as his own recollection of the frail girl appeared in his mind. He helped Cellar contact some Knights of Dawn, sacrificed his own body to help the poor girl. His arms still ached from the bite of a dog long dead when he thought of Cellar. He rolled his shoulders and sniffled a bit, a reaction of allergies thanks to the high altitude of the mountaintops and the poisonous gas.

“We've argued... about wars. About you. She thinks you have some good in you. I think you're just a monster. Now comes the truth. What's left of me is all yours, monster. Prove Cellar wrong.” Astarelle barely managed to get the words out before her head turned and she was out like a small flame under a thumb.

Zack stood there for a moment and listened to the hiss of acidic liquid as it crept closer towards him and the downed body of the girl. Nobody would blame him if he left her there to die. Cellar would not even know he was a murderer.

But he would know.

“Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck FUUUUUCK!” The boys profanities echoed in the distance as he stomped his foot several times. His blood boiled and his body trembled. He scooped up the girl and growled. As much as he wanted to end her right there, to snap her neck with a quick twist, he knew where the true victory was. Astarelle being wrong would be worth more than a dozen kills to the boy, even if it was not at this exact moment.

He could hear approaching footsteps, so he walked towards them. The sight of the goat-girl and her fox left him unfazed, as he still seethed over his lack of a dead sand-demon. His eyes widened as both woman and familiar attack him together. He moved his ankle slightly as well as motioned his body backed. He tossed the body towards the girl, who caught the unconscious Fallieni and seemed confident enough that she had hurt Astarelle’s assailant. He moaned to play along with the girl, and even consciously twitched his ankle so the fox thought it grabbed itself a snack. Everything was a matter of perception, after all.

“Philomel!?” Zack heard the name called from a distance. He fell to the ground to continue to play into his act and groaned. The name rang a bell within the boy’s mind; Philomel was one of the operatives for the Order of the Crimson Hand that helped the street fighter raze Eiskalt. She was an asset to Lichensith Ulroke and as such, a threat to Zack and Misery Business. He squinted his eyes just enough to make sure they appeared closed until Philomel turned away from checking on the boy. He quietly stood, and withdrew his sword, a broad smile upon his face.

“Luck still seems to have a thing for me,” Zack shrugged as a plan formed into his mind and the sword at his hip unsheathed, “Not that I blame her. I mean, look at me.”

He grabbed the hilt of his blade with both hands and pointed the tip of the weapon towards his stomach. With one sudden thrust, a spray of rest mist and stained steel exited through the spine of the boy. He screamed as he fell to corpse of Stinky once more. His body convulsed as he willed himself to reach into his pocket and grab the teleportation stone. The stone that saved Zack Blaze moments ago would be the harbinger of his death.

He slowly pulled the stone out of his pocket and tapped the sword that still impaled his form. The weapon vanished, only to appear atop Astarelle’s body harmlessly, and by proxy, within Philomel’s arms. He could hear the soldiers, and most likely Ambrose, closer now. He could also hear the sudden screams of anger from the people. Zack Blaze was a war criminal, but he also had given himself over to the authorities with no fight and awaited a public trial for the world to see. To murder (or rather, to implicate murder) of such a high profile target would put Philomel in the spotlight. Even if she was not charged, all eyes would be on the goat-girl for a while now. Lichensith would lose one of his prized pawns to a great play by Misery Business’ knight.

“Is that….is that Zack Blaze?!” Someone shouted as Zack began to fade out of consciousness, his blood a gruesome geyser of gore upon the dragon’s back. A large hole was now in the center of the boy’s body; organs dangled out and touched the rough scale of the beast. He coughed and a spray of blood left the orifice. He could feel the acid as it ate away as his clothes, and began to burn his skin. His body pulsated with each ounce of crimson life force that left him. With his last breath he reached out and dipped his hand into his own blood. The single digit managed three letters before the pain of the acid and the gaping hole became too much for the boy to bear.

P H I

The last letter trailed directly to his hand, and the fresh corpse that now hissed and sizzled from the corrosive liquid that began to surround him. Three simple letters would be enough to point the finger at his ‘murderer’. Even if the guards couldn’t find a way to revive him and make sure he saw a trial proper, he would gain the last laugh. As the acid ate away at his body, anyone who dared to get close enough would see the true face of Zack Blaze. Even after his flesh was gone, and muscles and nerves were fed to the liquid around him, there was something strange about the corpse.

Zack Blaze died with a smile on his face.

[Enigmatic Immortal]

Even after the events that took out Stinky, there was still a crew of hard workers making sure to survey the area, handle any remaining fungal zombies, and ensure Stinky didn’t get the same idea of clinging to un-life. However, twenty four hours later, the dragon was pronounced dead and staying that way. The ozone had cleared only a bit from the sickly fumes of toxic poison, and several elves walked around in face masks to prevent disease. But in this moment of time peace was considered to have settled over the land and the remaining airships had begun the long process of clean up. The government had been sent questions regarding what to do with the colossal carcass of decay. It sent little in the way of thrills to the remaining mercenaries that the official response was more shocked that there even had been survivors.

Jensen’s world was black. Pitch black to be perfectly clear. His muscles, blood, and thoughts were still and silent. Even in this state, where he could do no more than grasp a single concept, he knew the only truth he could cling to. He was dead, and about to revive. Green lines of eldritch lightening passed the air, crisscrossing around his body stitching wounds and obliterated parts of his body. The unusual phenomenon of his resurrection had never been seen by any eyes, save two men from his old order in the Knights of Apocalypse. Even the immortal had no clue how it worked, but he just knew he did come back, regardless of what tragic malady had felled him.

When his body was back, and his nerves shocked into tingling like little daggers, heart slowly beating back into a steady rhythm, and blood rushing his veins he opened his eyes with a start. The location he had come back to life stunk fiercely and vibrantly of rotting flesh. He wrinkled his nose in disgust, coughed his lungs clear, and inhaled deeply, repeating the process. A soft crinkle of moving debris alerted the knight and he turned to see Xanbata the vampire stalk towards him with a purpose.

“Captain,” the vamp said with an edgy tone of contained anger. “So good to see you back with us in the land of the living.” He offered a very mocking bow. Jensen snorted indifferently, standing up with a groan of effort and popping every bone in his body. When he shook the numbness out of his feet he turned back to wetworks team member. His glare said a few words the immortal could understand clearly.

“You upset about something?” Jensen asked in a veteran’s snarl. It took a bit of effort not to add the word ‘boy’ to his gruff words. Xanbata shrugged as he moved in closer, his eyes scanning the distance between the immortal and the creature of the night. “I have lost all my patience with the damn dragon. Get it out or leave me be.”

“I just was curious why you had no problems consigning me to death. You sure looked like you cared only about saving the sand slut and her furry whore girlfriend. Hoping for the threesome?” Jensen’s glare was intense as his mouth curled into a low growl. “Don’t get petty with me, Captain,” Xanbata shot back. “Your idiot plan didn’t include saving me. A lot of lives died so you could seal the deal to bump pelvises with those two-“

The movement was fast, faster than the Vampire expected. He blinked only once, and Jensen was in his face, boots moving to push him back. He complied only to prevent himself from tripping, but kept his spine straight. He shoved a finger up to give them a breath of distance. Jensen swatted the offensive digit aside, and spoke in careful measures. “Your job as a member of the Ixian Knights is to protect those who can’t protect themselves. To give your life to save another if need be.”

“Spare me the goodwill speech,” Xanbata muttered rolling his eyes.

“As a member of my team I only expect you to fucking listen and obey,” Jensen shot his words out with heated intensity. “My orders were pretty generous for you, Xanbata. I gave you free reign to go nuts, knock some heads in so long as I could do my job. What I needed to do was kill this dragon. All things considering your past, i'd consider it a generous favor.”

“Yeah, and you nearly took out all those lives you valiantly wanted to save.” He took a step in to be nose to nose with the leader of the Wetworks team.

“You upset that I didn’t hold your hand, Xan?” Jensen teased with no mirth. “You going to cry like a little bitch because I wasn’t fast enough to save your little life? That I didn’t tuck you fucking in at night?” They both were on the verge of doing a rather rash thing, fingers darting from weapon to weapon like a chef choosing the correct knife to cut a piece of meat. They didn’t back down from each other, and Jensen made his next words hidden with deadly intent. “You are part of my team where I give you the orders to do as you are fucking told. I’m not your god damned babysitter. You want that, join the reformation team and enjoy your little shock collar like a good bitch dog.”

“Just making sure you know where your head is, and that all the blood is running in the right places,” He tapped Jensen’s hip and winked, backing away to signal he was finished with the conversation. Jensen ran a hand through his hair and debated how to proceed. Thankfully, Xanbata’s tone indicated he was done with the matter for now and Jensen didn’t have to think about it anymore. Grateful to be done with it he looked around the area. “Besides, if all you say is true than maybe I won’t get to watch the fireworks after all. Assuming you aren’t getting hard for your goat whore and sand slut.” Jensen was about to quiet him from his insults to one of his friends, but when he processed his words he felt his gut start to rumble in caution.

“What do you mean?”

“The faun killed Zack Blaze. Brutal too. She says she didn’t do it, but they found the sword on her, still steaming his hot blood into the air as it dripped into the snow.” Xanbata leaned down, whistling as he picked up Jensen’s switchblade staff, twirling it gently through his fingers getting a feel for it. Turning and tossing the weapon in one motion he continued his explanation. “She’s got nothing going for her. They won’t let the Fallien girl near her either. So instead she keeps demanding they wait for you to make the judgment call. That’s why I am here; Looking for your scrawny ass.”

“More toned then yours shade crawler,” Jensen groaned into a sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Surprised you took this all well considering. Don’t think I didn’t hear you about to give up on those people back on the dragon.” Again the vampire shrugged.

“Far as I can see, this little predicament will be worth more entertainment than brawling with you. Don’t think I’m afraid too either.”

“You wouldn’t be the first to get into a pissing match with me,” the immortal mused. “Take me to the camp. I need answers.”

~*~*~

In the shine of the lamplight, the knight listened to the words that were written by a Drow as her take of the story. It’s no small wonder that many wanted the prick, Zack Blaze, dead, and Jensen wasn’t sure he cared for the man either. However Astarelle was very assertive that he was manipulating some angle. She made Jensen promise to try, and he at last managed to calm her down enough to get the meeting started. Jensen pushed the desert native out of his thoughts, looking to the evidence before he looked back to the one in charge.

“He’s in custody and protection of Alerar as a favor to your Lady Kyla Orlouge. This makes him a prisoner of war and under our codes and regulations he was granted safe passage. We cannot, even if she fought to save us, look the other way on this matter. Besides just look at the evidence. It’s all very conveniently set up: She works with the Order of the Crimson Hand, probably as an assassin. This was confirmed by her words when she signed up to attack the dragon.” Jensen irritably interjected, impatiently slapping her mercenary contract where she scrawled her qualifications.

“She said she was an assassin, not that she worked for The Order.”

“It’s not a big leap to bridge that gap,” the Drow replied smoothly. Jensen shook his head, but motioned for him to continue. “We have our best men working to keep him alive, and the damage done may cause long term affects. Publicly speaking, she could be a martyr, but regardless she did it in cold blood.”

“He could have been trying to escape, or kill one of my comrades, something he has a history of doing so I hear.” Jensen shot back. The two lifted themselves to their full height, measuring the other for a moment as the contest of wills continued. Jensen wanted the faun to be guilty, to be the cause of the death of a generally accepted bad man. Yet for once he decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. He wasn’t the Cult, who would have gladly taken two rivals out with one political rock. “Regardless, you said this matter rests in my hands. I’ll make up my mind after I discuss things over with her. Once I have made up my mind, I'll come talk it over with you.”

He left the tent into the night air, sighing deeply as he knew full well that he had no real authority on this matter. He had just enough clout being Sei's Bodyguard and senior officer to speak on behalf of the Ixians, but even that wasn't enough to overturn the leaf licker's final call. It was a hot bed issue, and if he didn't tread just light enough or carefully, then everything would fall out of order and he could risk upsetting the Ixians closest allie.

The knight moved to the makeshift prison tent, finding the faun bound to a pole and tied rather neatly in a constricting fashion. Her fox was on a leash, muzzled and the immortal saw her eyes look to him with excitement, before they slowly retracted back to concern. He crossed his arms over his chest looking at her, and it was clear that he came as either the savior or executioner.

“You are in a lot of trouble,” Jensen pointed out. The faun didn’t find his opening statement as funny as he thought it was. “Look, I’m tired, hungry, and got one hell of a report to write out. Give me the truth, and I hope if you are lying you hide it well.”

“I saved your Ixian friend,” Philomel spat. “Something I didn’t have to do.”

“To be fair,” Jensen countered, opening his arms like the great universal understanding was flowing thorugh him. “Not a single one of us really had to save the other’s butts. But we did. I get that you and I have a blood spattered past, but in this one instance I’m your only salvation. Astarelle can’t protect you this time.”

“So then you want your revenge,” the way she phrased those words startled the immortal. It was acceptance, like a logical conclusion. She even nodded looking to her fox friend. “A perfect ploy to get it done; you didn’t even have to get your own hands dirty.”

“If I wanted you dead,” Jensen said darkly. “Do you think I would go to such an elaborate plan after the last beating I gave you? I’m still cleaning your dried blood from my nails.” He lifted his hand up to mockingly demonstrate his point. She eyed him warily. He sighed, deeply, almost showing a bit of his true self in doing so. “Speaking honestly, Philomel, I’m in a hell of a pickle. I can’t just say let bygones be bygones and drop this matter. I can however…maybe find a loophole. For now. And I can’t guarantee it will hold for long. The business you have with Misery Incorporated and the Order isn’t my stomping ground. That’s yours.”

“What are you saying?” She was confused, and it was obvious in her tone she had no idea how this was going to end. He sighed before speaking.

“If Zack Blaze lives, you have no reason to be under arrest. He’s a guest of Alerar by Kyla Orlouge’s authority in asking for his trial. In all technicalities I suppose that makes you currently an Ixian prisoner being escorted by Alerar.”

“That’s my only option huh? Stuck under arrest by your idiot men?”

“Or killed by Alerarian officials for attacking a diplomatic prisoner.” He finished her options cutting her off. “I know the choice is hard, but take your time.” Philomel brayed in her guttural speak. Something offensive and foul, no doubt, but she nodded. “I’ll see to it you are transferred to a more.. accommodating hold.”

He turned without waiting for her words. Even if she did have words of thanks, he didn’t care. He wasn’t doing this for the faun. Like he thought earlier, there was no way for them to have a friendship currently. Too much bad blood between them would require a dark room, a bottle of Lavinyan ale, and the key out lodged in a hiding spot.

Who he had done this all for was just outside the tent flap, leaning against a pole with one foot resting against the back of it while the guards returned to their post. He looked to the Fallien native, and gave her a weak smile.

“I heard it all,” she said softly, approaching him, holding herself for comfort as she looked up to him as the space between them narrowed quickly. They still, to this day, weren’t sure where they should stand and every day was different. Some days they stood a healthy distance from one another, just casual acquaintances. Sometimes they breached each other’s personal space like close friends, and even, rarely but becoming more frequent, stood intimately near each other. “I don’t think she did it, for whatever that’s worth.”

“Not a lot considering your history, but I took it into consideration when I made up my mind. Besides…being around your lying mouth has helped me sharpen my bullshit detective skills.” His smile widened brightly and she also smiled, slapping him, but her hand drifted down to his arm, gripping it. He wanted to loosen his grip and take her hand, but he stood firm for just a bit longer, his face looking serious. “I cannot save her,” Jensen said sternly. “This is beyond the control of a Captain of the Ixian Knights who technically doesn’t even exist.”

“I know,” she whispered. “I know, and I…I don’t know Jensen.” She looked to the tent, and he tugged her into his arms, holding her tightly.

“You still falling for her?” Jensen whispered so only she could hear. There was no answer, but with Astarelle Set’Roh the immortal knew that could mean anything. It was possible that she didn’t know the answer herself. But her hands lifted to his and she held him back, leaning against him for support.

“I…sometimes wish…we could make one mistake that won’t damage something.”

“It’s called spilling milk, and we can only get away with it when we are young,” Jensen smartly replied, carefully, and not to his pleasure, avoiding her hidden meaning. She snorted in a stress filled laugh, and he joined her, both separating from their embrace and looking back to one another. Jensen grabbed her hand, held it tightly, but gently put it back at her side. “I want to make mistakes all the time, but tonight is not the night. Get some sleep, Astarelle. I have a political mine field to navigate.”

Astarelle nodded grabbing his arm, squeezing twice, before drifting away like the wind. He felt it caress his cheek, urging him forwards to her, but he stubbornly turned growling in frustration and running a hand through his hair.

“There are some Elves on the ground whom call you Captain Ambrose, Slayer of Dragons and scourge of the Renegade,” Astarelle mischievously winked. “ You’ll owe me a drink to explain that one to me.”

“Sure,” Jensen said smiling but not turning to look at her. “I know a bar where Ixian’s drink…”

[Hysteria]

The days passed after the downing of the dragon and Alerar returned to normal. Those elves that died were called heroes who sacrificed themselves to bring down the dragon. The part of the immortal at the helm of the airship was somewhat downplayed.

Elthain was given the job of cordoning off the valley. It was simple, given that the newly named Dragon Valley was only reachable by airship. The mountains formed walls for the dragon, even as its rotten body continued to spew toxic gas into the air. While Elthain kept the area sealed off, other's from the Alerar government went into the valley and collected the thick green sap that continued to drip from the dragon's body. The occasional fungal zombie still roamed the mountain, but in such few numbers they were easy to control.

Trylien was recovering well from the ordeal. The dragon's roar had burst both ear drums, but the body was resourceful, and it wouldn't be long before he would hear again and resume his post as an airship captain.

The battle had left the air force depleted, but the government solved that with a temporary levy. The graphic story of averting the plague dragon was enough of a reason the government needed and in a few months the air force would be repopulated.

The days continued, and the dragon rotted.

[Hysteria]

Thanks for the battle guys, I had a lot of fun watching you all kick dragon butt (wing?). One of the highlights of the thread for me was Jensen imitating Astarelle, then having Astarelle doing the exact same thing right near the end.


Leopold
3 posts
You started so well! I loved how your character linked to the airships, and again you started rallying the troops. Then you died :(

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Philomel
9 posts
Well done sticking out for the whole thing. You're character and story were both strong. Be careful that you're interacting with Veridian doesn't impede on you interacting with the other characters. On the flip side, you're emotion when being stripped from the fox was quite tangible. I didn't quite get why though, considering he was immortal. It might be worth thinking about how you convey that link. I think Roht actually did a good job explaining it by contrasting their relationship with Astarelle and Phi's.

I would have liked to have seen the fighting be slightly more context specific. Phi seemed to dance around too easily given the slippery ground below her, and the numbers of zombies. EI did a good job balancing his fighting, so he was lucky, then unlucky. Taking hits is important to illustrate the struggle. As I was she seemed more effected by losing sight of Veridian than the zombie horde.

Good points, I loved the dichotomy you have with Veridian. Your story was rich, and I got a great sense of her mottled history.

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Enigmatic Immortal
9 posts
Well done sticking from start to end. It was great seeing Jensen pushed to the edge (finally). Your fight scenes were ridiculous, I loved seeing Jensen running through the airship as it fell off the dragon. Descriptions with your fighting was a big bonus, very clear and well presented.

In terms of story telling I only had one qualm. You seemed to treat the NPCs as if they were Jensen. The first elf that Jensen started talking too seemed to give up his sense of self very easily. Similarly, the elves on the ship when it crashed seemed to just accept death. Jensen is an immortal, who doesn’t care if he lives or dies, but these characters were not. The weight of the decision seemed too light.

Apart from that, Jensen's character came across strong and the plot (specifically the follow up with Phi) was well done.

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Death Haunts us All

Death Haunts us All:
This small black stone appeared in your pocket without any memory of how it got there. Once a day it can be used to summon a terrifying visage, taking the form of the targets worst fear for two posts. (counts as high level illusion magic.)
300gold
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Eli
Posts 1
I think there is a skill in getting into a thread like this without making it awkward or clash with the story so far. The sub-story of the psychics seems very out of place. Likewise, when you walked away from the crashed airship without any explanation of how you got out. That might mean adding details, or using something on the airship. Perhaps jumping out of a window strapped to a hydrogen canister?

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hoytii[b]
3 posts
You did it to be again, just like in Steel Hearts. I'll start with a similar comment to the one I gave Phi. Make sure your combat is real. The image of Sorish swinging the sword and cutting down zombies was cool, but he shouldn't have done so effortlessly. In the same breath, getting thrown off the dragon into the mountain without so much as a scratch was too far. You could have taken some damage and started to heal, or worked out a way to survive. To be honest that post seemed like you didn't try very hard. The dragon falling was a pivotal moment in the battle, and the others all responded as such.

When you're giving back story on your character make sure you keep it in the context of what is going on. While it was interesting (and somewhat funny) to learn about what Astarelle accidental did to Sorish, it was too drawn out in that post to suit the pacing of the fight.

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[b]Roht Mirage
5 posts

Well done dude. Astarelle jumped right in, made funny sounds at a warhammer, had mixed feeling about a half-goat and generally kicked butt. One of the big things that stood out to me about this thread and Astarelle's part, is that it seemed that everyone had a personal history with her. From Phi refusing to engage with her, to Sorish's story, it felt like she was the thing that connected them together. This was especially true for Jensen and Phi, with Astarelle proving so much plot to work with for the pair. I had such a clear image in my head of Astarelle, holding the fox in her arms with this look on her face of 'Why? Why for the love of god do I do these things?'. Your portrayal of her character was great.

Rewards:
Good Will of Alerar

Good Will of Alerar – Enables one purchase from the bazaar of a high technological level with a 10% discount. Worth dependent on purchase. (Can't be used with other discounts.)
Dragonbone (2)
300gp
500xp


Grim137
3 posts

It was a shame you missed the posting time limit. I felt that there was a lot more to your character that could have come across in the next few posts. You're character concept and writing worked well together, and Xanbata came across as dark and bitter, as well as just sort of hating everything.

Rewards:
300gp
280xp


Zack Blaze
2 posts

I wasn't a fan of having Zack as a prisoner on the airship, but then it was hard coming in so late. You had a pretty big impact on the thread with just those two posts as well. Very clear, tied in the plot and brought across how much of an arse Zack is. Well done!

Rewards:
Ancient Dragonscale (2)
200xp

Lasting Effects on Althanas:
The Valley's name changes to Dragon's Folly.
The rotting corpse is still there, but the poison is contained.
The people of Alerar are not turned into fungal zombies!

[Lye]

EXP & GP Added.