A Demonstration of Power

[Erhat Varen]

Even though barely a week had passed since Erhat Varen first set foot in the Corone capital, the demon emissary already arrived to the conclusion that he hated Radasanth. He had seen the festering corruption of upworlders before, the weaknesses of which they reeked like rotten cabbages, but never had the stench of it been as strong as in this place where so many roads and races intersect. Here, in the heart of the Commercial District, every vice was on offer and every virtue was for sale.

Here the aged corpulent bags of coin strutted about with powdered gold-digging floozies, smirking and gooddaying their equals while silently judging the rest, wallowing in the sense of self-importance like sows in manure. They were the true ruling class of this world, these bankers and moneylenders and investors and royal heirs, these parasites that fed on human misery, growing stronger even as the host died. Greed and backstabbing propelled them to the top of the food chain, and once their reign began there was little anyone could do to topple them. They held all the cards, pulled all the strings, played the tune everyone danced to.

The most ardent amongst these dancers were the politicians, of course, the chameleons of this sick jungle. Armed with a sharp suit, a faux smile and lies spewing from their never-resting mouths, they promised everything and achieved nothing. All their prattling, their philandering, their continuous presence in every crucial aspect of the society was the stone that was rapidly pulling everything underwater.

The rest of the rank and file followed, lawyers, clerks, peacekeepers, leeches feeding on leeches. Were there good people amongst them? Certainly. There was healthy flesh on a gangrenous limb as well, but that didn't mean you didn't have to cut it off if you didn't want to die a slow and painful death. And that was precisely what was happening to not just Radasanth, but Corone as a whole, perhaps even the entire world of Althanas. The content few sat upon their thrones of gold like fat cats, resting on the backs of those that got crushed beneath them. It was the natural order of this world, where a piece of precious metal or even paper held dominion over true might.

This discord in values was such an affront to Erhat Varen that he struggled to hide disgust as he watched over the main square of the Commercial District. Leaning on the ornate stone fence of the second story balcony of a restaurant that charged outrageous amounts for ridiculously small servings of food, he let his eyes pass over the midday rush below. To a common observer he was naught more than another patron, an average looking man of middle age, perhaps a bit underdressed for the establishment and the surrounding pampered men tipping their tiny cups and ostentatious hats at each other, celebrating another day of being kings and queens of their own little worlds. His suit was plain and spotless and three seasons out of fashion, and his hair was short and graying and almost scandalously bereft of any oils. And unlike the perfumed sweaty bodies that covered the top floor of the restaurant, there was no scent around the man save the faintest notion of brimstone, as if someone just lit a match in the vicinity.

When a voluptuous woman approached him from behind, he neither started nor turned. Instead he merely asked: “I trust everything is in place, Zhen?”

His second in command bowed her head noticeably, sending a couple of stray golden locks swaying in front of her face. She had chosen a curvy shell for this mission, her flesh plump and soft where these people usually liked a little give, and toned and taut where they didn't. Erhat had initially thought that it would attract too much attention, what with all the cleavage and skin showing in her tight black dress, but these people had apparently become callous even to their own ideas of beauty, spending a mere wanton glance or two before their limited attention turned elsewhere.

“As you ordered,” Zhen said, her voice chirpy and mellow and nothing like it actually was when she was rid of her glamour. But then none of them were their true selves on this day. The mission required infiltration and subterfuge, and none of the demonkin could've done it without putting on what Zenh picturesquely described as an “upworlder suit”, even though it was actually no more than a powerful illusion. People usually saw what they wanted to see; all you needed to do is give their brain a magical nudge in the right direction. The sorcerers that had been dispatched on the mission with Erhat and Zhen had provided just that, packing a whole lot of their magic into a pair of red iron bracelets that clung to their wrists like shackles.

“The resistance will be strong. This district is crawling with the Imperial forces,” she added, indirectly reminding Erhat that the Commercial District still wasn't her choice of target. He didn't mind the second guessing. Soldiers who mindlessly obeyed were a dime a dozen in Tar'shak, unlike those who actually used that which was between their horns. “We might perish.”

Erhat responded with a smirk. “Wouldn't be the first time.”

In all truth, he knew their destruction was a definite possibility. If there was one area that the Empire protected other than the main Palace, it was the place where their shiny baubles had been squirreled away. And that was exactly why it had to be the Commercial District. If one wanted to make a statement, a show of power – and that had been the mandate he had been given – it had to be something that mattered, something that sent ripples when it was stricken. The story of today would echo in palaces and wine holes alike, spreading dread and superstition.

And then there was a personal stake Erhat had in this. Because he personally wanted to see a lot of these people burn.

“It is time. Send the word.”

------

It started as a buzz of immense magnitude, like the world's largest bassoon playing the world's lowest note. It's place of origin was indeterminable, it's power growing until it shook the folks' teeth in their socket and made them cover their ears in vain. People ran, people fell, people screamed, looking to the sky, to the ground, to the gods that weren't there. There was a pressure in the air that seemed to grow until the point where it felt like it could crush a human skull. Even Erhat found himself clenching his teeth and squinting his eyes.

And then, when it seemed like the sound had been going for an eternity, rolling thunder echoed through the district as a pillar of blackness surged from the center of the square. This mobile darkness struck an invisible ceiling some fifty paces above, then shot in all directions, an antithesis of an explosion with tendrils that started to blot out the sun. It took less than a minute for it to enclose the entire center of the district, engulfing it in near perfect darkness. Though Erhat didn't generally think much of magic – at best of time it was useful and at worst a major pain in the tail – he thought the barrier quite magnificent. It was akin to a mousetrap that allowed people to pass from without, yet refused to let them do the same from within unless they were in possession of powerful dispelling magic.

Up on the balcony of the restaurant, with the cacophony of patrons devolving into a shrieking, crying mess, Erhat's eyes blazed red and his smirk stretched into a genuine smile. When he turned, Zenh's eyes looked back with the same vibrant ferocity. Their plan was unraveling as intended. Their squad of magicians had accessed the sewers days ago, positioning themselves in crucial positions. The strongest few brought up and maintained the inky dome from beneath the streets. The suicidal rest had other duties.

“Let us give them some light,” he said to his malevolent companion. Moments later the first of the several sturdy stone buildings that housed all the things that these people held so valuable burst into flame, infernal orange tongues lapping out of every door and window, returning some illumination to an otherwise black world. The sorcerers had done their jobs admirably. Maniacal though they might've been – and you had to be a little bit crazy to sacrifice your body to the inferno in order to create an explosion big enough to scorch a building – they seemed to have followed orders. Judging by the erupting flames, their essences were already on their way back to their home realm of Tar'shak.

With the light came the reveal of Erhat's and Zanh's true forms. Their enchanted manacles were off, smoldering at their feet. Time for disguises was over; time for mayhem had come.

“Clean this mess up,” Erhat commanded with a nod towards the panicking crowd still in the restaurant, his voice a barely discernible guttural growl. Behind him, second explosion added its voice to the chaos, then a third, each one bringing a shade more of the blazing amber light into the world until all was red and yellow and the shadows danced their manic dances on every wall. “Then depart. This is not your test.”

And with that said, Erhat turned back to the square below, now almost completely beset on all sides with burning buildings, his hulking demonic form looming and waiting for some who would do more than just madly dash around and bang their hands on the barrier.

[Storm Veritas]

If not being the most wanted man in Radasanth for a few hours meant that Storm would be forced to endure the apocalypse delivered unto his doorstep, the wizard would have to settle upon being conflicted with the arrangement. With an uncharacteristic scruff and leather, off the rack clothes befitting a peasant, the experienced adventurer knew a show when he saw it. What erupted upon the commercial district some half mile from his usual home was no simplistic display; large buildings burned and people were dying. Of course, the people were Radasanthians, for whom the magician shared a conflicted blend of love and hatred. This place fostered thousands of unkempt buffoons no sooner forgive Storm Veritas’s for his petulant dalliances than accept his salvation when he saved their own hides.

Still, point me to a place without those ridiculous elves, or with better whiskey or more top-end whores… Gods, I’m screwed.

Despite his better judgment, he’d have to intervene. Storm finished a long pull from his cherry wood pipe, savoring the smooth, warm burn of tobacco and resin massaging his lungs gently. It was a moment of peace; based on the sound of the explosions about him, likely the last sustained peace he’d experience for a while. He opened the closet within the bedroom of the old wooden inn, and casually browsed his wardrobe for what looked like fitting gear for battle.

Hunting clothes… too cliché.

Taut assassin blacks… not today.

Standard dickhead schlub clothes… sick of these too.

A-hah!

With a flourish, he pulled out the same costume he had used to gain entry into Radasanth – a simple black smock, dress pants, and gleaming white collar of a reverend. It was clean, well fitted for his athletic frame, and served a host of different vices for him; it kept the normal men (with their own sins) away, it made bartenders a little quicker and more generous with the pour, and turned on the certain awful kind of women that the wizard was prone to enjoy.

And I get to shave again. Bonus, baby.

The tipple-tap of Storm’s loud dress shoes announced his descent from bedroom to foyer. Moments later, Storm left the inn, paying little notice to the keeper cowering behind the counter and whispering to what must have been her daughter. Explosions had a way of shaking people, both physically and psychologically.

“Morning, ladies. It seems some hellfire is visiting town; I’m going to go and recruit some repenters. Stay safe!” A single bronze crown bounced with a loud echo off the countertop of the polished front desk, as the aghast women stared at the bold fool in disbelief.

It was freeing, being out and about in Radasanth again. It seemed assassinating a few senators had a real way of turning a town against one. Still, he needed the trade to keep business booming in Whitevale, and there was nowhere else he could find the honey mead and smooth whiskey; these were businesses that required some token of defense.

The same tip-tap of his shoes provided a rhythmic soundtrack, when not interrupted by the nuisances of explosions or the wails of terrorized women. The roaring sounds of thundering cobblestone rattled toward him, as the tall, lean “priest” nearly danced towards the sounds of madness. The townies, predictable as ever, ran away shrieking, pausing only to glance at the idiot strolling into the fire. One young man staggered and fell upon the cobblestones, banging an elbow as he recognized the face of what Radasanth called “evil”. His lips pursed to say the name as Storm pulled a single finger to his own smiling lips, an innocent “sshh” gesture freezing the felled fool in his tracks.

They all know I ride the lightning, but they’ll probably still find a way to blame this bullshit on me. The unenlightened are always so terrified of the specials.

Moments later, Storm turned the corner to the square, the overpowering heat of fire welcoming his arrival in an awesome wave. His entire frame was lit up with a glow of orange and yellow, the fires raging all about him. Quickly, he thoughtlessly pulled his graying hair back against his scalp, and reflexively stretched his right quadriceps, rolling his thumb over the metal plate on his heels. Eyeing the square, the lack of a foil disturbed him.

What, all this and no f*cking dragon? The hell’s going on here!?

[Erhat Varen]

They were like cattle, these creatures that liked to call themselves the free folk of Corone. Like livestock they spent their lives locked in their pens, confined by the endless, pointless rules and regulations, unable to break free not due to their physical limitations, but rather those in their dimmed intellects. Such decrepit state was the result of a process of generations upon generations of systematic dulling of any kind of sharp wit these people might've had. Call someone an ox, keep repeating it for a couple hundred years, and soon enough they will look out for the yoke all on their own. The Sovereigns of Tar'shak knew this. Althanas had grown meek, the people weak-willed and content with the quagmire they found themselves in.

And as befitting a herd whose little world has been violently disrupted, they stampeded through the streets, mindlessly seeking salvation in hands other than their own. Here was a thin-necked weasel of a man in shiny black shoes, frantically waving his cane at an inflamed building, trying to make a pair of half-singed guardsmen retrieve something from the mouth of inferno. Here was a high-society harlot, slumped on the cobblestones, her white dress turned to the color of soot, her frail arms reaching out to the fat slob of a banker who discarded her like a cigar stub. Here was a child with neatly combed hair and a tiny blue suit with perfectly shined silver buttons, standing in the middle of the square, screaming his little lungs out for whoever he lost in the turmoil.

There were a few that stood firm against the pandemonium - low-browed patrolmen trying to make heads and tails of the situation, benevolent old storekeepers that tried to offer shelter and a calming word, reckless young adventurers that walked with a swagger and thought nothing could harm them – but the entropy of the little enclosed dome of night was gradually claiming them as well, dragging them along with the rest. Instead of dealing with one issue, the guardsmen were pulled at five directions at once, the store that could house no more than twenty was packed with half a hundred people who cursed their benefactor for the accommodation in the process, and those brave and bold wound up hand-holding the weak and the decrepit.

The Sovereigns are right, Erhat thought, allowing his chin to rest on one of his clawed hands as he leaned leisurely on the fence, his eyes devouring the tumult, his smirk constant. This place is ripe for the taking.

So bemused by the frantic pace of the aimless human vectors below, Erhat was almost caught aback by the appearance of one that didn't quite fit in the picture. Dressed all in black sans his contrasting collar and acting as if the flames were mere celebratory bonfires, the reverend sauntered into the square and even spared a moment to stretch. And wasn't that just a perfect fit, that a shepherd should walk calmly amidst his raging flock? A snorting snigger slithered through Erhat's teeth as his massive frame straightened.

“You come to pray for this scum, priest!?” the demon emissary addressed the man below, his gruff bass voice carrying over the discord. His arms stretched to each side of his nightmarish form, much to the terror of those who dared to lift their eyes to the source of the voice. “Your dead gods can't hear you, and the only redemption these people deserve is already being handed to them!”

It was a bit theatrical, this introduction, and not precisely Erhat's style, but this was all a show and the roles had to be played to best of one's ability. And it's not as if the demon had to act overmuch. Erhat despised the clergy of Althanas, these pretentious pious pederasts that prattled of goodwill and honesty and decency while secretly diddling with their own darkest desires. A lot could be concealed behind a black robe and a white collar as long as people couldn't see beyond it.

“Better run along now along with this vermin. Or do you believe you and your feeble faith can stand against the might of Tar'shak?”

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

Everything hurt.

Now, when I everything, I don't mean figuratively. Literally everything hurt. Noggin, neck, ribs, back, shoulders, arms, hands, legs, knees, feet... Every ounce of my body was screaming out in pain, each new sensation overloading my brain as it fought for my attention. An incredible weight pressed down on me, pinning me to a hard surface. I tried to take in a sucking breath, but it hurt to even think about doing that much.

The writhing eldritch tentacles that protected my face withdrew a little bit, offering me a close-up view of a debris covered floor. Everywhere around me, there was fire. Lots and lots of fire, and wood.

It took me a second to piece together the moments that led to my current predicament.

Let's see--I was in Radasanth on a business trip. I arranged a meeting with a rare bookseller regarding the acquisition of the bound notes of some necromancer whose name currently escapes me. We were chatting over tea, with the thin leatherbound tome on the table between us. As I am wont to do, I casually talked about my experiments with cordyceps spores and their ability to reanimate corpses, which understandably unnerved the merchant.

And then, there were explosions. The building shook, the windows shattered, and then...

Ah.

I got a house dropped on me.

How rude.

"Marcus," I managed to croak out, my voice hoarse and dusty. I sputtered out a few coughs, but didn't hear a reply other than the crackling of fire and creaking of blackened wood. Poor bastard was probably dead, crushed under the weight of his former home.

The heat of the fire was slowly baking me alive in my shell. I had to get out of here. I wasted no time activating the teleportation stone I kept around my neck. In a matter of seconds, I was back on the streets of the Coronian city, the blackened mass of tentacles that protected me receding back into my body. Shakily, I rose to my hands and knees, my lungs burning as I gasped in fresh oxygen. The scent of cinders was strong in the air.

I looked up to see a blackened sky and the entire avenue on fire.

What the seven hells happened here?!

My legs ached as I stood up, but I ignored their protests. The screams of the few apparent survivors filled the air as I steadied myself. A good ways down the street, a man in a black robe threw open the door and ran further into the district. He moved like a man with purpose and an idea of what was going on, as well as a pair big enough to do something about it.

"Hey, wait up," I wheezed as I took an unsteady step forward. The aches and pains that wracked my body were slowly beginning to numb, a sign that Maladim's gift of regeneration was starting to take effect. I'd be in slightly better shape in a few minutes; but the cracked ribs that fought my every breath would take a little while longer to piece back together.

The figure stopped for nothing, so I decided to simply follow him. My gut was telling me that he'd lead me right to the source of the inferno.

I jogged after him as fast as my body would allow me to, until he eventually stopped in one of the many public squares that dotted the shopping district. As he turned around to find the cause of the destruction, I could easily make out his features.

I met him once before, in the bowels of an ancient labyrinth. We were not alone; dogged as we were by the hulking beast form of the faun Philomel van der Aart. We formed a temporary alliance to take her out; but I don't recall if we were successful. Not that any of that would matter--that was back when I was an anthropomorphic houseplant, there was a snowball's chance that he'd recognize me right now.

A booming voice echoed across the plaza, drawing my gaze up to a balcony on my left.

I was not surprised by what I saw.

Claws tightly gripping the wooden railing, there stood the towering form of something that I would have to guess was a demon. It was really hard to tell, though. It looked like a child's black crayon drawing of a wicker man made real. Misshapen obsidian scales covered its body from horn to hoof, its face featureless save for the glowing of embers where eyes should be.

And there it was, doing your stock standard demon thing of waving its arms around and glowering menacingly as a city burned around him: The kind of monster you'd see the heroes take out in the opening chapters of a book, before the actual villain introduces itself to the plot.

I considered myself lucky that I was on the payroll of a classier sort of demon--the kind that employ, as opposed to enslave. The kind that understand the importance of a well-tailored suit, a good power tie, and hair gel. The kind that plan for the long game, rather than throw fireballs everywhere and hoping that something sticks.

The creature caught a glimpse of the man in the robe, and started spewing rhetoric about gods and faith like some obese, unwashed, bearded manchild who spends his afternoons writing atheist missives in his mother's outhouse--half of the words with three or more syllables misspelled--and then sends them to all of his other god-hating buddies to guffaw over as the turkey drumstick grease that coats their fingers soaks into the parchment. I didn't really pay much attention to its deep-throated babbling--the moment anyone sneers about dead gods and the futility of faith, I immediately ignore anything they might have to say.

All I could think about was how the priceless book I came to Radasanth for was probably nothing more than a pile of ashes and charred leather. I was really hoping to acquire it and study its every word, but noooo.

I took a step forward, the pain in my muscles nothing more than a dull ache at this point. Cupping my hands to my sweat-slickened face, I called out to the demon.

"Hey, nerd! This all your doing? Get your ass down here, I want to have a word with you."

As I moved closer, the wall behind the thing darkened. It wasn't the wood blackening from the heat and fire; it was something more. The stonework rippled like the disturbed surface of a lake as the portal formed. The hand of Batibat erupted from the rift, a twisted and gnarled limb of moss, wood, and flesh, palm stretched out and looking to push the demon off the ledge and down to the plaza where I could more easily kick it in the throat.

[Storm Veritas]

The chaos in the streets was spectacular, although the reveal of the hellfire should have been more predictable. It – whatever it may have been, was somewhat humanoid; it had legs and arms and a body. Were Storm to guess, he’d have labeled the dark skinned thing a “demon”. With glowing orange eyes and thick muscle, the demon was imposing, but didn’t shake Storm an iota. Demons were powerful things, but they weren’t dragons. The creature spoke from above him, spouting down in an arrogant, throaty bellow befitting his horrifying frame.

I’ve killed dragons, and wear their skins for sleeves. You’re no dragon, jackass.

Keeping a straight face, the wizard did his best to maintain the spectacle of mortality. If the demon thought him one of these normal people, devoid of the overwhelming capabilities which flowed through the electromancer, the element of surprise was invaluable. He breathed deep, feigning fear and motioned to speak up at the demon when an ordinary, smallish woman spoke out behind him.

"Hey, nerd! This all your doing? Get your ass down here, I want to have a word with you."

His reaction to the boldness of the very average looking lady was one of abject confusion.

The f*ck is this!?

The defiant woman was moving forward towards the demon, eyes squeezed taut in confident fury as she glared at him. The reflexive nature of the wizard drove him to speak out and steal the show, but he fought valiantly against the impulse. He’d maintain the façade, at least for now.

“The Gods of Corone are mighty, and will judge you, demon! Pray before the Lord Thayne Am’alah! The hand of Thayne will defeat you, demon!”

Such bullshit. How do people buy this noise?!

Allowing his voice to waver softly as he spoke up to the demon, his eyes played a spectacular trick upon him. A large, grass and soil-crusted hand burst out from the stonework of the building behind the great demon, pressing forward as though to knock the demon down into his own flames.

Holy shit. Someone snuck some devil-leaf in my tobacco bag.

Looking up to see the reaction of the smoldering dark evil, the wolf in shepherd’s clothing silently stepped back away from the flames, almost completely indifferent to the fire beside him. Between the obvious hallucination and the fire, the wizard was unsure if it wouldn’t prove prudent to give himself a little extra time to react to whatever this big blowhard might counter with.

[Erhat Varen]

Words. That was the weapon they unleashed against him, words as trite and feeble as their crumbling society. First the puny female unleashed hers with boyish bravado, calling out Erhat as if they were a pair of ember children about to go tooth-and-claw at each other in the play pit. She looked like one of those comical masked vigilantes that hid their face behind an assortment of veils, summoning false fearlessness from the anonymity offered by the false visage.

The clergyman at least had the tenacity to stay true to both his face and his creed. His proclamation was the expected sermon, his voice hitting the peaks at all the right moments. All he was missing was the swaying congregation and the weak-kneed women fainting from the self-inflicted surges of make-belief cosmic energy or whatever hogwash the faithful swallowed as the one and only truth these days. Also, his paraphernalia was nowhere to be seen, a sigil of some sort around his neck and The Book filled with the current flavor of fictitious quasi-facts. On a whole, as far as men of faith went, this one seemed like a rather shabby example.

A preacher and a little girl, Erhat thought, regret and contempt mixing behind the vibrant embers of his eyes, resulting in an almost disappointed smirk. Is this the best they...

And then he was flying.

The shove that came from behind and brashly interrupted his derisive train of thought felt less as if someone pushed him and more like the wall itself crept behind him and struck him like a rolling boulder. It propelled the demon straight through the stone railing and sent him on a hard rendezvous with the pavement below. Pure reflex and survival instinct prevented him from digging into the ground horns first, but that was about as much aid as they offered when it came to the landing. With his body only recently formed in this realm, it had almost none of his usual power and alacrity. Almost none of its awareness either, it would appear, for there was little that could've crept up to him in the Tar'shak.

But his homeland was behind and hard stone was ahead, and when Erhat came in contact with it, his bulky form tumbled uncontrollably for a couple of revolutions before he finally came to a stop. Immediately pushing himself up on all fours, his horned head swung from side to side in an attempt to push back both the pain the throbbed all over his spine and the welling anger that threatened to overtake the strategic clarity that had always served. He cast a glance upwards, expecting a follow-up from whatever knocked him off the ledge. But the titanic arm – and it definitely looked like an appendage, albeit one made of multitude of creeping plants that somehow sprouted from sheer stone – seemed content to remain where it was for the time being.

His eyes shot first to the puny woman first, then to the reverend, and for the briefest moment doubt shot through his mind. Could there really be something more to this bag or air and his faith? He had mentioned the hand and, lo and behold, there was something suspiciously looking like one on the balcony above.

Erhat, ever the demon who liked to cover his tail and play it safe, decided it was best to remove any shadow of suspicion from the issue. Ignoring the minimal threat from the mouthy brat of a girl and not bothering to revert to a bipedal position, he charged straight at the man of the cloth, his powerful limbs pounding the ground below as he covered the distance in huge, ferocious strides. The wrath within him, ever present in his kind like a pool of bubbling magma always on the verge of an explosion, was kept in check though, and when he closed in on his quarry, Erhat didn't leap like some mind-addled beast. Instead, once he closed in on the man in the black frock, he shot his left hand outwards, scrapping it through the nearby pile of smoking rubble and sending a head-sized chunk of brick and mortar at the cleric. His right followed a second later, claws aimed to discover whether or not the faithful of this realm really had yellow in their gut.

[Storm Veritas]

The whole charade had been fun, but Storm had not thought through the entirety of his play. It appeared this demon was a little more powerful than he expected, so there were almost none that stuck around to watch the show. The wizard had expected the opportunity to parade about for a while before dispatching this plebeian class bag of brimstone, but the fountains of fire had a way of scaring off the local tailors, cobblers, and bakers.

Some people just don’t have the stomach for the real show.

The great hand summoned by the little girl knocked the heavy beast to the street below, his considerable hooves splintering a few cobblestones and creating a small crater where he fell, a lovely hemisphere of clumsy oaf that would likely result in another significant tax assessment to fix “one time” repairs for the locals.

And you wonder why all the sad, poor little normals hate us?

The girl, despite her slight frame, was clearly another one of the gifted, and it stung Storm to realize her mask was far more effective. The old man looked upon the woman, who would only be a “girl” to graybeards like him. She was plain, but powerful, the perfect type to sink into the masses and disappear with ease. It was only the snarling, snorting, and thunderous banging of the ground that caught his attention.

The demon was charging at him, moving forward like an angered gorilla. He moved on hands and feet, a nod to the indecision of whether or not the fat thing was bipedal. His eyes were squinted in tiny, glowing orange slits, taking this entire charade with a frightening level of sincerity.

Oh, you poor, stupid ass. You don’t even know that you’re already dead, do you?

It only took seconds, but it felt like minutes for the heavy, lumbering brute to reach him. Nearly bored by the whole thing, the experienced “reverend” looked about to consider what the brute was going to do. In all likelihood he would jump as soon as he reached leaping range; if he had some sort of fire-breath or whatever sort of nonsense these demons had, it was likely he’d hold off on that until Storm quickly, easily avoided his stupid jump.

The big thing didn’t jump, and the reverend assumed a cowardly pose, struggling to stifle his smile. Crooked fingers raised before his face as he turned his head, peaking on the monster through the corner of his eyes as he sold his best “horrified, overwhelmed” look. He buckled his knees together and sunk down, a deceptively poised position which appeared altogether a picture of cowardice.

It was a two-strike combination that the demon offered; first raking his hands through the fires and then lashing out with his bare claws. He was deceptively quick, although far slower than the would-be reverend. With the balance and flexibility of an acrobat, Storm rocked his body backwards violently at the hips, watching as the wave of fire and molten rock sailed harmlessly by his face. He pressed his right toe into the crook between cobblestones and pirouetted away rapidly, a deft spin giving distance for a taunt.

Oh, WHORE! The F*CK was that!?

He hadn’t been quick enough; the demon’s hand had grazed his obliques as he spun backwards. The talons hanging off the big awful’s arms were sharp and hot, as though filled with fire, and the injury felt more a burn than scratch. The pain was manageable, the injury superficial, but the fact that he had been struck at all was both frustrating and upsetting. Was the old wizard getting slow, or had he underestimated the demon?

Fun time’s over. Enough of this bullshit.

He was five feet from the demon as he rapidly considered his options. In hindsight, creativity may have been a bit more fun, but when you’re a hammer, the world is full of nails. There was only one fitting counterstrike. Without words, the injured reverend sneered, dropping to a knee as he fired a vicious bolt of rapidly arcing white energy. The bolt twisted and sizzled leaving his hands, hopefully settling this whole song and dance once and for all.


(OOC I don't know if you have hooves or feet, so let me know if you need me to fix that)

[Erhat Varen]

(OOC Hooves are fine)

Though never a prodigy of any sort when it came to physical attributes, Erhat had never been considered slow, neither by his own evaluation nor by those around him. Once described by his martial mentor as a flame that neither fluttered nor blazed, he had been a contently average soldier in the Tar'shak, sticking to the safety of the middle of the pack. Sure, he could swing a mean maul when the need arose and tear a limb or three when limb tearing was necessary, but he had neither talent nor particular fervor for it. He had always been of the queer kind that liked to inquire why someone's head needed to be torn off before it was detached from the rest of the body.

Still, even such an admittedly average soldier should've been enough for this lot. But moving in the flesh of this realm was like trying to swim through mud with only half a brain working. Erhat's limbs obeyed every command with a sort of lazy sluggishness, making him feel as if he had tree trunks for arms and legs. His mind, ever the quickest part of him, strained against the lethargy of the rest of the body, his every thought a hook that tried to yank them onwards with increased haste. To no avail. The limits of the meat and bone were like a stone barrier and refused to yield.

It came as no surprise then that all he got for his effort was a fistful of cloth and only a faintest smudge of scarlet. The priest moved with nimble limberness Erhat's eyes could barely follow and his body had no chance to match. Any fear of the beast that the man might've had mere moments ago was gone, his face quick to retain its former composure. Almost as if there had never been true panic there at all. Almost as if the man of faith was putting on a bit of a show, selling the act of a frightened human. These minutiae were not something his mind would be able to discern under normal battle conditions, but with his oh so slow body still recovering from the fruitless charge, his gray matter had some time to spare.

Slippery little upworlder, was the thought that ran through the demon's head. And then something flashed in the outstretched hand of the clergyman and the thought was replaced by pain so sudden and tremendous that Erhat thought that arm from the balcony somehow crept up to him again. Only this time it seemed intent to squeeze the life out of him.

Rational cerebration was gone, replaced by crippling pain that made his entire body feel like a single giant muscle that got the cramp to end all cramping. The tang of sulfur, ever present as a faint aura around Erhat, was increased tenfold, bringing with it an image of his whole body burning up from the inside. Beyond it all, buried behind the blank wall this electric pain brought forth, was the instinct to counter, the ingrained need to move against this tide that was washing over him, taking away every semblance of his being, both mental and physical. But none of his limbs moved save in small spasmodic jerks of a creature suffering a seizure. This momentary onslaught of sizzling pain lasted mere seconds, yet each one of them seemed to stretch into infinity.

And then, just as suddenly as it overtook his every sense, it was gone.

The demon gracelessly collapsed to the ground like felled timber, his entire body still locked in the position the bolt of lightning caught him, his arms and legs twitching at irregular intervals. His muscular chest was smoldering, his scales cracked and revealing the amber glow of his torn flesh. It was his sheer bulk that saved him from being electrocuted to death from what he could gather, the tendrils of electricity spreading through just enough of his flesh to prevent a terminal result. But it was still a close call.

There was a voice inside Erhat, his first sensible thought in two or so eternities of pain, and it was telling him it was all fine. Vicious pain was gone and the dull ache and numbness remained, and his every muscle felt as if he climbed the tallest mountain only to take a tumble off of its far side. But it was fine. He'd been well aware of his possible demise, which was ultimately inconsequential. After all, this wasn't his test either.

Lying on his side and breathing heavily, Erhat was a wounded beast waiting for the finishing blow. The paralysis was gradually letting go, starting at his shoulders and thighs and slowly working its way down to the far ends of his extremities. Yet he remained in the same position, motionless save his laboriously slow and heavy breathing, peering through squinted eyes for any trace of someone approaching him. It was a risky tactic, playing dead, but being half-way there already and unafraid of going full on corpse, it seemed like a viable option.

[Storm Veritas]

Anger subsided a great deal with the satisfaction of his electric blast. The sensation of his unadulterated hatred rocketing from his fingertips through the chest of the pompous demon sent a shiver down the spine of the reverend. It occurred to the con-artist for the first time that the smell of burned demon flesh was entirely different than that of burning human flesh. With a smile, Storm considered that perhaps the hell-borne blood of those risen from the depths of the earth served as sort of a marinade, or perhaps a spiced rub for barbecues. Either way, he was delirious with joy as he savored the luxury of destroying the big, beautiful abomination.

Smells like dinner, there, Junior! Who’d have thought I’d flash fry and trash your shit in two shakes of a horse’s ass?!

…oh, right. Of course I would have.

Like the cat circling the mouse, the wizard stepped about the downed demon. Despite such pomp and circumstance, the great thing had been a virtual bubble of bluster. Now gazing at his freshly downed foe, from merely ten feet away, the reverend pulled a long, thin dagger from a scabbard tucked tautly to two segments of belt behind his back. The twisted kris blade shimmered elegantly in the flickering light of flame and fire about them, the orange kiss of hellfire bright and all-consuming.

“Looks like someone should have found Repentance! Well, there’s still a moment for you, big fella. Should I presume cremation? Does that work on your type?”

Toying, his eyebrows raised with a sarcastic joy as he dragged the blade across the back of his wrist. The mighty scale of the great dragon Moonwing made for a find bracer, keeping his wrist safely protected while wiping free the last fragment of debris. Crouching slightly, he prepared to pounce when his peripheral vision caught a twitch of long muscle.

Ooh, a tail! This big bastard IS full of surprises! Maybe up close and personal isn’t the way to go afterwards.

A bit wrought with paranoia sprung from a lifetime of magical nightmares, the aging monster with the black garb considered the many options at his disposal. He could float free from the ground, propelling himself upward with a wave of magnetic energy driven beneath his metal heels and finish it. He could throw the dagger, using a channel of the waves to send the blade on a projectile path which would be entirely unnatural in its perfectly straight vector. He could simply fire another bolt at the downed demon, which lacked panache and flair.

He could also wait for the talented girl by his side, however for all of her prodigious ability and spectacular disguise, she seemed altogether frozen in the moment.

Definitely not waiting for sweet-tits over here. Time waits for no man, and any man’s a fool to wait on women!

To his side, a towering column of erupted rock fired a consistent, orange-red glow of magma. Above the turbulently flowing spray, a great agglomeration of cobblestone, bedrock and silt tumbled freely. Glowing orange and red in the towering pile beckoned a small iron sewer grate, yielding under the great heat. With a smile, there was only one word needed.

“Perfect.”

Stepping backwards from the demon, the experienced warlock waved a single hand at the grate above them. The large cluster of cobblestone and rock dutifully plummeted downward, it’s center mass hurtling directly at the broad chest of the apparently overmatched demon.

[Erhat Varen]

After five seconds of playing roadkill, Erhat suspected that nobody was buying what he was selling. Another five and he was fairly certain of it. And was it that surprising? Did he really expect that someone would take the bait and come to poke him with a stick like a curious child? No, he didn't truly expect it. Hoped for such stupidity from these people, maybe, but whoever these two were, they were powerful which was bad enough on its own, but they were also decently intelligent which was worse. Not that it mattered in the long run. Today was never about him. He had set the grand stage, and now like every good announcer he was supposed to check out, preferably on his own two hooves.

The priest seemed to cared for his preference not at all. Even as Erhat finally gave up on playing dead and opened his eyes fully, he saw the man gesturing with his hand again. The demon braced for another flash of light and more of the flesh-sizzling, mind-stopping pain even as he heaved his hulking body into awkward, stiff motion on all fours. So slow. The imaginary molasses through which he struggled before had turned to quicksand after the jolt he had received and he had a feeling he was going nowhere. The clergyman had an easy shot.

No lightning this time. Plenty of pain, though.

The miniature avalanche came raining on his spine and legs with a hundred stone punches, pummeling him back against the ground. His head and arms got free of the onslaught with his last second motion, but the rest of his body was getting crushed. His world consisted almost exclusively of pain. He thought he could hear his spine snap – though the bony crack could've been his pelvis instead, could've been his femur, could've been just about any and every bone in his body getting shattered and sending the resonating sharp ache to his already overwhelmed mind. His guts were squashed, turned to paste, sending a vile mixture of bile and blood though his clenched teeth.

It was the end, surely, and it was not the exit Erhat had planned, or in fact ever experienced before. As a demon of the Tar'shak, he was well aware of the fact that death in this realm mattered little as far as his survival went, for he had endured it several times before. It would take some time for his essence to traverse the void between dimensions, but after a while he would awaken back home, in a body that didn't feel like it was weighted with stone. But in the past death had been quick and clean, a sword to the heart, a thousand-foot plummet off the mountainside. The current agony was a new experience, and his stubborn body refused to let it stop.

All that bastard's fault, was one of the rare coherent thoughts that made it through the veil of constant pain. Should've been here by now.

As if summoned by that very thought, there was a distortion in the smooth texture of the inky barrier that surrounded the district, a mere invisible pebble sending ripples from the other side. Erhat didn't notice it at first, could barely keep his eyes open from the pain that reigned in his system. But then the ripples grew in both size and frequency until they became turbulent waves that started to spread across the section of the protective dome. At the far end of the street in which Erhat lied crushed and at death's doorstep, a scaly gauntlet emerged from the darkness of the barrier, then an entire arm. The armor on it was red, glittering as if it was made of ruby crystals, the surrounding flames making it look as if it was made of glowing embers.

Then the man in red came through completely.

“Finally,” Erhat grunted as he spat a glob of something that tasted like blood and shit and stomach acid. “What took you so long?”

[Letho]

Letho Ravenheart wanted to do this for so long.

Sure, there was a part of him that fought against it, that nagged at him from somewhere deep in his cranium, but it was never more than a distant drone that was growing easier and easier to ignore. He could still catch parts of it, benevolent babble and warnings and all those prideful and sanctimonious sermons that he had kept as his creed for all those years. But within the tumult of his wrath and unbridled lust for retribution, those voices were like whispers in a hurricane. And there was nothing they could do to change the fact that he hated these people.

These geese that flocked and quacked and complained, these weaklings with their hand out, always asking for more, more, MORE! Letho had given them so many years of his life, so many years of leal service, solving their problems, sorting their own messes, facing the dangers they were too yellow to face themselves. And to what end? These people never changed, never evolved, never bettered themselves. Their only noteworthy abilities were the inkling to abandon and deceive and put themselves before all others. Sure, there were outliers like he had been years ago, but they too were a part of the problem, part of the system that enabled the content to remain stagnant and the strong to wallow in their dotage. These people didn't deserve freedom. They needed a steel fist to crush them and mold them into something useful.

But that wasn't what these fireworks were all about. There was a bigger picture, a plan that the Sovereigns of Tar'shak had which Letho was not privy to, and this little piece of hell was just the first strand in the weave of that tapestry. They were testing him. Nobody said it in that many words, but he was still bright enough to connect enough dots. They were testing his will to do what it takes, his will to go against the morals and convictions he had held to for as long as he could remember. But the joke was ultimately on them. Didn't they realize that this was exactly what he wanted? Didn't they know by now that for so many years he had suppressed the desire to enact just punishment on all these people he used to cater to?

“You!” someone called out for him moments after he emerged from the blackness that closed behind him. The panic-stricken man scurried towards him like a rat before the flood, keeping one eye on the fallen form of the demon farther down the road. His flashy attire, all fluttery sleeves and lacy cuffs, was dusty and ruined. “How did you get through?”

Once he was close enough to see Letho's face, puzzlement washed over his face momentarily, followed by the dawn of recognition. It appeared his face and his name still haven't faded from the memory of the people here. “I know you! Ravenheart, right? Letho Ravenheart? My word!”

A few more staggered forward, encouraged by the appearance of this armor-clad hero that braved the barrier. In his Cillu glass full plate and armed with his dragonscale shield and spear, Letho looked every bit the Red Marshal known in these lands, his armor reflecting the flames in every possible hue of orange and scarlet.

“You're here for us, right? To get us out?” one of those gathered asked, a pampered looking kid with streaks of dried dusty tears on his cheeks. His bloodshot eyes looked up at the aging hero not with hope, but something akin to irritation, as if the squirt was ashamed he was caught crying and it was all Letho's fault.

“Indeed. I am here for all of you,” Letho said, and offered a smile. A few of those gathered had time to deduce that there seemed just a tad too many teeth visible in that smile before they were dead.

Switching the spear to his right hand, Letho pulled his left arm back and swung it in a wide horizontal arc that sent the sharpened edge of the dragonscale shield on a deadly, neck-high path. A pair of heads came tumbling behind his stroke, with another pair of throats gurgling through desperate fingers. Another man, last in line and faster than most, lost the top of his skull and staggered away like a puppet forgotten by the puppeteer. The kid, now covered in copious amounts of blood as well as dirt, screamed again. Letho shoved him to the ground and made sure he stayed there with a swift jab of his spear that turned to volume of the scream down to a dying whimper after a few moments. Yanking the spear out of the youth's chest with a swift pull, Letho proceeded to where Erhat was breathing his last breaths. This time around anyways.

“Kept you waiting, huh?” he said to the demon, sparing scarcely a glance on Erhat and the pile of rocks that kept him pinned to the cobblestones. Instead, his focus had shifted to the man who was most likely the cause of Erhat's demise. One of those whispers from the back of his brain crept through all the fire and smoke and gruesome death.

I know you.

[Dissinger]

Screams echoed through the streets, people scattering upon the wind. A man sat in an alleyway, listening to the ensuing chaos as people tried desperately to outrace the flames that engulfed Radasanth. A tuneless hum was on his lips as he shook his head back and forth, trying to figure out where Aislinn Orlouge was hiding. He had an appointment with the Witch to do some much needed upkeep on his body, and make sure the mana wasn’t burning him out like it threatened to. He was mildly annoyed at the fact that of all days for chaos to ensue, it was today that they chose.

More screams.

A resigned sigh left his lips as he stepped out onto the streets. His boots slapping the cobblestones as he moved through the throng of people fleeing the fight. He gripped the top of his hat as he moved casually through the crowd, heading towards the source. If he didn’t put a stop to this, he would never get the time with the Scarlet Witch he needed. She would be too busy healing the fallen from this scourge.

He made his way out the back of the crowd with a nonchalant shrug, the people were so busy trying to get by him he didn’t even need to move. The stampede headed for the exit, in an effort to escape what the man willingly threw himself into. He sighed as he came out the back and clucked his tongue at the sight of demons. It seemed he had some work before him, if he was going to make that appointment.

He continued to walk, his hand on the top of his hat as he reached the edge of the barrier. He let his hat go as he frowned at the magical circle, trapping more humans in. A sigh left his lips as he gently reached out to touch it, and raised an eyebrow seeing it cross the threshold easily. Withdrawing his hand was arduous, but doable, and it was at that point he realized the intent. The demon’s didn’t care if something came in, only if it tried to leave. A soft snort left the man’s lips before he stretched and walked across the barrier, entering the fray.

People were crying, pleading the god’s with voices that had never been chaste in their lives. It was tiresome to hear the stages of grief, some were in denial, loudly exclaiming how things couldn’t be real, others were begging, making deals with any thayne that would listen. It was trite, and the man was on a tight schedule. Moving forward he finally reached the center of the area, and saw an interesting sight. His eyebrow arched at the massive form of Letho Ravenheart, cutting down men.

“Huh, interesting,” The man muttered stepping forward. He noticed another man, more priestly in decor that was vaguely familiar to him as he walked up beside him, gauntlet clad hand on that hat as he carefully took the hat off. His eyes looked at the big man before him, “I’m not seeing things right? He’s real?”

A shrug saw the jacket taken off in a practiced maneuver as he carefully tucked both in his satchel. Tossing it aside the jacket revealed a myriad of knives as he whistled wildly out of tune. His eyes never leaving the visage of the red marshall before he spoke once more, to no one in particular, “Well, let’s get this over with.”

His voice was raised up as he spoke, “Hey you, yeah big red, thinks he’s Letho Ravenheart, knock it the fuck off man. I have an appointment to keep and you’re kinda ruining things for me. If you tuck your tail between your legs, I won’t rip it off and tuck it down your throat…”

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

I felt really stupid for being caught off-guard by the priest's attack. I've seen him battle once before, and knew full damn well that he employed a bit of lightning in his arsenal. And yet, the giant flash he summoned with his fingertips blinded me.

By the time the brilliant light that overtook my senses faded, I had run out of curses to utter. Furiously, I rubbed my eyes with my hands, but that proved to be a big mistake--a layer of sweat and soot caked my hands. Luckily, I had a few choice back-up phrases that I screamed to express my current level of misery and aggravation.

Behind me, the crashing sound of a small mountain being dropped in the plaza shook me to the core. I turned around and saw the blurry silhouettes of the tall man in the dark robes standing over a pile of rubble, half a demon at his feet, claws scrabbling for something, anything that he could free himself with.

"Yeah, good job, team. Way to go," I muttered to nobody in particular. I made a mental note to buy a round of beer for the guy.

Radasanth continued to burn all around me. Every fiber of my favorite suit was soaked with sweat, my black hair clumped and matted with the ashes of a dying city. The thought crossed my mind that, hey, maybe I should do my good deed for the day and grab the electromancer and start checking for any survivors--or, at the very least, cut my losses and figure out how to get the hell away from here without getting fried.

A shrill cry of a young child ripped through the air, prodding me to consider the former. I frantically turned towards the source, my vision clearing up enough to confirm that I was already too late.

There stood a hulking figure in glass armor, the oranges and reds of the conflagration dancing off the surface of the suit, giving him a hellish look all of his own. His face was shadowed by his shaggy brown hair. In one hand, he held a scaled shield. With the other, he violently yanked a very expensive-looking spear out of the chest cavity of a small child.

I steeled myself, biting down on my lip hard enough to draw blood. It looked like my night was nowhere near over.

Not that I minded; I didn't get enough of a piece of that demon bastard to make up for watching the pages of that necromantic tome become cinders. I had a lot of hopes for that book; it would have given me some insight on how to further improve the longevity of my briarbane parasites using some of the old magicks that were employed in Dheathain by a long-dead cult of some even longer-dead old god.

So, with that knowledge forever gone, you could say that I had a serious need to carve someone up like a harvest festival turkey.

I raised my right hand and snapped a cloud of three inch long obsidian daggers into existence. They fluttered through the air around me in complex patterns, waiting for my command to be sent forth and rain death upon the child murderer.

As I took a step closer, so did he. "Kept you waiting, huh?"

There was something in his tone that gave me pause. Just enough bemusement and venom in it that sent a chill down my spine.

The light of the fire illuminated his face as he took a step closer, and that's when I felt the world drop out from underneath my feet.

I didn't know him personally; but you're a fucking idiot if you've spent any amount of time in Corone during the Civil War and not heard of Letho Ravenheart.

To sum it up in a word, the people considered him a hero. We all know my feeling on people who call themselves that word, but Letho was one of the few people in modern times who could actually, unironically be considered one. Well, if you weren't sided with the Imperial government, anyway.

I could recount for you all of the deeds he performed that I picked up from tavern hearsay and newspapers, but I don't think a single one of them would matter right now. I just witnessed the guy murder a small child in cold blood. One who had probably heard the legends, and was hoping that the Ranger would've delivered him to safety rather than hell.

And there was just something in his voice that didn't sit with me right. Just the way he addressed the demon who started this whole mess. "Kept you waiting, huh?" There was a familiarity in his words, with a hint of playful teasing.

I had a thought. A dark, nagging thought that wouldn't let go. Growing louder and louder with each passing moment.

Was... Was Letho in league with the dying monster? Is he involved with this somehow?

In the heat of the moment, I jumped to every possible conclusion. And it didn't matter who you were; if you cost me even the smallest scrap of paper from the most priceless book, I will end you.

I've always been a "shoot first, ask questions later" kind of girl, anyway. Worst case scenario, I check to see if the Assembly will give me a few pieces of gold for his mangled head.

My knuckles were white with anger as I threw my fist at him. The sharpened spikes immediately followed, rocketing through the air with the hope of turning the Ranger into a pincushion.

[redford]

Dust and embers streaked upward, mingling with the smoke of John's cigar. The air was thick with the scent of white-hot metal and tobacco as the half-giant lifted a hot sword from his coals with a silvery hand, eyeing the color of the metal with a practiced look before turning to a trough of water, dousing it with steam. The smells changed for a moment, the dense smell of steam overtaking the tobacco for a moment. His ears still felt the clang of his hammer on the anvil, but picked up a new sound, overtaking the echoes of his forge.

Thunder?

The low rumble maintained its tone, though, and grew in volume, louder by the second until John covered his ears with metal, dulling the sound. Louder still it grew, until he felt the sound in his chest. His forge forgotten for the moment, he opened the door of a converted barn to look out across his plot of land, toward Radasanth. The low note stopped suddenly, and a distant pillar of smoke streaked skyward, spreading out to cover a portion of the city. Too far south to be in the industrial district, it had to be the heart of the city, business district.

John's eyes widened and he dropped the rounded hammer from his hand, his forge, sword, and materials forgotten behind as he sprinted toward his house, leaping to the porch in one step and snatching his talymer bow and quiver, slinging them over his shoulder and reaching to his dehlar tower shield, fusing the metal to his armor and leaping back off the porch as he willed the shield to split into two pieces, which shaped themselves into warhammers.

His feet thundered through the forest between his farm and the blackened dome, crashing through bushes and vines, not even slowing as his giant form pushed forward. There was no time for trails, no time to heed the warning that this was dangerous. No time to think. There was but one thought in his mind, and one thought only.

Jamie.

[Letho]

Small world, Letho thought as another one of his acquaintances came crawling out of the burning woodwork. The electromancer Storm Veritas had an earmarked page in the thick catalog of names and faces stored in the Marhsal's memory, a conniving crook with illusions of grandeur and far too much power behind far too light a trigger. They had tussled in the past once or twice with no clear victor in the engagements. But that was the way it went with Storm's ilk; the roaches were one of the toughest species to exterminate.

Seth Dahlios, on the other hand, had been a friend, or as much of a friend a murderous Lavinian hex mage could be. When Letho appeared to lose his mind in his quest to resurrect his beloved Myrhia, it had been Seth who came to rescue what was left of his pal. Good old Seth Dahlios and Karel Revan and brave little Lorelei. Bless their kind hearts. Somebody should've told them that their rescue had been unnecessary. The truth was Letho Ravenheart had been happy there at Tempus Island. It had been a place of power, where one could bend the strings of time itself. He would've been fine. All that talk about the place sucking his soul dry was a bunch of hogwash. In fact, had the trio not meddled, Letho would've probably achieved his goal and Myrhia would be alive and there would be none of this demon business, AND IT WAS ALL THEIR FAULT!

He wanted to charge at Seth, wanted to bear down on the man and pulverize him, make him swallow his own teeth and boisterous words. It was his military training that prevented him from rushing the Lavinian like an animal, his strategic mind pulling on the reins and reassessing the situation. There were other elements to consider, like that vermin Storm at his ten o' clock and the woman at two. If he went straight for his old friend, he would end up with enemies on both sides, one of which had daggers hovering around her. A ridiculous, pointless display of bravado, Letho thought. If you had the ability to manipulate pointy objects, showing them to the enemy was the last thing you ought to do beforehand. A dagger from the blind side was always worth more than three up front.

“Seth Dahlios, dearest of all my friends,” Letho said, sounding about as sincere as a man with murderous intent could. His eyes were pointed at the hex mage, but his mind tracked the other two through peripheral vision. Though his words were spoken with a certain degree of nonchalance and he took neither a particularly offensive or defensive stance, his body was ready, a knocked arrow ready to be unleashed.

It was the girl who made the first move, as Letho suspected, launching the salvo of her floating daggers. The Marshal neither ducked nor tried to sidestep, but rather rushed at the incoming missiles while covering up his front with his tower shield. But instead of simply letting the dragonscale take the full force of the oncoming daggers, he swept the shield sideways at the last possible moment even as he charged forward. Instead of embedding themselves in the surface of the shield, the three daggers were slapped away, ricocheted in the general direction of both Storm and Seth. Letho doubted that the parried daggers would cause either any serious harm, but they might serve as enough of a distraction, allowing him enough time to deal with the woman.

He covered the distance at a thunderous sprint, coming at her with a side-swipe akin to that which ended five lives in a single stroke moments ago. However, this one sent the sharpened edge of the wing-shaped shield about half a pace short of the target, and intentionally so. For even as the shield made its harmless swish at neck-height, his spear followed from below it, its thrusting blood-stained tip seeking purchase in her abdomen.

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

It had only been a test shot. Or, at least that's what I told myself when Letho effortlessly knocked my obsidian shards aside. Just a little something to see if he had his wits about him. A little something to let him know that I meant business, but not enough to give him a guess at the true extent of the powers I possessed.

As I readied another salvo, this time coming in from another angle, the fucker closed the distance between us and lashed out with the pointed edge of his shield. I caught that unmistakable glint of murderous glee in his eyes--he was going right for the kill.

I opened my mouth to cry out, but the obscenity was caught in my throat. I tripped all over myself like a drunkard, left foot catching on right ankle. The Ranger thrust a spear towards me as I fell down backwards.

Invisible hands tightened their grip on my arms and pulled me through the veil that separated this world and the next. In a flash, everything turned shades of blue. I watched on as the blackened tip of his spear harmlessly passed through my face, emerging out the other side without any hint of injury. No blood, no bits of skull, no brain matter. The only thing I caught was the ash-strewn cobblestone street with my ass.

By Pode's hairy tits, that was a close call.

The edges of Letho Ravenheart's shield and armor swirled together with the pale smoke from the burning wreckage of the plaza, giving him a ghostly allure. Sapphire flames danced around him as he regained his stance, ready for another strike once I popped back into that plane of existence.

"Gonna' need your help here," I hissed into the aether.

Batibat grumbled in annoyance. He wasn't really fond of working twice in a day, especially on such short notice.

My face twisted into a scowl. "Buy you ice cream after this."

Another grumble, this time with a more curious bent to it.

"Sure," I relented. "All the sprinkles and crushed nuts you can handle. Two cherries on top if you don't miss."

The demon purred, and that was the moment I felt myself violently pushed back into reality. Shades of blue changed to dazzling reds and oranges. The intense heat of the fires washed over me once more. I found myself sitting on the ground, at the feet and mercy of Letho and his spear.

Right, I thought to myself as I cast him a defiant glare. Let's fucking go.

I immediately snapped my fingers, and the stone-hewn wall of a building on my right seemed to fold in on itself as Batibat's fist erupted from the surface. His rough fist balled up in a clump of earth and moss-covered wood, the fiend threw a thrusting blow at Letho that would probably knock a lesser man's rib cage clean out the back of his torso.

[Shinsou Vaan Osiris]

The usual quiet of the Radasanthian streets had been replaced with an alien landscape of chaos and cacophony. As overwhelming, searing flames lept from their razed buildings, their intense heat welcomed another arrival.

The Telgradian's body was illuminated with hues of orange and yellow; an inferno raging all around him as his glowing white coat flapped like a flag in the wind. Someone or something had been party to the incineration of this district of the city, but Shinsou Vaan Osiris hadn't been quick enough to the fray. He had sensed Storm's frantic energy from across the sprawling urbanscape and had determined something serious was happening. When Osiris stepped into the city limits, he arrived at a pandemonium beyond his imagination; one that left him with more questions than answers.

Shinsou thoughtfully pulled at his stubble as columns of molten orange burned. The frantic tempo of the scuffle he had sensed had changed, and the main energy source at the heart of all this madness seemed to have vanished. He now only recognised Storm and Madison's pulsing vitals. He saw the giant Cromwell on scene, and wondered what involvement the three had in the unfolding events. Even the demon Seth was here, too. They had never met in person, but one didn't become involved in the Brotherhood without their ears pricking at the mention of certain names.

What the hell is going on?

It was then that the Telgradian's eyes wandered over to the ruby tinted armored man. Upon sight, there was nothing his outward appearance told Osiris that would distinguish the man from any other soldier or ranger on the island, but as the flames lept higher and enveloped the area something inside Shinsou was starting to chew at his senses.

There was something about this one that seemed familiar. Then, Seth Dahlios confirmed it.

The legendary marshall of Corone, Letho Ravenheart? Interesting. I've only ever read about him in the archives. Most thought him dead...looks pretty mobile for a ghost.

For now, Shinsou decided to stand like a warden over the chaos, unmoving and observant, unconcerned for the wellbeing of the city and desiring nothing but the sateing of his curiosity. Questions lay bare at his feet. Answers would take a little more time to clarify.

Hopefully, Veritas would fill in the blanks soon enough.

[Storm Veritas]

No. F*cking. Way.

Can’t be. It –can’t- be. He’s dead.

The fall of the demon seemed simple enough, but the arrival of Letho Ravenheart was a shock the wizard had not been prepared for. Where were the trumpets, drummers, and rays of golden light breaking the clouds in thin streams? Where was the pomp and circumstance befitting a man who held him such high esteem that nothing short of a stairway descending from heaven in a string of pillowy risers would suffice?

For years, Letho had been the superego to Storm’s id; the heroic chosen one who foiled his every step and soured every morning with a bite of unforgiving reality. For years, Letho had been gone, freeing the electromancer to grow unchecked, amassing wealth, influence, and power. Like a bad dream, the ranger had returned without mercy, warning, or the characteristic piety that had usually accompanied him.

No; Letho made his presence felt differently, with the unceremonious dispatch of several Radasanthian citizens who dared to remain on the periphery of the makeshift battlefield. Clad in his gleaming, reflective armor, the warrior held the big stupid shield and spear as though he had walked up from the broken earth below. His actions seemed unlike the stoic protagonist that Storm had known all too well; this was a merchant of different goods.

Maybe more fitting for that sour son of a bitch. I told him to go to hell; apparently he listened.

The arrival of Seth Dahlios and Shinsou Vaan Osiris were almost peripheral to Letho’s appearance. Looking to them, Storm’s glare was decided, trying to imply the urgency of taking out the monster that had just come to rain destruction. He hoped that Shinsou at least would follow suit; Seth was certainly a wild card. Regardless, it was the girl that proved herself the fool. The quick back and forth between the brazen girl and the soldier-type told the aging wizard all he needed to know.

She has no earthly idea what she’s signing up for. Sweet-tits is as good as f*cking dead.

There were a handful of mighty warriors here now, but a few seemed non-commital. In his current, homicidal torrent, Ravenheart was the only priority that Storm Veritas felt obligated to deal with. The time for any ruse was decidedly over, although the magician decided first to remain focused solely on the lightning. As best he remembered, Letho had disappeared long before Storm unearthed the magnetic field manipulation that made him infinitely more lethal. Such a surprise should be saved for a special occasion.

“Should have stayed in hell, jackass. Corone isn’t yours anymore.”

Stepping toward the armored goliath, a calm quiet overcame the wizard. His fingertips hummed gently as he ran them through his hair, pulling back the grey-flecked black that obscured his politician’s face. The cool blue of his eyes faded gently to an impossibly soft hue, a near white as the scent of ozone filled his nostrils. Still painted with the red and orange lights of the ambient hellfire, his mind was solely focused on bringing a special blend of hate at the intruder.

Bracing his feet, the wiry adventurer extended his sinewy right arm, his long and snarled fingers twisted around an orb of white and blue which spun independently before his outstretched palm. All sound appeared to mute for the moment, when a tiny pop was followed by a thunderous boom, and an unprecedented blast of lightning flashed ahead at the man who had haunted his nightmares.

[Dissinger]

He’s gone off the deep end, What had begun as a hope that this was merely some demon died when the Marshall had given him a look that spoke volumes. It was the look of a tortured man, pushed to the edge, of a man that was through being civil and doing the right thing. It was the man at the end of their rope, looking to get their well deserved prize. Seth even had a guess what that prize was, and narrowed his eyes as he observed the man attack the black haired woman.

He got faster, The words were not his own, but the Traitor General who resided in the changeling amulet. Seth seemed to nod solemnly as he witnessed the difference. Looking over at the priestly man, Seth caught a whiff of ozone, and knew what was to come. That crisp clean scent meant lightning in droves, and that's when he recognized the man as Storm Veritas, Karuka’s lover of sorts. His past was here and it was doing battle, he vaguely remembered the man had beef with Ravenheart.

It seemed today was a who's who of people with dirty laundry to air. The man seemed intent on attacking everyone else and leaving Seth for last. The thief had an idea why, but he was game to that idea. He saw Storm wind up to unleash on Letho. That man however was attacking Letho, and he couldn’t have that. Quicksilver seemed to drip from his wrists as the clinking sounds of chains upon the winds could be heard, gripping the forming dehlar chains Seth lashed out at Storm before he said, “Sorry buddy, take a number he’s on my dance card!”

He was going to get to the bottom of this, one way or another. He could feel some frustration begin the wrath engine in his chest, the soft clinking of it starting up, but not fully awake. He would need a bit more anger before he needed to worry about that.

Sorry Storm...

[Letho]

There were many differences between Letho Ravenheart of yore and the one that currently raged in the inflamed heart of Radasanth. His past self had ever been the benevolent dolt, bound by moral values that society and upbringing ingrained into him. Protect the weak, help the needy, uphold justice, crush evil, be the white knight in the shiny armor that people needed, serve the public. The Letho of the now had none of those characteristics, and all the weaklings and lazy bums could go take a long walk off a short pier for all he cared. He was more than tired of ever serving such folk; at this point he was downright disgusted by the fact that he used to scurry around like a page to the pampered pricks of Corone. Suffice to say that the Red Marshal stood about as far away from his past self on the moral spectrum as he could get.

But both versions of Letho Ravenheart had one thing in common: they hated mages.

When the masked girl did her vanishing act and his spear stabbed naught but air, Letho was more annoyed than disappointed. Everyone had a trick up their sleeve nowadays, some magical razzle-dazzle that enabled them to avoid an honest brawl. Fiddling about with bolts of this or that element, teleporting from one place to another, moving objects with their mind instead of actually moving them with their own hands, it all amounted to cowardice, to stuffing your hands into your proverbial pockets and letting something else do the dirty work. Magic had ever been such an impersonal means to fight and ultimately vanquish someone; you never got the full impact of that last desperate gaze just before they drew in their last mortal breath.

As if intent to further irritate Letho, the bungling bitch brought forth her next magical creation. With a snap of her pale fingers – a motion about as far from physical exertion as humanly possible; gods how he hated these lazy people – she summoned what looked like a monstrous fist from a stone wall. Haven't seen that before, was the only thing that managed to flash through his head before the giant's fist was on him.

Battle instincts kicked in without fail as they were wont to do, drawing upon years of experience and confidence in his own physical prowess. The attack was coming from his shield side, so it was a simple matter of bringing the huge scaly thing up and brace for impact. It felt like being struck by a galloping horse, the force sending Letho sliding backwards, heavy boots first scraping over the paved ground, then actually burrowing into it as he slid to one knee to keep his balance. And still the fist kept on pushing with tremendous might, slamming him against the wall on the opposite side of the street. He could feel his arm going numb from the blunt trauma even as the scales of his shield moaned under pressure and the glass crystals of his armor crunched.

As if being turned into a living wall fresco wasn't enough, his eyes caught movement from the spot where Erhat laid in his dying throes. His engagement with the little sorceress had made him momentarily take his eyes off the other two, and that was all invitation a knave such as Storm needed to do his electric trickery. Letho caught a mere glimpse of the sparkling ball that had electric death written all over it, and it wasn't hard for him to suss out who would be on the receiving end.

Enough of this.

Was it the thought that brought forth the transformation of the other way around? Letho didn't know. The surge of power rippled through his body, enlarging his muscles to the point where they pressed tightly against the inner padding of his armor and flooding Letho's retinas with pure whiteness. With his already inhuman physique even further enhanced, pushing against the giant arm was a simple task, but he didn't counter immediately. Instead, he waited for the exact moment that Storm unleashed his little orb of death and then gave the huge limb a powerful shove with his shield. In one smooth, continuous motion he send the fist flying back and brought his shield perpendicular to the incoming bolt, catching it cleanly on the scaly surface.

He could feel the heat immediately, the spell absorbed in the shield an angry, impatient thing made of pure power that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. The sheer immensity of that energy made Letho grin; it would be that much more satisfying to pay the man in his own coin. Without much pause he slammed the shield against the ground, discharging the electrical bolt back at its original owner. His grin stretched into a full-blown murderous smile when he noticed Seth had engaged his nemesis as well. Good old Seth Dahlios. For this little act of loyalty Letho reckoned he would kill the Lavinian last.

That should keep the bastard occupied. Now, as for you... Letho turned his attention back to the little girl behind the mask, his blank, blazing-white eyes conveying what might've been madness, might've been anger, might've been the void of death itself. His right hand tossed the spear lightly just above his own shoulder, caught it again in an underhand grip and sent it flying at the recoiling arm still jutting out of the wall, all in one blurry motion, all with barely taking his eyes off of his quarry. And even as he brought the hand back to his side, a jagged claw sprung from its gauntlet.

Let's see how many times can you disappear before I spill your guts.

[Shinsou Vaan Osiris]

Enough was enough.

As this mad version of the legendary ranger sent Storm's own magic careening back at him, a series of thunks accompanied a counterattack from the fringes of the streets. It came in the form of a volley of dark matter lances that protruded from the ground like loosed arrows and absorbed the might of the electrical blast before being obliterated themselves.

At the end of the street, dark tendrils withdrew from their summoning at the hands of the Telgradian. He had been watching with concern as events reached a critical mass and ensured observation was no longer an option. Whatever the situation between Storm Veritas and Letho, whatever the problems his ally had with Seth or anyone else present, Shinsou was the electromancer's partner and a lot rested on that partnership continuing.

More than anyone really knew.

No sooner had Shinsou entered the melee and nullified Letho's counterattack, events twisted once again in unpredictable fashion. Letho had turned his mighty chassis and now directed his uncharacteristic ire towards Madison Freebird for the moment, whilst Seth Dahlios was preparing to destroy Storm where he stood.

Before the demon could consolidate all of his little thoughts and plots into a single master plan, Shinsou finally showed his hand. He first unleashed a bolt of dark matter across Seths’s bow, which struck a brick wall merely inches from him. The edge of a stale-smelling passageway spewed flames that hindered the Telgradian’s view, else it might have struck dead center.

No matter.

"Storm!" Osiris yelled to be heard above the roaring flames and the cacophony of battle, "Get clear!"

Behind Shinsou, a few feet above the crest of his oaken hair, mysterious arcane energies began to meld together next to a pair of burning houses whilst Veritas heeded his warning and got well out of the way of what he knew was to come.

Forking tendrils of black and purple convulsed and converged around each other to form a fifteen foot wide circular portal of black and purple energy. The sheer corrosive force of the dark magic chewed into the grimy brickwork either side of the Telgradian, opening up a massive semi-circle into each of the town-houses flanking him that left a whistling expanse of space where solid stone used to be. Out of the black chasm that gaped behind him, protruding from the abyss of marbled purple and jet, were fifteen thin, dangerous spears of dark matter. They were all aimed in the general direction of where Seth was thought to be moving to, where he was likely to run and also where Letho was attempting to fight Freebird. By now, the Radasanthian citizenry was starting to thin, but there were still bystanders and rubberneckers ambling about. It was tough luck, as there was no more time to wait.

The spears momentarily hung there with an ethereal hum as they waited for an order.

Without even having to motion, Shinsou commanded eight of the projectiles to attack at once. They shot out of the portal and wildly tore towards their intended recipient Seth Dahlios, forks of blue and purple electricity ripping at the cobblestone around them and scorching the surface of the road as they travelled. Through the electric trail of his powerful volley, Shinsou gave the implacable Letho an incredulous stare.

Soon as i'm done with him, you're next...

The books that Shinsou had read in the extensive Brotherhood archives in Whitevale painted Letho Ravenheart as a hero of Corone. He was the legendary marshall, a man who men had written songs about and whose stories were told in taverns across Althanas in awed tones. The faces of those who knew him best, apparantly in this case Seth Dahlios and Storm Veritas, told the Telgradian more about the man than any number of history books or texts could have done. Shinsou had never met the Letho of old, but now he knew he would probably never would. At least not if events continued on their current course.

It served to remind him of one simple truth.

Even the best men can fall.

[redford]

"Jamie!"

John ran toward her, clutching the girl in a tight embrace before looking at the side of her head and her ribs, both sporting gashes with congealing blood. She led a motley group of survivors, their finery forgotten in their fight for survival. She breathed deep and pointed back down the street where she came from, strewn with burning corpses. The stench was building. Her black hair shone slick with blood. She spoke quickly, reassuring him.

"I'm fine, I'll be okay John. Back that way, guy with silver armor and dragon shield is killing people right and left, I grabbed some people and we're trying to get out, but we can't."

John's gaze drifted across the street, looking for some solution. He pointed at an unburned building on the edge of the shadow wall.

"Get in there, maybe it's got a basement that you can get through. If you can't, hole up in there and wait for the shadow to clear."

Luckily before the entire place filled with smoke and killed them all anyways. Jamie was capable and fierce, but smoke would kill her all the same.

"Alright, let's get there!" Jamie commanded, clearly the one in charge. The people began to shuffle toward the building, and perhaps to their salvation, and Jamie grabbed John's shirt, speaking just loudly enough for him to hear.

"Shinsou is helping, but it looks rough back there, John."

"Osiris is here too?" His recent tussle with the famed Telgradian gave him pause. If Shinsou was having difficulty handling this, it could bode ill for everyone. But he could not leave his friend and opponent to fight alone, especially not here.

And someone owed him blood for Jamie.

His mouth set itself in a grim line almost of its own accord, the mystical armor he possessed rising up in rivulets to coat his entire body in nigh-impregnable titanium. Someone would pay. He turned, hearing a thunderous crash from beyond the next intersection. Jamie called after him.

"And kick some ass John!"

There was little difficulty in finding the source of the commotion. He turned at a cross street, keeping away from the burning buildings. There was quite a lot to see, all things considered. He recognized Shinsou and the briarheart immediately, vaguely recognizing the lightning mage and the man with the dragonscale from a statue a little ways south of town.

Either way, if this 'hero' was killing people, he needed to be stopped. The half-giant unslung his bow, leaning his seven foot dehlar tower shield on a lamppost, hoping that he was standing far enough outside the anti-hero's peripheral vision. He snatched a double-sized arrow from his quiver, lining up the shot with a custom-made talymer bow. The thicker wood creaked slightly as he drew it back with tenfold strength, grunting a little as it taxed his might. The braided steel cable he'd strung it with sung a familiar note faintly as he drew the arrow close to his ear, lining up the shot. From 50 meters, his Titanium-tipped quarrel would likely go through whatever it hit, and whatever building happened to be on the other side.

He breathed in, smelling the burning stench, feeling the warmth of the flames. He exhaled, and naught was left in his mind but arrow, target, and a practiced lead. His fingers slipped back, loosing the arrow, which split the air with its supersonic flight towards one Letho Ravenheart.

He would help the Telgradian and talk with the plant girl later. Right now he needed words with the man who hurt Jamie.

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

I could only stand in dumbfounded shock as Letho braced himself and absorbed the full brunt of Batibat's haymaker. With the amount of force the demon put behind his blows, it would've taken nothing short of a miracle to not get half of your body immediately pulverized. And yet, there he stood; not only taking the demon on, but stopping him in his tracks.

It was in that moment a small, nagging thought popped into my mind.

This may have been a mistake.

A thundering pop behind me to my left ripped through the air, followed by a burst of lightning cutting a path across the plaza to the ranger. With a single deft motion, he pushed back Batibat's onslaught, swung his scaled shield around to deflect the elemental blast back at its caster, hefted his spear and embedded the point right into the demon's palm.

I muttered a panicking string of expletives and focused all my hate into my hands. A pair of black infernos swirled into existence that absorbed the light of the fires that raged around me. They formed into a pair of globes no bigger than apples, the pressure inside them growing and growing as I poured more and more of my anger and malice into them.

The bombs couldn't form soon enough.

I heard a loud ka-chink! from a distance away, and looked up to see a dagger-like claw burst from Letho's gauntlets. With a hellish smile on his splitting his face, his eyes possessed orbs of white, he took one step towards me, and another.

Ravenheart burst forth with a hellish zeal and lashed out, closing the distance before my eyes could process what was going on.

I opened my mouth to invoke one of the protective spells at my disposal, but it was too late. As the dark tentacles spread from my chest to form their protective shell, the crazed bastard stabbed at my torso. I was nearly thrown off my feet by the force of the blow--and would have been, had it not been for the eldritch armor absorbing most of the impact.

Because that's just the kind of day I'm having, it wasn't enough. About an inch or two of the gauntlet blade managed to penetrate it, sliding neatly into the space between my lower ribs. I bit my lower lip and clenched my eyes, my face twisting into a horrible knot as I tried to absorb the waves of hot pain that were tearing through me.

I had to get away. Fast.

I'd worry about the wound later. I just hoped it was shallow enough that my body would knit itself together quickly enough for me to figure out how I was going to kick this fucker's dick in. ...Against my better judgment.

With a single word, I allowed myself to be torn back out of this reality. I melted off the edge of the blade and was unceremoniously dumped on my hands and knees into the space between worlds. The dark tentacles continued to squirm around my form, completing the protective shell just a second too late for it to be of any use. A small river of hot, sticky blood poured from the wound and collected on the street in a puddle. It hurt to breath, even as the magic that coursed through my veins hurriedly worked to patch up my flesh.

As I sat there, I caught a glimpse of the two wrathfire bombs falling to the cobblestones, coming to a stop at Letho's feet. They had about two seconds left before they exploded; I just hoped that he wouldn't notice them in time.

[Storm Veritas]

Fate had taken a familiar turn for Storm Veritas. He had grown used to getting bad breaks in the matters of combat, however today was proving exceptionally sour.

F*cking Letho. So sick of this mountain-chucker mother*cker.

The glass-garbed soldier seemed infinite in his power, never short of new abilities which seemed to dramatically outstrip what the mighty wizard was capable of. In the long stretch of time that had separated the two, the magician’s power had grown in leaps and bounds. He didn’t grasp how much more impenetrable the Marshall’s defenses had grown; perhaps it shouldn’t have been such a surprise given their storied history.

Like an athlete effortlessly batting back a ball served in a game of Alerian Jah-lid, the merciless soldier leaned into the blast, returning the serve like a mirror. Flabbergasted with the move and complete absence of time, Veritas was left to absorb the entirety of the lightning blast. Fortunately, the intervention of a series of all-too-familiar black spears blasted before the beam, nullifying the terrible counter.

The proud, ebony clad adventurer only heard the twinkling sound of chains ever so faintly before the brutality took hold.

“Gyaah, shit!”

He was struck somewhere about the hip with a mighty spiked ball, attached to a chain that extended back towards the monstrous Seth Dahlios. The chained mace hit frozen frame at hip height, the inch-long spikes cut through his flesh like a hot knife through butter, as the force of the bludgeoning filled him with a positively blinding pain.

Knocked to the ground, Storm fell awkwardly, twisting away faintly just before the ball struck to salvage bone from breaking. The assault was absolutely awful, and hit him from the blind side, the sounds of the great orb muted by a mix of blasts, sizzles, cracks and pops all about them. The omnipresent crackle of flames upon the street persevered in the echo of the felled demon, a reminder of how all this madness brought Storm to the ground.

There was no time to plan his payback towards the villainous Dahlios as Storm Veritas felt his hapless frame crash into the cobblestones beneath him. His head, hands, and shoulder knocked hard, blurring his vision and sending a warm, numbing sensation through an injury to his hand he dared not look upon.

With tunneled vision, a high pitched hum filled his ears and the wizard attempted to scramble. He pushed up with defiant hands, his body somewhat responsive but feeling disoriented and weak. Sweat dripped from his forehead down to his fingertips, drawing his attention to a right index finger which took a hard left turn at the first knuckle. A minor injury, the preacher felt a newfound numbing, as well as a touch faint.

That is not right. Oh shit. Disgusting. Ugh.

Rising to his knees, he felt for the dislocated finger, which didn’t take long to identify. He closed his eyes for a moment as his left hand wrapped around the digit, a wave of white pain and filling his ears as he ripped the finger back into alignment. If it was of any consolation, the searing pain in his hip, head, and hands felt miles away as the fresh blast of agony danced its way through him.

Staggering to his feet with the balance and agility of a newborn foal, the wizard grabbed at his hair with both hands, fighting to steady himself. In moments, he could be lethal again, but for now he was a wounded mouse before the cat.

[Letho]

Another fool flocked to the fray, this one on an elevated position from which he easily dispatched of the lightning orb that was bounced back towards Storm. And though his magical prowess seemed to be adequate, Letho found the man’s glare almost comical. He had been on the receiving end of a plethora of these sulky stares, and they were all like blunt arrows – pointless. All they really did was scream I’m coming for you, thus giving their target a forewarning and keeping them on their toes, which was the one place prey should never be.

But the Red Marshal didn’t waste too much time dwelling on the man above; couldn’t really because his attacks had finally drew blood. Even though the masked sorceress dematerialized again, she left a bit of herself on the talon of Letho’s gauntlet, a little splotch of crimson that widened his smile. Though he found a certain amount of satisfaction in dispatching inconvenient people, murder was never a high that Letho rode on. Sure, there was a morbid beauty to its gory artistry, but it was generally a messy business that was best done swiftly and with as little fanfare as possible. Yet, when it came to the magic people, there was a kind of elation when he brought their kind down, the kind that a person feels when blowing down a house of cards. All that hard work for it to collapse as soon as someone comes near.

Letho reveled at the landed hit for almost an entire second before everything went to hell.

The gunshot – surely it had to be a bullet, for what else was heralded by that thunderous boom and followed by immediate pain – came from the flank, and it was only the positioning that saved the Marshal. His shoulder pauldron practically disintegrated as it took the brunt of the attack, yet it managed to slightly alter the trajectory of the shot. Instead of running Letho straight through, the bullet tore across the front of his chest, ripping through flesh and armor alike. The sheer force of it sent the bulky man spinning twice around his vertical axis before he came crashing face-first to the ground. The pain and blood came in perfect unison. The gash across his bulging pectoral muscles was gushing, but it was far from the only wound Letho had received. The shattered glass of the chestplate had peppered his face with a thousand tiny cuts and a single major one that opened up his cheek almost up to the ear.

That will leave a scar, his mind was quipping, but his body was already in motion. Though his muscles protested, Letho knew that staying on the ground in a fight with multiple enemies meant a quick death, so he tried to bring himself up. But an attempt was as far as he got. No sooner than he got to one knee and caught a glimpse of his latest attacker – a titan with a bow the size of a tree trunk – another blast blacked his vision and sent him flying across the street in an ungraceful parabola. His uncontrolled flight sent him through a window of an exchange and ended in a heap of broken wood and jingling currency, though Letho was unaware of his location at first. There was only pain, sharp and dull and in places which he didn’t even know could hurt, and everything above him was a carousel that wouldn’t stop spinning no matter how much he struggled to focus.

Get up or you are dead, the imperative came, and even the mere thought of doing it seemed to bring the hurt to another level. Letho knew it to be true, but he also knew that staggering out like a drunkard would achieve the same result. The giant would pick him off like a wounded deer at this point. He needed a distraction.

A pair of portals opened up at his sides amidst the rubble, letting through two massive silver-furred wolves. Their minds were instantly connected to Letho’s, so no audible explanation or command was given. The wolves knew the situation, knew the positions of the enemy and the capabilities they’ve shown so far, and with a mere thought the Marshal gave them instructions.

Harass the archer, Letho commanded the smaller of the two. She was more agile and thus more likely to be able to dodge and weave through the rubble as she stalked upon the giant. Get to higher ground and be on the lookout for the disappearing woman, he sent to the other, completely unaware of how ridiculous it sounded to watch out for an invisible person. But with the number of fighters rising, he needed more than a single set of eyes on the battlefield. The beasts leaped out of the broken window even as he completed the mental command, leaving him alone with the dreadful task of getting up with all those drums beating the death march in his head.

The battered Marshal got to a sitting position first, and was rewarded with a ripple of ache that seemed to originate in his temples and then spread over his face, his chest, his arms. With his hands on his knees, Letho hung his head low and spat a mass of dirt and blood that accumulated in his mouth. He tongued his cheek from the inside and found out – other than tremendous amounts of stinging pain – that he didn’t have a cheek in places and that one could probably see his teeth right through the side of his face.

Losing a lot of blood. Got to move, Letho told himself, and then pushed himself to do just that. When he got up, the first step sent him careening to one of the walls. But his vision had stabilized and he didn’t see anyone storming in the little money shop at the moment. The explosion nearly knocked his lights out, but it also apparently knocked him out of sight for the moment, granting him a short reprieve. His mind raced while the body was static, though, always thinking of the next step. Going out through the front would probably get him shot. Going out the back was predictable. Climbing to the upper story would give him no tactical advantage without ranged weapons. Going sideways, though, and keeping out of sight...

From the sheathe on his belt, Letho pulled out a mundane-looking dagger. The thought he directed at the weapon brought forth another pulse of dull ache to his cranium, but it also made the weapon quiver and turn almost liquid. The malleable mass shifted and grew before his eyes and in mere seconds the Vorpal blade had turned into a massive maul. Slinging his shield on his back – a motion that used to be effortless now brought out a grunt out of the Marshal – Letho gripped the weapon with both hands and struck at the nearby wall.

[Dissinger]

“You’re getting old,” Seth taunted as he twisted his wrist and yanked the chain back. It splashed into quicksilver which ran back towards his body, objective complete. He heard a scoff in the corner of his mind he marked for the soul of the changeling amulet. His eyes narrowed as he prepared to take on a wounded Storm Veritas when a bolt of dark energy exploded between them. He had raised an eyebrow before he snorted, “Looks like I gotta take care of your nurse grandpa, I’ll be back to finish what I started later…”

He turned to see the visage of the Telgardian in the distance. His eyes were squinting to make out features. Whoever had ruined a perfectly good fight was some no named cuss from what he could see. Probably shined his boots and cleaned them as well, just someone who didn’t have experience, starting a fight he couldn’t win. The impressive light show showed more of the spears coming at him, and Seth very plainly asked, “Karel, a bit of your expertise?”

You don’t deserve it you know, the words formed in his head. It held the gruff tone of a soldier, and Seth knew they came from the soul of the Traitor General.

“Yeah, but if I die we won’t be able to shatter the dream, will we? Wanna make peace with one of these fuckers? I could toss you to Letho, see how you get on with him…” Was the Demon's candid response.

I hate it when you play this game, fine… The changeling amulet lost the form it normally took, that of a silver band about a gauntlet-clad wrist. It seemed to go into the form of a true amulet, a stylized lizard on the surface etched in the copper. The jewelry while out of place was relatively unremarkable, and so Seth straightened his gauntlets in a practice maneuver and hunched down, right as the spears began to fire at him.

To anyone who was watching a bluish light seemed to guide the Lavinian’s hands as he moved catching the spear of dark matter tossed at him. A flourish robbed the momentum of the strike, giving the Lavinian control over it as he felt the balance. The other spears, sent to corral him into the javelin in his hands exploded harmlessly. The Demon spun and chucked the energy spear right for the face of the man who attacked him previously. He knew that the throw wouldn’t be a surprise, the man was watching him. So, he had to throw a bit of that Dahlios lip in as he shouted, “You like sitting on the sidelines, come on down nurse. Let's get to know each other!”

That accomplished he narrowed his eyes before he shook his head, the man was too far out for hex magic to play a sufficient role. So, he left the crippled Storm Veritas to bleed out on the street and rushed after the Javelin to close the gap on his erstwhile attacker. Letho was already destroying the battlefield, and so Seth knew he wouldn’t have much longer before things got dire in the fire pit.

A part of him relished the chaos about him, knowing this was why he lived. It was a return to form, and the Demon was loath to admit it.He was enjoying this, and part of him was excited at the prospect of fighting Letho again...

[redford]

As John's quarrel found its mark, and Ravenheart searched for some escape, John paced forward, readying another arrow to put through the man who hurt Jamie. The fallen hero had other plans, though, and as the chaos around them raged, flashes of white revealed dire wolves, one of which charged the half-giant. It darted quickly in and out of the cover of flame and rubble, and John loosed another arrow, which struck what was once a stone wall, exploding against it to produce a shower of pebbles. The wolf was unperturbed, however, and leapt for John's throat.

The half-giant tilted to the side, bringing up an armored hand to catch the beast's jaws. As the wolf sailed through the air, John brought his other hand up to the wolf's side, pushing to add to its momentum, flipping it behind him as it snarled. Its jaws dug as it flew, though, and cut rakes along his titanium armor, leaving deep scratches in his forearm as the canine's teeth penetrated his magical armor, cutting through flesh easier than metal. As blood began to seep from the wounds, John let out a deep, throaty groan and focused on the armor, which sealed itself over the breaches in his flesh, keeping them from bleeding too much. He was about to turn and face the wolf again, but the Telgradian caught his gaze. A streak of his own blackened magical energy bolted back towards him, returned by the target. Osiris may have been smart, but he wasn't exactly durable.

The wolf and his forearm would have to wait.

The half-giant reached out with his left hand, extending a tendril of armor into his massive Dehlar shield, squeezing the magical titanium into microscopic cracks of the heavier metal, binding them together as he felt something tug within him. A flash of white lit his vision as he was teleported, somehow, just in front of Shinsou. A thunderclap sounded as the air collapsed where he just was, his sight clearing just in time to see the void energy fill his vision with black. No time to react, no time to bring the shield up, there was just enough time to brace against the impact as the spear struck his chest dead center, driving him back a step as he felt the armor do its work, dissipating the dark energy to all parts of the silvery metal, veins of midnight spread across his body, storing the volatile magic within him. He spared a though to his old opponent, and spoke, tilting his head so Osiris could hear.

"You okay?"

The energy was powerful, and the quickening of his heart made him feel the same. He willed the massive shield to split, forming two large warhammers, and the half-giant readied them, watching for the anti-hero, this new adversary of Shinsou's, or the wolf to make a move.

[Storm Veritas]

Dahlios… you mother f*cker…

The sound of bedlam is impossible to describe; the clangs and crashed and explosions of war all about him coalesced into a white fog, a soft buzz which permeated his ears and kept his balance far from center. It felt as though his body was torn in half with the wrecking ball that had careened into his hip; the reality was a hairline fracture to the pelvis, deep bone contusion, and three inch-diameter tears to the flesh from the barbs of the terrible orb. Sadly, the magician was no medic; his understanding was far simpler.

Hurts like a bitch, but death hurts worse. Get up, pussy, and return the favor.

The heat of the fires about him suddenly oppressive, Storm hopped to stand on his right foot, his eyes turning to the Lavinian that had offered such a terrible shot to him. It was unlikely that the brutish monster knew that the electromancer commanded all things metal, perhaps more powerfully than lightning itself. A brief, delicious fantasy of strangling Seth with his own chain danced through the psyche of the adventurer, however time was of the essence.

Letho was predisposed with the brave girl, Storm’s brother at arms Shinsou, and the big knight John Redford that had just thundered into town. Veritas sneered for just a moment as his focus singularly pivoted to a new enemy, and considered how best to return the favor. The demon rocketed towards Shinsou, obliterating the wave of dark energy and firing a response back towards him. He moved over broken rock and fragmented street with an ease that left the magician endlessly jealous of his health.

“Not so fast, dickhead! I’d think Karuka would have told you I’m never just one-and-done!”

Storm’s physical strength was terribly compromised, but his magic still flowed with a white fire and ungodly power. He would have preferred to stab the demon with his own blade, or crush him within metal armor, but neither option was available. Sometimes simplicity afforded an elegance in and of itself.

Balancing his weight over his healthy right leg, the wizard conjured a tumbling orb of white and blue, crackling, sizzling, and dancing over his fingers. The great magic grew as Storm focused, the blue of his eyes fading to a ghostly white before he fired a terrible blast towards the second enemy to show himself.

Seriously, screw this guy.

[Dissinger]

Every time he turned to deal with a problem, another one reared its ugly head. He sighed as yet another warrior came out of the woodwork to defend his target and took the brunt of the blow without so much as a scratch. A growl of irritation left his lips as he spoke, “Is there a single fucking warrior on Althanas? Or is it all nursemaids and back patting circlejerks of people who can’t stand on their own? Has Althanas honestly gotten so pathetic?”

The heat in the area began to rise as the air about Seth took on a sweltering quality he ignored. The Wrath Engine slowly rumbled to life as blossoming rage and frustration poured into it. His anger at the situation was turning into pure mana, and once it began to hit a certain level, the engine would channel it back through him. It was the perfect mana construct for harnessing the potential of emotion, stuck in the worst possible shell for such a thing.

The mana continued to leak out for the Hex Magi, increasing the heat about him as he glowered down the warrior with two hammers before him. He heard a cry behind him and swore, just as he moved to avoid the blast. He knew he wasn’t going to avoid it entirely, but as it brushed his shoulder, he let out a cry of agony. His vision blackened from the pain as thousands of volts of electricity coursed through his body. He convulsed and fell to his knees, his hands hit the ground hard kicking up dust as his vision began to clear and the agony of the situation began to fall off. He growled lowly as blood from biting his tongue spilt from his lips to the ground.

“I’m fucking tired of this bullshit! You want a demon? You got one!” He managed, his voice gravelly from the energy that had coursed through him. Seth had pointed at the people before he hissed, “You will feel my pain, and you will like it!”

Bright white light erupted from the Demon as he sent out the wave of magic about him. Anyone who didn’t have some way of protecting themselves from magic would soon know what it was like to be the Lavinian Demon for a few moments, long enough for the actual demon to capitalize on the stumble, and perhaps eliminate another fool from this fracas. His eyes took on a furious glare as he moved to rush the man with the twin war hammers, Ebony and Ivory flourished in his hands as dancers across a stage.

[Letho]

With two extra set of eyes on the battlefield – and bestially sharp eyes at that – Letho had an almost perfect overview of the battlefield even if he was currently out of sight. The animalistic thoughts of his wolves came in as simple and clear snippets injected directly into Letho’s own consciousness. It felt almost like a chess game resolving in his head, with the movements of the pieces being fed to him by an invisible voice. Dahlios downs Veritas, elevated magician attacks Dahlios, Dahlios retaliates, the giant archer intercedes, no sign of the invisible girl..., and on and on came the small spurts of information as the two wolves prowled through the rubble. And out of that storm of information, one stood out in particular: the house upon which the spear-spewing mage stood was mere four houses down from Letho’s current location. He got to work.

Breaking down a wall was usually an arduous task, but with the amount of power Letho was able to put behind his strikes, each hit of the hammer was like a small detonation. It took about two booming strikes to down the first stone barrier and make a hole big enough to enter the adjacent building. Plowing through the assortment of comfy chairs and tables covered in fine silken cloth and silverware shining in all hues of gold as they reflected the surrounding fires, Letho made his way through the floor of what looked like a restaurant and aimed his hammer at the next wall. In the dim light of the room he didn’t even realize his vision narrowing and its edges blurring as he took another swing. The mortared brick being even more brittle than stone, it came down in a single strike and a couple of kicks at the remaining rubble.

It was in the third building that it hit him. At first Letho thought that the light in the fancy clothes shop was merely low and that such lack of proper illumination was the reason why his vision was getting blurry and he could hardly discern whether the mannequins spread across the floor were just human sized dolls or actual humans. But then wooziness came, sweeping over him like a rapidly-oncoming malaise that made his limbs heavier with each step. He stumbled amidst the lifeless dolls and their flashy finery, knocking a few of them over as he tried to continue his movement towards the building his enemies were on. There was someone crying out from behind the glass counter, a whimpering voice begging him something or other, but both the person and the words seemed to be coming through six feet of water.

Losing too much blood, was the obvious warning that Letho had been neglecting for the past minute or so. His relentless focus on chasing down his foes – especially the bow-totting coward that blindsided him – made him blind to the fact that his chest wound was bleeding profusely, and that the gush pouring down his front was only exacerbated every time he brought the hammer up and swung it with full strength. Only now he realized that the padding of his armor was soaked with blood, as were his clothes beneath it. In fact, now that he turned some of his thoughts to his own senses, he realized that even his pants were getting wet and soon his boots would be sloshing with crimson as well. If he couldn’t stop the bleeding, death was bound to take him in a matter of minutes.

Just a little farther, Letho commanded himself, forcing his body into motion despite it crying out for a longer pause. It took him three strikes to break through the final barrier, and by then he was breathing heavily and had to drag himself through the makeshift entrance he made. By now his eyesight was failing to the point that he couldn’t even recognize what establishment he broke into. Not that it mattered. It was bound to go down in a couple of seconds. With a bloody smirk that was now unnaturally wide due to the gash in his cheek, Letho lay down his hammer and fell to his knees.

The fun is just beginning, boys and girls.

[Erhat Varen]

Erhat’s life was hanging by a thread, and the thread’s name was sheer curiosity.

The demon knew his life in this shell was over. He wasn’t certain how many of his organs were destroyed or how many bones were broken, but he could feel that there’s a whole lot of wrong in him and that he probably had a foot in a grave and another on a block of ice. But seeing the world around him explode in belligerent mayhem was simply too precious to abandon at this point.

The plan they had put in motion seemed to be unfolding perfectly. The inky barrier persisting meant that nobody traced its origin to the sewers, and the amount of houses being swallowed by erupting flames signified that most of their mages managed to secure a good detonation spot. But more importantly than that, those that didn’t opt to tuck tail and run like beheaded chicken seemed to be caught in a struggle that was bound to end up with more than just a couple of bloodied noses. As intended, Letho was in the center of it, but the appearance of someone who had to be a very old friend of his was a fortuitous addition. This madman seemed almost as powerful as Letho and was more than willing to join Letho’s side in the chaos of combat. Erhat didn’t know why and didn’t care. The man took down the false priest and that feat alone was enough to put him on Erhat’s good side.

Propping himself up on his elbows and getting in as comfortable position as possible while having half of his torso crushed by a pile of rock, Erhat was preparing to witness another violent exchange when another figure passed through the barrier next to him. The flame in Erhat’s eyes, moments ago feeble and weakened by his dying body, burst with renewed vigor as the figure fully emerged from the blackness.

“YOU!”

[Lorelei]

“Me,” Lorelei simply said, managing a smirk as she laid her eyes on the trapped demon. She had expected this creature to show up here. After following the trail of Letho Ravanheart and his demonic posse for the last couple of months, she had already had a couple of encounters with the filth that now lay at her feet. In Underwood she had been too late, coming upon nothing but charred remains of a small town and scattered bodies of those unfortunate enough to be caught in one of these spheres. In East Tymerande she was tracking them for days before losing their trail in one of the forests. And in the suburbs of Gisela encounter with the demon and her estranged father had almost cost Lorelei her life. It was only by sheer luck that, when the buildings had started collapsing around her in blazing heaps, she had fallen through into the sewers below, where she eventually found the emitter for their entrapping barrier. All of these encounters were marked by the cloven hoof of this demon.

“I thought you were dead!” Erhat spat at her. The demon, only seconds before content with staying under his pile of rock and bask in the glorious carnage he had caused, now tried to wiggle from his prison like the worm that he was. Lorelei decided not to give him that chance.

“No. But you are.”

Pulling her hand back as if dragging on an invisible bowstring, Lorelei brought into existence a translucent bow with an arrow already knocked against the hair-thin string. Erhat had just enough time to put one clawed hand up in defense before she sent an arrow made of ice straight through his palm and into his forehead, pinning his hand to his face.

That’s one thing settled, the teenage sorceress thought as she precariously made her way past the demon and deeper into the fray. Amidst the rapidly growing flames and the accumulating smoke that grated against her lungs and made her cough weakly, she could barely discern what was going on exactly. There was no obvious sight of Letho currently, though the traces of silver fur flashing here and there through the ruins made it clear that he was still alive since his wolves were on the prowl. Of the rest of those caught in the battle, only one face was recognizable to Lorelei. And the Lavinian seemed to be caught in a battle with someone who wasn’t Letho, which was a very bad thing. She had hoped that everyone would focus solely on the imposter Marshal, but there seemed to be other grudges being settled right now. Which bode well for nobody.

“Mr. Dahlios!” she shouted at Seth as she hastened to his side. Knocking another ice arrow into her incorporeal bow, Lorelei tried to keep her eye on the others, hoping they wouldn’t try to take her down as well. She had to make them listen, make them shift their focus back on Letho, or it would be Gisela all over again. “Mr. Dahlios, everybody, we need to...”

The pain that struck her felt like a literal lightning bolt, sans the ear-shattering thunder and the smell of burning flesh. The summoned bow and arrow were gone as the teen was brought to her knees by Seth Hex magic, her lithe body caught in a shocking spasm. Though her jaw was locked so tightly that it was on the verge of snapping, she still managed to push some words through her clenched teeth.

“Letho,” she mumbled, struggling to cope with the ache that overtook her. There was no time for explanations. In a perfect world Lorelei would have had time to explain to all of them that the murderous madman wasn’t truly her father, was nothing but a verbatim copy of Letho’s own flesh that the demonkin was using to sow fear and doubt in the minds of Coronians. But by now the teenager had learned that this world was far from perfect. “We have to... focus... on Letho.”

When the earthquake came, she knew it was too late. Cracking the cobblestones and bringing further ruination to the collapsing world around them, the quake originated from the building upon which stood the huge man with two hammers and his considerably smaller companion. Such was the power of it that even such a sturdy construct, so far unscathed by the lashing flames, started to come apart as its walls cracked and collapsed under the sheer weight of the stone they bore.

“Too late. Again...too late.”


((So, just to clarify, Letho is going feral, and the transformation is bringing the house down. Literally. On his own head. And it would be great if everyone kicked his ass when he comes out from beneath it. :p))