Sic Transit Gloria...Glory Fades

[Slayer of the Rot]

The world almost seemed dead buried beneath it's arctic blanket of white, holding it's breath, not daring to stir the perfect plains and mounds of ivory. However, aside from the cold gnawing relentlessly at his burning, blushed ears, from Dann Lagh'ratham's view point, one could hardly tell that it was winter. Murky green water stretched as far as he could see, beneath the somber winter sky. An hour earlier, thick clumped flakes of snow had spilled down from it, but the thick snow storm had faded away nearly as quickly as it had come, leaving on the cold, static air to summon up his memories.

Usually, around this time of the year, he was brought back to easier times...days when his hands hadn't smelled so strongly of blood, before he ever knew how to shoot a gun. He wondered sometimes if it snowed on a planet under a dying sun...and he liked to think if it did, it at least snowed well over Meredith's grave. She always did love winter. Amongst the atrocities that had been birthed from a mystery, when the snow began to fell, it covered the blackened hulls of cars and buildings, buried the clean picked skeletons. The walking dead became sluggish, the cold stiffening their bare limbs, But more so, when it was snowing, all went to white, and the ruin of the world seemed washed away beneath it all. Meredith had always hoped that with the coming of the winter, the Dead would finally fade away, and the world would return when it was born again in spring...but each year, as the snow melted away, all that was to be seen were patches of seared, dead grass and broken concrete.

But it wasn't healthy to dwell on the past, at all. At least, not for long. He wasn't sure if Christmas was even celebrated here in this world he'd migrated too almost two decades ago, but he was intent on celebrating it, even if it was with himself. Mulling it over, for such a violent world, perhaps even more so than the one he had come from, he couldn't see the people setting aside a day to grow closer with family, and that was exactly what he was travelling to Alerar for. The world of Althanas was spiraling into war again, and as a veteran, of two of them, he needed to be prepared...

His Christmas gift to himself, the Rotslayer.

The slayer sucked in a deep, chilly breath, winter bting at his teeth, and sighed. It was about another three hours before the ferry touched shore, so he might as well have a drink or two to pass the time.
_____

Cold, broken rock dug into his knees as he knelt down in the middle of the great mountain range of Kachuck. A lantern hanging from an overhead beam cast a soft, amber light through dingy, sooty panes that kept the dark of the mines at bay. Over his lantern stood on of the burly denizens that shared Alerar with the dark elves, silently stroking his beard with gnarled, powerful hands. He was clad in armor that shone pure silver in the light of the tiny, dancing flame, a heavy headed hammer of dehlar hanging from a sturdy plated belt. Dan gingerly touched the stone floor before him, his brows knitted in wordless concern.

"I don't understand."

Driven into the rock was a deep, shadowed cavity, three inches wide, and approximately six feet deep. It appeared to have been punched into the face of Althanas in a single stroke of something heavy, and to the trained eye of a dwarf, it was apparent that the instrument was a sword, though far larger than any they had perhaps made. The bedrock from which this mine was carved into held it's vacant scar, almost proud for what it once carried; the slayer's sword. The lantern began to swing lightly as a wind meandered down into the dark, and in the swaying light, Dann observed the streaks rubbed roughly into the stone, meaning that the sword had been pulled clean in one pull. The floor was cracked in the slightest in the display that some struggle had been preformed here to acquire the tremendous weapon. He had indeed told the dwarves that any who thought they could were welcome to take it when he stabbed the Rotslayer deep into the tough, fossilized flesh of Kachuck, but somehow, now he felt...cheated.

"Aye, t'was a man, looked like a noble. Dressed in fancy silks. At his side was a titan of a thing, yanked it clean in'a pull a' his arm." Much of the dwarf's accent was wiped away, perhaps by extensive travel and being immersed in the words of Common. Dann happened to know this dwarf from many. many years passed, when he was younger, walking the soils of Alerar as the mercenary War Wolf. His name was Gram Thrumhammer, and had joined the Tel Aglarim as an ally when Anebrilith was swarming with the undead. Now he was a retired adventurer and warrior, and a thriving author, with many of his tales in print circulating the bookstores of the world. The slayer rubbed at the stone's wound again, wondering if it missed it's charge.

"Did he tell you his name? Do you remember it at all?"

"Ah, les' see 'ere..." Gram stroked his thick beard in thought, struggling to net such a passing detail in his frayed memory. "No...wait, I do, now that ye mention it. 'Twas Ruel Deunon. 'E's a big collecter 'a weaponry an' thing's 'a int'rest in Alerar. 'E mentioned yer sword was the last peice, an' tha' 'e was havin' some kin' 'a ball to introduce his new set 'a procurements." With a grunt, Dann stood, dusting off his knees. "Well then," he mumbled,"Looks like I need to go and get myself all gussied up."

[Slayer of the Rot]

"Ruel Duenon? You mean Master Ruel Duenon. What would you want with him, Mister Lagh'ratham?"

The slayer gave the question, at first, nothing more than a sharp glance. Three years ago, when he had first plunged the Rotslayer into Alerarien soil, only the dwarves' recognized his name. Aside from the fire demon he had slayed years back, before he even knew that he was a Wilmhearst, he imagined that word of him had reached the other stout, strong people by way of the lips of the warriors of their race who had fought with him against the living dead in Anebrilith. And now, returning to the heart of progress in Althanas, he wasn't able to walk a foot down the street without someone noticing him and whispering to whoever they were with at the time. While it did indeed inflate his ego a bit, he shrunk that huge grin when he noticed the wary looks of passing city guards.

At the present moment, his present clothes were...less appealing in the eyes of any noble, and there was no way he'd be able to infiltrate Ruel's ball in a gray slayer's coat and worn, slightly stained jeans. Dann had never professed to be any sort of fashionista, and was indeed one of the farthest things from it, so when shopping around for a tailor, he wasn't in the least bit picky. The Golden Thread seemed like a good enough place, and the suits and such they had on display. The tailor himself was a dark elf, fleet of finger and with deeper complexion than nearly any Fallien native he'd come across in his seclusion. The dark elf, whose name had turned out to be Vanastrae, had recognized him immediately, and seemed to be very pleased to have him.

"He's taken my sword for his own collection," Dann finally replied, after a few moments of scrutinization. "Exactly what kind of man is he?" Vanastrae put the question off for a moment, looping a long strip of measure ribbon around his arm, and jotting down the numbers on a notepad tied to his waist. "Well, Master Duenon admires many warriors. He follows the careers of many soldiers, and is very capable of seeing potential in a person. I imagine he'd make a great general, had he ever joined the army, but I don't believe that he'd ever sully his hands with iron." Dann's eyebrows arched, as his scowl deepened, barely feeling the prick of a pin in the clumsy fingers of the tailor's assistant's fingers. "Excuse me? He thinks he can collect the blades of seasoned warriors, who risked life and limb on the battlefield nearly each and every day, yet believes himself above the act of wielding a weapon? Ridiculous!" The last word exploded from his mouth in a tremendous bellow, and he flung his arms up over his head in exasperation. The assistant, who had been slipping the first sleeve over his right arm, seemed to instinctively know it was coming, and clapped her arms over his bicep, shrieking as she was lifted effortlessly. Grumbling, he set her down, letting her nervously return to her work.

"No one said Master Duenon was perfect. Besides, from what you tell me, you left that sword for anyone to take. What could you possibly need it for?" Vanastrae, as visually rattled as his assistant by the outburst, recovered much faster, and seemed to even take pride from the question. "The same reason I contracted a smithy to forge it in the first place; war. The blade itself took a life before I even put it's edge through a Bazaar caravan guard. I heard a week following the making of the sword, the smith fell ill, and the making of it proved to be his undoing when he passed away. They say that human beings are creatures of habit, and if that is true, then my habit is that of killing. The Rotslayer is the tool of my habit." The tailor gulped, and sewed the final stitch. Dann gave him a curious glance before he realized that already, his suit was finished.

"Well then, I wish you luck in realizing your habit may be more like an addiction."

[Slayer of the Rot]

A dozen crystal chandeliers winked with bright lights refracted from their millions of faces, spilling luminance down the spotless ivory walls set with filigree designs from the skilled, dexterous fingers of a dozen well known elven artisans. Over the hushed din of whispered voices from nearly a hundred very well dressed diners, the hum of a violin's voice raised and ululated in several notes, the remaining prolonged. As the sound began to fade across the room, where a small collection of tuxedoed musicians sat on a stepped stage, a dignified elderly gentleman with a strong looking jaw and carefully combed coif of snow white hair stepped forward, producing a slender crystalline baton of ice. As he settled himself before the dark stained rosewood podium, he tapped the baton several times and raised his free hand, the wrist limp and fingers splayed. The musicians sat up ram rod straight in their chairs, raising their bows or lifting their instruments to their mouth, and at their direction, began to play. A woman decorated with enough diamonds to buy his sword ten times over leaned across the table and whispered something to a boy a few decades her junior, and both stood, brushing past the scowling slayer to sweep out in a ruffled layer of white lace to the clearing in the middle of the set tables; the dance floor of polished green marble.

As they carried on their dance of carefully measured steps so as not to offend, Dan Lagh'ratham scowled his deepest in years.

He was very much far removed from his element in a place as expensive looking as this. Sliding back into the leather cushioned chair, he fidgeted uncomfortably in the suit, fiddled absently with the tie. As much as he naturally hated to admit that he was lacking in anything, he had next to no knowledge in how to behave at these sort of gatherings. The band's current song began to rise into a crescendo, and as it progressed, more and more people filtered out into the marble floor, leaving him to fumble with a creased pack of cigarettes. "Good god, how do these people actually enjoy attending these?" His hand snaked out and snatched a glass of a passing waiter's presented tray, but his face crinkled in a show of disgust when he sniffed the contents. "This is worse than walking through old Haidia in full slayer gear," he grumbled, lighting a stale cigarette with a wooden match from inside of his jacket.

All the way at the other end of the massive ball room, where a long table covered in a dark green tablecloth was set up, and a few nobles better than the others sat and drank and gossiped, glass cases were set up against the wall. In them sat one set of heavy black teethed axes, a slender mythril long sword of inarguably elven design, a large dwarf's mace, and several other items that seemed to shine with the legends attached to them, but his eyes passed over them without hesitation. No what drew his eyes was the weapon that didn't appear to belong. No amount of spit and polish was going to bring back the shine of it's metal, scuffed and scraped as though it had been used as a shield. The case for it was far larger than the rest, to simply accommodate the bulk of it, and the bottom was obviously reinforced. When dinner had been served, and the display had to be moved, six members of Ruel Duenon's help had to pitch in to move it. And while there were numerous young, attractive women here, his gaze did not waver; he had eyes only for it. His knuckles cracked as he flexed his fingers and ignored the prancing nobles.

The gray sheen of titanium was lost long ago to it's current color of rust red, inconsistent along it's length, and indeed, those few nobles who had attended the evening did not let their gaze stay on the blade for very long. If it wasn't for that spotless glass case, it would undoubtedly leak the stink of blood throughout most of the chamber. The ignorant, they would call it a savage's weapon, too brutal to be used in true warfare. They would argue that it was but a raw slab of titanium wrought in the most basic understanding of a sword, and had not place here amongst the more elegant, inspiring legends. The music swelled, peaked, surging in grand volume all throughout the ball room. Cymbals like thunder, the harsh notes of this song's greatest moment shrieking like lightning, and he went to cover his mouth as his war mongering grin broke.

The Rotslayer.

The notes faded away into memory, but the sword remained, permanent, strong, solid. Drawing a deep breath, the slayer rose to his feet, putting out his cigarette into the rare wood of his table.

[Slayer of the Rot]

Unlike the previous before it, the next song wasn't an instrumental, and it's cadency was much slower than before. An olive skinned woman in a sequined black dressed stepped forward in front of the elderly conductor, and with a gesture, cast a fist sized orb of pale blue light into the air before her. The pianist thumbed through a dozen pages before settling on one he seemed to recognize, and began to play, the woman singing soflty and sweetly with the sound of the music. Now, the dance floor was swarming with them, a sea of fake smiles and extensively expensive silk, and the slayer cursed audibly as he pushed a few of the couples out of his way, though the orb the woman had made succeeded in amplifying her voice to all corners, drowning out his foul mouth. His fingers curled into a rock hard fist as his temper soared, another stepping out in front of him as they clung close, swaying slowly to the music.

He wouldn't have minded starting early, a strike to the back of the woman's head, with her cushion of curled auburn hair would achieve the same affect as a nine pound hammer dropped on an egg. Under the gentle tones of the singer's voice, he could hear their heels clicking on the marble, click, click, click, not unlike the awful noise of a herd of cattle's hooves on stone. Groaning, he stopped, right there in the middle of the dance floor, and clapped his hands over his ears, groaning. Something was wrong. Everything was too sharp, suddenly, the colors to bright and vivid, like neon knives cutting into his eyes, the piano, the voices, the clicking of heels, the rustle of cloth, the whispered voices suddenly so horribly loud that even his hands couldn't block the awful shrieking, broken glass chorus of it. He was suddenly aware of a steady, bestial rumbling, and realized he was growling deep in the back of his throat.

The breath caught there, where the growling had been, as something punched into the flesh of his lower back. At first, the pain was nearly unbearable, a tremendous feat, even for himself, and cold, and then, a stinging agony like a sword fresh from the glowing coals of the forge. His teeth let loose a loud, painful click as he snapped them shut, eyes so wide they were bugging out, the pressure of the pain so incredibly intense likely to pop them right out of his skull. Undoubtedly, it would have sent any of the oblivious nobles around him into shock the second it had started, and unquestionably killed them by now. Finally, he doubled over, and aware that the pressure he was putting on his skull would crack it and give him more than just a concussion, pried his fingers away from his skin and folded them over his stomach.

"Son of a....bitch..." Someone bumped into him, the feel of velvet on his hand so tense, it looked like a claw, the veins rising up from the flesh, and he lashed out with his entire arm, unable to restrain himself to acceptable levels in his pain. The couple shrieked in terror and pain as they were thrown aside like empty champagne glasses, knocking violently into those in their way, causing something like a domino effect as several dozen of the high nosed bastards dropping to the floor, the original couple still screaming at the first major pain they'd felt in their life, a score of their bones shattered. Lips nearly non-existent, pulled back so far that it wouldn't have made a difference if he had lost them in some forgettable battle of his past, Dan 's teeth parted briefly to draw in a ragged, unsteady breath, his throat and veins visibly apparent in his neck. The singing had been replaced with whimpering, amplified everywhere in the ball room, the pianist still playing, oblivious to the unsettling sight in the middle of the green marble floor. He stopped though, as screams finally burst from the lips of the scattered nobles.

The scream wasn't for the demon amongst the sheep, though.

The scattered clanking of metal plates took the place of the absent music, as did the sound of the heavy trakym doors with their frosted glass windows slamming against the walls as a drove of armed men spilled into the chamber, leaving few to guard the doors. Groaning, Dan struggled to stand up right, vaguely aware that one of his hands locked around a fistful of his own jacket, as firm as an iron vise. In the distance, he watched as a woman, snow white fur wrapped around her shoulder, made a break for the door. Bolts sang, and she fell to the floor before she stood a chance of escaping. "As you all can guess, since I'm certain you're all fairly smart, to get into the positions you're at now, this is a robbery!" A woman with hard features and a sneer stepped out into the open, separating from her cronies, waving a crossbow above her head.

Rotslayer was forgotten. Right now, everyone was a source for his rage, every body in here just a barrel of blood and meat wrapped in flesh. He seemed to be set forever in the moment, still as a statue watching the world devolve around itself, a pair of armored men getting close, holding a burlap bag between them, quickly becoming heavy with treasures. "What's wrong with him?" As how everything had seemed to possess a razor's edge to his senses moments ago, now it felt numb, his body quickly becoming slick with a cold sweat as his stomach writhed restlessly, the pain in that one isolated spot of his flesh losing none of it's intensity. He heard no answer, and he gave none himself, aside from his arms sweeping in from both sides, like the musician with his symbols, slamming his forearms into the sides of their helmed heads and yanking them off their feet. Their faces split erratically down thbe middle and caved in with an eruption of blood and chunks of gummy, sloppy gray, spattering him and others as their ineffective armor crumpled like tin.

There were no voices in his head, just instinct, pure and imple, eyes rolling in their sockets before he leaned forward, flexing his gory hands and releasing a guttural bellow from his gruesome lips. Never before had he wanted it so bad, but now, he needed it, needed it like the breath in his lungs. To kill. To break.

...To utterly destroy..

Ruel Duneon's guards came bursting in then, and the robbers found themselves facing two forces, a well trained force in coordinated uniforms, and a monster somewhat in the form of a man, sprayed with blood, rushing forward to rip them apart with his bare hands. "Elarria, ma'am?" One of the brigands eased up next to the woman with too hard features, clutching his spear close as he watched the beastly man knock aside a sword aimed for his throat, snatched up the attacker, and rip a hucge chunk of flesh and muscle from his neck, in turn. "Should we...should we try and stop him?" She nodded, drawing in a deep breath, and drew her twin sabers. "Yes," she ordered, voice firms, but recoiled as he knocked another of her men to the floor, and cratered the stone floor as he brought his fist down on his midsection, ripping him in two from the force.

'But can we really?'

[Slayer of the Rot]

The roar which boomed through the ball room (as it was too terrifying and impressive to call it nothing but) came from lungs obviously inhuman, vocal chords of normal standards could never release such a tremendous blast. Dan Lagh'ratham felt almost blind to his ways as he snatched up another armored brigand, sunk his fingers through the steel plate and flesh, and ripped him right in two with one powerful tug. He was absolutely soaked with blood by now, the red of stinging his eyes, swimming in his mouth, The hot coppery stink of it radiating off his long since ruined suit like the stench of an ancient predator in it's cave of bones. For the moment, Ruel's guards ignored him, firing into anyone who didn't look like a guest or wore their uniform, but the robbers in their terror weren't so discriminate. His back was bristling with crossbow bolts, but the beastly man barely seemed to note them, even those shot into the back of his knee. Granted, he limped afterwards, but still he gave chase to his prey, even as they tried to shield themselves behind a thick marble column.

Nearby crystal chandeliers shook and rattled tinnily as the bloody slayer struck the column with all his might, and ripped right through the stone. Two of the bandits that had tried to seek safety there dashed away, but one remained, staring up at the frightful sight with wide doe's eyes. With another wordless yell of rage, he swiped his arm out, and ripped out the brigand's throat with nothing but his fingertips. Cracks began to radiate along the top of the remaining chunk of marble pillar, holding desperately from the ceiling, and he paused for a moment, sucking in abberant, fluctuant wheezes of breath, hunched like an ape, arms past his knees, the knuckles red and raw, dozens of wounds peppering his flesh, decorated with a primitive, savage collage of pale scars and throbbing veins. As his muscles began to re-knit, still pulsing with agony despite his pause to regenerate, the sound of bolts clattering to the stone floor came to his ears beneath the bedlam of the battle around him. The floor was becoming slippery with blood as the brigands and guards clashed, very unfit for any sort of waltz.

Though no dark clouds bore their gloomy weight in the sky above, a crack like a peal of thunder blasted through the air, and the heavy remainder opf the stone column he'd torn through broke free and slammed to the ground, shaking the estate violently, a great gale of wind displaced from the impact washing over Dan like a breath of fresh air. He raised his head, eyes rolled back into his skull, and drew in a hitching breath, and groaned, again clutching his hands in his head. What was wrong with him? He might have demon blood surging through his heart, but his mother gave him a human's conscience as a balance, and in all rights, he should be using it against the instinct that was heaving blood lust into him from the tips of his hair to the cuticles of his toes. That unseen blade, molten hot and glowing like metal from the core of the planet twisted in his back, and reasoning left him.

"I wouldn't have expected anything less from the one who'd wielded Rostlayer. Such a brutal, severe display of destruction, the carnage he's caused is almost beautiful." Ruel Duenon, the very man whom the slayer had intended on confronting solely this night, stood in the middle of the crowd of nobles, herded to the west wall by the sudden eruption of violence. "Ahh...I'd have been disappointed if he was any less." He watched as the drenched slayer lunged into the remaining crowd of robbers, a plume of blood spraying up into the air a moment before a screaming torso was flung aside. Within moments, the bulk of the guards had moved in, and hacked the survivors to peices, and Ruel laughed, clapping his hands together as he moved towards the front of the crowd. "Ah, glad that that business is concluded, but sadly, I think it brings this evening to a -- what's he doing?"

Crouched over the stomach of the brigand's female commander, who had, by a terrible turn of fate, chose the worse mansion to rob that evening, Dan jerked upright, eyes a a sheer white, save for the slight hint of blood shot red vines creeping from the bottom, something red and meaty dripping from his mouth. His body convulsed as he chomped on his prize; the heart, it was apparent to the guards now as they approached, from the huge bloody cavity punched through the leader's chest plate and breast. The closest to the slayer cautiously offered him his hand -- and Dan snatched it with such ferocity that the bones inside shattered, and drove his other arm straight through his stomach. "Restrain him!" Ruel screamed, and a few hundred bow strings snapped, showering Dan and his new kill with bolts, who in turn, clenching his jaw even as he died to hold off his scream, thrust his longsword into the middle of his chest. Scrambling on the blood slicked floor, tripping over bodies as now, he became soaked with his own blood, more swords biting deep into his body, slashing tendons and msucles and parting veins as he in turn crushed skulls with single handed blows, tore out throats with his teeth.

But in the end, the guards were far better trained than the robbers had been, and better equipped too, with stronger cross bows. Perhaps if he had a sword, and some armor, he would have managed to kill every single one of them at that moment, but he'd lost an incredible amount of blood before this, blind, unknown rage the only thing moving his legs forward. From his lips came a bellow so akin to the beasts he'd been fighting like for the past few minutes, but it lost volume as blood gushed from cut arteries, slumping to his knees.

"The....titanium..." His body was rapidly shutting down so that his regenerative process could repair what it could, and his ears were even falling into the dark quicker than what he was letting his mind and consciousness. "Hold...authorities." The slayer's head hit the marble with a crack that made the nobles wince.

[Slayer of the Rot]

I would like to ask a mod to close this, please. It's horrible, and most certainly not my best work. The plot is weak, and the entire story is just god awful.