At Wit's End

[Saxon]

(Open to Mage Hunter. Bunnying approved by both parties.)

The sweet, subtle scent of the coming rain caught Fibonacchi full in the nostrils as he walked hurriedly down a particular beaten, dirt path that he was fully familiar with. The tap of his leather, shin-high boots against the clodded road was the only comfort he savored as the peddler stopped at a crossroads to catch his breath. Gazing at the sign posted in front of him, the storyteller read it carefully and whispered," Almost out of this blasted township, there's no way he caught it in time". Chest heaving, Fibonacchi felt himself finally at ease and slowly calmed down. There was a certain comfort to be held when a man got away with something, a relief really. But as the familiar clang of rusty iron pots against one another sent a cloud of dust to fill the air as the storyteller took to a panicked sprint.

The clang seemed to gain on him as the peddler ran down the road at break-neck speed, his eyes bitter and his jaw pulled tight as he heard the sound he dreaded again and again. Leaping from the road into the field of corn that seemed keen to follow him aimlessly, Fibonacchi made a beeline for the mauve, stalwart mountains of Corone. It was his final hope of escape, or so the peddler thought as he pushed stalk after stalk out of his way. But, no matter how far he ran, Fibonacchi couldn't escape the shadow that seemed content on nipping at his heels.

"Hey! Prfgh! HEY! Bo-Nachi! Wait up!", a guttural roar called from only a few yards away. Hearing the voice he so despised, the peddler could have kicked himself for having brought the attention of the single most bothersome biped creature capable of human speech upon him. Springing to the left, the storyteller fell to the ground with a crunch as the corn stalks yielded. Not daring to even breathe, Fibonacchi kept low as a giant among men went bumbling past him, the smack of his heel to the soft ground left deep imprints as he called after the peddler with various curses in his own native tongue.

A smile creased across the storyteller's lips as he found his reward slip into steady, comforting silence. The very man who had been chasing him had grown accustomed to such slips, so Fibonacchi thought it necessary to put as much distance between him and his pursuer as humanly possible. Moving slowly about the corn like a lion creeping across the savannah, the peddler snickered as he felt his earnings jingle in his coat pocket. Sorry, Bub, but I take compensation for the more disruptive members of my audience, thought the storyteller coyly. There was a familiar twinge in the back of Fibonacchi's mind as he watched the way ahead. Trying desperately not to travel down memory lane, the peddler leaped from the corn fields carelessly and headlong into a mountain of muscle.

"S-Shit!", Fibonacchi cried as he fell backwards onto the dirt road, his large, cumbersome pack catching his fall. Rocking forward and backward like a turtle tipped over on his shell, the peddler glared at the shadowy figure before him. Slowly a huge, calloused hand descended upon him, picking the storyteller off his feet with ease. Face to face with the bald, tanned egg-shaped face of his mortal enemy, Fibonacchi ground his teeth and muttered," Didn't see you there, Mobe."

A stupid grin spread across the rolls of fat of an obviously slow farm hand as he patted his captive on the head diligently, obviously not aware of his enormous strength," Ya' thought yew could get away from ol'e Mobe, did yew? Cheat im' out of his money?".

Raising his hands in the air, the peddler feigned innocence," I have no idea what your talking about, Bub! I was mer--".

"Nuff' talk from yew, Bo-Nachi. No excuses. Yer not skipping out on our deal, are yew?", the rancher interrupted. It was clear that the storyteller couldn't skimp out this time, and it seemed he wouldn't be out of his captor's reach until his job was complete.

Pointing down, Fibonacchi waited until his feet met the ground before he started to dust himself off and sighed with defeat. Gazing up at the giant, the peddler raised an eyebrow," What do you want from me, Mobe? I told you before, you can't keep your mouth shut!".

Taken aback, Mobe's reaction was comical at the very least, the tension seemed to evaporate as the rather slow farm-hand grumbled," I don't talk, honest! Yer stories are too gud to talk, really!".

Knowing he was going to one day regret it Fibonacchi sighed again as he looked about either direction," Alright, we're halfway to Solma, thats where I get off. Walk with me and I'll tell you another story, alright?".

Mobe clapped his hands in delight as he heard his personal hero grant his request, having no concept of the meaning of grudge, he placed his thumbs in his pockets and began to walk. It was twenty paces before the rancher realized the peddler wasn't following him. Turning on a copper, the giant saw the storyteller's finger beckoning him. Rushing back to him like that of an eager dog, Mobe looked down upon the silver-tongued traveler with glazed eyes," If. And I stress this part Mobe! I will only tell you a story if you keep your yap shut. Got me?". Seeing the farmhand begin to respond the storyteller continued," One word. Just one, and no more story. None! Do you understand?".

Zipping his mouth shut with as much gullibility as a child, the one called Mobe followed behind Fibonacchi, thumbs in either pocket of his overalls. Making a couple yards, the peddler tapped his lip thoughtfully and smiled," Alright. I've got just the one for this occasion. Now, it takes place in the busy city of Radasanth..". Expressing his words with hand gestures, Fibonacchi caught himself dipping slowly back into the life of his unknown companion. It had been awhile since the two had connected, or so the storyteller thought.

~*~

[Saxon]

As a fresh, cool breeze rushed through the city, signs from empty merchant's stalls swung aimlessly in the wind. Cobbled streets laid dry and barren as no footstep dared to echo upon the stony paths under the dread of night. With no man nor animal traveling amongst the town, it was only left to wonder what had spoiled the city's normal, busy demeanour. It had been this way for days that stretched upon weeks and threatened to trickle into months. Hiding in their homes, the citizens of Radasanth sat flanked by plagues and plights that no man should have to face alone.

Inside the slumbering metropolis a grip of fear took hold upon its citizens as the gray, invasive dusk bled into the inky, black darkness that blanketed the island of Corone. There had been a rash of unexplainable murders all over the city, and none knew exactly why or who committed such heinous acts. Sure, there were theories that it had something to do with the drought that had no clear intention of subsiding even after painstakingly, slow weeks inched by. But with no clear threat and no leads to these murders, the only picture left to be painted were the scenes of gore that splattered the cobbled streets and stony walls alike. Wounds had been torn open, bodies ripped asunder where only scarlet lifeblood pooled around chunks of what were once discernibly human.

But, it seemed to be only getting worse. With supplies of fresh water running low until the next shipment from nearby cities and the risk of bloody riots pouring into every street, Radasanth was at the brink of being rallied under martial law. Human rights were to be offered on a silver platter to mercenaries provided by a circle of merchants that seemed to have taken an interest in the city's well-being. This united front with deep, perilous pockets had given no quarter to those curious enough to spelunk in their affairs. Disappearances of those who had taken it upon themselves to meddle was indicative to the new power that rested on Corone's doorstep. These merchants seemed to have possessed an eerie influence upon the metropolis' most esteemed officials and had no intention of stopping with their new bid for power.

None of this, however, had brought the attention of Saxon and drew him to the city at its most dangerous and fretful time. Slinking carefully about the shadows, the weird moved about the quiet chaos with ease. Avoiding the torchlight of the sentry posted at a pass leading into the part of the city with most murders, the eldritch began to remember what it was that brought him here in the first place. Rumors of all sorts leaked from the highest social circles to his very ears, most of which Saxon had not taken very much stock in except for one:

As it turned out, a particularly eccentric collector named Audus Paige had recently opened the condemned museum at the southwest side of the city, and with it brought exotic artifacts from all corners of the world and put them on display for the public. It was at this time when the museum swung open its doors that strange things began to happen. A week later the drought that hit the island hit it hard, and with it the murders and merchants came. Screams and strange noises alike could be heard from inside the museum in the wee hours of the morning. All seemed to be linked to this museum that had been opened by the same collector who had closed it in the first place. Whatever had wrought this short, paunchy fellow to return from his self proclaimed exile was steeped in mystery.

Bearing the burden of a bag a particular source had provided him, the eldritch stopped at the footsteps of this strange museum, his mind puzzled and filled to the brim with countless questions. Too few answers had been given to Saxon in his time spent with this city, and something told the eldritch that he and Radasanth were running out of time. The only thing that was apparent to the weird was that his work was going to be cut out for him, and he wouldn't stop until he got to the bottom of this mystery fraught with grim macabre. Slowly taking to the dark, ivory steps of the foreboding monument, Saxon was caught in the same sea of wonder and curiosity that had gotten him in trouble with Corone in the first place.

~*~

[Mage Hunter]

Drusilia hunched in the alleyway. She hissed in pain as she waited for the Geomancer to pass by the alleyway, before he gave up on the pursuit. As the inn continued to burn she cursed her weakness, she cursed herself, she cursed the gods themselves. She was an abyssmal failure, unable to do a damn thing right. As she moved about to the front of the inn she stared on in morbid fascination as the building continued to burn, with her sword somewhere in there. She would need to retrieve it, if only because she couldn't afford to lose the dark elven blade.

Tears stung her eyes form a mixture of smoke, guilt, and frustration. She fought them back desperately, she was a Drow warrior, she couldn't cry. She had to move on, to get better, till that one day she would destroy that arrogant monster, and tear his veil of safety down. As the fire began to eat itself out, the fuel for the endeavor long since spent she moved slowly through the ashes, until she saw it there, red hot and as strong as she couldn't be right now.

The strap of leather that had covered the hilt, had long since burned away. The fires as greedy as those made by nature, but she knew the truth, could feel the truth, and was disgusted by that truth. These were the works of an abomination, fires created by magic, and fueled by nature. There was nothing natural about that fight, she had lost, both mentally and physically. The minor cuts and scrapes told the tale as she quickly covered herself with her travel blanket again. Her temper got the best of her as she reached out to scoop up the discarded weapon, only to cry out in pain as the hand recoiled, the metal still not quite done cooling, despite deceptively returning in color to the natural steel she had grown accustomed to.

She looked at her hand, bright red from where she had made contact with her blade. Muttering a few choice curses in her native tongue she willed herself to ignore the pain as she gripped the sword again. Sheathing the overheated piece of metal she shook her hand casually before she turned to move on. As she stood there she looked around the tavern before she felt something, a chill down her spine. One she was familiar with at the least. She was being watched, or being observed to be more precise. As she Looked about the area she spat out, "Doer doeb vel'klar rin'ov dos ph'!"

Doer doeb vel'klar rin'ov dos ph'! - "Come out where ever you are!"

[Saxon]

A low, primal howl managed to hiss through the darkness of the cracks between the building and the smoldering pub. A huge shadow could be seen moving amidst the deep, bitter gloom, and it seemed to have the intention to remain unseen. As if the Gods themselves deemed the monstrosity within unspeakable, a sudden gust of wind blew down into the town, sweeping the wisps of black, ugly smog into the alley itself and leaving any features of the large, bulky stalker a mere mystery.

But, as Drusilia crinkled her brow in concentration a certain gray, murky gleam came from the darkness and then the sound of the predator's low, baritone growl, more menacing then before, could be heard. As the temptation to take a step forward panged in the back of the hunter's mind, a slow, narrow doubt formed as a rush of air strong enough to flay a peach blew the stagnant smoke in the hunter's direction and the rush of something big, strong and wicked headed her way. Drusilia flinched with hesitation as the creature came down upon her, the repugnant stench oozed from the jaws of the creature that clearly roused memories of slaughter.

Blinded by the smoke, there was no clear visage of the creature that loomed only a few inches from Drusilia's face, but there wasn't a shadow of doubt that there was something there. The probability of something like this walking the island of Corone was mind-boggling, and the logistics of such a foe were riddles within riddles. In a mere blur, the smoke clung to bits and pieces of the heavy, dark shadow that blotted out most of the light that had occupied the direction of the alleyway.

Startling seconds passed and the sound of a thick, viscous liquid hitting the ground caused a pang of panic in the hunter's mind. Her mind swooned, and questions as to why she couldn't move was beyond her comprehension. But, as the sound of the liquid hitting the pavement caught the attention of all those present, the black, dark stroke of shadow that contrasted with its surroundings began to move and melted into nothingness.

In a twinkle of an eye the creature that's very presence brought the smell of death and fear wavered like the oily, noxious smoke that hung about Drusilia and dissipated as another gust of wind carried it away. Then nothing hanged about in the air except the heavy, familiar stink of confusion and the sight of a fresh, crimson puddle stained the cobbled stones of Corone's metropolis.

Something was very wrong.

(Your turn, Dis.)

[Mage Hunter]

As she stood there in the street before the burned building she shuddered, feeling the remaining effects of the Fear leave her system. It boggled her how she had been so fearful, but realized that there was more than one type of fear. Fear for others, ones self, the future. All of these and none of these seemed to equate to the fear she had just felt. She was a hunter, to die like that was more of a blaspheme than anything. She should have died on her feet, weapons bloodied from the battle.

As she stood there in the alleyway she shook her head, letting the last vestiges of the fear lose their grip upon her. Finally she was free to do as she pleased. Eying around the area her mind clinically began the laundry list of things to do. Soon she knelt as she inspected the splatter of the viscous liquid. It had long since begun cooling and drying, however she managed to procure a bit on her fingers. A dullish brown it almost seemed completely congealed. Lifting the liquid to her nostrils she sniffed it before she turned her nose away sharply. She had smelt that smell too often before to ever forget its distinct odor.

It was blood, congealed blood.

This abomination had killed to fuel its dark magics. The thought enraged her as stood up wiping the blood from her hands. She may not respect all life on the planet, but she did not kill foolishly. It was either in self defense, or to purge the with, burn the heretic. As she closed her eyes she opened them again to look about the area, calling upon her ability to trace magics. Frowning she realized the trail went cold rather fast, It was a minimal amount of magic the creature used. That meant one of two things.

Either it wasn't that powerful....

...or this was a parlor trick compared to its true powers.

Moving down the streets carefully she remained alert as the blanket covered her lithe frame, and her swords from idle observation. She had much work to do, and if this thing was truly as big a threat as the Geomancer that had ravaged the inn, it would be an uphill battle.

She could only hope it would turn out better.