Into and Out of Hiding

[Izvilvin]

Years had passed since the last time Izvilvin’s boot left an imprint in Scara Brae’s soil, on a day when he and the disarming Khalxaen fled for good. The story was a short one, chronicling Izvilvin’s first experiences on Althanas outside of Alerar. He had been taken in by the vile Scara Scourge, partnered with a similarly ignorant Khalxaen, and together they had pillaged and killed innocent men. To think about it now left a hunk of lead in Izvilvin’s stomach.

Aside from Alerar or Raiaera, this was the Drow’s safest place to run. He had left Step, betrayed them in a way that would make him their most hated target until he was dead. The ebony warrior would dodge assassination attempts for the rest of his centuries, and yet he didn’t regret a thing. For now, he just needed to find a place to hide and consider his course.

It wasn’t an easy task – Izvilvin stood out like coal against snow, especially with the weapons he had strapped to his body. In an attempt to keep inconspicuous, all but his sais had been left under the floor in an abandoned shack by the city’s edge. Over him was a brown cloak, the hood pulled up as far over his brow as it would go. Try as he might, strands of white hair dropped past his chin and onto his chest. It was early night, shedding an even blacker shadow over his face. Izvilvin simply hoped that noone would inspect him too closely.

He slipped through thongs of citizens, feet shuffling against the brown, dusty ground. He didn’t need to look up, hearing each individual footstep and adjusting his pace accordingly to avoid an approaching walker. As much as he wanted to lay low, spending time in the city was a necessary evil. He needed to know whether or not he was still wanted after all this time, and the one place he’d find the bounty posting would be at the Adventurer’s Board. He was going to walk right into the heart of what he was trying to avoid.

He took an opportunity to look up, eyes staring past dozens of humans who paid him no mind. In the distance was an inn, a building he recognized as the place where he’d met Khalxaen for the first time. If she could hear him talk now she’d be proud. The thought amused him. Beyond the inn was a short, grey building with the emblem of a guild dangling from a pole above its door. That was where he needed to go, the Drow realized.

His pace quickened as Izvilvin discreetly put a hand on his side. His sai was there, easy to grab and reveal if he needed to do so.

[Vampiric Angel]

"I can't believe it," Anenfel said in a hushed tone. "We're back." He stood still and silent as he took the scenery in; the scarlet scarf draped around his neck flying lazily in the ocean breeze. He was standing on the starboard side of the barge that traveled between Corone and Scara Brae as it was slowly making it's way toward the island. Even in the distance, Scara Brae looked mystic to the wayfarer. So many memories...they seemed distant to him now. He wasn't the same person who had left those sacred shores. He had seen much of the world, both good and bad. The half-elf couldn't understand how he could have been so naive. When he thought about it further, he realized that Scara Brae had been his innocence. Three years away from that innocence can change a person. He could only guess how much Scara Brae itself had changed.

Windlacer Peak, the island's solitary mountain, was visible in the distance, the snow-capped peak watching over the whole of the island. Brokenthorn Forest, a place he once called home, sat as green and lush as ever. The wayfarer could remember walking among their beauty, naming the different trees as he passed them. Oak, yew, trakym and cyper. He could remember the fall, when the leaves would change and he would be engulfed by a forest of fire. That was the first thing he would do, he resolved. He would rest from the journey in the presence of trees, his brothers and sisters.

He only wished that his return could have been under happier circumstances. Slowly he retrieved the parchment from his inner pocket, and slowly he loosened the twine. Anenfel took a breath before unfurling the letter, before he once again read the message it held.


Anenfel Saendithas,

We regret to inform you that Renthilar Saendithas, has died valiantly in battle, protecting the land he loved for so long.

Our deepest regrets.
--Captain Durris of the Scarabrian Guard.

Tears welled in the half-elf's eyes as he slowly closed the parchment. There was nothing wrong with tears. His father had taught him that.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Larissa, sitting comfortably on Anenfel's soft shoulder, let the young half-elf have his moment. Renthilar had been a great man worthy of respect, and worthy of mourning. But she did not shed tears for him; it was a common belief among the fairies that death should not be mourned, that it is a natural process that we must all be a part of, so instead, they celebrate. Not for the fact that this person had died, but for the fact that they had lived. She made a mental note to have a drink in his name, when next they had the chance.

The barge slowly closed the distance towards the city's docks. Larissa looked to Anenfel and gave him a comforting pat on the back of the neck.

[Whiteshadow]

Another day in Scara Brae. Not that Eternium complained, mind you. But the itch of adventure came back to scratch him, and the genetic experiment found himself pacing on the rooftops of the buildings, ever present, ever watching.

He had not seen action for a week now. It was as if all the criminals and evil in Scara Brae had suddenly vanished, as if they had dissapeared into nothingness. While this would have been great news for anyone else, Eternium found it disconcerting and uncomfortably unusual. Besides, now he was bored.

Yeah, things were really looking up for the albino viligante.

He jumped over to the rooftop of the next building, an inn of some sort. Inside he could hear racous laughter and wolf whistles, but could not disconcern any signs of potential outbreaks of violence or such. The albino shook his head. Had everybody suddenly turned pacifist?

He was about to continue on to the next building, which appeared to be a guild house of some kind judging by the insignia on the door, but when he was about to jump something caught the corner of his eye.

It was a dark figure, cloaked from head to toe and moving quickly through the oblivious throngs of people. While many would have simply ignored this, as such appearences we'rent uncommon, it was the figure's body language that held the warrior's attention.

Eternium was proud to call himself a linguist. He didn't know how, but he could catch onto languages as if he had known them all along, which was a very handy talent in bargaining and getting out of close situations. And so the man's body language he could read as if it was an open book.

The man moved quickly and hurried, bespeaking to Eternium that he was trying to get away from something. However, the warrior could see no pursuers of the figure, and refocused his attention. The dark figure, although hurried, moved with a grace that belied its subtle form, a grace that Eternium could only relate to as in ballet or other forms of dancing. This showed to him that while the figure was hurried, he was also well trained and confident in his ablilities.

Suddenly the figure turned and moved swiftly to the guild house that Eternium was about to jump on, and the warrior threw himself to the side, behind one of the ridges on the roof on the inn.

Eternium felt a thrill. Finally...he thought to himself. I may get some action this time!

[Ataraxis]

The pier by the shoreline was as idyllic a painting as can be: waves of cobalt broke against the piles in gentle white brushes, goading what ships were docked into a mellow seesaw, and the sun hung low in the afternoon canvas, a tangerine halo over the port city. Along the boardwalk, pedestrians were drawn like sketches: fishermen in crosshatched coveralls looking to throw their lines, sailors in pastel colors on their way to the sea-side taverns and travelers with shaded faces, coming and going on their charcoal ferries. With the wear of day, however, the crowd had begun to thin, until only a few mavericks remained. Among their numbers was a young girl in a sleek, white dress, sitting ever so poised atop the flathead of an iron bollard, gazing listlessly into the lights of the city.

Scara Brae was just the same as Lillian had left it, four years prior to this very day: a halcyon haven to laymen and adventurers alike. By three times did she travel to the island, in the sixteen years of her short life. The first time was alongside her parents, at the tender age of six; the second was on her own when she was twice as old – still nothing more than a prepubescent girl with dreams that were far bigger than herself, she remembered. Going on a whirlwind adventure in the only foreign land she had ever seen and risking her life on a daily basis for a handful of footling anecdotes, just to know what it felt like to walk a path once trod by her father, by her mother… it all seemed so childish now. Then again, what could one expect from a girl who had been left alone in the dusty cells of a ramshackle house, while her parents had gone off to die in the scorching sands of Fallien?

‘What were you thinking, Lily? Why did you come back?’ The question was more chiding than interrogative; she already knew the answer, but understanding it was the problem. There was a garble of gruff voices passing behind her, belonging to a group of men clad in furs and studded leather. Their confabulation was one of inappropriate comments on the feminine persuasion, talk of ale and mead, as well as a few whistles that might have been directed at her. The gist of it, however, concerned some rare beast they were going hunt in the forest to the west. She rolled her eyes, dismissing the whole event, and returned to her broodings. ‘You could've saved yourself a world of pain, you'd still be blisfully ignorant... but now, you know.’


About an hour ago, Lillian had left the docks in a hurry, making her way to the uptown in scissoring strides. She didn’t care much about the old codgers she had bumped into, the young elves she had elbowed on her way or the tortuous curbstones that had threatened to trip her on multiple occasions. All she wanted, the sum of her heart’s desire, was to run up a specific set of snaking stairs, rove along a terra cotta hallway that had been haunting her memories and burst into a room that contained everything she would ever need in her times of emotional crisis. And she did; the girl had found the room where her parents had resided, so long ago. With bated breath, she had turned the handle, heard the terse 'click', and walked inside. The following instant had left without breath or heartbeat.

There was nothing left.

Everything that had belonged to her father, to her mother, every childhood memory she had left in this very room was gone. The floorboards were kept warm by a thick film of dust. The flower prints on the walls had either faded or were covered by brown, ferrous stains where the wallpaper had peeled. Even the forest-green drapes that once covered the window had been taken away, leaving only brass rings to hang on a skewed curtainpole. A whine had come from deep within her chest, when she had peered past the room's single, grimy window. By some sorcerous cruelty, the verdant copse and the ropes from her old swing set were gone, replaced by naked, gnarly stumps. How ironic: everything in Scara Brae had remained the same, save for the only things that had ever mattered to the girl. The recollections of her mind were never enough; she needed the curios, the knickknacks and baubles that she could hold in her hands, of which she could feel the cool touch and warm meaning. But no; even that, she could not have. Lillian didn't stay a minute longer.


And here she was, an hour later, back on an almost empty pier. The ferry that had carried her across the sea was still moored, and the return ticket was still crumpled inside her lilywhite fist. What was there left to do? She was cursed, never to get the things for which she longed: the gods had made that clear. On this island, nothing was left of the Sesthals. The logical thing to do was to shrug off her surge of melancholy and get aboard that accursed boat. To stop dwelling on the past, and get on with her life. ‘Then, what are you waiting for?’

Looking up, the girl stared into the skyscape, now painted the color of oblivion. She was waiting for a sign; perhaps a message in the stars, telling her that not all was lost, that there were still vestiges of her past to uncover, somewhere in this vast land. What she could see was the moon waxing into view, glowing with the same silver and white hues that it boasted in countless other countries.

Scoffing, she averted her eyes; in her native tongue, she sneered. “I’ll need better than that, madam Suravani.”

[Izvilvin]

((Just to eliminate confusion, we’ll make it nighttime. Young night. Edit your posts if need be. Thanks a lot, Ataraxis =P))

The guild was a dockside building that catered to mercenaries and travelers alike, providing drinks and food along with a few select beds given to those who arrived early enough to snag one. Two levels of square, warm rooms with small oil lanterns atop round tables, several chairs scattered about each; most were occupied, but the men sat alone. The guild would have made for a fine, homely tavern if not for the danger that came with drinking alongside a burly swordsman who needed a buck - a burly swordsman who saw you as direct competition, no less.

The atmosphere reflected that thinking, Izvilvin thought, as the heavy air of the guild sent wafting fumes of smoked meat and stale beer to his nose, sweat and dirt melted into the scent. Directly beyond the front door was a pathetic-looking oak desk with scattered papers on it. Nobody was behind it, so the Drow moved deeper inside.

He tried not to make eye contact with anyone, but every sound, no matter how miniscule, had his eyes darting to its source. As an elf with such keen hearing, Izvilvin appeared a nervous wreck.

The Adventurer’s Board was a six-foot-tall bulletin board with a myriad of clippings pinned to it, some with sketches, most with writing, and all with a reward indication. Izvilvin approached it and felt himself brought back a few years, to when he’d first laid eyes on it. He’d found his way to the Scara Scourge via this wall, following a lead that the Scourge had posted there to lure in potential recruits. Using the good man’s board for the bad guy’s recruiting – it was remarkably seedy, though the Drow knew nothing of civilized life at the time.

He found that as hard as he looked, his ebony face was nowhere to be found. The writing was hard to understand, and nowhere did he see the word for Drow – not that he knew how it was written. Frustrated, Izvilvin did the only thing he could think to do and pulled off his hood, exposing his angular face, black skin and stark white hair. Looking in his peripheral vision, Izvilvin concluded that nobody seemed to care. He withheld a sigh.

His exit from the guild was as uneventful as his entrance, and Izvilvin found himself outside once more. The sky shed moonlight down on his hair, granting it an eerie glow, and he took a moment to suck in a deep breath. He felt free, but it was a fleeting thought that left him shortly. The town was still very much alive, and unlike Corone, which also stayed up late, Scara Brae felt strangely safe. It was the small fish compared to the shark that was Corone, just across the sea – only the petty criminals dwelled here.

Izvilvin felt that he could have made a living here, if only things had been different. Step, the manipulative organization of interlopers and assassins, thirsted for his blood more than any other. He’d helped ruin their plans for Corone, which they would never forgive. They wouldn’t play games with him.

Suddenly he missed his weapons. With a watchful eye and attentive ears, he began to walk back from whence he came, to the old shack near the edge of a tiny forest outside of town. He’d shed his cloak and adopt his weapons, to once again test Scara Brae’s citizens and see the reaction. It was risky as he was exposing himself, daring Step to find and attack him. The looks on the humans’ faces would tell him what he needed to know about Scara Brae’s military situation, though, and he felt it necessary to find it out.

As he shuffled along, feet tapping gently against the soil, Izvilvin couldn’t help but feel watched.

[Vampiric Angel]

Anenfel walked away from the barge with sluggish steps. He felt a great weight on his shoulders, like the past years' troubles had continuously piled themselves on, and the death of his father was the final brick. Dawntracker felt heavy at his side. Larissa's small frame seemed a monstrous mass, and even the scarlet scarf that bound his neck felt like a lodestone.

The half-elf thanked the gods that night was falling. He could not bear the shame of curious eyes watching his sulking form as they passed. Maybe the Thayne were much more empathetic than the wayfarer had initially guessed.

But before he could follow that line of thought deeper, a sharp pain shot through his side. He let out a quick yelp, unnaturally high-pitched for the half-elf. He turned to confront the attacker, but the person was gone. Running up the bustling street shot a vein of lightning, a young girl wearing a white dress, shoving and bumping all in her path. There was something strange about her, Anenfel knew. Her pale skin, contrasted by deep black hair, seemed to glow in answer to the night's shadow.

It seemed Althanas, even Scara Brae, still held surprises waiting for the wayfarer. Anenfel continued on as if nothing happened, even though a dull throbbing held his side tight. The half-elf sighed deeply as he realized that the young girl's blow had just contributed to the affliction bearing him down. He now wore an aggravated scowl.

He felt sore, mentally and physically. He had not even managed to make it out of the docks before he started to feel his eyelids drop. A stiff jerk in his shoulder awoke him. The wall of a tavern, which seemed to pop up out of nowhere, was the cause.

Anenfel knew what he had to do. He did not like it, but he would have to spend the night inside the city. He could make his apologies to the trees later. His pale green eyes looked up to the tavern's sign swinging slowly as a gentle breeze blew from the sea. A soft creak moaned from the sign's rusty hinges. The Sea's Salt, it read, and the wayfarer could only guess what patrons it held.

He straightened his pack and clothing while feeling if anything was missing. He made his way for the tavern door. Although he would have loved to have spent the night with the stars as his ceiling, the wayfarer also found the tavern to be a blessing. He was just glad he could end the day with his possessions on hand.

[Whiteshadow]

Eternium had watched the man enter and exit the guild house, only to be surprised that it was a drow. "Damn..." the experiment thought to himself as he had saw the being tentatively look around himself, as if expecting an assassination attempt at any moment. "I haven't seen one of them in actuallity before...only read about some." That was true. In fact, Eternium did like to read, alot in fact, but books were hard to come by here in Scara Brae. He had been lucky to come across one about elves and faerie folk as it was.

From what he heard of the drow, they were a dangerous race, filled with darkness and bred from it as well. According to the book, they worshiped some spider-goddess called Lolth, one that encouraged female dominance over males through harsh punishment and inflicting as much pain as needed, and more if they felt like it. At least, that is what the book had said. It had been called "The Faerie of the Forgotten Realms", to the best of his memory. Whatever the hell that meant.

However, this drow did not look like the ones Eternium had read about. Instead, even though he had the stance and aura of a warrior, the experiment could feel loneliness pouring from the dark elf like miasma, and he could feel slight fear there as well.

Eternium closed his eyes, feeling the night air drift around him, bringing the smell of the salty sea around him. Well, he had nothing better to do. He was about to follow the drow by plain curiousity, but something in the drow's stance and movement changed, and immediately Eternium's senses rang out warnings, like this drow had pulled the string on every defense system the experiment had in his head. As if by instinct, one single blade of light came into being from the newborn moon, and Eternium leapt down from the roof he had been resting on.

However, the drow simply kept on walking to the gateway out of town, where Eternium could see a growth of forest and a small cottage near the edge. It wasn't far, but it would take more than a few minutes to get there at the drow's current pace.

It was then that Eternium decided to be bold. Closing his eyes, he gathered the shadows around him and extinguished his blade of light. Several onlookers were staring wide eyed at the point where he had just dissapeared, but he was there no longer. Instead, in a pillar of shadows he appeared not ten feet from the gate, arms crossed as he stared at the advancing form of the drow.

"Hello, stranger." Eternium spoke in his best drow, hoping that the warrior wouldn't attack him. Now that they were closer, Eternium could feel power flowing out from the warrior, a power that scared the genetic experiment. He realized that if it came down to a fight, he would lose, so he held up his hands to show the warrior he was unarmed. "What is a drow doing here in Scara Brae?" Again, he hoped his drow was good enough, as he had picked it up in the beforementioned book.

Well, only the warriors response would tell.

NOTE: The drow of the Forgotten Realms are mentioned here on purpose. To explain, Eternium somehow got his hands on a copy of the fictional book and thought that it was reality, as he now lives in a place filled with fantasy. Thus the confusion. Sorry that this wasn't cleared up earlier.

[Ataraxis]

The wait had been long and unavailing. Was she to count the myriad glitters that spangled the veil of night, Lillian would find no estranged star, and there were definitely no messages hidden in the constellations: she had already checked for signs, twice. ‘I half-expected my mind to make up its own.’ If anything, the universe was telling her to pick up her arms, leave these cursed shores and make something of herself, far from here.

Perhaps girls like her just weren’t cut for a life of adventuring, with so many dangers lurking at every bend. No one could protect her, anymore; friends were as prone to death as her parents had been, and she had learned that the hard way. She made a point of traveling alone, of not getting attached ever again; it was painful for some, but for a mind that could never forget, seeing the deaths of those she cared for was a surefire road to her ever-diminishing point of breaking. ‘Then, should I also make a point of never traveling again?’

Something sparked within her chest, for an instant drying the tears she had been shedding within. For an unknown reason, the idea sounded preposterous, and hearing herself speak those words only ascertained the silliness of its meaning. ‘Without the freedom to go wherever I please, what will I have left?’ The girl had no home where she could settle down, either. She was an outcast to the people of Fallien, exiled because she had wanted to see more than the criminal grays of the Outlander’s Quarters. Her only other home, she had believed to be here, on Scara Brae... but that was gone, too. In that moment, she realized how very simple her reality was. ‘Keep moving, or die.’ It was a glum thought, but also an undeniable incentive. To hell with the dangers of the world: she had enough mettle to take anything head on. She could protect herself.

“You wouldn’t want me to dwell either, would you, mother?” The faintest of smiles graced her pursing lips. Slipping from her iron perch, she made a soundless landing on the tip of her toes. ‘That bollard was getting to be a pain in the posterior, and literally at that.’ Lifting her head, she looked across the great boardwalk, to the spot where her ferry was afloat. Or, at least, had been. “…How long was my head in the clouds?” she quipped, almost as annoyed as she was amused. There would be many more to come, in the morning. For now, she thought she could content herself with a soft bed and a warm meal.

The breezes were strong and numerous now, brushing across the sea in chilling waves. Lillian held herself across the chest to repress the shivers; it was in vain, though, as they had gone up like an arrow through her spine, reaching as far as her now-clicking teeth. With a practiced motion, she flung the knapsack that was lumped at her feet and fastened it onto her back. Without further ado, she made her way to the closest tavern, a few yards off of the pier.Though she was still sorrowful, the look on her face was miles more chipper. In the end, she was an optimist: if she wanted mementos from her parents, then she still had the white dress on her back and the glass dirk at her hip. Those would have to do, for now.

Within moments, she stood at the grooved door of a red-brick inn, with its decorated signboard hanging from a wooden pole, a few feet above her head. There was no need to look at it again, as she had already seen it on her mad dash, one hour ago; she knew it was the Sea’s Salt. The hinges creaked as her fingers pushed into the panel, and a warble of voices was let loose into the busy roadway. It was a very yellow atmosphere, warm with the budding smell of alcohol, rather than its stink. The sound of carved plates and silver platters clanked about the wide room, with glass decanters splashing lime liquids over food-fraught tables and slightly sticky floorboards. The clientele, mostly composed of joyous seafarers, wasn’t in a bout of unabated merrymaking, but the ambiance was still very sizzling and inviting. Lillian, the timid and socially-stunted soul that she was, almost felt like pouring her heart out to a complete stranger over a good mug of ade, which she preferred to ale for its fruitier taste and absence of alcohol. ‘Almost.’

Lillian made her case to the tavern patron, and well under a minute did she manage to secured herself a decent room and an inexpensive meal. An even steeper curve was splayed across her lips, The girl now subjected to the symptoms of a swollen ego, though that was perfectly understandable: more often than not, she would blather on about random inanities before getting out whatever request she had in mind. The girl fetched a few coins from her drawstring pouch and gently set them on the counter, with two extra pieces on a nearby platter. “Thank you!” she said with a short bow, before turning toward the bustle and hubbub. The girl beelined for a vacant table by the stairs and plopped onto one of its two chairs, picking up a leatherbound menu and creaking it open in a hurry. Lillian was positively famished.

[Izvilvin]

It was just outside the city that Izvilvin was taken by surprise, a rare occurrence. Before him appeared a man shrouded in shadows that melted off him near-instantaneously, white all over him. Izvilvin took inventory of him in a single glance. Tall, white and black cloak, pale skin and hair as white as his own; the man seemed imposing.

The Drow had his sais in hand almost instantly, twirled them so the prongs of each ran along his forearms. If Step would send shadow-traveling assassins for him, then he would send them to death as quickly as they came.

Strangely, the traveler made no move to attack. Rather, he raised empty hands and spoke in broken drow, easily pieced together by Izvilvin. The Drow was in a lowered stance that would allow him to spring nimbly in any direction, and made no indication that he was letting his guard down.

“Ka dos morfeth natha mumbaro qua'laen uns'aa Usstan orn elgg dos,” he said, hissing the words.

Then he straightened, tucking his sais back into the back of his belt. “Your drow is effective, but do not seek to fool me. Why did you appear here in the shadows? Do you think to kill me? If so, make your attempt. If not, explain yourself.”

Of course, Izvilvin had no reason to answer the man’s own question, so he ignored it completely.

(Sorry for short post. If none of you do so, I’ll introduce a little night evil in my next post. Feel free to take initiative with this quest if you have an idea.)

[Vampiric Angel]

Anenfel lay on his back, his limbs spread apart, watching shadows play along the ceiling. He couldn't sleep. It was slowly becoming the norm for the young half-elf. The more and more he saw on his travels, the less he slept. He knew not why it happened, only that it did. It drove him mad. He wondered if that was the reason his mood had changed so drastically. If it was the reason why he didn't feel like himself.

Scara Brae had brought back many memories. The one thing that did not change among them, was him. He used to be vibrant, well-mannered, and happy. Now, he wasn't so sure. He felt dark, and when reflecting on that thought, he slowly scoffed. It fit his setting well. At that moment, he knew he had changed. But something inside of him told him that he could change back, become the old Anenfel. Then, another, almost in retort, told him that he did not want to change.

The half-elf slowly sat up in his linen bed, pulling the soft sheets away from his bare legs. His feet lightly touched the cool wooden floorboards, toes first. He held his head in his hands, staring at the floor. There was a dull throbbing at the front of his skull, no doubt from the lack of sleep. After running his fingers through his hair, pushing it back behind his face, he rose from the bed with a new desire: to drink.

He retrieved his cloth pants and his father's boots, leaving his hardened leather armor strewn about the floor, and made for the door. Anenfel knew that if Larissa was awake, she would strongly disapprove of what he resolved to do. The wayfarer looked at his companion, sleeping peacefully in his balled up scarf, the scarf's scarlet dulled by the darkness. She would try to change his mind, and as usual, he would not listen.

Anenfel wrapped his dextrous fingers around the bronze knob and slowly turned. The knob made a light creaking sound, to which Anenfel cringed. The half-elf looked back to Larissa, still sleeping soundly. He stood still for a moment, reflecting on that last thought. Why was he being so silent? Did Larissa still hold such an influence over him? He shook his head. Maybe she did.

He opened the door the rest of the way and exited the room, Dawntracker, leaning against the wall in the corner of the room, was the last thing he saw. He slowly walked across the hall, heading for the stairs. He had purposefully chosen a room at the end, that way he was less likely to be disturbed. But it seemed he had more trouble from his own mind than that of a nosy innkeeper.

He took the stairs slowly, for if he remembered correctly, they didn't seem too stable. He was immediately struck with the smell of alcohol. His nose crinkled for a quick second. He would need to become accustomed to the smell. He looked at no one, but discerning from their voices, the half-elf could tell the patrons were celebrating. Not a loud raucous, but a soft rumble of voices catching up about days long passed.

The wayfarer sat on a stool at the bar and eyed the barkeep until he came over.

"What can I get ye?" He asked in a low, rocky voice. His shaved head and pierced ears told Anenfel that the man might have once traveled the open seas.

"A pint of your strongest ale," the half-elf replied somberly, placing the necessary coins in front of him, "and keep them coming." The barkeep eyed him warily, noticing the tone and demeanor of the young elf.

"Ye alright boy?" The tone was sincere, full with concern. But at that point in time, Anenfel didn't feel like being questioned by a man he hardly even knew.

"I'm fine. Mind your business and get me my drink." The retort was harsh, even for someone in Anenfel's state of mind. The barkeep made not a sound and went to make the half-elf's drink. Moments passed and he returned with a pint of dark frothy liquid.

Anenfel inspected the ale, wondering if he truly wanted to go through with it. Then the thought of his father passed through his mind, and he was certain. He took the mug with a steady grip and lifted it to his lips. The smell was strong. He took a light sip and cringed.

He didn't care anymore, he needed this. If he couldn't find sleep by natural means, then he would find it by unnatural ones. He lifted the ale to his lips once more and took a large gulp.

[Whiteshadow]

The drow seemed to understand what Eternium was saying, which relieved the experiment. Of course, as soon as Eternium had appeared the drow warrior had two japanese sais in his hands, deadly weapons that the experiment had read about on Earth. And this warrior was no doubt skilled with them, so Eternium made sure to keep his distance as he watched the cloaked fighter.

The drow then spewed off a series of words that Eternium had difficulty comprehending, but he knew it was drow and his brain immediately started registering them into its own private file. Heh, just like a computer... He thought ruefully, and was about to ask what the drow had said when suddenly the warrior straightened from his deadly crouch and flipped the sais back into his belt. "Your drow is effective, but do not seek to fool me." The drow spat. "Why did you appear here in the shadows? Do you think to kill me? If so, make your attempt. If not, explain yourself.”

Eternium chuckled slightly. "My mistake. I simply needed to get in front of you as soon as possible." He explained why he had appeared so abruptly. "And I don't think I could kill you if I tried, so you can relax." But then Eternium narrowed his blue eyes and he tightened his body a bit slightly. His tone was more serious now. "But you still haven't answered my question. There aren't many like you around here, and you have the air of a killer. So why are you in Scara Brae, of all places?"

Several people stopped and stared at the two as they passed by, but one glare from Eternium was enough to send them walking away from the scene. If there was to be blood shed, he didn't want any innocents hurt.

[Ataraxis]

It was very unladylike of her, but Lillian tossed her head back, both palms on her bloated stomach as she let loose a sigh of satisfaction. The bottom of her dish was a land of desolation, left with only drying rivers of a brownish sauce and lumps of mashed broccoli. It was as empty as it could be, without her licking it clean – a thought considered, but too embarrassing to carry out. Looking like a scrounger off the streets wasn’t that appealing an idea, anyhow.

Such a strenuous activity (that is to say, inhaling food) had warranted a moment to rest, time the girl had spent in further inspection of her environs. A group of locals, young men in their early twenties with dishevelled hair and untidy shirts, were playing a game of cards at the table right next to hers. One deal was enough for her to recognize the game; two more for her to know that the freckle-faced man, the only one whose hand she could see, was about to take it all. Seconds later, a loud wave of booing came from his friends, dejected to see him hoard their coins into a neat and shiny pile.

Back in the criminal hotspot of Fallien, this game of hearts was oft played by crooks on street corners to gyp unsuspecting tourists; Lillian, however, had learned to count the cards as they were dealt, becoming quite adept at foreseeing which hands would win and which would not. Upon seeing the winner's following hand, she chuckled. His victory would be short-lived.

Her eyes moved away from the scene, drawing a path through the room and taking in everything between the floor and the ceiling. Her brain registered everything from the redwood wainscoting to a broken timepiece that would not tick, shelved amongst trinkets and cobwebs, behind the barkeep’s counter. There were forty-eight faces, those of seafarers and wayfarers, wenches and mercenaries, merchants and functionaries; forty-eight faces she had committed to memory in a single sweep of the tavern, and forty-eight faces that were added to thousands of others she would never forget. Hinges creaked, light escaped into the streets. ‘Forty-nine... fifty,’ she counted in her head, absently, her eyes still wandering about, looking for nothing in particular.

And there he was.

When she saw him, his face as he threw back a swig of ale, a flood of images hit her like a frozen tide: rounded stones, tightly packed, flitting beneath her, the hazy glare from street-side lampposts, a wall of darkened leather and a crimson scarf, fast approaching. Then, a collision that stopped her long enough to see two blinking orbs, pale green like the coat of a forest in the morn. His eyes. ‘Oh no... he’s the man I ran into!’ Panic crashed against the walls of her chest, though why was any sane person’s guess. The girl wasn’t demented per se, but her perception of social rights and wrongs was a curious thing, to say the least.

‘What should I do? Does he remember me? I should apologize. But no, that would be awkward!’ She pressed a hand against her forehead, cringing with shut eyes as she tried toshoo away the four overlapping streams of thought. That particularity of her mind was painfully annoying, rearing itself in the worst of situations; some would call it a prodigious gift, but having no amount of control over it made it more of a nuisance than anything else.

When the echoes had dulled and the queer sensation had receded, she let her eyes unseal, and resumed her internal debate at a calmer, much more composed rate. ‘He seems busy, but then again, how busy can you be when quaffing shots like water?’ At worst, he would tell her to stop being a meddlesome brat, an expected response at which she would stutter and excuse herself, both hurt and flustered – her usual response in such situations. That notwithstanding, she would feel much, much better about herself. ‘I think.’

“Um, hi. Or, well, hello.” It had taken only a few strides to the bar, and within moments she had flanked the stranger with a greeting. Already an imposing figure, this man – if he was only that – seemed to hold that much more majesty, perched atop his high stool. The filtered light from the oil lamps in the room seemed to play illusions on his mane, giving the copper wires of his hair a soft, majestic gloss. No common man could look so pleasantly alien, she told herself, her stare still mesmerized in that captured moment. ‘Maybe there is some elven blood in his veins?’

Hard glass clanged loud on counter, breaking her from her futile musings. Lillian jumped to attention, curtly reminded that though the stranger was glum enough to drink the night away, his temper could still flare at any moment and any of her social blunders. “Oh, I didn’t mean to interrupt... you. I promise this won’t take much of your time. I only wanted to apologize for running into you, earlier in the afternoon. Y-You probably don’t remember, but I am still very sorry.”

With that done, she considered returning to her table. Only, something that tugged inside her told her it wasn’t what she wanted. One image trailed through her mind, that of the empty chair that sat across the table, the one she had seen with dejected eyes during her sweep of the inn. She had filled the hole in her stomach with a fine meal, but she had done nothing yet for this rare one in her heart. Remedying that wouldn’t break her pact of solitude on the world’s many roads; there was nothing dangerous in seeking the company of a friend, or in making one.

“Would you mind if I sat here?” she asked with a tinge of hope lacing her voice. She wasn’t sure why the sudden need to know this stranger: because he seemed sad, because she wanted to upturn his frown? No, nothing so altruistic. It was something selfish, and she chided herself for it. Yes, his face was soaked in sorrow, but she had come to him, spoken to him, because she was sad as well. It isn’t always true, that opposites attract; sometimes, those who are most alike are the ones drawn together. Sometimes, sharing someone else’s pain made your own feel a morsel smaller.

“I’m Lillian,” she said, out of the blue, both hands on the stool’s ruddy upholstery, still waiting for his answer. She thought a handshake was in order, but a surge of self-consciousness had just washed over her. With all of her thinking, she had omitted how shy and awkward she was.

[Izvilvin]

Slowly, Scara Brae succumbed to the darkness, and every inch of the island was shrouded in only the moonlight. A tall hill overlooking the city was soon subject to a myriad of long, hairy legs, and the all-too-subtle hiss of hungry creatures.

The spiders were hungry, slightly deranged. What little thought they had was divided between where their next meal was coming from, and how to avoid the sharp stab of their rider’s knives. Atop each of the large, fuzzy creatures sat a green goblin, most holding a dirk in one hand and a shield in the other. They wore crude bronze helmets, some even sporting breastplates stained with blood – the height of goblin armor and a true status symbol if there ever was one.

Yellow, rounded eyes examined the city for a few moments, a breeze blowing through the goblin ranks and stirring up a few chills. Then, as silently as they appeared, the troupe began to ride once more.

Izvilvin, meanwhile, was beginning to rethink putting his weapons away. This man was asking too many questions, and not providing enough of a reason for it. Curiosity wasn’t a good enough reason to approach a drow staying in Scara Brae – Izvilvin’s paranoia was getting the best of him. He drew his weapons once more and was about to break into a run, when the shriek of a distant goblin stopped him in his tracks.

The Drow turned, his keen eyes piercing the dark and spotting a horde of mounted goblins pouring over the far edge of town. Like swift darkness they moved as one, washing over buildings before finally separating to cover more ground. Their motives were unclear, but being goblins, Izvilvin assumed they were looking to kill and plunder while suffering as few losses as possible.

He turned back to the white-robed man, still unsure of his motives or purpose. The common tongue was a confusing one, relying so heavily on tones and precise pronunciation. Izvilvin ultimately decided that arming himself to do battle with the goblin horde was more important than defending himself from the shadow-traveler, and broke into a run past the man, making haste toward the shack.

The spiders were rabid, yet somehow under the control of their riders. White froth dripped from their mouths, eight red eyes guiding them along. The goblins hooted and hollered, waving their weapons in the air and chasing the outdoor humans whom were too slow to get inside. The Scara Brae guards armed up and began a desperate defense, unable to gather together and rally under the heavy swarm. Their first duty was to protect the innocents, but with the quick creatures scurrying about, keeping an eye in all directions was impossible.

Powerful webbing wrapped up unsuspecting men and women, holding them in place for a later time when they could be devoured. Scara Brae had not been ready for the sudden attack.

[Vampiric Angel]

With every drink Anenfel could feel himself numbing over. Good, he thought. The less he felt the better. He took another long draw of his ale and gulped the dark liquid down in a heartbeat. The half-elf could hardly contain a smile. Nearly an hour in and he was already drinking like a professional. If only Larissa could see him now.

Larissa. What would she do if she saw him? Anenfel could guess any number of ways it could go. But he knew the one that would actually happen. What a disappointed look she would have. The half-elf did not know if he would be able to face her. He couldn't think about that; he had drinking to do. He lifted the drink halfway up to his lips when he was interrupted. From the sound of it, a teenage girl had come to bother him.

He roughly lowered the mug onto the counter, leaving a harsh clang. It took all of the wayfarer's willpower to focus on the girl's words. Although it was difficult, seeing as how the she stumbled over them every other second like a gimp trying to skip up a flight of stairs. He heard most of what she said, but comprehended only enough to learn her name and that she desired a seat.

So being the gentleman Anenfel believed himself to be, he slid the stool next to him towards the girl with his left foot and left it at that. Hopefully the seat would be enough to satisfy the girl's desires and leave Anenfel to drink in peace. The half-elf lifted his mug once more to his lips, and drank.

But, as if the Thayne truly had a sense of humor, a man -- no older than thirty winters -- burst into the tavern breathing heavily, panic written on his face. Black and crimson blood covered his tabard and steel, the sword held in his white fist stood rigid and unmoving.

"Goblins lay siege to the city!" He announced, "Goblins astride giant spiders! The Guard is attempting to form a defensive perimeter near the center of the populace and need every abled-body to assist. Make haste!" The man was gone as quickly as he had appeared, no doubt off to another tavern to rally more men to the cause.

Anenfel looked around at the patrons of the Salt, and waited for their reaction. He did not have to wait long. Each man in attendance was a seasoned veteran of numerous battles, scars crossed their arms and faces, and steel hung from their hips. A shout and a rallying cry had blades -- whether it be sword, dagger, or even knives -- drawn forth and gleaming in the dim light of the tavern.

Like a stampede the room emptied, leaving Anenfel, the young girl sitting at his side, and the barkeep behind the counter, replacing an apron and cleaning rag with a tunic of chainmail and a hefty double-bladed axe. He looked to the half-elf sitting at the bar, the lust of battle raging in his deep blue eyes. Anenfel looked back a question at him, pale green eyes passive.

The barkeep smiled and replied, "Ye can take the man from the sea, but ye can never take the sea from the man!" His laugh was deep and his chainmail shook with every bellow. "C'mon lad! Let's see if ye have the stones to live through the night!" The man winked at him and was gone. His baritone shouts of challenge and inspiration echoed through the streets.

Anenfel smiled and set down his mug. He would need his gear. He clumsily raced up the stairs two at a time, paying no heed to the moans and creaks as he went, unknowingly leaving the teenage girl sitting alone atop the barstool, listening to the sounds of battle just outside the door.

[Whiteshadow]

The attack was as sudden and swift as the wind.

One moment Eternium had been confronting the drow warrior, the next thing he knew he was being besieged upon by giant spiders and goblins wielding them. Chaos was the name of the entity that took the form of the screaming people and the sounds of metal upon flesh, Chaos was what erupted in Scara Brae.

Suddenly Eternium saw the drow break into a run, his strange weapons in his hands once more, and felt the wind of the dark elf's speed blow past him. But this mattered not to the white-robed viligante. What mattered to him was the fact that his city, his city, was being under attack by this filth.

Rage contorted the smooth features of the experiment, and drawing his hand backwards three blades of light came at his command, spinning around his hand in a lazy circle. A spider, rabid with bloodlust and hunger, was poised to strike at a fallen victim when the first of Eternium's blades struck it, splitting its head open and releasing gallons of sticky blood upon the cobblestones of the streets.

Eternium glanced behind him to see the drow confronting a giant spider with a goblin rider, and the goblin held a great pike in two rough and calloused hands. Eternium would have gone to help the drow if not for two things. 1) He was fairly sure that the warrior have everything under control and 2) two more giant spiders, one with a goblin rider, were now traveling up the buildings of the inns and stores.

Dashing past the form of the drow, Eternium grabbed his two remaining blades in his white gloved hands and planted one foot up on the wall where one of the spiders was now trying to pry open a window to a women's bath house. Using the momentum from his jump, Eternium grunted as he threw his left blade at the target, the back of the creatures skull. Unfortunately, his aim was off, and the blade sunk into the creature's side instead.

As he landed to the ground the spider hissed at him in pain and rage, and he beckoned it down with one crooked finger as he smiled and he spoke. His voice, however, was not one of human likeness, no. Instead, he hissed himself back at the creature, trying to speak to it in it's own language. Evidently, the thing understood what he was trying to say and screamed in outrage as it leapt from the window and towards the white-garbed viligante.

Not ten feet before it landed on top of him, Eternium threw his last blade now, his aim better now that his feet were firmly planted upon the ground and his opponent was almost a stationary target from the way the spider was falling. And so, the blade shot up and through the creature's "neck", severing the head, and the thing's body landed not feet from where Eternium stood.

Looking around, he saw even more spiders advancing. "Its a full, blown out invasion." He murmured, before pulling his right hand out from behind him and into the moon light, and once again three short blades of light appeared and hovered in the air, eager to pierce and please.

[Ataraxis]

“The call of adventure never dwindles,” Lillian said in a murmur, faint eyes lowered on the countertop. Upon the glossy surface, a golden froth was spreading thin, spilled when the elfin man had gavelled the wood with his mug. Then, he was gone. He’d barely acknowledged her presence with a grunt and a curt kick in the stool she coveted, and had left in enough of a hurry to let the girl simper on her worth as a human being. ‘Stupid, stupid. He didn’t want to talk to you, just to his pint of ale.’

The girl inched queasily on her perch, the leathery creak sounding dry in the silent tavern. It only struck her then how the ambiance had up and left with the clientele, leaving the locale depressingly bare. The sticky grime on the floors seemed to move in a room where all else had gone still; the dark malt at the bottom of countless glasses had ceased their merry fizzle, sounding dull and flat; even the oil lamps seemed to gutter without anyone but a frail young girl to guide. Lillian sighed.

“I should board up the door. If this isn’t a hoax, then something might come crawling close, soon.” The thought that some might want to seek refuge in the tavern had also crossed her mind, but there were other public establishments only a few feet away, and everyone who had left in the first place was readily armed. Except for a measly thing at her side most had called a glass toothpick, Lillian was defenceless. She wasn’t about to leave for a fight that would quite likely spell her demise, either. Though her life had been led by the call as well, it excluded fighting vicious little creatures on vicious giant spiders.

Lacking any wooden boards or tools for the job, she decided she’d rather prop a few heavy pieces of furniture before the entrance. With the best of her ability, she rolled a table that was wider across than she was tall, setting it where many others would follow, along with drawers and barrels of ale she found underneath the bar counter. “The bartender will probably mind, but that’d simply mean he made it out alive. Then I hope he does mind.” She smiled weakly, but like a winter’s wind, it had quickly swept away.

“They probably will mind if I take this, too.” Lillian was at the table where a group of young men had been playing cards. They hadn’t been so dimwitted as to leave their earnings for a stranger to pick at will, but their haste had made the gathering sloppy at best. A few dozen coins remained here and there, and the victor’s pile was even richer in gold. “Too much to fit in two pockets, I surmise.”

Looking around the vacant room with shifty eyes, she slid them into her drawstring coin purse, leaving only a few pieces to mislead them, should they ever return. It felt definitely wrong, but she had never been alone in a tavern before, and there was no official decorum on how to act in such a situation. Well, other than common moral ethics, but the lure of novelty had clouded more than a part of her mind.

Something heavy jarred into the door. “I swear, I didn’t mean to! I’m sorry!” she yelped, dropping her purse onto the floorboards as she spun round. ‘Oh, darn.’ It heard her, whatever it was. It heard her, and it wanted in. Suddenly, roars and cries filled the streets, as though alarmed citizens had only just sprouted there like mushrooms after the rain. ‘Not a hoax, then. Oh, what should I do?’ She couldn’t believe this was happening so fast. It had only been a few minutes, and there was already an enemy so far inside the city? Had the customers already fallen, then? ‘Maybe this one just got through by luck. I-I have to deal with it.’

The door thumped again, and Lillian was never so glad that she was mildly paranoiac. Had she not been careful, that thing would already be inside, and she would be… ‘Don’t think about it! Do something Lily!’ This time, the noise hadn’t come from the door. It sounded like crawls and grits on the brick walls, a rasp at embossed glass. The windows. Of course, she was dealing with spiders, big ones at that. She had already rubbed elbows with one before, all eight of them; the scared girl had no desire of a repeated occurrence. That was when an idea came to her.

Shards of glass clinked onto the floorboard, crashing into smaller pieces. The floor jumped when eight scraggly black poles came landing in a cushioned sound. Two rows of four red eyes scanned their environs, patting the alcohol-stained ground with its hairy pedipalps. Astride the beastly arachnid was a scrawny being, its grey skin dappled with murky green blotches, covered only by a stained pair of canvas trousers.

Similar to its steed, with its big, round and globulous eyes, the goblin looked for the source of the voice it had heard, that sweet little ring of a girl, just young enough so that her screams would not lose their appeal. Scratching at a triangle of hair on its bare chest, it snorted. Though there was nothing in sight, her smell remained. “You smell like lily flower. Let me pick you.” It grinned, yellow fangs piercing gums blackened by old blood.

Lillian didn’t speak. If one thing was going to greet his ears, it wouldn’t come from her, but from right below. Sniffing, the creature let his head spin on a gangly neck, scarred and bulbous from some goblinesque malady. Something was off, like the growing presence of something warm, burning. Looking down, he saw a dark trail lead from behind the counter to a special place, right beneath his mounted spider. The speeding flame hadn’t eluded him either.

First there was light. Then, fire. The barrel had exploded.

[Izvilvin]

By the time Izvilvin returned to the edge of town, Mjolnir and Icicle in his grasp, the city was overrun. His eyes burned with intensity as they took quick inventory of situation, but he could hardly make sense of the scene before him. It was chaos and madness drizzled over the serenity, and Scara Brae was no longer a safe haven. To echo the situation, a light rain began to fall at that precise moment. Izvilvin tightened his grip on Mjolnir, but couldn't find the time to worry about what the water might do to it.

The nighttime sky would have made it tougher for him to spot the mounted spiders, but Izvilvin could see in the dark at least as well as he could in the light. Thus, he had no problem with the sneaky goblin that was approaching him from his left. With a fierce and sudden jerk of his hand, Icicle was in and out of its chest, a ring of frost surrounding the wound.

He ran toward the center of town, the screams of human and goblin alike pounding in his sensitive ears. Rapid, long strides brought him to the doorway of the inn, where he anticipated most of the citizens would take refuge. He pressed his back against the wall next to the door, and nearly caught his heart in his throat when a massive spider crawled down toward his head.

Izvilvin dove forward toward the road, his shoulder caught by the spider's mandible and tearing the fabric of his shirt. Landing in a roll, the drow spun to meet the charge of the creature, a hooting goblin nearly salivating on its back. A crossbow in hand, the little beast let a bolt fly. With the flick of his wrist, Izvilvin deflected it aside, wiping the smile off the goblin's face.

The spider pressed on, lunging forward pathetically with its maw. Rather than retreat from the fearsome fangs, Izvilvin dove forward and plunged Mjolnir deep inside its mouth, sending a shockwave through its body and up into the metal of the goblin's armor. A bright flash, intensified by the rain, left a smoldering pair of corpses on the ground before a shocked Izvilvin.

He had no time to consider the damage, as hooting goblins descended from seemingly all around him, their crude bronze weapons lifted high in the air. They already felt triumphant, and why not? They had organized a raid that was far beyond what was typical of their species.

Izvilvin was being surrounded. He looked about quickly and spotted an alleyway, where at least he could limit the angles, and he ran for it. He was cut off by a mounted goblin with a long pike, who slashed aggressively at him. Izvilvin deflected the point with Icicle, mentally willing the sword to leave a trail of icy mist in its wake as he did so. The effect confused the spider, though the goblin was still high enough on its back to see over it. It stabbed once more, and Izvilvin slashed the point off of the wooden shaft. Two more slashes, back-and-forth, reduced the weapon to a miserable stub, and Izvilvin stepped forward with each swing. Suddenly he was close enough to drive Icicle through the goblin's neck, and stab Mjolnir down into the spider's skull - all in one movement.

He rushed past them, feeling the wind of a crossbow bolt as it whipped by the side of his head. Ignoring it, he slid into the alley, turning to face the entrance as he backed up, swords at the ready.

The rain had become more intense, the violence of it loud in Izvilvin's head. Still he heard the sound of movement behind him and turned to strike, but instead of a spider, his lavender eyes perceived a middle-aged man brandishing a blacksmith's hammer. The human's expression was intense, not so much threatening as it was curious, defensive. Looking behind him, Izvilvin could see multiple others who were hiding in the alley.

"Watch out!" one cried, pointing. Izvilvin turned a split-second too late to avoid the sharp sting of a crossbow bolt.

He hissed and looked down, seeing the bolt half-buried in the left side of his chest. Ahead of him was a triumphant goblin, hollering in its native tongue and pointing excitedly at its crossbow.

Izvilvin sheathed Icicle, then ripped the bolt free of his flesh, tossing it aside. He drew a sai from his leg and let fly, the projectile finding a home in the celebrating goblin's eye. Icicle was back in his hand in a flash, just in time to meet the charge of four anxious spiders and their riders, crawling over the walls - and each other - just to get to the drow.

[Vampiric Angel]

Anenfel crashed through the door to his room, a large thud resonating from the impact of door on wall. Larissa jerked free of her scarlet bed, panic in her eyes, alarm on her face. Her auburn-haired head, which stuck out to one angle, darted across the room as she softly hovered above her resting place. Her eyes found Anenfel fumbling with his gear.

"What's wrong?" Larissa asked in a tired, but shocked voice. Her eyelids drooped from the sudden awakening. Anenfel stumbled while hurriedly placing his father's boots in place, and if it were not for his elven heritage, would have surely fallen. His pale green orbs met Larissa's deep gold for a split second before responding.

"The city is under attack," he slurred, "and I'm going to help save it." Anenfel could already hear the raucous intensifying outside the inn's walls. He paused for a moment while sliding on his hardened leather, gaze locked on the room's shuddered windows. His tone turned grim and his fist began to tighten as the number of screams doubled with every tencount. He looked to Dawntracker leaned up against the wall as the words sent to him by the Scarabrian Captain replayed in his mind.

"...has died valiantly in battle, protecting the land he loved for so long..."

Larissa brought him back to his senses.

"Attack?! but how--" She cut herself short as she eyed the half-elf curiously, "Anenfel Saendithas...have you been drinking?" Her hands lay in fists on her hips as she retracted to her motherly form.

"I had a few drinks, yes. Hardly enough for a man such as my father." Before Anenfel could stop himself he continued on, "And to tell you earnestly, if it were not for this sudden turn of events, I would still be paying him tribute." Larissa gasped. She could barely believe her ears. Coming from the man she had known for so long, the man who had resisted the temptations of ale like a eunich in a king's harem chamber.

"You can't go out there like this," she protested. Her turqoise and teal wings fluttered rapidly as she tried to make her case. "It looks as if you can barely stand, let alone fight!"

Anenfel dimissed the notion with a lazy wave and a disarming smile. "I'm fine, it barely took it's toll, see?" The wayfarer walked the straightest line he could, or at least he would have, if he'd remembred to slip on his other boot before taking the challenge. He landed straight on his chest, the wind momentarily knocked out of him. He quickly recovered, hopping to his feet and swiftly placing the boot where it belonged.

"I believe that has made my point," she replied with a triumphant smile. Her arms crossed over her chest. Anenfel glared at her.

"Inebriated or not, I must lend my sword." The half-elf walked over to Dawntracker, took it in his grip and held it before his gaze. "Let my sword be true, father. Guide my hand." He placed it on his weapons belt and secured it firmly to his hip.

"Why must you do this?" Larissa yelled at him, "You are not your father!" Anenfel was stunned by the statement and slowly he turned to face the small fairy. Larissa had landed softly on the back of the chair, her wings cowering behind her. The half-elf slowly stalked towards her, his brow furrowed, his gaze darkened.

Anenfel approached the chair, glaring down at the fearful fairy. He bent low, his face level with the small sparkling form. He replied in a low, growling voice, "I would be blessed to amount to half the man he was." Larissa visibly shook from the venom that dripped from his voice. She knew what ale could do to a kind-hearted soul and she was afraid that she might be renewed in that lesson.

The fairy flinched as Anenfel's hand darted for the chair. Her eyes were held tight, and she waited many moments before opening them. The half-elf held a scarlet scarf in his hands as he slowly wrapped it around his neck. "I expect to find this room empty upon my return." Larissa took the meaning instantly and she tried to correct her mistake.

"Anenfel, I --" But a large explosion, coming from the first floor of the inn, cut through her words. The wayfarer looked with wide eyes in the direction of the explosion, and before the large boom was finished, Anenfel was speeding out of his room, trailing scarlet, steel in hand.

What the half-elf came upon was much different than what his imagination had designed. He looked upon a massive burning hole in the inn. A hole where the door had been. Charred flesh was scattered about the ruined entrance, blackened metal sprouting from multiple points. From what the wayfarer could tell through his hazy gaze, the remains must have been one of the spider-mounted goblins that was raiding the city.

He approached the carcasses cautiously, Dawntracker held firm in his intoxicated grip. His pale green eyes looked over the fire, over the dead, and finally, through the hole and out into the combat-ridden streets. Civilians were chased down by the giant spiders, guardsmen and weapon bearing Scarabrians were protecting the ones they could, but they were becoming quickly outnumbered and overwhelmed.

The half-elf heard a noise over the crackling of the fire, a sound behind him: labored breaths. His face turned into a sneer and he silently worked his way over to the source of the sound. It was behind the beaten bar, scorch marks covering the end and partly the side. No doubt from the explosion. Anenfel took Dawntracker in a two-handed grip, blade pointing down. He the lifted the blade, held his breath and made his presence known.

"Die creature!" He would have stabbed the girl had it not been for her scream. He placed Dawntracker at his side as he examined the girl. It was the girl from earlier, the one that tried to speak with him, and upon further mental digging, the one that had bumped into him on the streets. She was everywhere, he thought. When looking upon her black hair, and her white clothing he sternly said to her,

"Stay here and stay quiet, I will come back for you." Anenfel heard shouts in the distance, and from their dialect, they weren't human. He looked towards the gaping hole in the inn's entryway and noticed two goblins atop their arachnid mounts pointing in his exact direction. They quickly closed the distance, and the wayfarer knew there was no time. He had to lead them away from the girl. He looked back to her and reiterated, "I'll come back for you."

He charged for the burning hole, the flames promised to devour him. With gaping strides he ate the distance. He ran up a table that lied burnt and broken in the way. It extended three feet off the ground, and with a hard push, Anenfel found himself in the air, rushing towards his attackers.

Dawntracker was held above his head with two hands, his scarlet scarf flew out behind him. At the top of his lungs he cried, "Saendithas!!" A cry that echoed through the streets of Scara Brae, a cry that promised death.

[Whiteshadow]

Every one that went down, three took its place. This truly was an invasion, and unluckily for Eternium he was stuck dead in the middle of it. He dodged the sideways sweep of a spider's giant leg and slammed one of his blades home into its brain, slaying the beast instantly. It's rider tried getting off to finish the job that its steed had attempted, but was stopped short when a thick of blade of light impaled it to the ground.

The experiment was breathing heavily from the exhertion of dodging his opponents' attacks and protecting the citizens. His body was weary and frankly, so was he of all this fighting. It seemed like it would never end.

Off in the distance he saw the drow he had apprehended earlier fighting off another part of the invasion, and newfound respect came over Eternium for the drow warrior. He could have just as easily ran and hid, but instead here he was fighting for a people who had always shunned his kind.

The drow's actions fresh in his mind, Eternium found a boost in himself that hadn't been there before, and as another of the wretched creatures leapt for his throat, he turned, smiled, and shoved his last blade of conjured light into the thing's mouth.

[Ataraxis]

Lillian had always been a gentle soul, shy and unassuming – almost to a fault. What the elfin stranger had done, however, was like shovelling coal into a furnace. Fallien, as distant a memory as it was, had left her with a most unexpected heritage: she was a proud woman from this desert country, and she would not stay still. She would not stay quiet. No more. Even as he stepped through the fire and charred remains to the riotous streets, she rose from behind the blackened shape of her hiding place, fingers of down sliding for the grooved hilt of her glass dirk. He had ignored her enough: now, the turn was hers.

“All I wanted was a warm meal and bed, but simple things are always too hard to ask.” Something akin to apathy glimmered in her eyes, the blue orbs scoping the ravaged interior of the tavern. The floorboards were scorched and by times still sizzling, while the entrance was no longer, in its stead a gaping breach that let in the damp breath of falling rain. There were even chunks of something overcooked, of which the burnt smell left her a tad nauseous. This was all her doing, and seeing it as such left in her heart a curious sensation on top of her vexed pride. The blaring emptiness of the establishment suddenly made more sense. “Never thought I was the same as them.”

The glass slid from her waist to her lilywhite grip, and Lillian dashed from the bar to a toppled gueridon, where she had previously dropped her coin pouch. The bottom end was sticky with a dash of liquor and a zest of lime, but she stowed it away without much more care. The girl then made her way to the flaming, gaping hole that led outside, where the cries of men and goblin, of war and fear, resounded as one. Through it all, she could hear adventure call. ‘It never dwindles,’ she repeated, her last thought as she leapt into the blaze and fray.


Her left boot had just made a faint splash as it hit the wet cobbles when a blast of viscous web missed her by a hair. “Whazzis?” a raucous voice came from her left, laced with a vile curiosity. The padded sounds of eight legs crawling and the damp smacking of lips alerted her to a goblinoid presence, but much to her dismay, its query had attracted four more. In the midst of battle, they seemed awfully carefree, but Lillian quickly saw why: two of them were swirling severed heads by their pony-tail, and all of their spiders seemed to gnaw on some remnant strips of dripping meat.

No matter how much she wanted to, she knew better than to close her eyes. Though ugly and primitive, they were no amateurs; they knew how to battle, and they knew the benefits of the victors on the defeated. “Losst, girly? No move, we helps.” The leader, clad in thin bands of studded leather and plates of battered steel, slowly drew a wicked-looking hook blade from its back. While she fought the sudden numbness that crawled up her legs, Lillian gave cursory looks to her right, seeing past a screen of rain, past a stack of barrels, past a hawker’s abandoned stand. Then, she ran.

The goblin spat an order in its hoarse and grating tongue, sending the others on the hunt. Lillian had no need to turn back to know that they were hot on her pursuit, that they were gaining on her, and fast at that. She could have fought them head on, as long as she understood how quick her death would be. Though her arsenal was not limited to the toothpick in her hand, there were too many risks in a direct confrontation, not only to herself, but also to the Scarabrians that lined the seaside road. Instead, she weaved through the battlefield, drawing the hunters toward what was her single vantage point. Already, her laboured breaths cut through her lungs, but she wouldn’t stop.

Time. She need more time. The cogs in her brain reeled and smoked, until something sparked, loud and bright. The girl focused as she hefted her right hand, watching five little orbs of ink congregate at each fingertip. The arm flung back and five threads of wispy black shot outward, snaking through the air yet hitting nothing. Nothing, save for the rope that cinched the hoard of oil barrels she’d just run past. They trembled for an instant before collapsing like a castle of cards and tumbling along the stone paving in a thunderous rumble.

The pursuers pulled on their crude reins, but it was too late: the barrels had caught the spiders’ legs. Sick crunches, purple oozes, and they were carried away in the wooden avalanche, their slide eased by the rain-slicked cobbles, only to sink into the saltwater below the docks. Two had drowned, their riders knocked cold and floating, while a pair had been mercilessly flattened. The girl had no time to squeal at her astonishing success, hearing the vile, unintelligible insults that were flung her way by the two remaining ones – though the feeling was there.

The air made a gusting swoop as an immense axe tore through the raindrops it in a deadly arc, slamming square into the maw of a spider, then trailing upwards to cleave its rider in half. The bartender was alive, and thanks to him, so was she. A fire glittered in his hardened stare, ready to take on the last survivor that still scurried on the girl’s trail, but his own opponent had returned to the assault, diverting his attention. The leader swung the wicked hook, ripping off the flesh from his shoulder. Though it was a cry of pain, it rang louder than thunder, striking fear in all those within earshot. There was no denying it; this man had a hell of a story to tell. She prayed to Suravani that she could live through this night to one day hear it.

That was when she saw it. The stand, on one side laden with fruits and vegetables, on the other fraught with fish, stretched upon a bed of crushed ice. Its contents, however, weren’t the things that had cried out salvation. Rather, her attention was drawn to the cloth awning that hung above it, sagging like a distended belly from the rainwater that weighed it down. Her clothes clung to her skin, her hair felt heavy and sticky on her head, her legs were stinging from her sprint. “But just a little more.” Its snarl rang into her ears, a reminder of her task. At once, she dashed and, a few feet short of the stand, she jumped.

Lillian fought for steadiness as she landed, almost slipping onto the ice and a tomato. Though the awning provided cover from the storm, what she had in mind for it involved calling upon one. The dirk felt cold against her palm, a sign that she still gripped onto it like her lifeline. In a way, it was. The spider scuttled closer, knocking both men and goblins off its path. The girl touched the pommel of her weapon to form a black thread, calling upon the same strange magic that had helped her before, while preparing another, much stronger spell. In her mind, a purple haze hovered, a strange hodgepodge of darkness, light and fire. She dove into it, dove into what now felt like a thick pool of shadows, reaching for the power that floated in its heart.

Her eyes flung open, greeted by the sight of the goblin leader, of its eight scraggly legs, coiling like springs. The dirk flew, tumbling upon itself, a blue wheel through the air. The spider bounded, looming dangerously closer, the red-tainted hook trailing behind it. A rip as the dagger cut and the edge of canopy tore. All the water it had amassed fell into a white stream, splashing the airborne assailant. Her free hand sprang forth, a purple light diffusing from it eerily. Oddly, the words that echoed in her mind at the precise instant were words of failure. She wanted the spell to fail.

And it did.

The strange light flickered out of existence, leaving only a trail of smoke and a single spark of electricity: only, misfire was just the beginning. There was a roar in the violet skies overhead before lightning fell in a soundless bolt, aimed to smite her as it did every time she cast a botched spell. Instead, it struck the rainwater upon the canopy, crackled down the falling stream, and then sank its ravenous fangs into the salt, into the metal, into the flesh.

The bellow that followed was blood-curdling. Grey skin bubbled beneath its makeshift armor, its throat constricted as the membrane burned, as its bodily fluids vaporized and cooked the creature from the inside, before suffusing into the outside dankness from blackened orifices. Its carcass fell in front of the stand cushioned by the limp mass of burnt hair and cracked chitin beneath it. The smell was awful, making her repress a gag. By some miracle, she had escaped the electrified waters, having removed her foot from the ice just in time. It felt numb, but at least it felt something. Absently, she jerked her hand, tugging on the dark string she held; the dirk flew from its resting place on the cobbles to fit snugly within her palm.

The rain raged on above, but here on the ground below, silence had swept for the briefest of moments. Shock riddled the faces of surrounding men and goblins alike, their wide eyes set on the girl who summoned lightning, the girl who killed a goblin leader, the girl who wasn't so defenceless after all. Then, time thawed.

“K...Killed Grazzok... Kill ‘er!” That shout was all she needed to shake away the numbness in her legs. She jumped from the stand, fell on he tiptoes, and ran like a madwoman. Ran like the devil was on her tail.


((Took some time to write, since it was done in snippets over the last week in the short minutes of free time I had. Cy, she’s heading for the center of the town, or wherever Izvilvin is. I think it’s time for everyone to gathe, especially since you’re calling on something big in your next post. Mention her or something? =p))

[Vampiric Angel]

He was cornered. Anenfel slowly backed himself up, Dawntracker held before him at the ready. There was only so much more he could go before falling into the dark waters of the sea. And to make matters worse, it was raining. The water matted his hair to his head, his unarmored clothes to his body, and made movement in his leather much more difficult. His enemies could see the detriments, the hunger in their eyes, both goblin and spider, alluded to that.

The three riders made their way closer, savoring the meal to come. They thought they had power in numbers, and surely they would have if it had been a different time, a different place, versus a different foe. But Anenfel was more than the helpless, intoxicated half-elf that they thought him to be. They looked to each other and knew the time had come. The goblins let out an excited yelp while the spiders they rode on merely salivated and charged.

Anenfel slipped his dextrous fingers around one of his concealed daggers and let loose. The ale-induced throw was clumsy and off course, but it still did the trick. It landed with a thick thud just short of the westernmost spider's legs, causing it to jerk in reaction and slam into the ally next to it. They fell to the wet cobblestone in a heap of hairy legs and greyish green skin as the third held his charge.

It came in fast and Anenfel prepared himself. His foot nearly slipped as he took another step back and wobbled to regain his balance. A wry grin spread on his face as a thought formed in his mind. He looked to the rider as he rapidly closed the distance. The half-elf waited until it was nearly on top of him and he dove underneath the spider's legs, cleaving as many as he could with Dawntracker as his form slid on the slippery stones. Both spider and goblin gave out one last screech before being plunged into the sea.

Anenfel rose to his feet to meet his next two foes. Astonishingly, they were still entangled, both beast and rider unable to coordinate themselves. The wayfarer took hold of the advantage. He stood above the pair hacking and slashing. If it were not for the hoarse guttural yell that echoed off the walls, he would have kept dislodging his enemies from their limbs a few minutes longer.

He looked to the source of the yell and saw Lillian being pursued by a trail of enemies. He chased after her, but taking no more than three strides, he was forcefully pulled onto his back and suddenly felt the sensation of being dragged. The wind left his lungs in those brief moments and the half-elf's pale green eyes looked up and behind to meet his attacker. His hazy vision was upside down but from discerning the shape of the mass, another rider had decided to join the fray. A strand of spider silk connected Anenfel and the rider.

The wayfarer writhed and threw Dawntracker clumsily up above his head, trying to cut the strand but with every thrust he met only stone and the loud clang that followed. He tried to dig his boots into the ground and slow the pull but to no avail. Before his next thrust, the lumbering spider stood above him, it's slimy saliva missing his face by inches. The stench alone made him gag. Anenfel desperately gave another thrust aimed for the spider's head, but it met only steel. The goblin rider sneered as it pushed Anenfel's sword out of his grasp with his own weapon. Dawntracker flew and fell three feet away. The goblin laughed and the half-elf closed his eyes and awaited death.

A roar filled his ears and his eyes flew open. The spider above him howled in pain and lurched back, causing the goblin to fall from his saddle. Anenfel quickly rose to his knees to witness blood and gore spill onto the streets. The guard that had rushed into The Sea's Salt, warning the tavern of the siege, stood before him, his sword hilt-deep in the spider's side, on the other end of the large wound he had caused. He drove his shoulder into the beast and knocked it over, it's limbs twitching.

"Foul beast," he cursed and spat on the dying creature. The man walked over to Dawntracker, bent over and took it in his grasp. He threw it to Anenfel. The half-elf luckily caught the hilt-end of the sword in his hand. "Come, the Captain needs our assisstance." Anenfel nodded. In the distance he heard lighting crash. Both their heads whipped back behind them. It came from Lillian's direction. Anenfel could only hope she was alright.

The guard gave him a quick nudge and they were off, fighting harder as they came closer to the center of the confrontation.

[Izvilvin]

Mjolnir flashed as violently as a true bolt of lightning, slapping against the side wall of the alley to cause a distracting, blinding crackle. It was all Izvilvin could do to keep the two goblins on his right at bay, while his left arm wielded Icicle in a delicate, yet furious dance to parry blows.

The distraction was the third of what would be several in a row, but the drow was gaining no ground against the multiple foes. Rather, he was slowly retreating toward the vulnerable humans of Scara Brae. The alley's dead end was a sheer wall of stone, impossible for any but the elf himself to climb - and they were approaching it.

With fearsome energy, Izvilvin fought on, parrying an iron blade with Mjolnir as he steered away another with Icicle. Both swords quickly whipped across each other, using the momentum to slap the next two strikes away. The spiders hissed and lurched with their mandibles, forcing him a step back. Not even a second later, a blade dove toward Izvilvin's ribs and pierced his armor, though he pulled back a split-second before it met his flesh, only to surrender a shallow cut on his forearm.

As much as he had to give, the drow could not fight on forever. His lavender eyes burned with determination, gazing from below a canopy of wet, sticky hair that clung to his forehead. The one goblin who didn't hold a sword, but a long spear, attacked from the wall above and to Izvilvin's left, using a wide sweep to force the elf back another step. The warrior longed to counter, to snip the tip of that spear from its shaft, but he was parrying once more.

A warrior's cry blasted through the night sky, and not from far off. Izvilvin heard it well, but it was just faint enough to get the attention of the goblins that pressed him. Stupidly, they allowed their attack to slow. Pressing the advantage, Izvilvin slashed and stabbed with measured, quick strikes, short enough that he could attack rapidly.

Finally, he scored a hit against the leg of a spider. Using that momentum, the drow pressed against that particular side of the alley and focused his strikes on that mount, scoring several lightning-quick hits. As the spider died, its grip on the wall ended and it fell down onto its back, the dead weight pinning its goblin rider down.

The kill bolstered the resolve of a certain man behind Izvilvin, who rushed to the drow's side just in time to knock him out of the way of a spear stab. The point of the deadly weapon drove into the space between them, and this time, Izvilvin had the chance to slash up with Mjolnir, taking the tip right off - the tip of the Damascus weapon nearly hit the face of the human.

Without uttering a word, Izvilvin pressed his elbow into the man and forced him back, facing the mounted goblins once more. Despite being outnumbered, they had lost their resolve against the determined warrior, who without realizing it, had three humans standing defiantly behind him, clutching crude gardening tools as weapons. The spiders, reluctantly, fled up the sides of the alley's two walls.

"Thank you so much," one of them said, but Izvilvin wasn't listening. The sounds of battle were not far off to his sensitive ears, and he could hear a commanding voice among them all. The Scara Brae guard had gathered, as quickly as Radasanth's own militia could have. Impressive.

"Go to a safer place," he demanded of those behind him, whom he didn't turn to look at. He rushed off after that, dancing over the struggling, dying goblin beneath the heavy spider's corpse.

He burst back into the main road and took in the situation. The situation seemed less chaotic, but not due to a lack of raiding creatures - they had banded together, as if the stupid goblins had developed tactics and leaders. Off near the very center of town, where a circular plaza surrounded a great ivory fountain depicting some ancient leader stood, at least forty armed men and women stood against the same number of goblins and spiders. The mounted creatures attacked like the tide, swaying in together, retreating a step, and swaying in once more. They had superior reach in their weaponry, and used it well.

In the distance, Izvilvin spotted a familiar-looking man taking long, determined strides alongside a stubbier one. Eyes piercing the veil of rain between them, Izvilvin detected pointed ears and a large sword. He thought to follow, but was interrupted by the bellowing command of a gutteral voice. Turning, he saw a woman running in his general direction, two goblins gaining fast on her.

The drow ran toward her, fighting his own exhaustion, ignoring the wounds he'd taken, trying to make it as clear as he could with his body language that he was on her side. She passed him, and the goblins came, each of them with bronze swords raised and at the ready.

Suddenly, their spiders stopped and recoiled.

Izvilvin, too, stopped. He became aware of a faint, distant pounding, like the muffled, rapid knock on a door. It got louder, louder, until it was painful to his sensitive ears.

Then, above the roof of the inn, Izvilvin saw the outline of a hairy head. A single leg rose up and onto the building, smashing straight through to the ground. Two more steps brought the massive spider into the main road of the city, halting just about all activity. The spiders went mad, thrashing wildly to remove the goblins from their backs - this was their master, whose very presence drove them to bloodthirst unlike any other on Althanas.

The creature, the spider-god, as it were, was as large as a dragon. Its body was fat with fluid, dragging against the ground. Its limbs longer than its body suggested they be, disproportioned in their length. Black as night, with eyes that glowed yellow through the rain, the spider-god hungered for chaos.

That was exactly what it got, as the goblin 'alliance' with the spiders was at its end.

[Vampiric Angel]

Anenfel stood back-to-back with the Guard, a small group of enemies surrounding them. The Guard laughed as his sword ripped through another rider. "How rude of me," he exclaimed. "I forgot to introduce myself!" Before he had a chance to continue his train of thought, he was charged. The Guard parried the goblin's clumsy attack and tore the rider in half. The spider lunged out with its legs and the sandy-haired man jumped over them and brought his sword down with him as he landed, the blade slicing the arachnid's face down the middle.

He placed himself at the half-elf's side once more and continued as if nothing had happened, "The name's Hadley, or Scorch as my mates call me." The wayfarer sidestepped an attack and countered, bringing the enemy down.

"Anenfel," he replied. The slur had left his lips and the haze that had encumbered his mind was slowly lifting. It seemed the adrenaline of battle and the sweat that dripped from his pores, began to clear his mind. He was becoming his old self; his limbs reacted quicker, the steel held in his fist felt less heavy.

"So," the half-elf began, "why do they call you Scorch?" The guard grinned a mischievous grin in reply. For some reason, it made Anenfel grin. He had a way about him that was just...contagious.

"I thought you'd never ask!" The guard held up his palm and began to incant a string of arcane words. The wayfarer could visibly tell the words held power as a small flicker of flame began to appear in the palm of Hadley's hand. Even with the rain pouring down on the them, the flicker prevailed. As the man finished his incantation, he hurled the small flame at a pair of riders rushing his position.

The moment the flame touched the wet cobblestone it ignited and enveloped the two enemies in a torrent of fire. Their high-pitched screams of agony pierced the half-elf's ears and caused him to clutch them in response. Luckily, the display of magic had given the other enemies a reason to halt their attacks as they reassessed the two figures standing before them.

Soon the screams had died with the victims that gave them voice and Anenfel sighed with relief. His pale green eyes looked upon the flames as they slowly died down and upon the charred carcasses underneath. Clearly, the word scorch was a huge understatement. The half-elf looked to Hadley as he admired his handiwork; his grin only widened.

The spiders, about to replenish their charge on the two warriors, suddenly shrunk towards the ground. The goblins that rode atop them looked at the arachnids with confusion. They smacked and yelled at them in their strange, brutal language, trying desperately to get them to move. Hadley snickered as he watched the goblins struggle to regain their ally's bloodlust.

"Look," he said to Anenfel out of the side of his mouth, "the spiders know who to bow to." Anenfel smiled and let out a small laugh of his own. But soon, a pounding, faint and distant at first, began to hold sway over the city. It began to reverberate off the walls and shake the ground, and soon, became so loud that Anenfel gimaced at every interval.

The sound came from behind them, and with a face devoid of a smile and replaced with curiosity, they turned and watched as a gigantic spider crushed its way through the roof of The Sea's Salt. Anenfel felt of twinge of guilt for hoping Larissa had taken heed to him and left the inn. The monstrous arachnid gazed upon the battle as the Thayne must have been, seeing every angle.

"I think I'll need a stronger spell," the guard said in a hushed tone. The half-elf looked at him with amusement. He was becoming fond of the man. The spiders though, seeing their spider-god hover above them like a dragon, were driven into a frenzy. They shook the goblins atop of them violently to the ground, some even killing the gray-green creatures where they fell.

The arachnids looked up to their god's fat hairy face, to its glowing yellow eyes and began to screech. As if the hulking mass had instructed them telepathically, they began their work. They attacked anything in sight with reckless abandon, goblin and human alike.

Suddenly, Hadley and Anenfel found themselves thigh-deep in enemies, fighting for their lives as the spiders rushed at them with no concern for their lives. Fangs, mandibles and legs came at them from every corner. Anenfel cut down the spider in front of him and spared a glance to his companion; the guard still held his grin. The wayfarer liked him more with every passing moment.

[Ataraxis]

It all happened so fast. Too fast. The ear-splitting shrieks had ceased with the cries of battle, as did the clashing of steel against steel. Over the battlefield, an invisible weight had come crashing down with the rain, pinning all those beneath it to the ground, be they men, goblins or giant spiders. The purple mists high above faded to black as a rising shadow blotted the colors out from the sky, towering over the coastal city with eight eyes like tainted gold, like wicked suns. Four of its limbs were hefted, crooked wings in the deep night that cast upon the streets and rooftops a tenebrous halo.

And, while humanity and goblinkind alike gazed up in twisted fear and disbelief, the children on the Spider God resumed their monstrous onslaught.

There was a new chaos unfolding in Scara Brae. Hordes of the eight-legged beasts ran rampant throughout the alleys, atop the shingles, hanging from the walls and creeping in the shadows. The ashen little things that were the goblins fell one after another, most of the riders devoured by their own scraggly steeds, others simply crushed as spiders leapt from great heights to slam them into viscous puddles of grey flesh and blotchy-red entrails. Men wielding makeshift weapons in the form of dough rollers, meat cleavers, rakes and grain flails fought vehemently alongside the battle-trained guards of the city, fending the overgrown critters off as best they could with their meagre means. Alas, they too fell at the fangs of the beasts, their strength and bloodlust bolstered by the presence of a god.

Lillian remained standing. All the while, she had stood, even when this unthinkable creature had crawled over the Sea’s Salt and collapsed its roof with a mere step, its oppressive sight nearly robbing the last ounce of strength in her legs. Not so long ago, she had dealt with immense and vicious creatures and had left their nests as the unlikely victor, but this fiend was beyond anything she had ever faced. She could do nothing against it. Had she tried to lay a scratch on its overgrown body, it would have dispatched her with a flick of its leg, and that would have been the end of her. ‘You can still run, Lily. If you’re lucky, you’ll live…’

Strange, how she didn’t pay heed to her own advice – how she wouldn’t. Her instinct of survival told her to escape with her tail between her legs, her reason told her that she could live to fight another day. Her heart, however, told her that she could not save herself when thousands were soon to die.

“Sir,” she whispered as she turned back. A dozen feet away was a tall man with skin as dark as obsidian, hair whiter than snow and eyes of amethyst – he was a Drow, the same who had tried to save her from her pursuers, before the arrival of the spider behemoth. “Sir,” she called out louder this time to catch his attention. She peered into his lavender eyes, and were he the least bit observant, the Drow would notice in hers none of the fear, none of the doubt that had plagued the girl only moments ago. There was only the hue of a haunting azure, deeper than the ocean depths, greater than a starry nightscape, and alit with an otherworldly fire.

In his native tongue, she spoke, the crystal ring of her voice as distant as her gaze. “Orn dos xxizz uns'aa sila harl natha yah?”


“Will you help me bring down a god?”

[Izvilvin]

All Izvilvin heard was the rain, the beats of a deafening drum, filling his head with a pulsating rhythm broken only by the rapid beating of his heart. Black fabric clung to his chest, rising and falling with his breath. His hands held the handles of his blades at hip-height, the mist of Icicle twisting as the rain hit it. He flicked his head back, flinging a mass of wet hair from his forehead and eyes.

Slick, shining in the moonlight like a wet leather glove, the spider dipped its grotesque head downward, eight tiny drow in its infrared sight. It had targeted the elf for his shining swords, disregarding those who stood in between. It took a lingering step forward as dozens of spiders swarmed over the city's buildings, racing to its legs and climbing onto their God's back.

The sound of a delicate voice pulled him back to reality, the sounds of screams, of thunder, of hissing spiders returned. Izvilvin's lavender eyes moved just slightly to see her, brave and indomitable in the gloom of Scara Brae's plight.

Almost unconsciously he nodded, forgetting to note the notable fact that she spoke his own language. His response was as natural as it could have been, thick with a rigid dark elf accent. "Yes. Do what you can to strike its eyes, if you can throw."

With the swift movement of a hand, Izvilvin removed the roundabout strap from his thigh and walked past Lillian, who merely existed to the drow. His hand, crackling Mjolnir within, extended fingers which presented Lillian with his sai strap, four of the pronged weapons lodged inside the leather holsters.

The goblin raid had crumbled, but in its place was something more dangerous. Goblins would retreat if they were being beaten, but the spiders, maddened as they were, would fight until death.

Izvilvin closed the gap between himself and the grand creature with long, determined strides. As he came within distance, the furry foreleg of the beast lashed forward and down. The drow dove aside as best he could, extending his entire body as the concrete shattered beneath the spider's leg.

[Vampiric Angel]

The wayfarer fought hard against the ashen tide. He felt beyond himself, a sense of reaching a height he had never before breached. But he was slowly fading. His movements began to slow, and he tried to hold on to every bit of energy he had left. Hadley still supported his back, and it seemed the man's endurance was nearly endless. The guard became Anenfel's crutch, he was depending on him to get through this.

But suddenly, a large crash exploded nearby. The half-elf spared it a quick glance and was nearly caught off guard. A drow elf, long silvery hair shimmering in the night, was fighting the gigantic spider. He had just dodged an attack that would have crushed him flat, but instead, it shattered the ground where the elf had been moments before.

Anenfel catched only a glimpse of the drow's face, but recognized it from somewhere. Then it hit him. The drow's hair had been shorter and he had worn a leather face mask, but there was no denying it: the drow was a one-time acquaintance, Izvilvin. They had fought one another in the Citadel, a famous dueling establishment in the heart of Radasanth. What the drow was doing out here, he did not know.

"Anenfel!" Hadley cried, but the cry came too late as a spider lunged in and bit down hard on Anenfel's thigh. The half-elf screamed out in pain. The force of the bite had mostly been deflected by his hardened leather armor, but it still pierced skin. The wayfarer sagged to one knee as he felt the venom pass through his veins with every beat of his laboring heart. The poison had begun its work.

A flash of steel passed before the half-elf's eyes and Hadley was at his side, kicking the limp arachnid from his companion's leg. He knelt down and began rummaging through his pack. No more enemies surrounded them, but when Anenfel limply turned his blurring gaze to the spider god waging war on his home, he noticed that the last of the eight-legged raiders had taken refuge on their master's back.

"Anenfel", Hadley spoke softly to him, grasping his shoulder and grabbing his attention, "drink this, it will slow the poison." The guard produced a vial of florescent yellow liquid, capped off with a small cork. The wayfarer reached weakly for the vial, but failed halfway as his strength left him; the poison was stealing his energy. Hadley uncorked the vial and brought it to Anenfel's lips, beckoning him to drink.

The viscous fluid tasted like bile, but went down smooth, revitalizing the half-el's limbs as it did. Anenfel felt a new energy in himself, but he knew the feeling wouldn't last.

"How long?" he rasped. The liquid may have revitalized him, but it did not cure the raw burning in his throat.

"An hour," the man replied, "two at best." He held out his forearm and he helped Anenfel to his feet. "We need to get you to a healer before the potion's effects wear off."

"No," the wayfarer replied, determination and an iron resolve set in his gaze, "I cannot run while this beast tears away at my city."

"What do you hope to accomplish?" The guard responded. "We must run away to live to fight another day. Or have you not heard the old saying?"

"I will not run. I will give my life if need be, in service to my country." He looked to the guard and to the ones already battling the giant beast.

"Fine," the guard replied with a smirk, "but before you go rushing in and killing yourself, let me soften this gods-damned beast up for us." He stepped forward, incanting as he did, holding his palms out athis sides. His voice rose with every word, flames growing in each palm, until he was shouting the words. As he reached the final syllable, he thrust his arms towards the spider's underbelly, and a pillar of flame burst forth from his palms, striking the spider hard in it's chest.

The beast shrieked in pain as the air was filled with the scent of cooking flesh and burnt hair. The pillar disappeared as quickly as it had been produced leaving nothing but scorched flesh.

"Impossible," the guard breathed, "my strongest spell." This time, the guard did not smile. His eyes went wide as he saw the spider-god respond with alarming alacrity, a giant hairy leg sweeping towards him. The guard began to roll out of the leg's path, but it proved to be quicker as he was knocked into the air with a surprised grunt of pain.

It was Anenfel's turn to cry. "Hadley!" The guard spun in the air like a ragdoll, limbs flying aimlessly in every direction. With perfect aim the giant arachnid shot a ball of webbing into the guard, sending him into the nearest building, to hang there unconscious. Anenfel could see through the torrents of rain a line of blood trickle from Hadley's mouth, and felt a pang of guilt, knowing there was nothing he could do for the man.

He was hanging over three stories above ground level. He could try to make his way through the building, but most of the villagers had taken refuge in those buildings and most likely barricaded themselves inside. And he could not climb up the building; the rain had made sure of that.

Instead, he turned his gaze to the focus of his hate: the giant spider demolishing his home. His mind worked furiously as he tried to think of a way to take the creature down fast, knowing that every second would count as the potion's effects were slowly fading away, bringing him an inch closer to a silent death.

[Ataraxis]

Even as she was relieving him of his pronged daggers, Lillian wore a scowl, considering the Drow with a quirked eye. “There is a difference between ‘knowing how to throw’ and ‘knowing how the hit the eye of a five-story-tall monster’. It’s a little something people call reach.” That being said, the girl still managed a wee grin, amused to see that the leather strap, meant to be worn on a grown man’s thigh, fit rather snugly around her waist.

Lillian cinched it tighter with a sharp tug, her damp dress squelching under the pressure, then turned her eyes up to the dark elf. Unfortunately, he had already vanished, leaving in his stead nothing more than a vacant spot, quickly filled with the pitter-patter of endless rain. Elves, fair, swarthy or half-blooded, apparently had a knack for making her feel unwanted and inadequate and never idled near her for very long. Though she didn’t know why, she heard herself silently agree with their feelings in the backdoors of her mind. ‘But now’s not the time for self-loathing, Lily,’ she heard herself add, her ghastly eyes riveted on the hairy black mass that towered over the port city.

What she needed was a higher vantage point. As it were, she would have been beyond lucky if the sais could even nick the creature’s lower joints. Her gaze spun in circles, above all the heads that rushed to her left and right like a horde of frightened wildebeest. The revolution slowed and went still on the arched shape of a lofty copper shingle, a good twenty paces north from the collapsed roof of the Sea’s Salt. Without a second thought, she took to the building in a sprint, her legs aching terribly as they carried her over the slick cobbles.

“Just a little more...” she said in between huffs; until what, she had no idea. Until victory? That hardly seemed rational, considering her utter lack of a plan. Until death, then? All things considered, that had sounded like the most sensible deduction of the evening… and she hated that. Then, she was there. To her eyes, it rose from the ground like a dark pillar of hope, though it was nothing more than a weathered clock tower, the copper on its roof turning green with the wear of time. When she realized how many stairs she would have to escalate, however, that picture of salvation soon turned to that of her demise. “No choice.”

Had her blood drained away? Near the hundred and fiftieth step, she had nearly fumbled on her back, having escaped a tumbling death by hanging onto the stone banister. A veil of grey was obfuscating her eyesight, the filter thickening the more she grew weary, the more she grew wary. It didn’t help when she realized that the winding stairway ended with a large, round slab of etched marble on the ceiling, just one floor short of the rooftop. The teenager cursed with a loud wheeze, brushing away the sweat from her forehead. “Now’s the time… to figure out how… to get up there fast… girl.”

Peering out from the lone arched window present, Lillian realized how obvious the answer was. After unlatching the dirk from her rope belt, she struck the stained glass with the rounded pommel, sending a rainbow of shards diving to the streets with a loud crash. She pulled herself over the ledge, kicking out the last few dangerous slivers from the frame, then peaked her head through the aperture, feeling a wet breeze slap her across the face with pellets of water. ‘Work your magic, Lily.’

A black mist enshrouded her hands, the smoky trails thinning as they seethed until they took solid form. Dark strings hovered about her fists like coiled snakes lying in wait, a fluid ripple coursing through their length as they hovered. With a single thought, they shot downward, wrapping around the tip of her boots to form a strange sheet of silk that clung to the tattered leather. A second thought forced the remaining threads to wrap around her hands, crisscrossing into crude, gossamer-like gloves. She hoped, she prayed for this to work. Her left hand rasped against the outer wall of tower, and she grinned. The webs remained adhesive, even under such a heavy rainstorm.

Lillian kicked herself off the ledge, spinning to face the wall, then struck it with both feet and her remaining hand. With an unsure sigh, she began her laborious ascent, barely even noticing the nearby pillar of fire that had barely singed the spider’s underside.

But the spider, however, had noticed her.

One of its legs, as wide as the trunk of an oak but by far scragglier, was swinging closer and closer to her position, cutting a swath through the falling ropes of water, brewing wet winds until it collided with the side of the tower. Bricks exploded and crumbled down from a burst of dust and rubble. When it settled, the girl was nowhere to be seen, though it relented its attack, presuming that the debris had fallen over her, flattening her to death. It resumed its attention on the remaining gnats that scuttled on the thoroughfare, unmindful that something very light and very small was crawling up and through the tall, dark bristles of its legs.

[Izvilvin]

Landing on his shoulder, Izvilvin's roll was like an armless cartwheel, bringing the agile warrior back to his feet, back to his toes. His wounds burned, but the drow let the pain wash away with the storm.

The spider, having eight eyes and eight legs, seemed able to focus on many different places at once. Before the drow could attack, a scorching pillar of flame erupted from the space in front of him, a wave of searing heat driving him back a step as he tried to shield his eyes. The spider screeched, extended a long leg past Izvilvin's position just as the warrior regained his composure.

It was all too chaotic. He wanted to look behind him to assess the situation, to see what had caused this magical fire, but was too close to the massive creature to risk dividing his attention. Izvilvin couldn't believe the lack of damage the flames had done; he was several feet away, yet the heat had been enough to drive him back.

The spider roared, dipping close as if to begin moving forward. The drow could not allow it. Mustering up all of his resolve, Izvilvin knew he needed to get the spider's attention and keep it, to allow anyone else nearby to get their shots in when they could. Taking two long strides to his left, Izvilvin mustered his strength and slashed both his blades horizontally, the tip of each sword slashing effortlessly through the flesh of the spider's front leg. Black blood squirted violently out.

He slashed with abandon, causing multiple wounds before the spider finally pulled its leg back, roared and bent down to try and take the annoying pest into its mouth. Izvilvin jumped forward rather than backward, rolling under the gaping maw and coming up quickly, scoring two quick hits on the bottom of its neck. On instinct, the spider drove its weight down in an effort to crush the lithe elf.

Izvilvin knew it was coming and pivoted left, once again diving to the side just in the nick of time. Rolling back to his feet and turning at the same time, Mjolnir was driven deep into another of the spider's legs, sending a shock through the limb that had the spider screeching louder than ever before.

It turned its head and spat a glob of thick green liquid that struck Izvilvin's back square, driving him forward onto his belly. He smelled burning flesh and knew it to be an acidic, perhaps poisonous spit. Instinctively he rolled onto his back, just in time to avoid the descending leg of the spider once more.

He forced himself up again, ignoring the pain that coursed through his body, the electricity in his nerves as the poison was already being fended off by his powerful immune system. Doing his best to keep the spider occupied had succeeded, now he only needed to survive.

[Vampiric Angel]

Anenfel watched in awe as Izvilvin confronted the gargantuan beast. The drow fought it head-on, toe-to-toe, and barely batted an eyelash. Of course, he was hard pressed against the foe, but that was a matter of size, not skill. The half-elf knew that sooner or later, Izvilvin would find a way to bring it down. He had always been the better warrior, both back when they had fought in the Citadel, and now, as he single-handedly held the attention of a spider-god.

Others around the great beast tried to contribute anyway they could by hacking at the beasts legs, sniping the arachnids atop its back with arrows and magic, or just by tending to the wounded. But, at least they were trying. Anenfel's grip tightened around Dawntracker's hilt, and he charged one of the dark hairy legs, a battlecry roaring off his lips.

He slashed at the black flesh and watched its blood run free. The intensity and strength of each slash was greater than the last. The spider-god screeched, but did not avert its gaze from the formidable drow. The spiders riding upon their god's carapace heard the cries of pain and immediately went into action. Two jumped from their perch, as the rest, who were not preoccupied, shot balls of spider silk the half-elf's way.

Anenfel beagn to roll to his right, dogding the first wave of missiles. As he did he heard one of the spiders land, and immediately upon finishing his roll, slashed one of the giant spider's legs. It hissed and its companion landed behind their foe. The wayfarer lunged his sword behind him as the spider charged, but it expected the attack and caught the blade in its mouth, wrapped in spider silk.

Before the half-elf had a chance to react, the other was atop him, thrusting its mandibles out for Anenfel's midsection. Anenfel used the spider's face behind him to lift his lower half up above the attack and kick out with his right foot, connecting with the attacking spider's face. The force of the kick managed to pop two of the arachnid's eyes and it fell back, retreating, favoring its broken face.

The wayfarer landed back nimbly on his toes, but they were quickly knocked out from under him as the spider that held his blade swept its leg beneath him. His grip loosened and he landed on his chest. He grunted in pain and quickly turned over. The spider loomed above him, eyes hungering for meat. It spat Dawntracker away and it clanged to the ground. Anenfel slowly crept his right hand to his thigh, where his other dagger hid for the day. The spider began lowering its face, mandibles twitching, saliva dripping from its maw.

Just as it was about to perform the killing stroke, Anenfel produced his dagger with a grin and drove the steel into the creatures skull. With a grunt and a final outlet of breath, the giant spider slouched on top of the half-elf. He gagged at the feel of the creatures skin and hair, and choked on the stench it gave off. Anenfel wriggled his way out from under the dead beast and made way for his sword, which was several yards away. After sheathing his dagger, he picked up the blade and frowned at the webbing that covered its edges. Perhaps some more blood would wash the blade clean.

As he looked up, more silver balls of silk flew in his direction. He sidestepped the poorly aimed shot and began running for the spider-god's legs. A continual fire of silk came at him, eliciting a split-second response in return. He dodged, dipped, dove, and ducked out of harm's way. After gaining momentum and weaving his way out of the last projectile's path, the wayfarer charged the massive leg before him.

He held Dawntracker out before him and thrusted it deep into the god's leg. The spider-god screeched once again and Anenfel cried out in surprise as he was lifted off the ground by the spider's leg and began to twirl through the air. The half-elf was helpless against the attack. All he could do was tighten his grip and yell.

[Ataraxis]

Lillian had survived the initial strike, but was finding herself in quite a pickle. “What… what do I do now?” she whined, trying to keep her thumping heart from breaking through her ribcage while she clung on to the spider-god’s hairy bristles like she did her life. She’d jumped on the swishing leg right as it struck the side of the clock tower and raised a blinding screen of dust, having waited with bated breath for the few seconds in which it’d remain still enough for her to safely hop on. But again, now what? What did she expect to do with this action, save prolong her time on this world by a meagre few minutes?

The girl froze, then shook her head, chiding herself for not seeing the obvious. That was the answer. “Live long enough to make a plan, girl!” The warcry was stifled, in case the colossus of a creature had keen ears to go with its sparkling gold octet of eyes. Finding a burst of strength in her she’d never expected, she let go with one hand to quickly wrap a rope of web around the scraggly limb. She made it as hard as she could and, for good measure, forced into existence five other ropes of equal strength, tying them all together around her. That had spent her quite a bit, but at least both ends were now tightly cinched around spider leg and librarian waist.

“If this goes on any longer… you’re not going to last, Lily.” Behind this statement floated myriad questions. Could she truly do any more? How much strength did she have left in her? How long until this would be all over? Out of all of them, however, the girl forced herself to focus on a single one – the most important one, incidentally. ‘How do I kill this thing?’ She tugged on the webs that secured her in a surge of paranoia, but as she did so, the gears in her mind had spun full bore. “That’s it!”

Finding her second… was it third? Or perhaps fourth? In any case, she’d found the next wind and used it to the fullest to escalate the beast, patch of hair by patch of hair. One joint, two joints, the last one. She was finally upon the tract of flesh that connected leg to main body, the place joining the coxa and cephalothorax, according to the encyclopaedic part of her mind. It was force of habit, and she shook her head to think past it. The rain beat on, each hit like the splash of a bucket on her face. She was a soggy mess, and the insecure teenager in her had one mind to make this doubly-overgrown spider pay.

Pooling what she guessed was the last remainder of her power, she created three more thick strings to wrap around the connecting joint of another leg, this time wrapping the webby cluster around her ankle. On the back of the beast, she saw swarms of giant spiders that lay still and quiet in its hair like rodents in tall-grass. They didn’t see her, all eight of their eyes turned to the dancing shapes of a drow and… the half-elf. A moment later, they were scrabbling down their god’s back legs to assault the pair with blasts of web, if not taking them head on. “I owe you both a big one,” she said, here eyes overflowing with relief. The moment later, her deep resolve had returned, chilling the pools of her eyes into ice-cold mirrors.

The girl rushed onward, making way toward the beast’s head. Before it could react to the unnatural steps that prickled at its back, Lillian was already upon its eyes, all of her hidden and borrowed weapons deployed. They hovered as they hung onto wispy black threads that linked back to her fingers: three daggers, four sais and her trusted dirk, the tip of each floating inches above its faceted eyes. The girl roared, bringing her hands down with a rage that exceeded her mind.

Purple streamers of blood gushed out, eight spurts of its fluids mixed with glimmering chunks of its yellow, gelatinous eyes. The creature bellowed and shrieked, quite nearly deafening the girl, the closest living thing to the god within earshot. It threshed about blindly, eight legs scrambling and striking arbitrarily at buildings, scratching the cobbles and even spearing its own progenies. Lillian had no strength left to hang on, and on the third of its dry, jerking, rearing motions, the girl was tossed up and over its back, in a free fall toward to sea.

She was still conscious; she still had the time to stop her strings from growing longer, from stretching farther. But she didn’t. With a smile, she only positioned herself to dive into the waters, repressing the maddening fear that had burst through her chest. Her lithe body cut into the sea, a thin screen of splashing froth trailing behind her, falling back in a quiet rain, muted by the blaring storm that still raged on. One second. Five seconds. Ten. Nothing.

Nothing until the twelfth. With a surging gasp, the teenager emerged from the roiling waters, only a few feet away from the wooden docks. The waves lapped coldly at her skin, drawing her body into a seesawing motion as she swam the distance to the rope ladders that climbed up onto the pier. Fighting against the call of darkness that was looming closer in her mind, she rushed up, not even able to breathe correctly as she did. Streams of water fell down from her clinging dress when she set foot on the wood, then crawled her way to the last few boats that hadn’t yet escaped the harbour. One of the captains had seen her, rushed to her and took her in his arms, alarm distorting his face like wet and oily rag. “Goodness gracious, girl! You’re the thing we’ve just seen crash into the water?”

Ignoring his sailor’s oaths and religious man’s blessings, she bent her knee and brought her ankle to a flaccid, almost dead hand. Her fingers struggled to move, but were capable of loosening the webs around it. “Take… Take this. Tie it around the… sturdiest part of your… ship.” The captain watched the string with confusion, but as his grey eyes followed the length back to the monster that was tearing Scara Brae asunder, realization struck him like a boulder on the head. “Then take the ropes around my waist… to another ship. Tell that captain… the same.”

“I’m sorry I can’t… untie this one… for… you…” The world went dark. All she could hear were a scampering of feet and the old man’s voice. He was talking, yelling orders at someone. Satisfied, Lillian tried to grin. If she did, she couldn't tell.

Cy, Lily’s part in the battle is done! Have Iz conclude with the thing we planned, alright?

[Izvilvin]

Furious alternating slashes kept the spider's legs bleeding, but the wounds seemed to be taking no effect. Onward and onward it came, coming closer every time to crushing the dancing drow beneath its legs. He was fast, though, and possessed unparalleled stamina - he would not stop.

Izvilvin had become a being of pure instinct, moving in response to the commands of his body as if there was not a thought filtering process. The world had become a series of swirling colors as he dodged kicks, bites and poisonous spit. The city had finally rallied, Scara Brae's limited surviving military and wizards taking their shots when they could.

The spider had slowed, but showed no sign of stopping. Lillian's furious stab caught both the spider and Izvilvin by surprise, as neither had noticed her ascent. As it writhed in agony, thrashing about in rage, it shook the drow's weapon strap loose and down to the ground between them.

Focused as he was, Izvilvin's trance was shattered when he was struck by one of the spider's legs, launched a few feet backward onto the ground. He groaned and tried to rise, but the descending leg of the beast forced him to roll once more, but just a few feet. As the appendage crashed into the stone, Izvilvin drive Icicle deep into it, hot blood squirting out and over the icy blade.

The beast roared and reered back, giving Izvilvin a brief but clear glimpse at what was happening behind it. Two boats were trying to pull out to sea, strange string attached to the back of the monster. It was happening slowly, but the spider was being dragged backward into the open water.

Its attack against the drow was halted then, as the spider's entire focus was on remaining on the land. All eight of its legs dug firmly into the ground, but the steam-powered ships were taking it inch by inch. Determination burning in his heart, Izvilvin found new vigor and rose, rushing up to the creature and retrieving the embedded Icicle.

He slashed and stabbed mercilessly at its maw, aiming for the eyes, the mandibles, anything that was near. Screeching and trying to bite him, the spider surrendered more of its focus and it was slowly dragged into the sea until only its head remained on the shore. The spiders on its back had been trying to reach the boats, too single-minded to try and detach the webs, too single-minded to find a way to avoid the water. As a result, they milled about on their master's back like lost followers of a cult that was losing its leader.

When all seemed to be won, the spider-god went for broke. Rising up with every inch of power it could muster, each leg shot forth to grasp the land, smashing the docks to find footholds. Even the creature's face rested hard against the grassy shore, mandibles buried in the ground.

Izvilvin had opened dozens of wounds on its face, but each slash was met with resistance from the spider's thick skin. Now, though, with the soaking wet spider-god only two feet from him, Izvilvin sheathed Icicle and lifted Mjolnir over his head in preparation.

Then, with all the power he could muster, the drow buried the electric blade deep within what was left of the spider's nearest eye, hilt-deep.

One with the spider's blood-curdling scream, thunder roared. Between the deluge of rain and the chilling sea, Mjolnir pumped waves of lightning through the spider's body, smoldering its organs, bubbling the liquid poison inside, causing smoke to billow into the rain as it escaped the monster's eyes.

Slowly the cry died and Izvilvin placed a boot against the spider's face, prying his blade free as its resistance faded. The spider was dragged into the water where its body slowly drifted.

On its back, so many of the tiny creatures had nowhere to go. As their master's body sunk down more and more, they went with it, not a one of them trying to escape their fate.

Moments later, with the cheers of the entire island shaking his bosy, Izvilvin stood in the pouring rain before the sea, Mjolnir burning the spider's blood off of its blade. He watched as the boat crews removed the webs from their vessels. His eyes drifted lazily along the water, looking for a sign of a brave girl. Seeing none, he turned to walk toward a familiar form.

Izvilvin knew the half-elf was a figure from his past, but only did he recall. "A long time has passed," he greeted Anenfel, who looked no worse for wear than he did. The drow didn't want to admit that he had long forgotten the warrior's name. "I am happy we met again as friends."

The city's citizens were congregating near their location by the port, where long rows of earth had been dug deep into the gravel. It would be a while before the city could fully recover, so much death had been dealt. For now there was celebration and mourning, and the reunion of two Citadel companions. Only now did Izvilvin realize how much had changed over the last few years.

The aches of his wounds returned with the loss of adrenaline. Izvilvin sheathed Mjolnir without taking his eyes off of Anenfel, a man who, in another life, would have been his racial enemy.

[Vampiric Angel]

Anenfel tried as hard as he could to open his eyes, the irresistable urge to snap them shut ever-present. He had grown tired of yelling and merely cringed against the nausea that slowly began to take him over. How pitiful it would look to lose one's lunch all over one's opponent. But the thought itself had a split-second smirk curling at the edges of the half-elf's lips.

Finally finding the willpower to open his eyes, the wayfarer saw a landscape of blurred motion before him, but he suspected it an effect of the spider-god's wild flailing. He saw Lillian, skulking and sneaking her way across the spider's back, a multitude of weapons joining her. Anenfel didn't know how the young girl had scaled the the large form, but seeing her there nonetheless sent his heart beating even swifter.

He watched as she worked some eldritch power around her and her weapons. Black, shadowy tendrils that wrapped themselves and intertwined as if they were alive. Slowly the weapons were pulled by the tendrils, just above the god's numerous eyes. With a bestial sneer she sent them flying into the spider's face.

A pained, shrill shriek filled the wayfarer's hearing and he began to yell anew. For not only had the spider-god mercifully ceased its flailing, it had sent its limb barreling down back to the slick cobblestone beneath. He tried desperately to pull Dawntracker free, screaming with every pull, and only when working in conjunction with the arc of the spider's limb, the force of the thrust, and one final pull was Dawntracker released -- sending Anenfel soaring back seventy-five yards.

He crashed into a merchants stand and his world went black. He could still feel the rain beat against his head. He could still hear the roars of battle and the spider's pained howls sound in his ear. Then he realized a weight pushed against him and he struggled to lift his hand and tear it away. It took several moments, but he freed himself from the heavy darkness, and upon further inspection, found it to be a rain-soaked tarp.

The half-elf's attention was pulled back to the spider-god as it slowly succumbed to being dragged into the ocean by a small fleet of ships; with quite a bit of coaxing from Izvilvin and his magical blades. Anenfel looked at the substance connecting the god to the ships and noticed it was the same as the thread Lillian had used earlier to strike at the giant beast.

"Clever girl," he heard himself say with a smile of admiration. Thunder clashed into the rain-filled air, and the beast was no more, taking its foul ilk with it. Slowly there rose a cacophonous noise of joy and relief. Citizens and guards alike began to celebrate, their seafaring brothers doing the same as they tended their ships.

Anenfel scanned the crowd seeing various peoples, the large burly bartender from The Sea's Salt being one of them. Black blood stained the blades of his axe, his armor and various places on his skin. But other than that, it seemed he survived the battle relatively unscathed. The half-elf continued his scan and noticed Izvilvin, white hair matted to his dark skin, walking his way. Anenfel smiled, Dawntracker held down loosely at his side. The honorable drow greeted Anenfel, and the wayfarer was genuinely surprised at his friends grasp of the Common tongue.

"Indeed," he replied. "It seems fate deemed our paths to cross once more, if only just." Anenfel sheathed his blade as his eyes fell upon Izvilvin's. "You must have gone through much to obtain such weapons. A journey rittled with many perils. Perhaps a rematch is in order?" Anenfel smiled a wry grin, drudging up the old short-term rivalry the two had shared as combatants in the Citadel.

The rain slowly relented as the dark clouds began to pass and gave way to the rising sun. The wayfarer smiled at the wondrous sight, as a rainbow lightly arced above them all. The sun bathed his face in warmth and he inhaled deeply the moist air.

Father...

were you watching?

[Ataraxis]

After the wet chills that had pelted her this night, the warmth of a tallow candle and a dry blanket was a welcome sensation. When she had let her eyelids succumb to the weight of weariness, she fell into a great haze, began to feel everything through a deep filter; to feel everything as though she had never emerged from the tumultuous sea, as though she’d kept sinking further and further down into the lightless, soundless depths. Sometimes, she could hear snippets of words that made no sense, all their substance lost to the indifferent gloom that governed her world. But then, a warmth came to her like the touch of soft, familiar hand. It swathed her, wrapped her like a newborn child and cradled her, gently nipping at her nose and cheeks to trawl her out of this dangerous torpor. She’d felt the candlelit warmth all along, but only now could she see its faint halo soak her eyes like sweet and fragrant waves of marmalade. 'What a strange, soothing image...'

Suddenly, the warm crown of sunset gold shrank in the distance. There was a bobbing beneath her, the harsh bounces of a hurried step. Her eyes strained, struggled to open further; she could make out a blurry deck, a sloping ledge, and then the rain-slicked boardwalks of the pier. Sunlight permeated her eyes, stinging more than they had ever before. Ironically, she’d never welcomed it more than in this very moment.

“Heavens, lass. I was afraid you’d never wake up.” The voice belonged to the same captain she’d seen after her dive in the waters, laden with a great worry that was only just making way for relief. “Don’t try and move too much, you’re tied up like a ham in manilla paper.” Wearily, she looked down at her body, cinched within the felt wraps of a blanket – a blanket that, she realized, brushed directly against her skin. Had all the blood not chilled to a stop inside her veins, she would’ve gone carnelian-red from the situation. “I’m taking you to the clinic down the road. It’d be embarassing for you to survive that beast of a spider only to croak from a hard sneeze.”

“Wai…wait,” Lillian started meekly, seeing hazy but familiar shapes coming closer from the dockside. The captain shook his head, his refusal a gruff and guttural utterance. “Wait.” It was the same word, the same, weak voice, but the childish innocence was nowhere to be heard the second time; it instilled a void in his heart, as if it had just given him a terrible glimpse of the infinite emptiness that sat in sneering silence at the edge of the world, at the end of the seas. The hurried scissoring of his legs came to a stop and he looked at the small face that bobbed limply on his shoulder. His eyes may have aged ten years in that fleeting instant, but hers shone with a terrible bleakness, like eons that had long lost all interest in the dull flow of time. “Please.”

The sailor obliged. She nudged him toward the two silhouettes, those of the Drow and the elfin man. “Hi again,” she said with a tired cheer, the struggle against unsciousness clear on her expression. “I never caught your names… but thank you. So many people owe you both their lives, and I among them.” The captain said nothing, but was almost frustrated at her boundless modesty; she’d included herself among the saved rather than the saviors, and truly believed that was her rightful place. It was maddening: how could such a clever child be so dense?

“This whole day has been an counfounding mess, and whatever that monstrous... thing was – or what it wanted – is far beyond me.” The teenager paused to catch a breath, but she was also pulling back words she knew might have alarmed both men. Beyond me, but I intend to find out soon. She slowly shook her head, then turned a wan smile to the duo. “I think there’s going to be a celebration. There’s enough food, what with all the electrocuted fish, belly-up in the waters.”

The statement was leading up to a question, but even after all this, she was too shy to ask it outright. It didn’t help that she’d fainted once more, right then, from a slightly heightened heartbeat. “She’s still weak; I’ll leave her to the hands of professionals – they’re right down this path. She’d probably like to hear those names, one day or another.” Letting the two warriors tie the ends together, he ambled off, his legs having finally thawed from the glacial cold that had overcome them.

Somewhere behind him, the captain heard a young boy, just as he stepped out of his home's shelter. “It’s her! I saw it! She’s the girl who fought the spider in a tug-o-war and won!” A wave of wonder rolled from the mouths of other children who'd done the same. The wording was a bit of an exaggeration, but that was fine to the sailor's ears. From the rising murmurs in the nearby crowds, from the people who’d heard the children chatter about things far bigger than themselves, he predicted that the teenage girl might just awake to a Scara Brae she'd never known. 'Awake to the city’s clamors, awake as one of its fateful heroes.'

Somehow, he knew that something like that wouldn't change this girl the least bit. Looking up at the bow of colors that greeted the skies above, then back down to the sleeping child on his back, the captain smiled despite himself. 'She looks the kind who'd much rather wake up to a nice sun and rainbows.'

I'll hopefully post a conclusion later, but if I can't come up with anything fitting, then this will be it!

Edit: This'll be my conclusion after all. Next quest, we'll be finding out about the spider god's nature in a whirlwind adventure!

Spoils:

The ability to manage multiple streams of thought simultaneously: it basically accelerates the speed of problem-solving, and it's really just an IC skill for flavor. It's not something she does on command, but in stressful situations that require quick thinking, it will be more likely to activate.

3 Vials of the Spider God's Blood: While Lillian recovered her weapons from the creature's carcass, she also gleaned some of its ichor for analysis.

1 Eye of the Spider God: She also took out the only eye that was still relatively intact from her assault.

And uh, Bonus XP? Yes? No? Maybe?

[Izvilvin]

"Perils I'd hesitate to tell," Izvilvin said in his native tongue, quickly realizing that he'd spoken to himself. "Another battle in the Citadel," he wondered aloud, eyelids drooping halfway closed. "Some day, perhaps."

It was the last thing he wanted to think about. It seemed like the longer Izvilvin's life went on, the more battles he waged, the more memories of friends and family gave way to the memories of war. The blood of foes replaced the blood of kin, often leaving the drow lamenting fallen comrades whose names he could not remember, yet whose dying faces he recalled vividly.

Behind him lay a trail of wreckage and death. Even now, as swarms of Scara Brae's citizens rushed the port, to witness the aftermath, the destruction clawed into the earth by the spider and those who lived after battling it up close, Izvilvin thought only of the black blood that stained his skin and clothes. He could not wash away the violence.

"I envy the human in you," he mused aloud. Humanity's cities teemed with life and joy, focused on leisure and spirit rather than Ettermire's cold focus on war and industry, Fallien's cultural roots and hierarchy.

Searching within himself, Izvilvin felt none of the warmth that past friendships had brought him. Beneath his ebony skin was the cold marrow of a warrior with no home, flesh chilled by the seeping absorption of the rain. Conscience did not a person make. Conscience only made his decisions impact him less.

Lillian, breathing still (against all odds), was ushered their way. She looked the role of a walking undead, turned frigid blue by the heartless tide, perhaps spooked in the wake of what had just happened. Her flesh looked only a hue brighter than the sea, backdropped infinitely behind her as Izvilvin looked her over.

"Celebration," he mouthed, but did not say. The idea would have spurred some life into him, only a year ago. Now it was an idea repelled by his hardened shell, the part of him that feared contact with people he knew would die if they were close to him.

He decided he would stay the night in the clinic, at the very least, and partake in whatever celebration was whipped up. More importantly, it would be the last such gathering he would endure for some time. Fallien, Corone, and now Scara Brae had become places where Izvilvin simply could not keep a low profile.

Releasing a drawn-out sigh, the drow began his slow limp toward the clinic, to a clean bed and a long night of rest. He ignored any kind of attention he was given, too closed off from the world to want the attention.

((So we can either conclude here or write another post each, or something. I know I like to avoid the 'and the next day...' posts as much as possible, but it's up to you folks. I say Lillian and Iz carry on for at least one more quest. I has some ideas.))

[Vampiric Angel]

Two weeks later...

Not many images had brought tears to his pale green eyes, but when looking upon this one, there was no way to hold them back. He stood alone in a quiet grove, no too far off the main road to Scara Brae, the sun beating down upon his head. A light breeze blew through the trees and rustled the leaves that had found their way to the ground. In the middle of that grove stood a statue, standing tall and proud: a statue of his father.

The wood elf had his hands at his hips, one leg bent as it rested on a stone. A sword was sheathed on his weapons belt and a bow laid peacefully on his shoulder. The detail was extraordinary, made by the finest stoneworker of Scara Brae. Every strand of hair, whether braided or adorned with a stray feather, looked real, as if Anenfel expected it to return to its auburn color and his father jump down from the pedestal he stood upon.

A smile covered the elf's face, a smile that, Anenfel knew all to well, could make a woman's knees buckle and swoon. The craftsman even somehow managed to capture his demeanor with that smile, the suggestive look he would give everyone he knew; one eyebrow raised slightly above the other. The small notches in his leather armor, the scar he had on the underside of his left forearm, it was all there. A fitting tribute, the wayfarer thought.

Slowly his eyes found the pedestal itself and the words engraved upon the plaque that had been placed in the center.

"Shadows may fall and the threat of death may linger, but only one's strength and courage can cast the light upon your heart."

-Renthilar Saendithas, protector and friend.

Anenfel nearly cried all the more when he read the last line on the plaque, "He will be missed.", for he knew it to be true.


* * * * *

Anenfel couldn't have been more amazed by the resilience the peoples of Scara Brae held even if he tried. Two weeks had passed and almost all the damage the combined forces of the goblin and spider forces had reaked upon the city was nearly repaired.

The half-elf went out of his way to visit the new and improved, Sea's Salt, which had quickly become one of the best establishments in the city. When speaking with the innkeeper, he noted on many occasions how he had meant to repair the stairs and add on a few rooms, but just never had the time or the money. But with the spider-god crushing the tavern under foot, the Queen had offered to pay for its rebuilding, to which, of course, the innkeeper kindly accepted.

After having a quick drink, Anenfel found himself on the streets once again. The people that passed him by giving him a quick nod or even a pat on the back. Although his contribution to the battle had been minimal, it seemed his name had become rather well-known. He passed by a local clinic, a clinic that he had visited to be rid of the venom that a spider's bite had graced him with.

The only reason he stood there to this day was because of Hadley. If it were not for his quick thinking and magical potion, he'd be dead. Luckily, after the battle, Anenfel was able to return the favor by getting him down from the building he had been flung into and rushed to the very same clinic. He recovered well enough, though now he walked with a slight limp.

The wayfarer made his way to the Scarabrian Guard's headquarters and found Hadley standing leisurely by the entrance. The warrior mage smiled as he saw Anenfel approach.

"You still here," he said, "I thought you would have left with the other heroes."

Anenfel laughed, he was no hero. "They have their path, and I have mine." For in truth, if he had wished it, he could have left with the pair. But he knew his place now, he knew where he belonged.

"Oh?" Hadley replied joking, "And where exactly does that path lead? To the next barmaid?" Anenfel smiled as he thought of the more intimate attention he had been getting.

"No," he said lightly. He walked up and into the entrance of the building, just past the sandy-haired guard and replied, "I'm here to put in my application."

[Breaker]

Judgement for Into and Out of Hiding

Story

Continuity: 5.5

Izvilvin: You started this thread off well. Iz's presence in Scara Brae was explained and justified. I also liked the way you tied the story off. Even if Iz doesn't have much of an opinion on Scara Brae itself, there are elements of it that should be on his mind. Where could an assassin potentially be hiding? Will he be able to escape through the crowd if attacked?

Vampiric Angel: I needed more information from you. You told me Anenfel was returning to Scara Brae, but from where, and why? You could have made it clearer in your first post that the dead man was his father . Also-- Larissa! She came out of nowhere at the beginning of your first post then vanished halfway through the thread. If you're going to introduce an NPC, please pay attention to them.

Whiteshadow: I didn't know what you were doing in Scara Brae, except being a vigilante. Also, you fell out of the thread partway through. Bad form, old chap.

Ataraxis: Like Iz, you did this very well. You made it plain why Lillian was where she was, and what she wanted. Good job to you and Iz both for pulling this score up.

Setting: 6.5

Izvilvin: When you paid attention to the setting, your description and interaction was great. The key to improvement here is consistently being aware of the setting. You mentioned Iz's superior sight and hearing a few times. What does he pick up that the rest of us might miss?

Vampiric Angel: Generally you did well here. Most of the time you kept up with the setting, but be careful how you describe it. One thing that jarred me a little is when you said that Brokenthorn Forest sat. To my mind forests normally sprawl, or stretch. Be a little more selective in your language and your descriptions will really flourish.

Whiteshadow: You didn't give me much at all here. See everyone else's comments, and think about where your character is. For your first few posts Eternium walked along the rooftops, and I never knew if the roofs were thatch, tile, slate, or banana peels.

Ataraxis: This is one of the categories you dominated, and really pulled the overall score up. The best suggestion I can give you is don't overdo it. Unless what you're describing is something that really catches Lillian's attention, you don't need to describe it three different ways. Pick your favourite and stick to that. Also, if you find you've got more than three adjectives in a sentence, consider throwing in a describing verb instead. But overall, my hat is off to you.

Pacing: 6

Izvilvin: You really controlled the story in this aspect. The initial attack caught me off guad-- a little more forshadowing would have helped the mob of spiders and goblins seem less random. Once the battle began though, you kept things moving by making it rain, introducing the spider god etc. Good job in playing the role of the QM.

Vampiric Angel: Your writing tends to drag sometimes. Avoid repeating words and dwelling on unecessary details. When you edit your work, read it out loud and you'll notice some of your sentences are awkward sounding. By re-arranging a few words you could fix this problem. Otherwise, good job keeping up with the story.

Whiteshadow: I hate to say it, but when you dropped out of the story, it almost didn't make a difference. Try to have your character impact the world around him, and vice versa. And don't drop out of threads.

Ataraxis: Sometimes you need to cut down on post length a bit. When the story starts moving quickly, avoid going into huge describing paragraphs. Still, you made things happen. The trick is to not always pad the events so much.

Character

Dialogue: 5

Izvilvin: When Iz did talk, it usually did a great job of portraying his character. That said, he doesn't do much talking. Try using some inner dialogue to flesh this section out a little. The italics are your friends. Keep in mind that inner dialogue can be much more than just Iz dictating his actions. It can be an effective way to make observations, give opinions on events and other characters, and show Iz's true colors.

Vampiric Angel: You use inner dialogue, but not effectively. Most of Anenfel's thoughts were anticlimactic and/or repeating information I had already received. Also, most of your external dialogue seemed badly placed. A bartender tending to a busy room is asking about his feelings? The city is being attacked and he's arguing with Larissa? In the heat of combat he's making friends? It's important to put your dialogue in situations where people would actually carry on conversations.

Whiteshadow: Your dialogue was spontaneous and cliched. Was it really Eternium's business to ask Iz why he's in Scara Brae? And his city? What makes it his city?

Ataraxis: Good job here. You used dialogue effectively, and it consistently represented Lillian's character. To make it even more effective, describe Lillian's body language while she's talking.

Action: 6

Izvilvin: Very solid work. That battle scene was long, but you managed to keep Iz's actions fresh and original throughout. He fought like what he is; a highly skilled drow.

Vampiric Angel: You were patchy here. In post 18 your character was drunkenly throwing himself at the enemy. By post 21 he somehow made his way to being cornered with his back to the ocean. Also, you kept describing the spiders and goblins as being clumsy, which struck me as odd. Considering the amount he drank, shouldn't Anenfel be the clumsy one? It would've been neat to see him falling down and accidentally avoiding being hit. Also, avoid being needlessly specific. He soared 75 yards? I'd rather hear a description of what he flew over, and what was going through his mind all that time.

Whiteshadow: I didn't see anything in your profile that suggested your character should be hopping from, to, and off rooftops. Play your character to their abilities, not above.

Ataraxis: I loved the cleverness of Lillian's actions. This ties into setting, but the way she used the exploding barrel, the rain filled canopy and the ships to end it was brilliant. This was a perfect example of a less-combative character finding ways to help out in a fight. The best way for you to improve here is to use less description during action sequences. When Lillian is fighting, try having her only notice/react to things that are directly innvolved in the action. Also, it's prefectly alright to write some sentences without commas and semicolons.

Persona: 5.5

Izvilvin: You didn't spend much time describing Iz's persona, but that worked seeing as how he seems to be a pretty stoic guy. The way he ignored Eternium and talked to people without looking at them really dripped persona; good job. On the other hand, I would have liked to see a bit more emotion from him at the beginning of the thread.

Vampiric Angel: Anenfel was a little inconsitent. At first it seemed he really cared about Larissa, enough that her opinion about his drinking mattered. Then when she disapeared (possibly crushed by a spider god?) he didn't react whatsoever. The stuff about his father was good, but a tad overdone at times.

Whiteshadow: Eternium didn't have a personality, as far as I could see. Vigilantes are normally really cool characters because they have some dark reason for doing what they do. Eternium just kind of... existed.

Ataraxis: I don't know what to tell you. You really, really shone in this area. I must sound like a broken record, but the only way I can really tell you to improve is find a way to say more with less text.

Writing Style

Technique: 6

Izvilvin: When you use devices, they're terrific. All I can say is give me more. Whenever a description runs more than a sentence or two, look for places to infuse metaphors.

Vampiric Angel: Same as Izivilvin. You had a few (the thing about abstaining from alcohol like a enunich in a harem made me laugh) that were great, and a few that were not so great. Choose your words carefully when you're making comparisons.

Whiteshadow: I really didn't see much from you here. Any literary devices you know woud help your writing a lot.

Ataraxis: See Izvilvin's comment. You do pretty well already, but I think a few more metaphors and similes could help crunch those big meaty paragraphs.

Mecanics: 7

General: Everyone's posts were quite well edited. A few errors that spellchecks miss, but nothing that really slowed me down. There is one point I would like you all to pay attention to though.

Passive voice. I know a lot of you guys like using it. But in action sequences (and about three quarters of this thread was a big action sequence) passive voice really drags. I'll put an example in here. The bold text is my (quick and shoddy) changing of the passive voice instances to active.

The distraction was the third of what would be several in a row, but the drow was gaining no ground against the multiple foes. Rather, he was slowly retreating toward the vulnerable humans of Scara Brae. The alley's dead end was a sheer wall of stone, impossible for any but the elf himself to climb - and they were approaching it.
The drow used the distraction several times, but could gain no ground against the multiple foes. Rather, he retreated slowly toward the vulnerable humans of Scara Brae. The alley's dead end rose in a sheer wall of stone, impossible for any but the elf himself to climb- and it grew closer with every step.

Most of the time it's as simple as re-arranging the words in your sentence so that using "was", "were" and other instances of "to be" become unecessary. This keeps your verbs strong and keeps the flow of battle rapid.

Clarity: 5.5

General: Avoid unecessary description, especially in battle. Use active voice to keep the action interesting. Try not to use words (excluding necessary ones like 'the') more than once in a paragraph. Use thesaurus.com if necessary. Don't be afraid to write sentences without commas and semicolons in them.

Wild Card: 7

Whiteshadow's disapearance hurt your score quite a bit, but kudos to the rest of you for persevearing and keeping the thread fairly interesting. The high wild card score is because when that big spider arrived, I wasn't sure how you would take it out. The method used was highly entertaining and original. Congratulations!

Total Score: 60

EXP and GP Rewards

Izvilvin receives 2700 EXP and 400 GP!
Vampiric Angel receives 650 EXP and 400 GP!
Whiteshadow receives 300 EXP and 50 GP!
Ataraxis receives 1650 EXP and 200 GP!

Other Rewards

Spoils: Lilliana Sesthal receives her (albeit weird and creepy) requested spoils!

[Witchblade]

EXP and GP added!