MQ: Blood Red Blossoms

[Skie and Avery]

She would always remember the smell that day. The wind brought the last caress of the apple blossoms as they fell from the trees, mixing with the cool rain-scented mist. It carried the first chill of autumn, but it wasn’t the barely-iced breath at her back that caused Skie dan Sabriel to hold her arms close about her chest. Her eyes were locked on the South, her mind with the movement in trees, the roil and movement of a black beast coming ever closer. The newspapers this morning would be full of a descriptions of the army, the black cloud of Xem’Zund. Here, standing so high above Eluriand, Skie saw the necromancer’s plague for herself. When the first battered messengers came in from Carnelost, the city was sprung into motion.

After spending an hour slamming her shoulder with a sweating mess of other half-awake, mostly scared students, building up blockades, reinforcing gates, she was sore and tired and confused. The Turlin school rose high, the sheer walls seeming much stronger than her own frail form in this moment. She’d found her way, up stairwells and in a climb that made her over-worked shoulder scream with impatience. On the roof, she had a hawk’s eye view of the city, the schools, and the farmlands to the south. There, the sprawling countryside, greens turning to burnished bronzes in the late summer, was all that lay between them and what was left of Carnelost. Below her, students were being gathered, messengers trickling in and out of the gates. Everywhere, movement was stirring up the tendrils of mist from their post-dawn slumbers.

Everywhere there was fear.

Her head bowed, her hand on the hilt of her sword, Skie took a deep breath. Beyond the cabbage fields and corn stalks Lindequalme sat, with leaves like blood. From there, the evil would come again, as it had before. From the cursed woods, from the Obsidian Spire, this was the second time that Skie could remember Raiaera trembling before a necromancer. From the Red Forest, where Skie had thought she once cleansed this threat for good, she could see the shadows of darkness marching, always marching with such steady beat. What could the city do? As much work as they’d put in before the sun had shone from beyond the horizon, where Anebrilith had been graced with it’s light first, there were still weaknesses that she could see, unnoticed by the students, the children!, that were desperately working to keep everyone here alive. Skie’s grip on the dan Sabriel blade tightened as her cerulean gaze fastened Southward again, star specks flashing within the iris. She turned to find her way back down to the streets below, to lend her aid, to fight.

Eluriand needed every hand it could reach. There was but a short hour of time before Xem’Zund would face the gates and they would win or die.

[Sighter Tnailog]

"General Fingolfin!"

He ignored the soldier's cry. Pelektar's hooves clattered against the cobblestones as he spurred her forward, citizens and soldiers alike leaping out of his way. The call had come from a lancer-corporal, and while usually he took the time to allay spirits and chat with enlisted ranks, he had business to attend to. He pretended as though he had not heard, and within moments he had left the petty officer in the dust.

Other called out to him as he rode, but he paid them no mind. No speech he could give would solve this moment. There were no comforting words to be said; no eloquent eulogies for the dead would protect them. It would strengthen the people's spirits more if they saw him acting with purpose and direction, not taking time to speak with them.

But what he wanted to do was to speak. He wanted to dismount and cry out to his people, take a harp from the nearest mantle and sing a lay for the garrison of Carnelost. The messengers had told tales of tremendous horror, of a city falling to the sword in less than an hour, of crumbling gates. One of the survivors had straggled through the main gate clutching a bleeding stump. Before she died, she had gasped out her story: her arm had been wounded by a crushing blow, dangling lifeless at her side. And then it had revived, lifted by the power of Xem'zûnd to fight against her. To save her life, she had been forced to cut off her own malevolent arm and fling it into the fire. Her eyes were so tired as she drew her last breath.

As her body was fed to the flames -- great fires had already been lit to feed all the dead into to prevent their resurrection -- Findelfin had resolved that he would not let the city fall.

Clattering up to the gate of the Turlin School, he dismounted as the President of Istien emerged from the huge oaken doorway, Headmistress Séregon at his side. With a curt bow of his head, Findelfin spoke, "Feanturar Anwamanë, how goes the muster?"

"It is nearly complete," the elf's voice was surprisingly deep for his slender stature -- an excellent voice for the most resilient of Dagorlin songs. "We have ordered the students split among those who can fight and those who cannot, and should begin the evacuation of the less experienced students within the next ten minutes."

"Five minutes," Findelfin spoke quickly, almost cutting off the Feanturar's statement. "We have no time. I want those who cannot fight heading for New Aurient immediately. A fourth of those who can must guard the school turrets, half to the south, and split one of every twenty-five among the refugee groups. The remainder must go to the palace, the High Bard has jobs for them."

Normally, such commandeering of his prerogatives would have sent the Feantur into an angry declamation on his authority. But now he knew that the sole authority in the city was General Fingolfin, unless a direct order came from the High Bard stating otherwise. He merely bowed, and said, "The Dagorathar speaks, and I obey." He mounted his own horse, held for him by a very frightened nearby stablehand, and galloped off, following the wall towards the Dagorlin building.

Findelfin was about to gallop back to the line when a voice spoke to him. Looking down, it was the frail, old form of Headmistress Séregon. "Child," she said, extending a hand, "Get off that horse."

Findelfin did no such thing, "Dolorothar, time presses...why would you bid me dismount? The lines need me!"

But Linwë Séregon would have none of it, "My child, I am not any more eager than you to see this city fall. But there is a girl upstairs...a girl you know, a girl whose mother you loved. And you are going to calm her mind before you go rushing off to win your war. Your captains are capable elves, I taught every one of them. They will organize the defense while you say goodbye."

It was against his judgment, but even a General had to listen when the eldest elf in Raiaera was offering advice. He got off his horse, and she began to walk briskly into the school and up the staircase to the roof. He followed quickly, saying, "Goodbye? You speak as if this is the end. But I assure you, Dolorothar, we will prevail."

Headmistress Séregon stopped cold, turned, and spoke.

"Dearest General." Her eyes were ice. "Your arrogance is not charming. You gallivant about the city like a boy at war. You have seen Xem'zûnd before, no? But have you seen him fully? I have devoted my life to the arts of Turlin. It has leant me a longevity far beyond that of any elf in this city...I was alive when the Tap shattered. I stood by the High Bard when he fell at Caradin...I held his hand, my husband's hand, as he sank beneath Aesphestos's power in order to prevent that terrible mage from breaking the Leaguer. And I was here when first Xem'zûnd stalked in Raiaera. We made him, you see. He was a Durklan, one of the last heirs of that poor race, the race we tormented and broke and burned on that dreadful plain, Tel Moranfauglir."

Findelfin's jaw was dropping. How could anyone be this old? He had never heard this from anyone before, that Headmistress Séregon was as old as the great Wars of the Tap.

She laughed, "Don't be surprised. We keep it secret -- by agreement of the High Bard, we pretend as though the old Headmistress dies and select a new one, a young one. But it is a seeming, an illusion that guards my face. I am as you see me now -- old, and near death even despite the blessings upon me from my study of the most holy of magics. But listen to me now: Eluriand cannot survive what is against it. The city will stand, surely. These walls -- " her hand rested against the smooth stone of the school's stairwell "--these walls have enough magic in them to withstand the assault of evil for longer than time itself. But will we survive, holed up in this fortress? It may keep them out, and they will keep us in...and we will starve to death in this holy prison."

She fixed him with one long, sad glance, "Our hope, General Fingolfin, is in you having the grace to say goodbye to the ones you love, and leading the ones who do not fall in this battle to someplace where they can live. And where that is, even I do not know."

She turned, ignoring the stunned expression on Findelfin's face. "Now come. Skiel dan Sabriel is expecting you."

[Artifex Felicis]

The nekomata woke slowly, opening one eye, then the other. It was a blissful moment for him, as his mind began to wake up and tell him what was happening.

Fear and paranoia managed to make themselves corporeal everywhere in the elven capital. Even in Taverns and homes, people remained worried and scared. The population of Eluriand was getting dangerously close to violent, made all the worse by the undead army outside of the city's gates. They were far too close for anyone's comfort, and even the most optimistic of people did not pretend to make them go away. Even the winds themselves seemed against the elven capital, cold and almost unfeeling as nature herself seemed to run from the menace.

The grandmaster stumbled out of the bed he was laying on, yawning and stretching his body on all fours before rising. He did not handle the stress like most, but found someone else to console. One thing led to another, and most of their respective clothes were left behind. He picked his own pants on now, putting them on slowly so he didn't disturb the sleeping girl too much. She was a pretty thing, but had no business being anywhere near a war. He pulled his shirt over his head, hiding scars and marks of battle under the cloth. He paused for a moment, breathing into his hands before putting his jacket on as well.

Still, for the life of him, Leon couldn't deny that he was excited. As horrible as the situation was, there was a readiness in him for this. He sat back down on the bed, placing his hand on the girl's shoulder and nudging her awake. He let a smile come to his face to help awaken the sleepy girl. He whispered a goodbye to her, mussing up her silky hair before he left the room. The air was still chilly even within the tavern, and the cat boy buttoned his jacket to help keep it out. He had a thin film of fuzz on his face, the beginnings of a beard. He idly extended a sharp wicked claws, scraping it along his face and leaving the skin hairless. It was a common procedure every morning for him, done so many times it became habit.

Still, Eluriand was under almost martial law now. There were guards and solider, as well as Song Bards every couple feet or so. Leon moved through them easily enough. Everyone else still had the same vestige of fear that always passed Leon by. He once joked about it, merely stating that he would die when it came, and if it came in battle, then he might just be able to stop it.

Still, there was another thing he wished to do before finding his way into one of Eluriand's platoons to help defend the city. Wicked Things was reduced to merely the two of them now, with Poe and Rainee almost forgotten by all. The other final member was Skie, a good warrior and with a very cool head on her shoulders. Between her, Leon, and the others, they had saved Eluriand once before from the undead. Even if they couldn't do it again, the cat boy still wished to at least say good bye to the girl.

The Turlin tower was easy to find and easier to get into. Anyone already in the city was accepted as friend, even as looting and rioting began in some of the less patrolled streets. Order was beginning to break down in the city, but Leon was pleased to see a good amount of her army still loyal and standing. Wavering, sweating, and dreading what was to come, but ready to face it. Of course, his ears caught the songs of Aglarlin singing almost continuously as well. Skie herself was easy to find, as one of the song mages within knew where she was. The cat boy thanked her, bowing and began to climb the stairs of the Turlin tower, amazed even as he moved quickly at the beauty of the place. There was something about being within the tower that gave him a hope, as quickly as it might be crushed by the onslaught of undead that would attack in a few hours. His muscles were just beginning to wake up from the work they did when he came to the rooftop and saw an old friend out there.

"Just like old times, huh?" Leon said aloud. He had walked a little bit closer to the girl as his called out to her. The wind was stronger up her, and the cat boy was glad he wore his coat. The girl was still there, and for the most part unchanged in his mind's eye. A little older, perhaps a little wiser. Still, his tails swished happily. It was good to find a friend.

[Skie and Avery]

When last she had seen Leon, she thought now that she had still been a child. She’d been winged, back then, graced with the one symbol of her mother’s heritage and bands of blue did not adorn her neck and wrists. Still, recognition flashed in his eyes and he addressed her as an old friend. She smiled, and the wind blew the smell of sex to her. It was a very Moontae way to behave, taking what pleasure could be found before death. Would he fall here? He had almost gone down in Lindequalme before, when they’d climbed the Obsidian Spire and she’d finally reclaimed that which belonged to her blood. She didn’t want to see anyone close to her in pain, especially when they’d worked so hard then, and now.

Or had they?

Skie arched a brow, as her eyes focused on his. A toss in the hay to remember what life was all about was something she could understand, growing up in a society where the beauty of life was celebrated in full. It wasn’t the smell of semen or the strange half smile that wouldn’t quiet leave his face that bothered her. It was the dots of sleep-sand that still sat in the corner’s of his eyes, where he hadn’t brushed them completely out. Before she knew what she was doing, she’d stepped forward, the back of her hand connecting and moving across the nekomata’s cheek. The air rang with a sharp crack that failed to stop any of the background noise, but with the sting on the back of her hand it seemed all the more poignant. Tears, having nothing to do with the itching burn of the impact on the skin of her hand, sprung to her eyes, and she pushed past him to continue down the stairs.

“Sleep when there is work to be done again, and you’ll sleep in the ground before this day is over.” She paused, glancing over her shoulder at him. “Your headstone shouldn’t have to read “He was there.” Leon. A war needs warriors, not just warm bodies.”

She left him, fuming down the steps. In her bands, she could feel Griffin’s influence, calming her, soothing her heartbeat and the anger that caused hot tears to fall down her cheeks. Griffin’s touch came so easily, and in a moment, something snapped through her. He was here. He’d been mostly with Rani while she schooled in Eluriand, letting her have her freedom while using the strange jewelry to keep her on a tight leash. Now, she knew as surely as her feet were walking down the steps of the Turlin school, that he was within the schools himself, and coming for her. Her footsteps down the stairs quickened. She felt him trying to control her pace, and she threw everything in her mind at him, surprised when his hold was released, suddenly, cruelly. Her feet missed a beat, and she went down, falling fast down the stairs. Closing her eyes, she curled into a ball, and braced herself for a world of pain when she landed against something softer than the floors of the stone hallway. She’d heard not only her breath come out in a gritted cry, but a masculine one as well.

Looking up into Findelfin’s eyes, she smiled at her dear friend. Embarrassment spread across her features in a blush as she glanced between the General and the Dolorathor. A small laugh erupted in her throat.

“It’s not a good sign, to fall so fast when our enemies have yet to come upon us.”

[Sighter Tnailog]

Findelfin followed Madam Séregon up the stairs as quick as he could. How could she have this much energy, when his own flagged at this pace?

"Dolorothar, I just don't understand how -- " he began, only to be cut off by her bark.

"Please, General, that's enough Dolorothar business. I'm a Headmistress, they referred to my post in tradespeak for years before we started all this back-to-basic-Elvish business. And magic does things to a body, especially Turlin, and especially Ainalin."

Findelfin was having to take the steps two at a time just to keep up, his breath catching in his throat as he gasped, "Ainalin? I don't even know what that is, it's in none of the books..."

"Of course not! You'll learn in time that there's more to learn that can be found in any of our shoddy cultural-linguistic oppressions they call 'libraries.' But come, we near the top..."

She had finally started to slow, and Findelfin drew even with her, breathing heavily to recover from the climb. He was about to speak, when he heard a cry, and something fell towards him from the doorway. His instincts took charge and he held out his hands to catch whatever was falling at him. He blinked, and there in his arms was Skie dan Sabriel.

He barely registered that she had made a joke, he was so dizzied by her beauty. He took a few tentative steps to the top of the staircase, emerging back onto the roof where he set her slowly to her feet. So like her mother...

He smiled softly, straightening her garment against her shoulder. "My dear, when the friends of Raiaera fall, that is why I am there...to put them back on their feet." And before he could even think of what he was doing, he had pulled her tight into his arms in a fervent embrace. Behind her he could see the troops lining up, bards marching down other staircases to begin their battles, young ones being led to those who would show them the safest and fastest ways through Daer Taurë and into safety. Quickly, with emotion choking his voice, he whispered so that only she could hear.

"My dear Skie, daughter of my dearest Natamrael Nito...you could fight by my side. You could lead bards in battle, and the sword of Devon dan Starslayer would rally my troops to fight more fervently than ever my own can or will. But I want you to go far from here...go with the young ones, those who cannot defend themselves. Keep them safe. I cannot face this battle if you are in it...go with them, keep them safe. Keep yourself safe."

He hugged her even tighter, and whispered his last, "For your mother."

And with that he released her, turning before she could see his tears. He only shot the Headmistress one last glance, and spat in her direction, "You have great powers, Linwë Séregon. Why not use them to slay Xem'zûnd himself? His death would save us all a lot of trouble." And with that he stepped through the doorway, and was gone (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?t=8699).

[Artifex Felicis]

His eyes actually began to water a little, just after Skie's hand had finished its strike against his unsuspecting cheek. The pain was sharp, striking, but ultimately annoying and would do no great harm to him. Still, the small last little vestige of joy went out of his mind with the smaller girl's backhand. He stood for a moment, listening to valid point about him, and not moving. Another day in other circumstances, he probably would have defended himself at least a little bit, but there wasn't much point to that anymore. There wasn't much of a reason to defend yourself from something you actually did.

"That could have gone a bit better," He sighed, turning and following the girl. His two long tails had stopped their happy swishing, actually dragging on the smooth floor behind him and blown a bit to the side by the wind. some questions floated in his mind, doomed to remain unanswered for the most part. Nevertheless, there was something depressing about meeting an old friend, and then she left in a huff. Still, even as his thoughts idled around, there was a stark contrast to compared to the last time he fought for Raiaera, back then he had a fairly well clear objective that he needed to accomplish.

He went back inside the tower, with one final look behind him at the undead forces massing in the distance. They were mere hours from a full scale assault. The cat boy guessed that they had at least three or four before even the fastest of Xem'zûnd's forces attacked them. Of course, they could easily take the city before the sun rose the next day. Another sigh escaped from the cat boy as he came out of the wind and into the warmth of the Turlin tower. There was something to be said for those who could still hold optimism at this time. Leon's was smacked out of him.

Still, the smaller scene below him raised his spirits a little bit, even if it was sad. He had never truly met the general of Raiaera, or even been this cool to the elf. That didn't stop the nekomata from knowing who the man was though, nor did it stop his knowledge that Findelfin was one of the few military leaders capable of defending from the city even in such terrible odds. Still, the cat boy stopped in his place, unwilling to break the embrace an old friend and a hero held.

Something clicked though as the elf began to leave though, an idea that quickly grew in his mind. It was a foolish notion, but it was nursed and observed mentally, and despite himself, a smile crept onto his face for a moment. The nekomata turned towards the headmistress, bowing slightly as he did so.

"My lady Séregon, I regret I'm not that aware of the city's layout," the cat boy explained. He rose, standing at his full impressive height. He felt a little awkward standing and essentially towering over the smaller elf, but continued anyway. "The closest gate to this tower is the southeast, correct?" The headmistress nodded, and for a moment the cat boy thought that he had seen the faintest glimmer of a smile on her face. The cat boy stepped back, bowing low before her. The seed of a plan beginning in his mind.

"I must go now, milady, and Skie," the cat boy began to slowly walk down the steps, an easy grin on his face. HE took larger steps as he spoke, nearly having to turn to deliver the last of his message before fully setting off to leave the tower. "Take care of yourself, I want to see you again in one after all this is over."

As Leon was closer to the bottom steps, another elven girl walked up to him. For a moment, the cat boy thought it was the same he had spent time with that night. When she removed the hood of her brownish cloak, there were enough subtle differences to tell the two apart. She held out a small package for the cat boy, a smaller item wrapped in a thing cloak. Leon held it for a moment, then with the girl's eyes watching him, unwrapped enough of the blade to know what it was.

"There will be others coming as well, wait for them at the south east gate," the girl explained. She turned and began to walk away, though Leon had already guessed a little bit of what was happening. He smiled a little, holding the package with care. He had a stop to make before he came to the south east gate, and then from there he might just be able to stop the war. The brisk air greeted him again, though not nearly as windy as it was at the top of the tower. His feet began to carry him, and the cat boy followed, careful not to let his new parcel slip from his grip, fully realizing that more then his own hope may ride on it.

((Continues over Here (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?t=8700)))

[Skie and Avery]

When Findelfin held her, she could feel the tension in his muscles, the thrumming stress that the attack had brought on. Any other man, any other embrace and she might have been defiant, struck against common sense and gone hurling into the forefront of the fray. This friend, and those last whispered words caught her, in a cage that her pride and her need to ensure the safety of those around here could not escape from. Her mother. Skie did not often think of Natamrael Nito. The woman who had raised her was not the model image of what the young adventuress herself wanted to be. It was her mother's lack of morality, even past Moontae standards, that had forced Skie to turn away from her, seeking instead the legends and mythical goodness of her father. But, her heart was always warm at the thought of her mother's redeeming qualities, and the fact that Chieftess Natamrael had given her life for her children.

The day her mother died, Skie had obeyed and gone running to safety rather than fight at the fore. The army of Xem'Zund, the assassin Mazrith, each was just advancing darkness in her life that she would never be able to escape. As Findelfin left, Leon's voice raising, though she heard nothing of what he said, she too took her leave. She walked almost numbly down the stairs, out the doors of the Turlin school, and came face to face with a man she did not want to see.

The metal band at her neck thrummed with light and warmth as she stood across from Griffin. His eyes, as green as her mothers had ever been, watched her carefully. She knew that he as well had heard, through her, Findelfin's stirring words. He didn't have to say anything to impart in her mind that he felt the same.

"Find a group of students, some small thing." he said. His baritone was soft, lost in the milling energy all around them.

"I cannot always run," she answered. "My sword is needed."

As soon as the words had been spoken, she hit her knees, the cold cobbles sending a sharp pain across the skin. Her head bowed, the blue bands now glowing fiercely, she slid her sword from her sheath, cradling it, offering it to him. Her mind was screaming, and she was sure that if Griffin took her sword, forcing her into a pose of submission as he did it, she would crumble here. The rings that allowed him to control her very movements was something she cursed now, as surely as Lindequalme had been cursed so long ago.

"Your sword?" He said softly. "It is mine, as you are. And it is needed to keep children safe, to keep them out of harms way. You are to gather them, and bring them here. Do not fail me."

And as surely as he'd brought her to her knees, she was standing, sheathing her weapon, turning and moving with an ethereal grace into the crowds, placing her touch on the few who looked as small and out of place as she herself felt.

[RumpleGrumblePuss]

Great, just great. I’m finally making progress and the city is under attack. I used my sarcastic thoughts to shield myself from the fear that gnawed in the back of my mind. Earlier I had allowed Lólindir to drag me from my bed and out of the school, ungroomed and with the few supplies, I kept in my pack. Pain shot up my spine as agony set in my tail. I shoved the heavy-footed clod that was unfortunate enough to step on my tail.

A snide little voice in the back of my mind chimed in that if I had not let my tail slip from my shoulder it would not have gotten stepped on. I ignored the voice and nursed the abused appendage. It was then that I realized Lólindir was missing, I had lost track of him while I was distracted. I was lost in a crowd; I backed up to the nearest wall and tried to sink into it. The mostly elven crowd blurred together as my eyesight decided to shift once more. Objects and people I knew to be close suddenly seemed distant and other objects jumped into focus as if they were within arms reach. I shook my head, scrubbing the back of one hand across my eyes. As if that will do any good.

“Lólindir!” I tried to shout above the noise of the crowd. Few near me look at me, but most ignored me as I called again for my friend and fellow student. For a moment, I thought I heard and answering shout. Gathering up my courage, I pushed away from the wall and found myself immediately swept up in the crowd. It was not long before I found myself near the Turlin school. Hissing and threatening those around me, I gained enough space to reach the school.

For a moment, I leaned against the wall and simply looked at the people around me. I don’t remember anything about the last time Xem’Zund attacked Raiaera. I should have paid more attention to the histories when I had a chance. Hell, if I had known I would have wound up in Althanas I would have committed everything I could have dug up to memory. A light touch on my shoulder and a voice ordering me to follow startled me out of my thoughts. I looked up expecting to see Lólindir, instead a woman was moving on. She stopped and gathered a couple of the other students.

After a moment of hesitation I followed after her, my mind working on the reason why she seemed so familiar to me. For now, I’ll follow her. At least she seems to have some destination in mind and she would not have touched me or other students if she did not want us to follow her. I stared at the black haired woman, determined to not lose track of her as I did Lólindir. As a precautionary measure I hugged my tail to my chest as if it were a lifeline. Precautionary and for comfort if I were truthful with myself. What if, what if she’s leading us straight to Xem’Zund? Then what? I forced my self to stop thinking and simply concentrated on keep the woman in my sights.

[Ataraxis]

“Io!”

The meek cry was drowned like a raindrop in the sea, but one among thousands lost in the uproar of swarming crowds. Lillian tried to push her way through the anxious mass of students, to slip through interstices of lithe elves and other, more rugged creatures. The best she could do, however, was to keep herself from being mercilessly crushed by the tidal forces that were breaking throughout the schoolgrounds; she could only guess how much worse the situation was, outside the hallowed walls of the University. “Iorweth Beauregard, wherever you are, come back here this instant!” she shouted again with a morsel more of authority, but an elbow gone astray had struck her in the plexus, knocking the wind out of her chest, leaving her with only damp eyes and a painful wheeze. “Please...”

It had been several weeks since she had come to Istien, and it had taken her that much time to fall into pace with the other students, socially speaking. Lillian had been something of an outcast, for reasons she ignored. The students might have derived a perverse pleasure in tormenting especially young newcomers such as her, or perhaps they had been so awful to her because she was nothing more but a modest librarian from a desert country. The notion that she might have been an easy person to dislike, however, had made her heart sink. Fortunately, one person had helped her through this rough patch, and for that she owed him eternal gratitude: Io the artist, Io the roommate – Io, her friend. At his side, no one seemed a snobbish beast anymore. With his help, yesterday’s foes had become today’s allies, and perhaps even friends for the coming future.

Alas, when word of the Forgotten and his advancing army of woken dead had reached the school from the south, everything was smashed to pieces: all civility was dropped and, yet again, animals they became. Only Io had held her hand throughout this chaos, well aware of how lost she would be without his guiding light. Nevertheless, his good will had all been for naught, for a legion of forces stronger than fate had pulled them apart. In a torrent of screaming and threshing bodies, the whole of his form had been engulfed. Lillian was now the same girl she had been when her feet first swept over the elven threshold: lost and alone. ‘Where did they take you? Where will they take me?’

The fleeing river of sweat and flesh had carried her across the rutted cobbles of the streets, its blaring volume quite nearly deafening her in the process. She could hear supplications much like her own, some successful as they were ensued with tearful embraces, others just as unanswered. Before she knew it, the current had flown as far as the school of Turlin, all the way from the dormitories devoted to students of Ost’Dagorlin like Lillian. The oak-wrought gates of the building were half-yawning, slightly shaking with the tremors of escaping footfalls. To her eyes, they seemed to tremble in fear, as though knowing of what wicked wave would crash over them today, of how many lives would be carried away in its grisly undertow.

Seeing the fleeting image of General Fingolfin did little to allay her worry, but having the knowledge that men of competence were dealing with this crisis was at least more comforting than the alternative. But, just like the general, that spark of hope was quick to go. With her body crushed from the outside and her spirits from the inside, Lillian felt like she would soon hit the rockbottom of helplessness and despair. What could she possibly do to help? She was frailty made flesh, and she was hard-pressed to even help herself, so weak indeed that a strong wind could easily rob her of solid ground to stand on. The growling leers from those who flitted past her pale frame told her just the same. 'Make yourself small, girl, and get out of the way.'

A light rasp on her shoulder pulled her her thoughts from unkind realms. Lillian stood at attention, watching as the observer touched countless others in the same manner and commanded them to follow with the same voice of authority that had made the girl shudder with a childish envy. When the woman turned to grab onto a resilient student, Lillian recognized the woman almost instantly, though she was still oblivious to her name.

‘She’s either a teacher or another student here. I’ve seen her twice before in the hallways – with the general, at that.’ Though a stranger she was, the comely woman seemed more trustworthy than any of the other nameless faces that were streaming left and right. She would follow, if only because she was too afraid to figure out what else to do. ‘If I’m lucky, maybe she’ll take me to, or at least help me find Io. ’

Widening her strides and quickening her pace, Lillian mingled into the line that trailed behind the woman with black hair and blue eyes, so eerily reminiscent of her own. The girl gave apprehensive glances to the happenings on the premises, starting at the sound of breaking glass and creaking wood. With regret, she shook her head, and resumed her steps. The darksome clouds of the undead plague were still thundering on far and distant plains, but the city of Eluriand was already suffering the ravages of its own storm.

[Farsight]

The general, turning and heading to the front of the Eluriand defenses, only emboldened the young moon elf in his appeals. They would need any help they could get, any power commanded by anyone willing to fight. Yet, despite the looming threat and macabre shadows that dwindled on the horizon, Terrian Farsight was not to be part of the battles ahead. He was a student of the university, studying basics of song magic. The man had a knack for the song magic, potential to be put to the test. His voice was strong, his command and balance of different tones quickly budding to perfection, and yet he was not strong enough.

“You are a student, please remain with the other students and escape Eluriand. Nothing but death and dark tidings await us that remain behind.” The soldier’s voice was commanding, far more so than the students complaints. He was resolute. He was no different than any of the instructors, bards, or lowliest of enlisted troops. Terrian was not to be denied however.

He shifted out of the way of the sea of students, standing apart from them. He was not one of them. The moon elf was not a Raiaeran wishing to follow in the path of their peers, or in the footsteps of their forefathers. He was a descendant of a race misunderstood, set apart from the high elven society, and the students treated him as such more often than not. “Listen to me closely,” he said in fluent elven, his intonation giving away the difference his heritage. Inflection was everything, made words stronger, made spells deeper, and forced others to understand his intentions. “I have heard the rumors, the whispers in the shadows of these hallowed halls. I was not alive when the first incarnation of the forgotten wandered the world, when the war of the tap was the pressing event of Althanas’ society, and for that I beg your pardon. But what little command I have can grow with use, and what better medium than a war that takes us all?”

“Child,” the man said, stepping in close enough for man’s frosted breath to brush the high cheeks of the moon elf. “I have seen his powers. I have seen his minions. I fought the undeath when it took Eluriand, and was part of its reclamation. I have seen fellow elves fall, mothers, brothers, sons, and students far too weak to be forced into the circumstances the situation required. If I could I would be fleeing with you, if only to just be away from the minions of the Red Forest. Now, if you do not believe my convictions, my orders, or my very will for your survival, please continue to argue against leaving this grand city. I would adore any further arguments you have against me trying to spare you the pain and suffering I am undoubtedly bound to find when the undead assault this great town once again.”

Speechless. Terrian had no arguments left. The man was a willing sacrifice for his own survival, a lamb sent to slaughter so that the younglings could escape. How could he regard the man with anything less than dumbstruck awe? The young student turned, leaving the man. Around him he could hear the undying cacophony of worried students, commanding professors, and the muted fears of soldiers and bards alike.

He pushed into the crowd of unknowing, confusion. None spoke to him in hushed fears, none turned to him for comfort. He was no different than any else, part of the lame being led by the blind. If only he was strong enough to call himself a bladesinger, if only he was strong enough to stand with those so willing to sacrifice themselves for the betterment of the helpless. Terrian would give anything to just be regarded as an equal. Honor amongst the high elven people. Riches and prestige meant little to him…

[Slayer of the Rot]

Disaster hung in brutal finality over Raiaera, but amidst the crowd of panicked travelers and citizens, there was one calm face. It had a look of tranquility upon it; somehow unaffected by the dread that encroached on the horizon. The placid man stood as others rushed by, hurried to find a way to escape the doomed nation, but he only stood, hands lying calmly in his pockets.

"They never panicked this much for me," he said with a hint of amusement, lifting a hand to his face to slowly stroke his chin. The thumb settled on the base of a long, pale scar cutting his face on his left cheek, running over his eye and through the brow. It was bisected by another scar that ran across his left ear, over his nose, and stopped suddenly beneath his right eye. The smell of unsettled dust from beyond the city stirred in his nose as crisp autumn wind ruffled his short cut auburn hair. In Raiaera, this man was known as Gaius, but in other places, he was known as Dan Lagh'ratham. That is, if anything could be said to be known about the warrior with hair the color of fall leaves aside from his name, and the unsettling way the tree branches seemed to bow in his majesty as he passed. People would either become too comfortable around him, claiming he smelled like the homes they'd played in as children, or become deeply unsettled with his presence, claiming to smell the stifling scent of a dirt grave.

"I can remember a time coming to Raiaera that the elves here were haughty and settled firmly and confidently in their ways. Arrogant, even. Technology malfunctioned on this soil with a rich magical heritage. And they sat in a cradle of power and tradition with Istien University. This only goes to show one the power that he possesses. Look at them now. Like rats from a sinking ship...." The man known as Gaius sighed and moved forward, pressing through the terrified crowd, cutting through them like a well honed blade, budging not even a centimeter as they pushed violently and desperately against him to get to what might be safety. His eyes became hooded, lucid as he walked, as though disconnecting from reality...
_____
The sensation of touch had been lost.

No, it was more than that. His surroundings were a kingdom of nothing. Though it was black, the substance that threaded this world's reality could not be called shadow; a shadow was the product of an absent of light, and not even a pin point of it could not be seen. when he moved, it felt like nothing; no effort, no feeling of a bunching of muscle to lift his hand up and pull it before his face, as though his movements were the wishes of another.

Death.

No, but it was something like it. A realm near its flow. As a warrior, he had experienced his own share of deaths in his life, and while this was the same, it was ultimately different. A thread remained, holding him aloft, afloat in this world of questions with no answers.

Dream.

The answer came to it, and with it, as though summoned by his will to defy the natural laws of the realm he found himself existing in, something in his close proximity stirred, shifted, moved, and breathed. It huffed, then sighed, as though in effort, and then laid a long, spindly fingered hand on his chest, above his heart. Looking down upon it, he could see infection growing in him, spreading its long black chords like black veins under and through his skin.

'I wish to...possess you. I can feel it in you...a heart stained with hate, and it is strong...'

The little black chords shuddered, pulled back, and halted their quest as a fire burned them.

'My body and soul have been used in the past. I have my own agenda....I will be a pawn to none.' The chords began to seek against, burrowing deeper into his heart.

'Pawn? You misunderstand. There could never be a pawn as powerful as you. I wish to possess you to make you a god among these ants...they are weak, and do not deserve your strength. I will give her back to you, and open new gates of power to you.'

The chords bound his heart, mummified it, and took it. In dream, he gave a muffled groan, and turned his face away. 'For her...I want proof of the reality of the devil to who I am selling my flesh to. Prove yourself to me.' The thin fingered black hand rose from his chest, away from the coal colored wound it had made, the skin cracked and blistered around it. From his heart, the hand pulled a pulsing, green stone spear, and folded it in its talons.

'So be it...'
_____
The leathers he had garbed himself in creaked quietly as he finally stopped, finding himself standing upon the grounds of the very university he had scoffed moments before. The students milled about, some seized in evident paranoia, others trying their best to hide it, trying to keep their faces calm and composed for the sake of their friends. But the man known as Dan could smell it in the sweat that glistened and beaded upon their foreheads and necks. He could smell it on every person rushing past, and even in the land itself.

The imminent death of the grand nation Raiaera.

Folding his arms over his chest, his jacket pulling tight against his shoulder blades, Dan slowly wandered into the clusterings of the students. Just by drawing up his Saraelian spear when he'd woken from the dream told him who he served now, if he was going to find his daughter again. But the problem was his uncertainty. By joining him, he would finally have Meredith back, and soon, the power to protect her from any harm that the world would seek to visit upon her. But it also meant hundreds...thousands of deaths. His eyes moved across the faces, either in sickly silence or frantic chatter. He saw them...

And didn't care.

'What do you want me to do, though?' Dan' face hardened in frustration, and when he felt a tap on his shoulder, it took nearly all of his titanic strength to stay his hand from crushing the one that had interrupted his thoughts. When he turned, he found himself looking down upon a girl of extraordinary beauty with black hair and blue eyes, a longsword at her side. His flint gray eyes turned towards the sword briefly, started to pull away, and then lingered for another moment before looking at her.

"Warrior, come with me. Your strength and steel are needed to protect the innocent." She spoke quietly, gently, though with a quality of command in it few possessed, especially women. The words were spoken with incredible confidence, as though she was sure that such a noble looking man would come to their aid. For some strange reason, he was reminded of Claire; but when he blinked, he decided that her beauty which transcended her seemingly human appearance had played hob on his nerves and opened an old wound. Dan was silent for a few moments, turning his face to the sky. Black clouds of ominous intent were gathering above, making the grim day seem that much more hopeless. Past the great, readying army of Zem'Xund, he could smell the scent of this great nation; fruit blossoms born on a brisk wind, entwined with the fresh, clean, and cool smell of this morning's mist that had hung so peacefully, oblivious of the coming disaster.

"No."

For a moment, she lingered, disappointment in her face, but she didn't seem to be one to let one surly, scarred warrior ruin her day, and moved on. He watched her move on, as a few others moved through the crowd, walking closer and closer to her; others she had chosen.

"Oh, I didn't think you'd be turning her down. Don't you know her?" Dan glanced down to his left where small, hunched student stood; a young girl with dark brown hair and light, oval rimmed glasses, a number of books and scrolls clutched tightly to her chest. He shook his head.

"Ah. She's known famously for two facts. Along with a team dubbed Wicked Things, she, with the help of others, finally rid Eluriand and the entire continent of the undead scourge. Additionally, she is the daughter of the great hero, Devon dan Sabriel."

'Sabriel?' The man's eyebrows arched. 'I've heard that name before. In stories. It belongs to the Starslayer, the great hero from the war before. The one that vanquished Xem'Zund and Lord Aesphestos. I think I've found my purpose...' The student shrank at the dark smile that had spread across the warrior's lips. Above the University, the sky seemed to darken.

"I apologize for my brashness," Dan said when he had caught up to Skie again in the crowd, giving her a pleasant smile. "I'm afraid my temper is running a little rampant lately...I just lost my daughter. But I will help you as much as I can. You can call me...Kross."

[Godhand]

Godhand was nervous. No, that wasn't quite correct.

Godhand was as twitchy as a child who'd gotten into the sugar.

Giacomazzi had sent him on an errand so trivial and just generally obnoxious that he was sure he'd offended the old man in some way to have incurred what was surely punishment. A pittance in payoff money to some thug over in Sandville, he couldn't be bothered to remember the name, for burying some lowlife nothing up in the desert and not telling anybody. This poor bastard had done God-knows-what, God-knows-when to make Giacomazzi angry and apparently now it was time this other fellow got his just rewards.

It was fringe work and everybody knew it. Godhand was so used to ultra-dangerous suicide missions that this sort of work, what most mercenaries referred to as 'paid vacation', put him on edge. The skewed rationale behind this was one that could only come from a mobster that'd been on the job way too long. "If he wants me dead," the gunman reasoned, "he wouldn't make it something obvious like ordering me into a dangerous assignment. No; more likely he'd send me on something easy to throw me off and then ambush me with every Goddamn paid gun in his arsenal."

That sort of thinking was both foolish and disturbed and Godhand knew it. He trusted the don with his life, more than you should ever trust a mafioso but it was something the elderly mob boss had earned. He was the closest thing to a father the swordsman had ever had. But those instincts...When you've been in the business too long, you're on twenty four hours a day.

The most innocent thing like somebody blowing their nose on an embroidered handkerchief, or some ditch-digger that just got paid being a bit too generous with the rounds is enough to put you on edge. You start looking around for the one guy who hasn't talked to anyone that night or hasn't ordered anything; somebody a little cleaner or better dressed or with a better haircut than the rest of the patrons and that's it. You're ready and this guy's got no chance against you. You're the best this business has ever seen. You're invincible.

The sad part is that as you're looking at this guy and measuring him up, prepared for anything the real killer is right next to you. He's been watching you all night and now he's ready, and he's invincible and more importantly than anything is that he's got the drop on you. And the moment you feel that cold barrel against your ribs and turn around, well...By that time it's over. It's over.

So you sit back, light a cigarette and hope for the best. You expect the expected. If somebody wants you dead bad enough, then you're done and there's no use worrying about it. But you do.

You do.

Godhand sat in a bar and lamented his current state of affairs. The simple job had turned out to be anything but. The guy who'd buried the stiff? Dead. The guys who killed him? Dead. The person who had ordered the hit? Dead. And the real kicker was that this had all happened a good seven years ago. There had to be some sort of iron curtain around Sandville for Giacomazzi not to know about all that. Or else he did know. But Godhand refused to travel down that train of thought again; it led nowhere. No, it was more likely that those events and those people had been so unimportant that the whole thing had just never managed to make it's way up the grapevine.

The worst part of all of this was that as he'd made his way back from that hellhole of a frontier town, he'd ended up getting caught in Raiaera. The whole area was quarantined; it was simultaneously under marshall law and damn near a warzone. The further you went from the Bladesingers headquarters the worse it got. Apparently some man, or monster according to the propaganda, had risen from his grave and summoned an army of underlings to finish a job he'd started what seemed like five years ago. The fact that the same person could attack the same city and the same race in the exact same way he'd done not too long ago without them being prepared for it would have been laughable if he'd just been a couple of regions away. Now it was just irritating.

The bar had been closed when he'd got there. With the army of undead only a couple of days of marching away and a whole gang of looters inside the city walls, the owner had taken what he could carry and left. He surmised that the only reason the place hadn't been sacked yet was that it was close enough to the war effort's HQ that the thieves thought it too hot to bother with. Godhand, however, wasn't a thief. Or at least not an ordinary one. He'd had no problem kicking down the braced wooden door to get at the sweet liquor inside. The whole thing was slightly cliche and deeply pathetic in a situation like this, but the alternative was braving the crowds and finding out who was in charge of the half-assed defense and that sort of thing was completely unacceptable to a person who got upset when someone stepped on his shoe and bumped into his shoulder at the same time.

Godhand heard screaming in the distance. Some uppity subnormal who thought the chaos gave him a license to do anything he wanted had started a fire not too far, and now the closest thing Raiaera had to a police force was rushing over to beat his friends and him into submission and more than likely beyond. The fire never figured into the equation. Just an excuse to take out their frustrations on someone who deserved it. It'd burn itself out on the cobblestone long before they were done beating the kids.

Suddenly an officer that wanted in on the action rushed past the battered bar door, doing a double take as he ran by. He then screeched to a halt and scrambled into the bar in a manner Godhand thought was not quite befitting an officer. He looked at what was left of the door and looked around for some sort of implement; whatever he'd used to bust it down. He then shook his head and reasoned it didn't matter. The mobster could already see the gears turning in the officer's head.

"You! Did you do this!?"

Godhand took a sip of his single-malt liquor and responded.

"No, it was like this when I got here."

"You can't fool me! I passed this place not five minutes ago; you broke down the door. Come with me. If you can use a sledgehammer to bust down a braced door, you can use it to bust down a zombie. And you'll be paying back the city of Raiaera for her liquor, as well."

The mercenary suppressed a smile. He couldn't believe it. He'd gotten trapped in a mess of a city because the elves didn't have the sense not to make the same mistake twice, and now he owed something to it? He chuckled and topped off his drink.

"Fuck off, kid."

"I'll have you know I'm sixty four! And like I said," the elf walked forward with great pride, as if age was some sort of accomplishment, and yanked at Godhand's arm with all his strength. It wasn't much, but since he'd been playing it loose he was unprepared and spilled his drink. "You're coming with me, human."

That was the straw that broke the camel's back. Godhand grit his teeth, dropped his glass and seized the man by the throat. Easily lifting him off the ground with a gloved hand, the officer kicked his feet like a trout on a hook. The mercenary placed another hand on his stomach and lifted him over his head, walking over to the large window designed to let the light in. He uttered his next words with the same mocking tone the officer had used earlier.

"Like I said," He reared back and placed a foot behind him to steady himself. "FUCK OFF!"

He hurled the officer through the window. It shattered as cinematically as Godhand had hoped. He hadn't even used close to his full strength; just enough to send the man flying through the window and roll across the street. He looked at the mercenary, ominous as he was framed by broken glass, and scrambled unto his feet. Running over to the Bladesingers HQ, Godhand chuckled at the battlecry of "I'll be back!".

[Skie and Avery]

She had them, the clumsy other-thing, the girl separated from her friend, and now, he was before her. As Kross came, his voice changed to cordial, Skie lifted a delicate brow ever upward. It had been a quick change of heart, and she was a woman who knew that those sort of changes, were rarely quick. There was an agenda behind his actions, but as she looked at Kahlina, balancing precariously on her feline feet, and Lillian, who seemed so frightened and confused, she knew she needed strength.

"Okay, Kross," she said, the name feeling strangely heavy on her tongue. "Follow me. We depart this city soon." She continued to move, touching here, there, her voice and look drawing students to them. When she came upon Terrian, she bowed to the elf. She'd seen him in classes, knew of his pride, determination. He seemed to be a good person from what she'd seen, and now that she was near him, she hooked an arm around his shoulder and pulled him close enough to whisper in his ear.

"Come with me, please. I have weak ones that need protection, and a man I do not trust among us." She leaned back, imploring him for his help. "Come with me, please? I need your help."

The crowds were upon them then, moving and panicking. It was like they were trout in the waters, and before Skie could hear the elf Farsight's answer, she and the others were pulled along. She glanced back once, sure she saw him among the students who were following her, and then cleaved forward. The area cleared considerably as she began to draw near to the place where she'd promised to meet Griffin again. Shouts were up ahead, the sound of steel being pulled from sheaths. As she drew closer, she held out her arms so that the students wouldn't walk past here. Ahead, she saw a scene that filled her with a cold fury.

Men surrounded a warrior, a warrior she and her mother had both known. Godhand Striker wasn't doing anything really threatening - yet. He was standing there, a bottle clutched in one hand, his eyes scanning down the opposite side of the street from where she stood now, at one officer, who looked like he'd been cut by a million little knives. The glittering glass that was strewn over the roadway was one indication of what might have happened. With a sigh, Skie began to push her way to the old acquaintance, but was stopped short by the flat side of a blade thrust in her way. Her eyes met a haughty elf's, and she sneered at the same time he did.

"Stand aside," she said coldly as he muttered, "Stand back." For a moment she simply glared, and then began to push through as she asked aloud, "What is this man's crime?" The officer who'd stopped her, however, wasn't so easily thrown aside. Violently, he grabbed Skie's shoulder, and bodily shoved her away, though it could later be reasoned that it had been perhaps his most grievous mistake.

She hissed as she fell back, into Kahlina, her clutching hands trying desperately to reach a steel dagger strapped to her boot in anger.

[RumpleGrumblePuss]

Minutes later it dawned on me that I followed the twin sister of the husband of one of my character’s, Skie. I almost called out to her, needing to talk to a person I felt I knew, but I held back. She would never know of me, I was now just as much of a character as she was. I studied the back of her body, the shimmering black hair, the smooth tanned skin, and wondered at her wingless state. I knew that even with illusion the wing should still be there yet people crowded behind and around Skie.

The wing is gone, then that means… I cut off that thought, remembering the discussions I had had with Manda over Chinese food. To be wingless was to be outcast and to be stripped of everything that made you Moontae. I wondered if the Kiss had been performed. I kept those questions and thoughts to myself. To ask would be rude and possibility would turn out very badly.

I kept a wary eye on my surroundings, frequently glancing at the other students Skie had gathered. I found it funny that we followed her almost in a flight pattern. Ahead, I watched the guards square off and surround another man. A brow rose as I stopped close enough to hear Skie snarl at the guard to get out of her way. My hands slowly slid back to the whips I carried now. Shifting my weight to one foot I released on of the whips from it’s hold and let the loose end slide noiselessly down my leg to rest on the ground beside me.

I cursed under my breath as Skie was pushed, landing heavily against me. I grabbed one shoulder to steady her on her feet.

“Easy there killer. There are more than enough of us to make this fun. Later, I want to have a little chat with you, Skiel, daughter of the Moontae.” Let the fun begin. I thought with a happily malicious grin, displaying the snake-like fangs that I had just recently learned to move at will. I flicked the end of my whip, wrapping it around the ankle of the elf that had shoved Skie. Just when he looked down at the tight grip on his ankle I yanked as hard as I could, toppling the pompous elf.

“Stupid assholes, the dead are attacking and you want to pick on people?” I muttered just loud enough for anyone near me to hear.

[Godhand]

True to his word, the officer had returned with as many guards as his father’s rank managed to put under him. Even so, it was amateur hour and you could tell. Every Goddamn one of them was a kid, maybe a vet or two thrown in for good measure but all in all it was a half-assed unit run by a half-assed officer getting ready to fight a half-assed war. The fact that this sort of operation was the best the Raiaeran government could do didn't bode well for the city or anybody in it. And for better or worse, Godhand was in it.

The mercenary ambled out of the bar with a bottle in his hand, feeling pretty good about himself and the situation. Maybe it was the whiskey or the fact that he'd been hired as a drill sergeant by one or two regimes to train their new recruits, but Godhand felt something strangely familiar and comforting about the situation. The old street dog surrounded by young groomed pups.

The first thing the swordsman liked to do in this set-up was to find the 'leader' of the kids. Not in rank or social standing; that sort of thing didn't matter on the front lines. It was the most cocksure and brave among them: the kind that stood up to bullies for his friends. The one that was good at sports and had the prettiest girlfriend or the most style. There were a couple of good ways to find that kid: stance, build and even good posture was enough to tell you wether a person would rather fight than back down. But the most important thing, the key, was his expression. While everyone else is serious and tense, he will be smiling. He will be loose and cool and ready to go fifteen rounds with anybody you can name. He will be at the front of the mob rather than the back and for all his posturing he'll be as scared to die as the rest of them.

Now that you've got their role-model, what the rest of the recruits aspire to be, in your sights the next step is to break him down in front of all his friends. You need to fight and you need to win, and it can't be close. It must be an utter victory. And once you've proven to your students that the one they believed to know everything in fact knows nothing, then they will listen to you. Now this sort of thing can be a little tedious when the soldiers already know you're ultimately on their side, given that nobody will want to fight you unless you push them. But in a hostile situation it couldn't be easier; he will come to you.

"Leave this to me, Sindael."

Sure enough, from the front of the guards came a young man who looked like he'd never lost a fight in his life. Godhand was sure that the whole concept of 'losing' was ludicrous to him; that all it took to win a fight was simply more will than the opponent. Most of the time that was true, but there are some bridges will alone can't gap and one of those is experience.

The kid didn't even draw his sword; he flexed a bit and smiled at the mercenary and that was it. Godhand smiled back before walking over to the windowsill. He brushed off some of the broken glass with his gloved hand and placed the bottle on it. He walked back over to the soldier but just as the leader was about to strike, Godhand paused and walked back over to the window. The entire mob jeered; they thought he was giving up. But instead he picked up the bottle, which he had originally placed precariously close to the edge, and adjusted it so it was more center. He didn't want it to spill.

The crowd went silent at this, maybe a little nervous. The mercenary had a bit of cool that none of them, except maybe the vets, could understand. They just smiled; they knew what was coming. Truth was they probably hadn't even wanted to come in the first place, but they ultimately had to answer to their nepotist commanding officer and were forced. Now they got to see the little bastard strung up and they couldn't wait.

Suddenly their unofficial leader dashed forth, yelling at the top of his lungs. the kid was all fury and noise, ready to take out Godhand and put his foot on his chest. The 'hero' wound up a right but before he could even react, the gunman got him in the face with a flat palm strike. His head recoiled like it was hit by a shotgun but much to Godhand's surprise, he merely retreated a few steps instead of passing out. It was pretty impressive, even if he was currently cupping one hell of a bloody nose. But his hands dropped and he sucked it in, swallowing the blood and assuming a fighting stance once again. He was definitely a hard boy and Godhand conceded that if he'd just had a couple more years experience, he might be able to take the mercenary.

As it was now though, he'd lost and didn't even know it. He ran forth again and resumed the attack but instead of fighting back, Godhand just dodged. Bobbing under hooks and weaving between straights he seemed untouchable, and it was starting to get to the kid. Not only that, but his friends were starting to look unsure too. Good. The mercenary decided it was time to end the lesson and dodged a haymaker before responding with a quick jab to the stomach. He didn't put much behind it but even ten percent of his power was way too much for a rookie to take. He let out a guttural moan and crumpled to the ground, much to the shock of his allies.

With this, Godhand felt comfortable dropping his fists. He turned around and prepared to talk to the crowd, smiling jovially and holding out his arms as if he'd just seen an old friend. His expression darkened when he noticed a grinning guard and a toppled girl that seemed familiar, but he smiled once again when he noticed the whip silently coiling around his ankle.

"Gentlemen, I recommend you cease and desist. You're all brave and eager to defend your honor; I can respect that. But the fact is you can't beat me, and even if you do you'll still be too battered to be of any use to your country. So you have two options: You can either let an old man drink in peace, or you can-"

There was suddenly a gasp, and Godhand turned around. He couldn't believe it; the K.O. Kid was back on his feet. He was shaky and looked like a strong wind might push him over, but he had his hands up and was ready to fight. The mercenary silently admitted that there were worse men to entrust Raiaera's future to. If he'd been half as good as this recruit was when he was his age, maybe he wouldn't have ended up where he had. Nevertheless, he had to make a point and that meant the kid needed to go down. Godhand walked forward briskly and the kid threw a broad right at him, but he was nearly done and they both knew what was coming. The mercenary brushed aside the right and responded with a brisk knee to the stomach, which made the recruit lurch forward with his hands on the impacted area. He probably would have hit the ground and gone down for good, but Godhand needed to end this with an exclamation point. He caught the kid in a headlock as he was falling and began to clench his arm. Just when he was seeing spotty, the gunman released the headlock and lifted the soldier into the air from a slouching position. He ended up sitting on Godhand's shoulders. Right when he was about to pass out the swordsman, careful that he wasn't facing any broken glass, delivered a powerbomb.

The kid hit the ground and this time it was over for good. That last attack had really upset his buddies; none of them had ever seen anything quite like it and didn't know how to react. The truth was that the move was more flash than substance; he'd live to fight another day. Godhand knelt down and placed a hand on the unconscious soldier's chest before whispering to him.

"You're good, kid. Damn good. You'll make general someday. Rest now."

The only one who wasn't worried about their hero was the officer; he took Godhand's last words as an opportunity.

"He's gonna kill Gaein! Take him out, now!"

After that little display, the recruits were as suggestible as any commanding officer could hope for. They rushed forward, brandishing their swords and trying to cut Godhand down. The mercenary had his murasame and his guns, but he didn't feel the need to use either. As green and scared as they were, the boys swung hard and wide and were more likely to slay each other than the gunman. He reacted hard and fast; every time one of them swiped at him he grabbed their sword arm, twisted their wrist and landed a punch to the face. One was all it took for each, and they were all too inexperienced and scared to learn from the other's mistake.

Swipe, pop. Swipe, pop. Swipe, pop.

He mixed it up once in a while with a high kick to the chin or a forearm blow to the throat, but for the most part he didn't need to. They were all finished within forty five seconds, which was really nothing to gloat about on Godhand's part thanks to the fact they were all new to the game. He didn't hit any of them with any anger; they were just doing their job. But when he was done with them, he turned to face the officer from earlier and he felt the need to teach him a different lesson altogether.

He walked forward calmly. 'Sindael' was shaking in his boots; nothing his daddy ever taught him was gonna get him out of this one. This was one of those rare occasions where Godhand would have even refused a pay-off. The world would ultimately be a better place for what the mercenary would do to him. He commanded two more body guards to attack; Godhand punched out the first one and suplexed the second unto the growing pile of bodies behind him. Finally, when there was no more space between them his arm lashed out and grabbed him by the throat, lifting. Just like before he kicked his feet, but this time Godhand didn't raise him by the belly. Just throat, and the kid was trying to straddle his arm to keep from asphyxiating. Godhand walked back to the windowsill, officer dangling all the while, until he found the spot where most of the broken glass was. He slowly placed Sindael back on his feet and just as a look of relief passed over his features, he lifted him again suddenly and chokeslammed him unto the concrete. That was that; his eyes were milky white. He'd be lucky if he was awake for the end of the war. Not murder, but close.

Godhand picked up the bottle from the sill and took another drink before spitting it out violently. He looked inside the bottle and noticed that some tiny pieces of glass that had been dangling on top of the window had fallen into the whiskey. He cursed under his breath, paused to think about it, then shrugged before resorting to drinking it by sips.

[Farsight]

Weak ones to be protected, students to be ushered out, it all seemed a bother. What’s more, it seemed that the moon elf’s strengths, albeit still budding, were being underestimated. He was a student, as were all the others in the group, but one that was hardly without his own prowess in battle. The darkness that threatened to consume the world of the high elves was looming, and he was being asked to do little more than prance around with his gaudy brethren and escape. What was to become of the beloved Eluriand? What would become of the schools, the foundation of the very nation? If the hallowed halls of magic fell, would the reverence that the other nations held yet be instilled?

The questions flooded the mind of Farsight, undoubtedly touching everyone in their own way.

But, where his request to battle alongside the great men and women of Raiaera had been previously denied, there was a new request. It was not as grand. It held none of the dramatic flair the young elf held dear, but it was no less important. If the world of Althanas had deemed the nation unfit to survive, than it would be on the hands and hearts of all the students to take the pieces of the High Elven world and somehow place them back together. Escorting students to safety would force him to watch the world fall from a distance. He would see the pieces of the elaborate puzzle known as life crumble under the hand of the defiled, but he would also understand how they would need to be put back together.

He nodded. Silently he obeyed, yet his heart compelled him to follow a path not yet set. The woman, Skie, was the leader of the small group and her commands were taken to heart. Without protest he followed her in the sea of panic and growing dread. His face was still. His eyes were bright. But what set him apart from the crowd of fear was the streak of determination and the knowing need to do something better, something more.

Instead of fleeing, finding their way back to the confines of the houses of magic, the small group of people was pushed towards a riot. It was, to the moon elf, saddening to see the state of affairs dissolve so rapidly that normally artistic and graceful elves had taken to looting and rioting. High elves were not perfect, he tried to remind himself as he followed, but to take advantage of the situation for their betterment was hard to accept.

It was far more clear to him when he, like the others including Skie, came to the point of conflict. It was not a high elf that bothered the denizens of Eluriand, but a drunken human. Strewn across the ground before him and the rest was a shattered window and a battered elven warrior. Terrian would have been the first to take up the banner of honor for the man, the first to jump into the fight and show the cocksure human what problems he had started, but he would not sink so low. Instead he stood near the front of the growing crowd, watching and waiting.

The man seemed rash, distant, taken by the bitter tinge of alcohol and an animalistic rage. In the ensuing fight he seemed far more interested in the safety of his bottle of liquor than the enraged elven people. The elves that had fallen around him were battered, bloody, and held onto their threads of life by mere will alone. If it had been under any other situations that the fight had taken place, he would have been easily brought low by a bladesinger patrol. But, as unfortunate as it was, there were few present with the strength of a bladesinger, and fewer yet willing to do what should have been done.

“Skie,” Farsight muttered in a pristine, fluent elven as he slid through the crowd towards her. She was recovering from the initial shove, taking her feet again. He never let his crystal blue eyes shift from the man, knowing danger shrouded him like the cloak of disease shrouded the forgotten. “This human is troublesome. If he is interested only in the release of his strong drink, we should let him be. A powerful ally he could become, yet his mind obviously lies elsewhere. Please, there are defenseless students awaiting your lead… a school full of those that will one day have to recover these streets from the undead, as they did in the past. Do not let this man take away from the strength of the future simply because he is headstrong and the others concern themselves with the futility of defending their honor before the security of the very city.”

[Ataraxis]

Student or teacher, selfless benefactor or involved in an organ trafficking business: none of that was an issue anymore. Everyone had something on their mind, be it a last-minute spot on the frontlines or the fastest ticket out of a paradise turned hellhole. Indeed, their motives were many and varied, but the glue that lumped them all together was a dire lack of direction and a desperate need for answers. It was then that they felt a rasping touch on their shoulders and turned to her, whoever she was. She had come with empty pockets but hands full of hope, and that was as close as any of them would get to a break, with the way things were unravelling now. It didn’t matter who or what she was: even without a carrot to dangle as incentive, she had the charisma to lead them all by the nose.

That was how her initially spotty following had evolved into a single file of haphazard fruits, some riper than others but all picked fresh from the restless crowds. They were like toddlers in a line, holding onto a fickle leash and following a stranger through muck and mire at the dodgy promise of a treat. ‘Toddlers baring snake fangs, sporting jaunty top hats and armed beyond the teeth, granted.’ Compared to those, the rest of the row seemed all the more innocuous, but Lillian still saw herself as the only duckling on the tail of mother hen.

The girl recognized Terrian by the trademark white of his hat, while she knew Kahlina from the strange mixture of feline and ophidian in her looks. Even without her peculiar memory, she would have remembered those two; both stood out in the ancient hallways of Istien like coal on snow. She, sadly, didn’t; as pale and white as she was, Lillian blended right in. ‘Too much, even. That’s why they, along with pretty much every other student here, probably don’t know me.’

As entertaining as they were, her thoughts were cut short by the ruckus of a breaking scuffle. Armed guards jumped like fleas under the mechanical punches of a man she could only describe as intimidating. His hair was cropped short and shone with a hawkish silver, but that wise color was offset by the disturbing blood drops that glistened in his eyes. And gods be damned, he was simply massive. Perhaps not as much as the face-scarred man who had joined in the procession, this Kross person, but there was a notable difference between an idle titan and one who was wiping the streets with bodies and taking names.

Without a word, Lillian broke from the line and sidled past its helm, between the blue-eyed stranger that had led her here and the rakish Terrian. Bodies were strewn about the colossus in a circle, all brought down with such ease and perfection that it bordered on monotonous. She fell on her knees and inspected them in a hurry, prodding their stomachs and chests with pressuring fingers; most were only writhing, afflicted by no shattered bones or ruptured organs.

One body, however, had broken the geometrical formation, an elf that seemed handsome even with a broken nose and a blood-smeared face. She knew him. On her occasional strolls into the city, she would sometimes see him, upholding his duties with a smile that mended hearts. Now, here he was, obviously unconscious, with a few fractures and an icky sack of something that was swelling above his liver. While pressing both hands on his wounds, she let her eyes wander farther up to the beastly man. He hadn’t noticed her, more concerned by the shards in his bottle than the daggers in his back.

It made her seethe. Nothing more than a bully on the school grounds, she thought, flaunting his strength and making others eat dirt to stave off his lone child’s boredom. Even better, he had chosen the worst possible moment to flex his muscles and strut his brawny stuff. She didn’t know why, but every inch closer to him had constricted her chest, as if a whiff of the air he breathed was enough to rile up her repressed emotions, anger being the first of them. The girl had begun in a low-breath mutter, but her voice was quick to switch from murmur to holler. “Eluriand is on its last leg, and you’re making a scene! Couldn’t you have been a merry drunkard? Ambling down the streets and yelling out ‘I love you’ would at least raise morale!”

What demon had possessed her? Her heart was having an epileptic fit, torn by fury, embarrassment and something else entirely. Her thoughts were a jumble and the sounds that came from outside were a garbled mess of white noise. Was it fear? No. Though she did choose an awful time to speak out her mind, he didn’t frighten her, or at least not in the way that the fickle Kross had struck her. They both gave her chills, but in very different ways: his was the smell of coffins and graveyards, while the other’s was surprisingly bittersweet, like a whiff of the alcohol that seemed so dear to him. Between a gravedigger and a drunken bully, she’d pick the latter any time, though apparently that hadn’t stopped her from telling him off.

‘What is this, then?’ she asked herself worriedly before she felt the guard stir. With a weak smile, she removed her hands, a thin black haze suffusing into the air as it trailed after her palms. The red flow of his nose was stemmed, and the ridge seemed a bit less crooked now. No difference could be seen anywhere else, but she knew she had also stalked his internal bleeding. There were only a few hairline fractures left, but they too were beginning to heal. Whispering into his ear, she told him he would be fine. He groaned, and then fell into a dreamless sleep.

Lillian wobbled to a stand and, with a defiance she never knew was in her, walked up to the heavyset transgressor, feeling her knees weaken with every step. Glass cracked beneath her soles, and within moments she was kneeling before the fallen officer, whose head was limp in a thin puddle of blood, soaking the dark concrete and translucent shards. Looking up again, she saw the giant tower over her small frame, felt the air thicken around them both. There was devilry at work, here, a smell about him that drove her mad. “The city needs everyone’s help, but the way he is right now, he won’t wake up until it’s far too late. That’s why I’m going to help this man, whether you like it or not.” Her mouth had stopped reeling right then, but her mind had followed the impetus. ‘I don’t care what you do to me.’

But she did, far more than she ever thought she would.

[Slayer of the Rot]

Kross's ever calm and collected face stared at the back of the girl's neck as she moved swiftly through the crowd, slipping between tourist, soldier, citizen, and student with a grace the saraelian wasn't sure he could even begin to sum up. In his thirty some years in life, he had dealt with many a devious and shady character, and was forced to learn tones of voice and body language or risk going out on a mark to end up bloody with broken legs in a locked building roaring with flames. Close speculation of the girl, Skie, told him she was wary of him, which was fine. Distance would be kept in that case, meaning he would have to talk less, think more, and reveal as little of his person as possible. The sound of shattering glass drew his attention before he could mull over the situation anymore, and the crowds suddenly surged towards him, past him, trying to push him out of the way to get a good look at the commotion. The elves prided themselves on superiority over other races, but when it came down to it, they showed a sick fascination with scenes of violence. Kross turned, and pushed easily through the clots of people, moving towards the fringe of the crowd, towards the irritating cacophony of steel, hissing as though drawn, and the thumping of fists on flesh.

Godhand Striker.

Kross's composed face briefly lost it's calm veneer and twisted into a mixture of ire and apprehension. Though formed some years ago, the memories of the superhuman mercenary were fresh, summoned up unwillfully and swiftly. Smells of vodka and stale popcorn and the sweat stained canvas of a ring. Two attractive young redheaded woman...though the one on the left was bloodied, torn in two, missing patches from badly decayed flesh.

The saraelian grunted, and tapped at his temple, squeezing his eyes shut. Opening painful wounds would make him careless, but the sharp crack of a whip pulled him back to the problem at hand much easier than he would have managed of his own accord. One of the students that had stood out amongst the group Skie had chosen for help, baring thin, snake like fangs, stood over a toppled Tel Aglarim soldier, the whip still in her hand. Another of the students, a small, dreadfully plain looking thing, was shouting loudly at Godhand. Kross's face had returned to it's calm, passive state, but his troubles remained. He could almost feel the tempers mounting for an explosive show.

"Stop," he said plainly and coolly to Kahlina, wrapping a hand gently around the handle of the whip, just above her hand. "Our purpose is to leave Raiaera safely. If we embarass and humiliate the guard, surely we will make ourselves a target for their ire." The saraelian had bent to talk to the woman eye to eye, and now straightened, glancing out towards the obstinate, silver eyed mercenary and the little fury filled student her outburst almost cute, had it been in another time, and in a better atmosphere...

A dry smell rose suddenly in the air, almost seeming to be tinged with the scent of eastern spices, and the dust that had lined the streets and lazily puffed at the stomp of panicked feet earlier in the day began began to rise to waist level. Clad in gunmetal blue delyn armor, the broad shouldered, frowning form of Kross pushed gently through the border of the crowd, his greaves clanking upon the stones of the street. He stopped behind the student, her face flush with her fury...as well as something else. Closer to Godhand, the saraelian's senses prickled with interest at a change in the atmosphere. Though his eyes certainly could not observe it, his nose did, though he felt nothing at the smell. The same could not be said for the girl before him, though.

"Calm down, young one. I realize that you are upset over this man's actions, but the sooner you heal that elf you feel so strongly about, the sooner he can get back to war, no?" His tone was pleasant, but no warmth lined his expressions as he spoke. The fog of dust retreated away from the aftermath, twisting through the legs of the gathered and gawking onlookers like ethereal snakes, vanishing down alleyways, and drains. Stepping closer to Godhand, Kross glanced at the bottle of whiskey the mercenary held, and then looked into the broken window, lifting his hand to it. Inside of the bar, a like bottle rattled and clattered gently against it's neighbors, and then shot across the room, and outside, into the saraelian's hand. He then held it out to Godhand.

"Here. There's glass shards in that bottle, I can sense it. Have a clean drink, on me."

((From here on in I will start calling Dan, Kross, as it will be his alias and identity during the length of the FQ. For those who know Dan previously - there's a lot of people in the quest, and I barely glanced through - he's changed his face, added new scars, so wyou wouldn't recognize him.))

[Skie and Avery]

It was how these things happened, really. A small drama attracted more, always more. The avalanche started and she was the last person that could get it stopped. Kahlina stepped up to help her, Terrian advising her, Lillian angry, Kross moving forward to be another voice in her ear. And through it all, all these leaders that were striving to forge forward, Skie couldn't take it. Were this handful of children to step and face Xem'Zund now, they would all topple over and be cast aside like loose leaves before the hurricane.

She sighed, having found her feet once again and walked forward, with a grim set to her mouth. She moved towards Godhand, glaring at Kross as she passed him. Her words, though her eyes were dead set on Godhand Striker, were pointed towards Lillian and the elf.

"We're wasting time and energy by setting ourselves against someone who could be a great help." She knew of Godhand's strength, it was impossible to have trained in Radasanth and not have heard the stories. While she'd enlisted Terrian to help keep her and the others safe - though the question of Kahlina really needing it was debatable - but Kross was huge. He reminded her of someone she'd only seen once or twice, a memory of laughter in the Silver Pub. He looked nothing like the bouncer for the bar, but his strength echoed that of the human man she remembered seeing. It was a thought that scared her, because anyone that her aunt respected was worth the fear.

"Terrian.. I know this man personally, though perhaps not as intimately as my mother did." She smiled, the look wry as her eyes followed the new wrinkles of Godhand's face - most of them seeming as if they'd been set in place there by unstoppable scowling. She could not bring herself to say what she felt - that perhaps his brash stubborn refusal to be cowed would end up saving them all. Instead, she smiled back at the moon elf, and touched Godhand gently on the shoulder.

"The security of the city is something we are no longer concerning ourselves with. Eluriand will fall, and nothing we do here today will stop that. We have other duties. We have to get the hell out of here, and I've a way." She started walking then, passing by Lillian, pausing only to let her fingertips brush the top of the girl's head gently, and then she was down the boulevards. When she stood again before the Turlin school, Griffin came from the shadows.

He wore his armor now, of the same blue metals that bound her neck and wrists, though it had none of the same glow as her delicate shackles. From beneath his helm, engraved with the face of a demon, he regarded her with bright green eyes. Every time their gazes locked, Skie was reminded so much of her mother and brother, and the betrayal upon her family that she had been forced into. Her mouth set in a thin line, and she vowed, staring at him, that her acts here would make up for those tainted moments.

"Have you done what I asked?" he asked softly. She looked over her shoulder, seeing glimpses of a long tail, dark hair, white, and a larger body. They were hidden from her quick look by crowds and shadows and the early morning mist that didn't want to go away, but she was sure they had followed. She nodded, but for a split second, as she could feel the pulse of Griffin's magic, too strange to be deflected by Raiaera's defenses, whipped out. She could feel herself connected to others, to the few leaders she'd managed to pull to her, to the snivelling simple students who gathered with them. And then, she felt something like a hook driving itself into the soles of her feet, and the world went into a burst of every color imaginable.

When the pain subsided, and she could finally open her eyes, they widened with horror. The chaotic street scene that had been strewn out before her was gone, replaced now with empty alleys and still-smoldering buildings. Gone were the guards, and the streets were strewn with bodies. She could hear the low moans of a couple of people, still alive, still suffering, but they were so very few. She stood in the middle of a broken city, the broken gates down the long lane that stretched before her. Instead of fields and farms stretched out towards the horizon beyond, as she'd seen in Eluriand, there was only tall trees, stretched ever upwards, crowned in hues of ruby and blood.

Griffin had teleported them to Carnelost.

[RumpleGrumblePuss]

Some people are just to stupid to stay down. I had to fight back a small smirk when the man put the elf down a second time. One guy against several, now that’s just wrong. I watched the regulating small skirmish and wondered why I bothered to topple one of the elves. It was more than obvious that the man could have probably taken on twice the number with little problem. Through the taking of sides by the others in the group and the waste of precious time, I wondered just what had led a race of people that as a whole were seen as a gentle race to break down and target intervals when everything they knew was at stake. For a moment I couldn’t help but wonder if Lólindir would have taken a side, and which one.

The light touch of a hand grabbing the handle of my whip and the order accompanying it drew me out of the silent musings. I lifted on clawed finger in warning as the man passed by. That’s the guy that for all intents and purposes told Skie to ‘go to hell’ when she asked him to join us. No one changes an opinion that fast, unless they want something and think they can get it easily. I resolved to keep an eye on the man called Kross.

Recoiling my whip, I held it in hand rather than put it away. I had lost my friend, been recruited into this mismatched group and was more than a little worried about my survival in the coming days, but I was not dumb enough to think myself safe. Glancing at the others and the downed guards I as no other option than to follow Skie, at least she seemed to have a solid idea of what she was doing and where she was going. For all of the talk I had heard today, while hers was nearly non existent it spoke louder than those that shouted.

The now familiar sensation of magic slithered through me, this touch though seemed different and off kilter some how. It left me feeling as if the core of my being had been touched and tainted in some unknown way. I gritted my teeth and hated it.

The disorientation lasted several moments, I found myself gritting my teeth against a combination of pain and vertigo. Crouching to regain my balance I looked around. For a long moment I simply soaked in the sight of the ravaged town. The smells assaulted my nose, smoke, torn earth, blood; I could feel my nostrils flare to take in the scent even thought I didn’t really want to smell the scent of death. I took a step towards the nearest voice I could hear crying out in pain and hopelessness. I looked down at the body of a man for a moment before I nudged him with a foot, rolling him over to see his face.

For a long moment I stared at the milky eyes of the dead before my gaze slowly moved down to the ragged wound in his chest. I shook my head and looked away glancing at the seemingly bloodstained forest that loomed close by. Despite the cries of the wounded the silence was a little unnerving. I picked up no bird song or movement of animals or rustling of the accursed plants that killed. Just the ever present murmuring of the wind.

“We should burn everybody so that they can’t be taken for Xem’zund’s army. We also need to consider the fact of killing those too wounded to waste time healing.”

With a quiet sigh I unclasped my coat and wrapped it around my waist, wrapping and anchoring my tail. I chose the nearest structure that was decently intact and began dragging the man’s body towards it.

[Godhand]

Unbelievable. You can take down any number of armed guards in any number of ways and more or less predict how their buddies are going to react, but there's never any accounting for the mob. The mob is fickle. The mob is always watching and always waiting. The mob is as violent as it's most unhinged member. And the mob is always quick to judge after a scuffle.

Even as he was sipping his whiskey-glass cocktail, Godhand had watched her out of the corner of his eye. She walked through the crowd seamlessly; careful not to bump into anyone or step on anybody's toes. A very kind sort of shuffle through the bodies. Even if she had walked into anybody, he doubted they'd have objected. Gleaming strands of dark hair and savage blue eyes; she was something, alright. A kind soul? Perhaps. She leaned down in front of the only soldier worth half a damn and began her work. Godhand had worked with enough healers to be able to spot the execution and variations of the craft, but that smoky mist she seemed to produce was new to him. He'd never seen anyone combine what seemed to be dark magic with healing. Well, apart from Necromancy. But that wasn't really healing as much as it was reanimation.

Godhand could already see the bones getting set back into place and the blood receding up into his nose. Whatever that style of magic was, she seemed to be quite capable in it. He was surprised there was still someone like that roaming within the city walls in relative freedom. The mercenary had assumed they'd draft anybody with any sort of useful skill up into the battlements as cannon fodder for the undead. They'd tried to pull it on him, anyway. Maybe he just had one of those faces.

As the mercenary considered this, the girl suddenly looked up and he could tell she'd already started to boil. The healer hadn't even finished patching the poor bastard up before starting to yell at him. All sorts of slanderous accusations against his character and habits. She stood up halfway through her tirade to accentuate her words once she'd finished fixing the soldier. She walked towards him steadily, her voice never cracking or wavering. She was a tough girl, he thought. Most men had trouble looking him in the eye while speaking kind words; here she was cursing his name while leaning on top of his most recent victim, daring him to stop her. Still, underneath the hard words there was some worry. She was brave, but at the end of the day he was still the man with the gun. The first couple of seconds of her healing the officer were sloppy, like she was afraid he was going to pistol-whip her in the back of the head. And if she'd been a man he probably would have. As it was though, he couldn't bring himself to strike a lady. His one weak point as well as what some would argue was his only redeeming quality. Still, he felt the need to defend his behavior.

"It's funny you should mention it; I am that type of drunk!" He looked at the bottle in his hand with disdain and a bit of sadness. "I'm just not drunk yet."

That got her looking like she might pop a blood vessel any instant. The swordsman raised his hands in mock surrender.

"You're not gonna hit me, are you?"

Before she could respond, a man walked forward from the crowd. He was big fellow; about two inches taller than Godhand. There was something familiar about him that the mercenary simply couldn't place, however. The people parted before him in a manner which reminded him of an old friend. But even though his friend was a braying jackass most of the time, there wasn't an ounce of malice in him. This man practically oozed it out of his pores. Still, Godhand didn't feel as if he was going to make a move. The way he walked was more regal than hostile, and when he finally reached the swordsman he merely summoned a bottle from within the pub and offered it to him. Godhand accepted it with gratefully and smiled at the man.

"I like you. Let's be friends."

However, before he could respond, yet another face emerged from the mob. This one however made Godhand feel a thousand times worse, and a little hesitant to remain in the area. Skie dan Sabriel. He'd known her mother. Known? He was young back then, and a lot more stupid. Back then he thought he loved her mother. And maybe he had. But she was dead and he was dying and Eluriand was on it's way. Time wounds all heels, he supposed. But that didn't mean he liked it having rubbed in his nose. He felt the need to say something, anything, to the daughter of Natamrael of the Moontae. The words simply didn't come. As quickly as she'd appeared before him, she vanished once more into the throng of onlookers. He dropped the drink the mysterious warrior had handed him, resolving to chase Skie. Before the bottle had even hit the ground, however, he felt the world around him shift just as the glass shattered on the concrete.

After a hard night of drinking you wake up with a horrendous hangover from Hell. You're in so much pain that you can barely gather the presence of mind to wish yourself to die. Still, you get up and amble your way to the kitchen. You grab a glass of water and drink about half of it, then pause. The next part is the bane of the alcoholic. The water hits your stomach acid and then bounces back up, getting caught in your throat. And then it freezes there for what seems like an eternity. And you are a fool; you are in agony while half a glass of water decides if it's going up or down.

That was exactly the feeling the mercenary suddenly experienced. The unpleasant tunnel-vision and vertigo combined with the general malaise of a bad stomach virus left him feeling dizzy and holding out his hand for something to prop him up. He stopped when he felt a broad chest, decided it was close enough and then waited for his body to adjust to the violent shift in space. When the nausea and spotty vision finally passed he looked up to see that he'd propped himself up on the armored stranger.

"Well you're just the gift that keeps on giving, aren't you friend? I owe you one."

He stopped slouching and reared back to his full height to take a proper survey of the area. Apparently that 'here we go' feeling was them getting hurled through time and space. They looked to be in some sort of God-forsaken battlefield. The moans of the dying served as proper ambiance for the general scene of carnage before them. Godhand, however, was more concerned about their location region-wise. He muttered a curse when he noticed the ominous crimson forest fencing them in from all directions. He reached into his coat, checking nearly every pocket before finding what he was looking for. The mercenary pulled out a pack of matches and spoke, removing a single one from the rest and striking a flame on the back of the pack.

"I think I know where this is. Even if I'm wrong, I think we better burn fucking everything just in case."

There were important questions that demanded to be asked, such as "who are you people" and "why have you brought me here", but at the moment Godhand was more concerned about the immediate danger the Red Forest presented.

[Ataraxis]

Not a roar or rumble, not a crackle or snap – not a piddling sound, and yet the city shuddered. The cinder bricks on the wall, the rutted cobbles of the streets, even the lingering mists from a morning past: everything seemed suddenly out of phase, shapes and outlines turned hazy like the blur of a ghost. Lillian bore a face of futility as she saw the fabric of space unravel, saw the colors melt from the blue sky above, the grey stone about, the red officer below, mingling and swirling down a metaphysical drain. Something unseen wrapped around her ankles, her waist, her whole body, and dragged her in as well, cold and merciless like a fiend from the depths. The girl could not fight its unrelenting pull; the beast would not be denied.

The feeling was all too familiar.

Lillian hit the bottom of the abyss much faster than she had expected. Her lithe frame had been compressed to the point of crushing bones, before being stretched so thin that her muscles were on the verge of ripping. She had shivered without stop, not because cold assailed her like winter winds, but because the vacuum of this dark tunnel had sucked away all warmth from her body and a parcel of its life. That was why the girl couldn’t be happier when the harsh an grainy touch of earth had struck her knees, when a breeze had carried with it a cold and ferrous smell. Butterflies were still storming inside her stomach, trying to break out of their fleshy prison, but the vertigo was at least fading – the same could not be said of her confusion.

‘I’m really starting to hate all manners of teleportation.’ Lillian had once been sent from the smoggy streets of Alerar to the snowy wastes of Salvar by a defective piece of dwarven machinery, but some would say that developing such a hatred for the business for that alone was a tad exaggerated. However, when that was teamed with a recent ordeal, in which she was sent to a dimensional trap and from which she had barely escaped with her life, her feelings become much more understandable. The girl had a strange knack of getting into supernatural troubles, and she had learned to deal with the circumstances accordingly, but this was just too much to handle in a day. ‘And it wasn’t even noon yet.’

Past the worn paths and fissured walls that embowered her was a tall brush of scarlet, barely swaying as if stilled in time. She saw a few red leaves seesaw in the dead winds, tainting the earth below as they fell like drips of blood. ‘Lindequalmë...’ Her strides were hesitant as she scanned the surroundings, realizing with a bud of fear that her description of the lieu was not wholly metaphorical; bodies were lumped together in bleeding corpse-mounds that lined the edges of town and the ruins of a makeshift rampart. ‘And this must be Carnelost.’

Kahlina had already begun taking action, having decided to drag corpses into piles to smooth the process of their cremation. The dead would not get a proper burial, but being burned into smouldering ashes would always be a better alternative to being turned into undead peons. That being said, Lillian did have qualms about the latter part of her plan, which consisted in killing the severely wounded for a trivial gain of time. If this was Carnelost, then the armies of the necromancer were hours gone, shuffling northward to Eluriand.

Before she could interject, however, his voice rang into her ears, echoing the woman’s opinion, with an added taste of crass eloquence. Lillian made a wincing scowl, walking away from the stranger who suddenly seemed much less intimidating, much less... provocative. It was peculiar: the farther away she was from the giant of a man, the more in control she was of her emotions. He still irked her to no end, especially with the mocking banter he had given her right before this still inexplicable change of location. He and Kross, that is: they were two sides of the same coin and seeing them together, one teasing and poking fun at her, the other cold and apathetic, both impossibly patronizing, lit her face with fire and made her ears smoke. Perhaps it was due to her heritage as a Fallien woman, or perhaps it was because one could only be so docile before going stark raving mad, but at this very moment, she was developing a rather low opinion of men and their machismo.

Lillian, not without a thimble of reluctance, set out to give her fellow schoolmate a helping hand, so as to ignore the newcomer and his newest bosom buddy. After all, busy hands were happy hands, even when they were busy schlepping around cadavers by the collar. If it were only for the rotting blood and the stagnant air of death, her insides would not have turned, but she had noticed lone stumps of flesh strewn about the soaked dirt, severed in a hurry to stalk the advance of corruption. ‘Self amputation, with help, against her will...’ she guessed glumly as they flitted past the edges of her vision.

Something soft met her sole. Lillian repressed a squeal, not daring to look down. After a moment of idle squirming, she resumed her work, narrowing her eyes as she huffed and puffed, tugging on the arm of a boy not much older than herself, with long, glossy, auburn hair and frozen eyes that would never thaw. This alone scared her terribly, and the corners of her eyes were already salty with a mix of tears and sweat. Not sating her curiosity had been for the best; she wouldn’t have kept her meagre breakfast upon seeing a child’s foot, growing smaller even by the diligent labour of the fire ants that were swarming over it, famished.

[Slayer of the Rot]

'My patience is wearing. Perhaps I was meant to be a sleeper unit for the first installment of this war, but Hromagh, it feels like such a waste of my time and strength.' Kross said nothing in response to the mercenary but turn away from him, his dark hazel eyes moving across the bunched crowd, not seeing their impression of the armored titan, but seeing numbers. Same may be armed, but none would have the strength to penetrate a solid inch of delyn plate. His face remained as ever stony and unreadable as it had been, but the hand at his hip slowly began to curl, ignoring Skie as she moved past her, burshing off her suspicious glare like trivial rain water on his shoulders. His curling fingers had formed solidly into a weapon far deadlier than any sword or cannon at the use of the Tel Aglarim.

Finally, his jaw set, teeth grinding, and took a brisk pace at Skie's trail. Any longer and fury would overcome logic, sending him into a blood frenzy, and surely, Xem'Zund would be furious at his failure and lack of restraint. 'Surely, my purpose is cemented by the appearance of the Starslayer's daughter. But what of the others, the ones I was chartered to protect? Will I be told to overlook them as insects, left to squirm and squeal in the mud, to live as long to see The Forgotten consume this world? Or will I be permitted to crush the breath out of them?' The Saraelian's train of thought was suddenly derailed with great and abrupt force as he felt the pulse of unknown, foreign magic, then the sensation of a cold blade biting into his heels, and the city vanished from his sight before he could release his breath. A great and unsettling sensation of disembodiment and detachment from his power, the bones of the world, the brown and grainy flesh of Althanas washed through him, causing his stomach to turn and twist violently. A throaty growl was lost in the airless, soundless void of the abyss around him, and it's sight was lost as well, as Kross pressed a hand to his face and shut his eyes.

A thought later, he felt his knees shudder, and his feet press against a solid, valid surface that seemed to shudder ever so slightly as he struck it. A deep breath, hissing between clenched teeth, brought his resolve back and he stood straight and blank faced again, glancing towards the mercenary as he worded his thanks. "Not a problem. My name is Kross, by the way."

As Godhand righted himself and surveyed their new surroundings, Kross found himself needing to do no such thing. As the others gawked in disbelief, the saraelian stood silent and still as he felt the soil and stone below his feet, sensed the blood soaking into the ground, felt the menacing presence of Lindequalmë to his left. Unlike most sane, rational beings, the proximity of the Red Forest, while first inciting anxiety in his heart, soon calmed him. The touch of the Forgotten One's curse, the primal hunger of the hunters padding through the leaf strewn paths, felt familiar to him. Kross arched his back and drew in a deep breath, one that was heavily choked with the smell of blood and fire.

"Stop. You are only exercising a display of futility." Kross turned his stare towards Kahlina and Lillian, as they drug bodies to piles for burning.

"I understand your display of compassion and morality, but the dead no longer belong to us. They belong to Xem'Zund, and soon enough, so will the dying. It's a painful and cruel reality..." Finally, Kross moved, his armor clanking with each step. He moved with purpose and authority; it seemed as though each step was measured efficency and intent. He stopped before an injured soldier, breathing shallowly where lay slumped against the cracked and worn wall of a stone watchtower. The saraelian stooped, gently removing the man's chestplate, settling a hand against his chest.

"But it is a reality that must be faced. And should you choose to ignore it, you will surely be killed in the ensuing battles, and join the ranks of the Corrupted's legions." Kross's hand moved towards the dying man's head. With a sharp snap of his wrist, he rapped his knuckles against the man's temples with such force that he died instantly. The saraelian rose, turning his gaze over his shoulder.

"We are in Carnelost. This is no place to tarry; it is a charnel house now. Surely, the Black's magic will raise those men you are gathering for cremation to go right for your throat."

[Skie and Avery]

By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes...

Skie stood amonst the dead, startled by the thought. She was sure she hadn't thought it, even as she had begun to drag an elf whose head she could see straight through over to one of the mock funeral pyres that were being stacked around. There weren't as many of the dead that she had first thought - Zem'Xund must have gotten to most of them before the army had moved on. Why were these left? The knowledge that they were against a necromancer was clearly weighing on everyone's mind. She tried as she might to work faster; The Red Forest was hardly the place for them to go fleeing through in a mad panic. If they could burn the bodies before they needed to, all would be well. It was then that another voice rang out, causing Skie to pause, looking over her shoulder with suspicion brimming in her eyes.

"Kross," she called, her hand on the hilt of her sword as she turned to face him. "How is it you know so much..."

Before she could finish her question, a steely grip slammed around her waist, dragging her down and towards the pile of the dead, or rather, the pile of bodies that had just a few momens prior been dead.

[RumpleGrumblePuss]

Panting from excursion, I cursed under my breath while thanking the gods that my new body could not sweat, unlike the others. Silently I agreed with Godhand, everything should be burned. Including that gods forsaken forest. I shot a glance at the blood colored forest that would have had most intelligent creatures running. Huffing and wrinkling my nose, I fought to rid the stench of rotting flesh and drying blood that permeated the air, the cool, mild breezes did little to dispel the stench.

Hands still locked around the forearm of what used to be a man, I pondered about the weight between the living and the dead. In death a person seemed heavier. As if the soul that had once dwelled within the body, giving it life, some how bore it up, lightening the body. Without the soul to lighten the body, giving it the ability to walk across the earth, it seemed as if by weight itself the earth sought to reclaim what was hers.

Annoyed, I shook my head at Kross' words. He understood nothing. If we were to leave these bodies as they were, they would be taken my Xem'zund and a small unit of the unholy creatures would be at our heels. It was better to take the time and risk to burn them. For a moment I glanced down into the milky, glazed brown eye of the man I drug over to the pyre. I wondered that with half of his face crushed and obvious damaged to the brain if he would rise again give a chance.

Blinking in surprise at the unexpected connection my mind suddenly made. I chased my thoughts ignoring the actions of the others around me. If they are truly zombies, like those I once watched in the movies on Earth, then again severing the spinal cord or destroying the brain would stop them. Hell, that would stop pretty much anything. I haven't come up against one of Xem'zund's risen yet so I don't know if they are capable of fast movement or speech. I wonder how much effect the decay of the tissues has on strength and movement, or does Xem'zund have a way to counter the effects of time on his creations?

A painfully tight grip on my hand ripped me from my thoughts, blinking, I looked down to see awareness gleaming in the eye of the dead man I had been dragging. A gasp, little more than a girlish squeal of surprise and fight escaped me as I tugged on my hand, clawing at the hand that held me. Stomping, on the throat of the newly risen man I could hear it gurgle. A hard kick that left my foot painfully numb broke the neck. A sigh of relief left me as the grip on my hand loosened. Just to make sure I kicked and stomped on the already broken skull, shattering it and mashing the brain.

"Sever the spine and destroy the brain!" I shouted, glancing around then charging after Skie as she was pulled into a pile of writhing dead bodies.

[Godhand]

The whole team seemed to be about to implode upon itself. 'Team' was a generous thing to call it, anyway; it had been a pretty grabass unit from the start but now it was starting to really show. There was Skie, who was an okay kid but way too young for this sort of thing and the catgirl who was ballsy but maybe a bit brittle. Kross seemed to know what was what but was far too pleasant to be a mercenary which meant he was either schitzophrenic or had something up his sleeve. Either way he could become an obstacle later which was upsetting given that he seemed like the only one Godhand would have any sort of trouble putting down.

He thought he'd seen a sneering elf with a little more experience than the rest of the college kids but it looked like he'd gotten left behind in the warp. It was probably for the best; he seemed like the type that'd be on him for every little thing and he really didn't have the patience for that, especially not now. There was also a pretty little librarian with either a derringer hidden somewhere on her or just plain crazy enough to yell at an unhinged cop-beating gangster. He hoped it was the former; the last thing he needed was some sort of whacked-out broad hounding him through the entire trip about why this or that act of brutality was necessary.

And finally, there was Godhand. Hungover, strung out, paranoid and dumped into the middle of a zombie warzone on no notice. He was probably the worst member of the group in the general human sense; a man on the move and just sick enough to be totally confident. They'd have been better off with one of the rookie guardsmen. At least they had a general sense of purpose in the war. He just wanted to get out of there and to Hell with the elves.

And then, of course, there was the handle. A veritable nursery of doe-eyed undergrad boys who looked like girls and girls who looked like women. Totally inept and terrified for their lives, without one goddamn chest hair between them. Leading them through the Red Forest was going to be like riding a psychotic horse through a burning stable. And as bad as he was, or as people would have you think he was, Godhand simply couldn't leave them to be devoured by those cursed woods. At least not the girls.

Just as Godhand was about to comment on the urgent need for them to stop bickering, set fire to the whole Goddamn place and then run for the nearest hill, Kahlina's prediction came true. Almost at the same time, all the corpses in the demolished village sprung back to life. Kahlina and Skie were attacked, obviously, but he had no time to worry about that. The swordsman had been teleported the closest to what looked like the town guardsmen's last stand. The ground around him sprang up, rotting and green like some sort of terrible living carpet. His instinctual reaction was to perform the classic chest and arm pump to propel as many of the foul undead away from him as he could, but he supressed it. One shot from him was enough to send one of those creatures flying, possibly into the midst of a mob of very unstable students. Horrendous. He could see it in his head already; they'd run off in every direction and be killed instantly by the zombies and lethal fauna that milled around the outskirts of the village.

Instead he unsheathed his Murasame in one blinding movement. He'd never used it before; he'd never found it necessary. It was a masterwork. A metal that would never break and never dull fashioned into one of the sharpest blades known to any race on althanas. He'd had to murder a feudal lord before even getting his hands on it, and even then he still had to have a curse removed before he could unsheathe it. But now it was his prized posession. He never thought he'd need to use it; he would simply wear it, like a medal of honor. One of the greatest blades on the planet, and it belonged to him. It felt...Affirming. It proved something. He didn't know what, but it proved something.

The first slice Godhand ever made with the fearsome weapon vivisected the once-man before him. This seemed to spur him on; he'd never seen a weapon shear through meat like that. It was almost ethereal; like burning light. His fist tightened around the hilt. The fact that it was sharp enough to slice an enemy without the kinetic force of Godhand's blow propelling their bodies away didn't go unnoticed by the swordsman. Suddenly he felt like a reaper in a wheat field. He could mow and mow and the bodies would simply perish on the spot instead being flung around as if by a warhammer.

Realizing the potential of this he dashed forward into the crowd of monsters, slashing and spinning and twisting and dancing. He was a whirlwind. The Murasame glowed like Truth in his hands; Truth made weapon. The former soldiers never stood a chance. Even if they'd been alive they never would have felt the strike. The blade could have cleaved them in two and it would have simply felt like a breeze around their midsection. He suddenly wished he had a second sword just like it; the desire to imitate a tornado in a crowd of monsters not clever enough to duck or back away was far more than any man could take. And may the bits fall where they may.

By the time he was done he was gasping for breath. The stink of death clung to the inside of his nostrils but he didn't care. Despite what nearly everyone thought of him, Godhand took no pleasure in mindless violence. Sticking a screwdriver into some wiseguy's knee? Some folks might enjoy that but to him it was just a job, like digging a ditch or pushing a cart up a slope. But this was something different. This weapon was like nothing he'd ever experienced; for a brief moment his natural strength, combined with the ferocious sharpness and the inability for quick movement on the enemy's part gave him a profound sense of...Well, it was the closest thing he'd ever come to a religious experience. For a brief moment he'd tasted the power of God.

And all around him, the carpet of flesh clung to the ground once again.

[Ataraxis]

They rode on dead winds, these waves of formless dark, chiming through the gnarled boughs, pulsing with each waft of bleeding leaves. The sullen glow of daylight had faltered like the windswept flame of a candle, for a moment plunging shape, form and color into a thick shroud of uncertainty. In that moment did the wicked breath descend, sweeping across the cadavers of stone and flesh, unseen by all, but very much felt: a twisted murmur to the ear, clammy hands around the heart, a vile breath that pocks the neck. It blew mocking over the sanguineous field, taunting the living and stirring the sleepers, the absent, in more ways than one. Lillian did not need to hear the first scream to know that a terrible sacrilege had been performed.

There was life in Carnelost once more, yet no reason to rejoice.

From their pyres of meat, they crawled like waking worms after the rain. The funeral fires had left many singed and fewer naked, but there was an anger fuming behind their blank and milky eyes. Perhaps not their own, the girl thought absently. There was a shadow pulling their strings, and it was quite unfortunate that she knew its name. In the end, the Necromancer was never far enough; his influence could reach across nations, yet until now, she had entertained the naïve belief that they would be safer on scorched grounds he had already despoiled, that she could put all the dead to rest before his taint took hold.

They shuffled nearer, drawn groans escaping from ripped throats and rotting tongues. Lillian stepped back as fear gripped her chest, but was jolted to a stop as a weight tugged on her hands. She was still dragging the boy, holding him desperately by the armpits after having torn off his linen collar. She contemplated the still white of his visage, the peace that was splayed everywhere in his youthful features; it was a sad thought, but his undisturbed death brought upon her a sense of comfort. There was no way for her to bring them the slumber they deserved, she knew it. ‘But my soul be damned if I let them raise him.’

Slick, wet sounds had reached her ears, like the viscous drip that came with bodies rent. This was the work of the foul-mouthed titan, the silver hawk that had somehow thrust upon her a flurry of sensations she had always held in high contempt; even now she kept her distances, fearing what nearness to the behemoth would make her do. Wielding a curved blade that shone wickedly through the blackened blood that marred its argent sheen, the man was quickly disposing of his opposition, cleaving through their flesh like a hot knife through fetid, rotting butter. The thought that, back then, he could have done so just as easily with her hung gloomily in her mind, sending another shiver through her being.

Then she noticed that, from the corner of his crimson eyes, he was looking at her. The first instant was spent in flustered confusion, the second in dire realization: alarm had plagued his cursory gaze. Though the undead were slow, their advance had been quick, gone unnoticed by the conflicted girl. Four swarmed around her, dragging burnt grass and humid earth with their every bogging step, eyes without aim rolling inside sagging lids. She wanted to yell, but a bony hand had wrapped around her mouth, stifling it shut, unshakeable no matter how hard she threshed to free herself. Her hands met nerveless flesh, feeling like frozen meat, and her boots sank effortlessly into drooping limbs and sagging paunches when they didn’t whip at the air. The stench was overwhelming, pulling her closer and closer to the looming darkness in her mind. She couldn’t breathe – she wouldn’t. The drunk, the bully, the slayer, she saw him change tracks, saw him rush, but he was too far. Her body was lifted, vertigo assailed her.

Lillian couldn’t remember when she closed her eyes. The blindness, however, only made her focus on the defilement of her other senses. The taste of rot was seeping into her mouth, bits of skin peeling from the forceful hand upon it. The moans were ever louder, maddening wails that rose into her ears like a hellish warble. Creeping fingers slid over and under her dress, spreading decay onto her skin. Her first thought was that they would use her, but when the fingers began pressing into the softness of her belly, she understood their goal. These monsters were without direction, without orders to execute; as such, they only responded to the body’s instinct. Rather than lust, they showed insatiable hunger. She didn’t waste the time to wonder which was worse. Only a cavernous voice, akin to the echoes of midnight, resounded in her mind.

Four sets of bleeding teeth froze inches short of her abdomen, trembling as if they were fighting against an invisible force. Lillian hung in limbo, cold sweats dripping down her neckline, teeth bared and cringing as her eyes were clamped shut, this time in focus rather than fear. Something rang clear in the air, like the strum of a wire. Black lines were trailing across the undead faces, over the noses, beneath the eyes, crosswise and slantways, thickening until they began to ooze a slightly redder tint. Their growls had lost monotony, sounding like the whimpers of dogs, if that was even possible for mindless grunts. The black traces had spread farther down to the hands and their exposed chests, forming an obscure latticework upon their blanched skin. They shuddered, Lillian shouted, the wire twanged. Putrefied blood gushed as chunks of flesh, bone and sinew thumped into the ground beneath, impregnating the soil with gurgling pools.

Lillian fluttered to the ground, her fall amortized by the soft grass. By some miracle, her white dress remained almost immaculate, save for a thin smear of sprayed blood at its knee-high hem. The girl panted like mad, eyes wide in a mixture of relief and horror. Lifting her hands, she watched ten wispy black strands hang loosely from her fingers, spreading outwards to stop in the piles of hewn meat around her. In her shock, she rose to her feet, but fell when the blood rushed to her head. The threads diffused into the air like smoke, no longer sustained by her subconscious.

A soothing wave lapped at the edges of her mind, and her heart jumped, now seeming to skip every few beats. Looking up, she saw a familiar face, but she had remembered it harsher, more distant and dreadful. The worry written all over it had somehow transformed his apathetic expression, which roused in the teenager a set of feelings she didn’t overtly detest. Bewildered by this change, Lillian crawled backwards, averting her sky blue gaze from his blood red stare.

“D-Don’t come close…” The girl shied away, seeming smaller by the second, her knees shaking uncontrollably. “Please,” she implored weakly, no longer certain if she was telling him to leave, or quite the opposite.

[Slayer of the Rot]

"Do not be stupid, Skie dan Sabriel." Kross's passive, unaffected tone had changed, and carried a barbed edge with it, speaking even as he moved, even as the ghoul drew in the woman to feast on her warmth, her blood, her life. A chakram appeared, floating in the air above the back of his hand as he jabbed his index and middle finger towards her; it sliced across the gap, spinning rapidly, and removed the top of the undead's skull cleanly. Clenching his hand into a fist, the chakram vanished, and he looked around him, taking in such a familiar sight. Men and women in broken bloody armor, with broken, bloody bodies were rising with blank eyes. The stink of rotting meat, hot and sour, filled his nostrils. For a moment, he felt the tail of a black coat dust his leg, a thin blade's hilt in his hand, and the sky go red like rust or blood - and then he was moving, grabbing the leg of a looming wooden watch tower.

"Your father fought with this menace years ago and even he was unable to completely destroy it. How can you people be so dense as to not think it would be a simple task for an evil so powerful to reach out to its new bloody dominion and raise a number of flesh hungry minions?" Kross's blood was boiling in his veins; his temper seething and threatening to spill over. Tugging at the watchtower's leg, it splintered, and though he did not touch the others, they shattered as well. A number of the ghouls shuffled forward, piercing him that thousand yard stare that was so familiar had begun to move straight for him, others seeking easier prey from the gaggle of shrieking, sweating, crying students. The titan lifted the watchtower over his head, and brought it down upon several of the dead, crushing them instantly. Raising the huge, cracked wooden weapon over his head, he brought it down one more time, smashing any of those that still squirmed. The beam in his head collapsed from the two blows, and the Saraelian was moving again, hands flexing with agitation, clenching and opening with each step.

A ghoul lunged at him, and the next moment, its head was sailing through the air to come crashing down in the wreckage of the watchtower. The headless body still came, and Kross simply pushed it to the ground with his bloody, outstretched hand. Moving into a small crowd of them, the titan's hands moved like warhammers and axes; enormous strength smashing their skulls to bits with heavy handed, over head blows, cleaving straight through their putrid flesh with his bare fingers.

In a few moments, the armored Saraelian seemed to lose control, ripping the dead into pieces with his bare hands. A few of the ghouls were lucky enough to leap upon the wild eyed Kross's back as he mowed down the shambling horde, their teeth snapping down upon the plates of his armor. Foul slobber spotted the back of his neck and cheeks before reached over his shoulders and swung them down to the ground as though they weighed nothing. Twin spikes of stone erupted from the earth, piercing their skulls, and Xem'Zund's hold on their bodies were no more.

Curved crests of rock burst from the ground next as Kross waved his hands upwards in the air, then, arching his fingers in the shape of poised claws, he brought them down in a swift motion. Several cracks rang out the air and the crests separated into a several blades of grey stone the orbited around his form. As one of the dead fell into his line of sight, one of the stone blades would dart through the air and behead it.

"This was an unnecessary risk," he grumbled as he wiped a smear of blood from his cheek. "If you had simply heeded my warning in the first place, we would not have had to suffer this attack." Raising a hand to either side, the blades of stone lanced out and cut down anything at his right and left sides, crashing into walls. Raising both legs in turn, Kross thrust both feet into the ground, and the soil rose to twist around his legs and support him, drawing up to the knee. Now, he felt the pulse of the soil, tasted the blood and sweat that had seeped into it. It brought him focus as he sweeped his arms from side to side, drawing up six foot tall walls of chipped gray stone around them. Rotted claws beat at the sides without much effect, and a section of stone grew from one of the walls in the back and slammed into its neighbor, blocking off the dead from advancing upon them as they fled. Through the dirt, Kross could feel a score of the dead's trampling feet advancing upon their position.

More than he cared to be bothered to destroy.

Sweat stood out on his brow, and the muscles in his arms and torso twitched with the effort he put into sustaining the walls. Glancing back down the tunnel, he could see that a few of the dead had managed to get shut in with the living. Grunting, the Saraelian leaned forward and drove his fingers into the earth. Thin spines of stone erupt from the ground and stabbed through the ghoul's putrid bodies, pulling them off their feet to hang in the air as the point of the spines protruded from the top of their skulls.

"Come, now." Kross looked back down the aisle to the ill tempered, silver haired mercenary. "Godhand. Please make sure nothing scales the walls or follows from behind. I can feel the vibration of a number of footsteps coming for us, and it will be simpler to simply retreat. Our goal is to get the student's to safety; not to slay all of the dead in Raiaera." Tearing his feet from the ground, the Saraelian's settled both palms on the wall's uneven, pocked surfaces as he moved towards the bloody border of Lindequalmë.

[Skie and Avery]

I owe those in this thread with me an apology. I won't get personal here, because all of you have my AIM, but rest assured that our thread will not be ignored again. Now, let's say we advance this to where we need to be, yes?

They wasted no time, flowing like a river out of the city. Once or twice Skie could hear the scrabble and moan of something following them, though it was only brought with the passing wind. They were leaving behind Carnelost, the Red Forest was all around them. Here, they crowded, keeping the shivering and frightened students between them. The soul flowers felled a straggler at first, and they became even more wary. The Dur'Taigen gave them no trouble, for the wolves themselves could feel the change coming over the land. The Scourge returned sent them crawling up each other, locked into enchanted trees, rimmed with toothy growths that were too frightened to attack the small group. The blood vines, though, were another story. The rumbling through the earth as Xem'Zund emptied coffers and catacombs agitated the plant life, the great red vines whipping through the forest. They tore up trees, ripping bark from core, sap gleaming in the morning sun as it was flung and scattered along the path. A few of the students cursed the way it helped the flora stick to their clothes, smaller vines and the blossoms of soul flowers they tramped through clinging to boots and the edges of cloaks.

All manner of blade and brawn smashed and hacked through the growth until at last the party came to a small clearing. Beyond, through patches in the canopy she could see a great obelisk rising up the sky. The Tower of Dreams, she'd heard it once called. She couldn't remember now who'd said it, though it wasn't often used. They began to move into the copse, taking care to watch for moving vines in the thick of the trees. Ahead on the path, stones were beginning to show themselves from the dirt, as if a stone pathway were rising up like one of the Legion to guide them to the place where twice before evil had been crippled.

Before the students and their rag-tag group of protectors had managed to clear half of the space to the pathway, a figure emerged from the trees. She was young and old at the same time, in a way that few had ever seen before. A perfect face of youthful beauty gazed at them, though the blue eyes were cold and harder than the obsidian that loomed upwards not twenty yards from where they stood now. Golden waves of hair cascaded down her back, strikingly light against the deep purple of her dress. It left much to the imagination, with a plunging neckline and slits on the sides up to her hips, no sleeves to hide her arms. As beautiful as she might have been, the space left uncovered marred the beauty with an imperfection that could not be ignored. Her arms and legs were only patched with flesh, mostly bone that stood without seeming need of ligament or muscle. Near the top of her amost completely bared chest, a gaping hole proved that at one point in the past, she'd lost her heart in the most literal of manners. Now maggots preyed upon the flesh, spilling out of the hole above her breast in a white, wriggling rain. Her smile revealed only a few broken yellowing teeth, and she stepped closer still before holding out her hand.

The bird that landed in her skeletal palm was just as half-formed as her, merely skeleton with flesh and bare wisps of feather on it's wings. It hopped from bone finger to finger eagerly, cocking it's bare skull at the party before twittering to it's mistress, and taking flight again. Once it had disappeared into the trees, she laughed, and bowed towards each adventurer in turn.

"I bid thee welcome to my home, this forest, children. It pains me not to tell you that this is as far as I may let you travel."

She looked up into the trees, taking a deep breath before laughing again, maggots bursting from her chest in a wave at the explusion of sound.

"The touch of my master has wrought it's power upon everything here, even the winged ones. My pet goes now, with great haste, to tell the master of the gift that has brought itself to his door while he has been away. Stay with me here, to wait until his return." She stepped towards Godhand first, her eyes on his as she extended a hand. "Wait with me, always."

[Godhand]

The whole thing was a fucking disaster. For every one of the monsters he took down two more lunged at him. If it hadn't been for Kross' geomancy they would have certainly been overrun. Had the whole city been turned into those creatures? Worse yet, they seemed to function as one mind. One purpose. As soon as the first wave of zombies attacked them the whole hive was alerted to their presence and began to mobilize. Godhand was strong; some might even venture to say that he was the strongest man alive, at least physically. But even a bear can't defeat a pack of wolves. Not when there were this many of them.

The whole situation was brought into sharp relief at the moment the mousy little librarian was attacked. For all his touted might, there was nothing he could do. Caught in a living web of...No. Caught in an unliving web of rotting flesh. If she hadn't chosen that moment to activate her strange powers she would most certainly be dead. This begged a troubling question: if he couldn't protect one capable woman from the creatures, how was he to shield the entire group of students? Impossible even under the best of circumstances. He could barely protect himself.

It was ultimately Kross that saved the day. He was strong; maybe as strong as he was. More than that, he had near perfect control of the ground around them. He'd never seen geomancy of that caliber before. And even though he'd saved all of their lives by providing a series of rocky obstacles for their pursuers, Godhand couldn't help but worry further. At first he thought he'd be able to take him; maybe a broken rib or a busted jaw but ultimately he believed he could defeat him. Now he wasn't so sure. He'd need to get the drop on him, at least, and that was no easy task with everyone so on edge.

After several miles it seemed the undead had stopped their chase. The Red Forest was mercifully quiet; at the very least they weren't going to have to contend with those savage hell hounds. It seemed that whatever had lain it's claws into the land was a common enemy. The other flora, however, offered no such respite. Whatever had taken control of the dead had extended it's sphere of influence over them, as well. Either that or they couldn't retreat as the wolves had and didn't know quite what to do under the circumstances. So they lashed out at everyone and everything, with some of the oldest of the cursed trees attacking them with vines several times the width of a man.

Godhand and Kross were forced to cooperate; the geomancer held the thick tree's appendages in place with summoned rock spikes while Godhand leapt through them with his blade. Kross didn't seem to be affected, but the thick blood pollen the trees had begun to secrete was starting to slow him down. It got worse with every vine they destroyed, until eventually it was trying to breathe water. Horrendous. The whole damn thing was like trying to walk through the devil's flower garden.

Eventually the trees receded and the blood pollen thankfully dissapeared. It was almost curious the way it had happened; as if the saplings had been afraid of whatever was in the clearing and had chosen not to grow rather than face it. However, all Godhand could see was a large spire of unfeeling obsidian. Clearly nothing that could intimidate a cursed forest.

But then, in the middle of the stone pathway that seemed to lead to a shelter from their troubles, the single most terrible...Thing Godhand had ever seen appeared. It was a crime against both God and Man. A mockery of beauty and an embodiment of all that was wrong with the Red Forest. Could it be the forest's heart? The engine of terror that had corrupted the land? He'd heard Zem'Xund was male and an elf but this creature seemed beyond gender or race. A fitting queen for the undead empire.

It seemed to think itself beguiling. Perhaps "she" had been beautiful once, but the fact that she wasn't aware of her own decay just disturbed him all the more. Worse, she seemed to take an interest in him. She approached with the measured steps of a duchess-had she perhaps been a noble once?-and made her request. Stay with me, she said. She'd held out her hand, palm down, as if expecting the mercenary to bow and kiss it with reverence. But the pale flesh had nearly rotted away, and the most terrible smell now emanated from the once immaculate hand. It stung his nostrils. Godhand briefly turned away as if to quickly discuss and and reach a decision with Skie, but instead he used the extra space between them he'd created to deliver earth-shattering Sweet Chin Music (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JnYcLG_f9LM) to the monster.

Godhand would never harm a lady but then this abomination could hardly be called a lady. The kick had been delivered at full power; he didn't want to take any chances. It was more than enough to pulverize a stout man's skull, nevermind the frail bones of a skeletal zombie. He was therefore suprised when it didn't blast her clean into the woods. Nevertheless, she still crumbled to the ground and that was enough of a reassurance for Godhand. He quickly turned to the group.

"We need to set up a barricade in this tower. If that bird really did tell Zem'Xund that-"

Godhand paused at the looks of terror on the student's faces. Something like the pit of an avocado felt like it was forming in his stomach, and he turned to see what he'd hoped he had destroyed. No luck. There stood the Queen of Evil, in all her unglory.

[Ataraxis]

((All bunnies, action and dialogue, approved. Also, this will be a double post, as we've fused what would have been two posts into one.))

They had run from the woken dead, through the scarlet vines and lianas that hung about the boughs like monstrous intestines, ripped out from a giant’s belly but still very much alive. The two titans had done their best to keep Lillian and the other students out of harm’s way, but the wear of so many miles spent wading through the paralyzing pollen had stricken them all, the young girl especially. Because of that, the lifeless black of a great megalith rising from the earth had been a sight of salvation, a symbol of hope, a stopover for respite; she was so tired that she ignored the ominous nature and the notorious legends that were tied to the Obsidian Spire. That is, until she saw that abomination. The wriggle of viscous white in her hollowed and festering chest had churned her insides; Lillian could not fully pay heed to her morbid welcome, too busy repressing an urge to vomit.

Witnessing the silver-haired giant – Godhand, Kross had called him – respond to her gut-wrenching invitation with an astounding kick to the chin had locked the bile right in her throat. It struck with the spring of a gigantic coil and the explosive force of a naval carronade, but to everyone’s astonishment, the monster rose from her fall with her undying grace, skinless hands on her temples as she snapped her neck back in place. The imprint of his boot was already fading away into the cyanotic grey of her face, warped by this repulsive thing she, or it, had meant as a wry smile.

Godhand made the slightest of grunts, sweeping a thumb across his nose. That was all the little girl had seen before his fist was swallowed into the maggot-filled hole of its chest. Her desire to retch had returned. His forearm squirmed within, widening the old wound until blotches of dark blood spurted from it, falling to the ground in a rain of black stains and white chunks. His left hand had been raised above the right shoulder, muscles coiling in preparation for a devastating chop to the neck. The corpse slipped off the stake of his right arm with the sickest gurgle before skittering across the stone paving, scraps of rotten skin and carrion crawlers bursting behind with every roll. “Stay down.”

Lillian felt a wave of relief crash over her then, but it had only lasted a few seconds at best. The creature drew itself to a stand with unnerving ease, absently dusting off her purple dress as the arm-sized furrow in her head popped back into shape with the grim noise of reforming bones. The girl looked on with the other hapless students, a voiceless audience before this unthinkable scene. The silver hawk was beginning to lose his cool through the twitching that creased his forehead and the ridge of his nose, whereas the walking cadaver was nearly as fresh as her first year in whatever coffin she had escaped. In a nervous haste, he closed the gap between them and delivered a tremendous uppercut that should have sent her head soaring high. Alas, skull and body had flown, and fallen, as one. “Stay down!” he ordered in a hoarse grunt, louder this time with annoyance.

The corpse lady did not obey, and again rose as comfortably as a child woken by the rays of dawn. “Stay down or you won’t be getting back up!” Godhand shouted, but a troubling change was now as plain as day. His voice had lost its certainty, and there was now a crack in his mask of invincibility. Lillian had felt it, the corpse had felt it, and from the cold sweats that broke on his skin, so did he. As if any more hesitation would have ascertained this fact, the titan rushed again, faster now, lunging forward to spear the creature into the tower of seamless black behind it. Her bare feet were peeled off the ground effortlessly as flesh, dead and living, collided. His roar was deafening as he carried her closer and closer to the wall, each of his steps breaking the flagstones and leaving immense grooves in the earth beneath. He was strong, incredibly strong, beyond what Lillian had ever seen before.

But she was stronger.

In the softest of swoops did her decaying legs, trailing limply on both sides of his waist, fling to the ground. Massive chinks of stone exploded from the unexpected force of impact, the exposed bones of her heels digging enormous ruts in the paving; she slid her hands down, one on the cusp of his chest, the other to the hardness of his abdomen, lightly pressing her wiry palms against them as she let a blood-curdling giggle ring into his ear. Then, she crouched. Rocks broke in a final explosion behind her feet, and the human beast came to a dead stop, almost impaled upon her hands, the monstrous woman knocking more out of him than just the wind. Without a strain, she lifted his massive body above her head, then tossed him away toward the group of students that had stepped back in fear of being squashed.

Only Lillian moved forward. It wasn’t a considered act, it wasn’t a wise act, and it was definitely not a safe one. But she did it anyway. The mass of his body crashed flaccidly right beside her, the breadth of a hair having saved her from a flattening death. Dust was stirred where he had fallen, eliciting a fit of cough from the girl as she dove right inside the risen screen. Her hands milled about to clear the air, to see his face, fully aware of the fear on her own. She feared that he was dead. Rationally, she was afraid because he was the strongest of them all, for the exception of Kross, but she was still wary of that man and his shady intentions. What was irrational about her fear -strange, even - was that it felt constricting, as though her heart was held in an ever-tightening vice grip. Stranger was how all of it had gone up in smokes when his voice, however harsh and grating, had greeted her ears. “Get away, kid.”

She could say nothing, only giving a rapid shake of the head as an answer, and as she did so, flecks of saline water fell on his cheek and neck. Instead of obeying him, she placed her palms onto his chest and stomach, invoking the same obscure light that had saved the very men he had beat down in a past that now seemed so far away. Anger. She was angry, more than she had ever been in her years alive. She could feel that none of his bones were shattered to pieces, that only one rib was fractured and bent inward, but there was bad blood flowing inside him, enough to drip out from the corners of his mouth. Lillian lifted her head, leering at the corpse woman through a film of unshed tears, naively hoping to strike her down with what she wished was a deadly stare. The abominable woman did not fall to dust, but something else had caught the teenager’s attention, something that was almost as good.

The corpse had cringed at the sight of her healing, stepping back with the slightest ripple of fear in her dead, blue eyes.

[Ataraxis]

The Queen of Evil, the Goddess of Undeath, had a weakness. A weakness that, among all of these students and warriors gathered, only Lillian could successfully exploit. “Mister Godhand!” she called out suddenly, shaking the man from the half-light between consciousness and oblivion.

“Mister... mister. Jesus, I’m old.” He spoke in a daze, blinking slowly as if waking from a long dream. He felt small hands shake him again, and heard a little voice he could only describe as strangely distant and overly squeaky, telling him he was talking nonsense. “What... you. Didn’t I tell you to run?”

“Mister Godhand, I...” she hesitated, giving the monster a wary look. Nothing transpired on her face, no arrogance, no excitement, and none of the fear that Lillian had seen only moments ago. There she stood in stoic silence, waiting for the reply to her winged missive, waiting for the King’s return to his palace of old. “I need something from you.” The man’s conscience was fading in and out, but had enough presence to lift a pained and confused brow. “I... I need to...” Unable to say it, she simply leaned forward, her blood boiling from the air that thickened with each inch closer to his body. With each inch her lips traveled to his.

“Kid, what the fuck are you doing?!” he blurted out, mustering enough strength to sit up and slip away from reach. A burning ache seared inside his chest, the sudden jerk causing a spritz of red to gush out from his gawking maw. Lillian scooted closer, apparently for a second try, but Godhand stopped his recoil when he noticed her lips aiming closer to the left, to his ear. She whispered, her whole body quavering from the proximity. It was unbearable, being so close to whatever devilry was causing her emotional uproar, but she endured it, she had to. When she was done, she pulled back, gripping onto her drumming chest, squeezing her knees tighter than ever while she awaited his response. “What? No!”

“Please!”

Godhand looked aside as if to mutter a curse, but he stopped mid-word, his lips shifting to his bewilderment. Staying awake required from him more focus than he had ever garnered, and that hangdog look and puppy eyes she gave him did nothing to help him think straight. Finally, trapped between her and a dark place, he let out his unsure consent. “...Fine.”

Trembling with two kinds of delight, she leaned in once more, placing her wispy white hands onto his chest, feeling the pulse of his own heart through the grey fabric of his t-shirt. Slower, much slower than hers. She could smell his blood seeping inside her nose, flaring her nostrils, and she let her lips yawn open, allowing room for her tongue to slip out. Gulping on her saliva, she drew the tip across the corner of his mouth, taking in his spewed blood. Then, she pulled it back, pressed her lips against his skin, and sipped.

There was a wave of befuddlement from the students as they rose from their hiding places, having just seen a once unassuming classmate drink a titan’s blood like a famished vampiress. No doubt was the undead queen similarly confounded. Only Lillian knew. Only she knew that the cadence of their heartbeats had fallen as one. Only she knew that a contract had just been sealed. Somewhere in the fathomless depths of her mind, she could hear a familiar voice resound, reminiscent of ancient caverns and whispers in the dead of night.

‘Rise.’

Slowly, so slowly, Lillian complied. Even so close to Godhand, this man whose mere presence had stirred so much in her, she had stopped her wild tremors. Head drooping forward, her hair fell as a thick veil like cascades of jet-black ink, concealing the whole of her face underneath an impenetrable shroud. Her willowy arms slumped limply as she stood in a low posture, legs slightly astride, as though the strings of her muscles had gone undone and she was only on her feet by sheer force of will. Her silence mirrored that of the windless forest, but as time seemed to halt, there was no serenity lingering in the cursed air of Lindequalmë.

Lillian let her body drop forward, as though unable to sustain its weight any longer. When it was about to hit the ground like falling timber, there was a peculiar jolt, and her whole body went stiff for an instant. She had stepped forward with her left foot, its tip now biting into the ground... and into the stone. Springing forth, the flagstones underfoot bursting into bits, she began her mad dash, legs scissoring, her left shoulder brought forth with the elbow as spearhead. Within moments the gap between her and the undead mistress was closed. The Witch of the Forest, had she still any eyelids to do so, would have only blinked once before seeing a pair of gleaming eyes, colder than the dead leaves that despoiled the ground.

Indeed, the last thing the corpse had seen, before being rammed into the Spire of unliving black, were those disturbing blood drops that glistened in her eyes.

[Slayer of the Rot]

As the group pressed on through the Red Forest, and the toil of keeping the blood hungry foliage began to show upon Kross, his impassiveness began to fall away. The cool, calm face had begun to degenerate into a picture of bottled, pinched anger, with narrowed eyes and a deep scowl as he executed another tight, precise stroke with his enormous black blade. Sap and other liquids spattered across his face as the man sized vine twitched and flailed, oozing it's clear pink fluids before dropping to the ground. Its tendril had thumped at his feet, curled around and ankle, and became limp.

He had had to cut less though, than Godhand had been sent against. It had been partly his terramancy, repelling the soul flowers advances, or the blood vines creeping, but on another level, they had sensed it. The black presence that resided in Kross, the withered black mark on his heart. Sure that no one was watching him, busy with their own survival; the beast smirked as he watched a cluster of small vines slight away on their bellies.

The underbrush began to grow sparse, and strange stones began to appear underfoot, and then began to group together until they formed something like a path. Suddenly, the smell hit Kross's nose and his expression went blank as memories pulled themselves up into him. Memories of youth, smelling that smell and hearing the starved moans and wondering if he would wake up to muddy sunlight or teeth. Then, the source was before them, and Kross's face became ever more unreadable as he summoned a sheath across his body and slid his enormous sword into it.

The memories of his earlier years still had not faded, and if there could have been any beauty to have been seen on the creature, like flecks of gold in the dirt, he could not see them. For a moment, he turned his choice over in his mind, wondering if it was truly beneficial to serve a being that moved the tormentors of his past as puppets. Then, his daughter's face emerged in the dark of his mind and he pondered no more.

Emotion rose finally from his blank face, causing a few of the students who had grown familiar with him to slink away. He couldn't truly give much of a damn about the fate of the others, but Skie was his, and that some lowly maggoty worm was trying to snatch his prize away had finally removed his mask. Muscles bunched under his arm as he tensed, ready to slay the abomination, but Godhand sprung first, and a ghost of a smile tugged at Kross's lips...though one would have trouble calling him by the name anymore. Too many familiar characteristics were beginning to appear, like the bones peeking through Cydonia's flesh.

Godhand was just the well oiled fighting machine he could ever remember the mercenary to be, and the memory of their first meeting stung at him like a Fallien scorpion. Kross stood, unmoving, as he watched Godhand deliver two earth shattering blows to the ghoul. The old man was still powerful...but it unsettled the Saraelian when he watched the rotting woman stand back up with the greatest of ease with each blow. Finally, the mercenary had had enough, it seemed, and put his shoulder to the thing, driving her across the hill and towards the spire.

But then, as though she were brushing aside a mote of dust, she stopped him and flung him away. Kross's eyebrows arched, and he moved as the mercenary tumbled through the air - realizing as he reached the fallen destroyer that the young mousy thing that had shouted at Godhand earlier had moved as well. Worry stirred in her ears and they talked closely for a moment, before she bent, sipping at his blood.

Kross's eyes narrowed further. Something was happening.

Lillian stood, but swayed under some unknown power, looking like a marionette with all but one of its strings snipped. Then, she began to fall to the earth, and he moved closer to Godhand, watching her with a cocked head. Suddenly, she awakened from whatever had gripped her, and she tore across the earth, ripping great chunks of stone and dirt from it as she went, and roared across the way to meet Cydonia.

Stooping, he looked down at the prone body of Godhand, and sighed quietly. "I can only heal external wounds. Sorry. If the rotten bitch survives what that little girl is going to do, I'll get in some more hits for you." A thunderous boom drew his attention and his head snapped up to see that Lillian had indeed made her hit; a small portion of the spire's wall was fractured in a huge pattern of spider-web cracks, but even from where he stood, he could feel in the mark that Xem'Zund had placed inside of him that Cydonia still existed. He heart did not beat, and she did not draw breath; but under Lillian's admirable attempt, the phantasm still moved.

Kross stood, and shut his eyes. Holding his breath, he drew something up from within himself. A cool wind seemed to blow through him, easing the aching throb of his muscles, driving away the linger pollen deposited from the spiteful plants of the Red Forest - and like an emerald wave, he felt new strength flow through him. On impulse, he exhaled, and the breath shuddered from him, the plates of delyn and stitching of cloth vanishing from his body so that he stood beneath the tower nude. The healthy peach color of his skin began to darken and change, and before long, it had grown a grim lead gray. The hide cracked, and in the fissures, green light pulsed. The flesh at his temples swelled, and then glassy black stone horns rose, curling in on themselves before stabbing forward. Finally, he opened his eyes, breathing in a fresh new breath, and grinned as he looked down upon the Saraelian hide that had replaced the weak human flesh.

"You will harm no one else."

Kross was moving then, and each footstep shook the earth as though a giant was stirring it. Stones and great plumes of dirt were cast aside in his wake, and he drew an arm up at his side, curling the fingers there into an enormously powerful fist. By the time he had drawn closer to the tower, Lillian was moving off of Cydonia, and the monster was moving to wedge herself out of the stone.

His muscles coiled, and he twisted on his hips, feet slamming into the earth as waves of white energy rippled through it, sending Cydonia off balance as he swung forward, all of his weight and all of his titanic strength. As the fist came down upon the Queen of Undeath's face, and the tower shook, two thick long cracks erupting to either side of the wall, Kross felt like he could kill God.

[RumpleGrumblePuss]

Things seemed to blur, to pass in an odd sequence of actions. For a moment, as I found myself moving at the back of the group, I could no longer remember the sequence of which things had happened. Had the forest attacked us before the undead rose? Why did I think the undead were in the city we had been transported from? I realized in a vague distant way that I was in shock. The realization itself did little to help me fully grasp what was going on around me, to help out the students.

Stumbling through chopped and torn plants, I longed for Earth. At least there I would not find myself fighting the risen dead nor running through a blood stained forest that thirsted still for more blood, more souls and lives. Yes, death and cruelty existed but I learned of it safe behind locked doors and windows. I could feel my outrage at an unjust world while I watched the TV and still sleep soundly at night. If I survived, I promised myself, I would find a place out of way to make a home for myself. That, or seek out enough power to be safe, enough power that even a menace like Xem’zund would fear. Power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely.

What had I gotten myself caught up in? I was a mockery of a creature, neither human nor animal. I had no skills, no special ability to use to protect myself or those around me. Just the acid wit and words I flung with carelessness at those around me. It seemed I was a baby, just a baby thing tossed in among these titans.

The sudden halt of our flight drew me out of myself, loosening the grip I had on my whips I hadn’t known where in my hands. Dumbly I looked down at my hands, wondering just when I had drawn them, when I had used them. From the tip to the middle red fluid stained them, bits and pieces of plant material and decaying flesh stuck to them still. Bile rose in the back of my throat and I stepped away from the rest of the group before my stomach leapt from me in a humiliating display. The bent over position helped none either, it gave me a perfect view of my red stained shoes and pants. Oddly enough the sight of my ruined shoes and the sticky red fluids staining the pallid white of my skin made me angry enough to over ride the next wave of nausea, fight it down and away for good.

Backing away from the sickly sweet stench of my own weakness I rejoined the group and saw for the first time the horror standing before us, offering her hand to Godhand. As fierce as the battle between Godhand and Cydonia was I saw from the first time she rose, her features knitting themselves together, that we were fucked. Completely, totally and royally boned. I turned, half facing away from the struggle, some one needed to watch our back before our collective ass was handed to us in a sling.

I had the unreasoning urge to start singing a song I hadn’t heard since childhood, one about six kids in the bed until the little one says ‘Roll over’ so they all roll over and one fell off then there were five in the bed… Instead I forced myself to hum a melody I had learned at the University, the dual tones my altered throat always produced changed the song just enough to make it sound more complex that it actually was. Yet it was the same simple melody I had learned for it’s soothing and calming qualities, as much for the singer as for the listener. I thought it held no more lure or magic than that the average piece of pretty music would. The fall of Godhand didn’t surprise me much; I hadn’t expected even his strength to over come the Undead Queen.

What did surprise me was Lillian’s role, her actions beyond simply trying to heal wounds. I had thought her to be near useless, like me. The jerky, marionette like movements sent a chill through me and for a moment I forgot to watch the forest behind us. Tearing my eyes away from what was equally unnatural as Cydonia I scanned the area. The foliage of the Red Forest was in constant motion. The slow continuous movements that had nothing to do with the intermittent breeze were unnerving me.

Green, a color unknown with this damned forest was an attention grabber. I watched the man, Kross, shed his humanity and showed his true self. I was beginning to feel like a top, constantly turning about to look in a new direction each time something new occurred. Mouth open and gaping, I wondered if no one else was worried about the fact that we had a demon with us, one of questionable motives.

“I knew something was wrong with that guy! Is no one worried? Shouldn’t be doing something? Like picking up Godhand and running for our lives while Mister Not-so-human fights the demon bitch?” The base rumble of the earth, protesting the demon’s passing, drowned out my words of wisdom.

My instincts were going into overdrive, the animalistic parts of me were shrieking that when you met something that was going to eat you, something big enough, bad enough to, you ran like hell. Biting my tongue the pain of my fangs digging in deep into the thick muscle and the salty sweet blood that flooded my mouth was enough to keep me myself and from running. Instead I gripped my whips until my knuckles ached and resolved to stand my ground with the rest of the group. How ever foolish that may be.

[Skie and Avery]

With the attacks that had been launched against her, any mere human would be nothing more than shards of bone and so much flesh and blood that had been pulverized into jelly. Instead, bracing herself against the Spire she so desperately sought to protect from these intruders, Cydonia didn't have so much as a fracture on her delicate bones. Maggots had been showering from beneath her skin in an unending wave as she moved and was forcibly moved, some trying to wriggle feebly through the trampled grass, some burrowing their heads into the dirt as if they were terrified of the scene that lay before them.

With each blow, the woman's smile only grew upon her face. Even when the Saraelian pummeled her down, his strength and rage at it's peak, she felt nothing. She pushed away from the spire, completely ignoring Kross' new form. Instead, her eyes were centered on Lillian.

"Little women should remember their place." she said, her grin sneering up at the side. "Else they could trod into territory from whence they cannot return."

She took a few steps toward the dark haired maiden, her skeletal toes digging into the cursed earth. The air around her tensed, and she sprung forward, murder in her eyes, and the end of worlds at her very fingertips as she reached for the throat of the one woman who could save them all.

Skie paused, her mind torn. She herself could attack Cydonia with steel, or listen to Kahlina's suggestion. Reason set in. If Godhand was felled by the monster before her, she would be easily taken down. The fact of the matter was that Godhand was injured. Were he to be left in the fray, he could die. Gritting her teeth, Skie caught Kahlina's attention and motioned to her to help. Creeping up, she moved to Godhand's side, and placed her hand gently on his shoulder.

"Look, friend, let's let Kross take some hits while we get you into the Spire. We'll grab Lilly and get up to safety and let the demons amuse each other out here, okay?" Without waiting for any response from him, she jerked the warrior's arm over her shoulder and began to try and drag him towards the entrance of the great tower, hoping Kahlina could keep herself together enough to help them out.

If Luck shown on them today, they might all make it through this alive or dead. Xem'Zund was the only other option.

From now on, posting order is going through the window. If there is something that your character can do that allows you to write more than two paragraphs to describe it, post, with the exception of double posting. The pace is really going to be picked up at this point.

[Slayer of the Rot]

Kross merely blinked as Cydonia stood, unaffected from his blows. At the moment, he could have sunk ships. A single right hook could smear any one of the touted High Bards of Raieara. Often enough, he had expected any engagements to result in nothing but a one hit wonder; the opponent would get their blows in, but all it ever took was one unrestrained strike and they were red pulp. He took a step back, wondering when the Black had recruited a monster like this into his forces; before or after he'd sunk his talons into Kross's heart. Nevertheless, a grin began to dawn on his face. It had been a long time since he'd had to exert himself against an opponent, and longer still; since he'd tasted the delight of adrenaline pumping through his veins.

He didn't seem to take the slightest bit of insult to Cydonia's ignorance; instead, his face twisted into an expression of puzzlement. Bits of dirt and broken stone had begun to sift off his stone and out of his hair as he stared at Lillian along with the ghoul, and then it connected. Kross's eyes popped open and the chartreuse light spilling from them intensified. Cydonia saw the woman as a threat. The aberration needed her out of the way before she could do whatever it was that made the rotting lady nervous. 'Which means the little girl can do something a little more effective than what I can manage.' He wondered if he should just take care of his business right then and there, and let Cydonia slaughter the remainder. However, he had a feeling she'd stop him from leaving. The monstrous thing didn't seem to realize they served the same end.

'I don't need the competition anyway,' he added mentally as he darted forward behind Cydonia, his stone gray hand snapping down upon a worm eaten calf. The monster's skeletal fingers came together in a grip that surely would have broken Lillian's neck even as Kross pulled her through the air and slammed her to the ground.

"And a corpse should remember its place," he snarled, raising a knee up to his chest. "Still, and rotting in the ground!" Kross stamped his foot down square into Cydonia's chest as Terran energy spilled out of him, making the ground rumble and crack. Uneven blocks and chunks of stone rose and fell as the ground broke and fissured, and the thing under him twisted and convulsed under the force - then reached up, locked a hand around his knees, and leapt to its feet. It turned hard at the waist, and threw him head first into the tower. He collided with the glossy black stone just to the left of where Lillian had speared Cydonia, and he barely felt the stone fracture under his skull. He bounced off the side of the tower, blood bubbling at his lips, the world graying. Never before had he fought an opponent as strong, if not stronger than himself, and he fought away from the comfortable black that threatened to swallow him. Spitting open the ground, Kross groaned as he rose back to his feet, and pinpointed Cydonia by her stench.

She was drawing close to Lillian again, and the Saraelian cursed. Shutting his eyes, he thought of the mark in his heart and the power that had been brought with it. But to his dismay, that new peak still eluded him. It pulled just out of his grasp, and he cursed again, louder this time; before snagging a fraction of it. 'It's not much,' he thought with a grimace, stretching his left arm out beside him, 'But she'll get there before I could, on foot. This will have to do.'

A gasp slipped out of his lips as the arm twisted and stretched, folding in on itself. The bones and the hide begin to mold. It felt like he had let some behemoth of a monster stamp upon it, and hadn't stopped the process; he could feel it cracking, bending, tearing and reforming into a new shape. Through the agony of his transforming arm, nothing but a blur of sharp edges and curved surfaces to anyone watching, Kross reached down to the stone at his feet and crafted three moderately sized spikes of stone, two fingers thick each. By the time he had them between his fingers and thumb, his arm was still, in a curious new shape.

It almost looked like a webbed harp, nearly as tall as he stood himself. It was crafted of a material that was reminiscent of a beetle shell, and shown a dark iridescent green in the light. Kross brought the three spikes up to the odd construct of his arm, set them before a taut ligament running the length of the back of the harp like structure, and pulled.

The form of the arm was instantly obvious as the spikes tore through the air. Two of them went wide, but one caught Cydonia high in the shoulder, and punched a fist sized hole in the putrid flesh. It took her off her feet, and dropped her a short distance on her face. The wound was already healing as he began to advance, another of the stone arrows in his hand, and the phantasm was on her feet by the time he had brought his bow-arm up, another arrow drawn back on the ligament. She seemed to mourn the damage to her dress, but ignored any possibility that he had damaged her. He loosed the held arrow, and her knee burst at the impact. The rotting lady caught herself with her hands before she hit the dirt, and Kross pulled on the earth again, notching another of the thick arrows even as she rose. Before she took three steps to Lillian, the Saraelian had blow out her knee again.

He afforded a second to glance at the dark haired, bookish girl as he created another arrow. It was obvious his own brutal methods were ineffective, and he hoped that she would have understood that he was struggling to keep Cydonia at bay while she prepared whatever it was that the ghoul feared. He was barely aware that the stone horns on his head had straightened, and pointed up into the sky at a curve, or that the demon hide on his face had closed over his mouth, leaving it a flat plane. His nose was slowly receding as well, and before long, he would begin to look just as monstrous as the woman they were trying so desperately to put down.

[Godhand]

She was tough, and the worst kind of tough to boot. One moment she was soft and limp as a ragdoll and the next she was all bones and hard edges. Godhand had never expected anyone would be capable of using his own massive strength against him. He'd run full bore into her skinless hands and fingers. Agony. He might as well have tackled a spiked wall. Afterwards he was plucked up effortlessly by the creature. It was a strange feeling; the disorienting pain combined with her easy handling of him made him feel somewhat like a belligerent child. Afterwards it was the old heave ho, and he must have cleared at least twenty feet before hitting the ground because he landed right next to the students.

The mercenary could already the effects her blow had caused. He had maybe one or two busted ribs; painful but not crippling. The problem was one of them had been shot back and pierced one of his lungs, hence the reason he was spitting blood. That one was critical. He wouldn't last long with a wound like that, and any movement would make him drown in his own blood quicker. Godhand sat there for a second and thought about that old saying, about how the worst one is the one you don't see coming. This felt like one of those times. He could feel himself filling up; like a frog belly up in the sun. Bloating. Jesus.

It must have gotten really bad at that point because he thought he could see an angel. A dark haired angel tending to him. She was so beautiful, so worried. It broke his heart. He wanted to tell her not to worry, that it would be alright. But when he tried to open his mouth to speak all that bubbled up was blood. And he knew then that it wasn't alright, and that nothing would ever be alright. Not in the middle of this Godforsaken forest run over by monsters even the devil didn't want to deal with, anyway.

But then the angel brought her hands up and things seemed to clear. It was the little one, the librarian. Godhand remembered what she'd done for the kid he'd busted open, and put two and two together. He could feel the rib getting pushed out of his lung and the blood seeping out of his lungs. He was alive again. Right then, he could have kissed her. But she seemed like the type to cry rape and he really couldn't handle that right now.

She leaned over and although the next couple of moments were something of a blur to him, he remembered her asking for his blood. He wouldn't know what to make of a question like that at his best, much less in the state he was in now. But she was so damn adorable that he couldn't really say no. Plus, he owed her. She leaned down and for a second he thought she was going to kiss him but dumb fucking luck, she leaned to the side at the last moment and just drank the blood that had already spilled out. He felt robbed.

After she drank from him a change occurred. She started jerking around like a junkie after a hot dose. He felt a little offended at that but after she hit a world class spear on the zombie it changed to pride. It was exactly what he would have done. But he was the original, and he wasn't able to take her down. He knew that she could have drunk every drop of blood in his body and it still wouldn't have been enough. It knocked her down, though, and that was enough for now.

He hefted himself to his feet with more than a little difficulty. His lungs had been patched up but his ribs were taking a little longer to re-set. Still, he could stand and that was good enough for now. He made a move to get back in the fight but right then Kross began to change, shift into something more monster than man. It was an ugly transformation but proved effective when he knocked her into the Obsidian Spire. Still, it wasn't much good. She shook it off; she shook everything off. Worse still, she seemed intent on destroying Lillian for some reason. Kross changed further then, transforming his arm into some hellish fusion of weapon and flesh. The stone spires he fired slowed Cydonia down but he knew it was only a temporary fix.

Godhand had had enough. If she wouldn't be felled by blunt attrition then he'd obliterate her with his blade instead of his fists. As she removed the spikes from her knees, the swordsman drew his Murasame and lunged at the creature. With a single strike that would have vivisected nearly anything on Althanas, he attempted to cut her in half. His gleaming weapon sliced through her like a knife through water. He had barely even felt the flesh give to the blade, so quick was the strike. It had been a clean cut executed with mathematical precision; clean from the left shoulder down to the right hip. But, also like water, it had reformed the instant the sword stopped preventing the two halves from meeting. It had been so fast, both the swipe and the regeneration, that he wouldn't have even been certain he'd struck if her dress hadn't split in two. The lower half dropped to the ground revealing her, for lack of a better word, grotesqueries.

At this the ghoul seemed to display genuine anger and rushed forward, driving her elbow into his chest. He saw red and blue stars. Right in the goddamn ribs. It was dizzying. Godhand knew he was about to go down again but he'd managed to buy Kross time to get back in striking range. He sloughed away, clutching at his ribs when Kross attacked her from behind. The swordsman found the nearest tree and collapsed against it. Things were looking grim. He couldn't handle her; neither could Kross. And if they couldn't beat her then no one else could. Right then, Skie approached him. She slung one of his arms over her shoulder and attempted to carry him away, saying something about leaving Kross out here to deal with her. Godhand very rarely felt outrage but he immediately pulled back his arm.

"You can't just leave someone like that! What the Hell kind of leader are you!?"

He looked at Kross and Lillian, for all intents and purposes fighting for their lives. With grim determination, he surveyed the large tree he had been propped up against and with great pains began climbing. Normally he could have cleared it with a single leap but in his condition, this was all he could manage. Still, he reached the top in short order and walked out on a branch. He'd gotten there just in time. At that moment Lillian managed to dropkick Cydonia's face, compacting her skull. She was basically unharmed but the blow had dizzied her enough that she turned around to be lifted up by Kross without posing resistance. His counterpart placed her head below his knees and executed a tombstone piledriver, shattering her neck. Finally when she lay prone and defenseless, Godhand leapt off the branch. He sailed through the air, shifting his body to maximize the area of impact. After plummeting several dozen feet he hit the Five Star Frog Splash on Cydonia, completely crushing her ribcage and compacting her chest nearly flat.

The pain was like nothing he'd ever experienced before; absolute agony in every sense of the word. The impact had further displaced his ribs and he scrambled away from Cydonia's body, clutching his chest. But he was satisfied. There wasn't a man alive that could survive a series of blows like that.

But as he heard the sickening sounds of flesh reforming behind him, he understood that she was neither a man nor alive.

[Slayer of the Rot]

It was like watching a dam burst.

The signs had been at first, subtle. Kross's previously calm, unmoving face had changed as the battle drug on. Fidgets of anger twitched in the muscles of his face. The tensing of his muscles, even when no strike was coming, the wideness of his burning eyes. However, as he watched the pain that Godhand was suffering from the bitch's attacks, the signs had become more frequent.

Under a different name, the man named Godhand Striker had done much to influence his life. He'd gone from aimless, sloppy slayer to a trained and powerful mercenary. It showed if one took the care to look closely, in the very way he moved while he fought. He'd bled with the silver haired man, and if it came down to it, he would have unflinchingly killed for him. At a time, he would have called Godhand some sort of family; maybe the well read, rough around the edges uncle with the drinking problem, who only meant well in the end. As the day had stretched on, the strong emotions attached to the memories had stirred, and as he watched the mercenary move away in pain, clutching his ribs as Cydonia began her swift regeneration, his anger boiled over.

Kross could be called this and that, a rotten son of a bitch and a cold, unmoved bastard, but when it came to those he considered family, he refused to stand idly by.

"No more! No more, you fucking rotten bitch!" Kross had been staring down at her as she reformed, but now, the fury twisting his demonic facial features, the Saraelian brought his foot crashing down on her body. Even as her bones reknit, Kross crushed them underfoot, smashing her arms and her ribs. The refreshing wind that had swept through him when he first cast off his humanity felt as though it had grown in velocity, gathering in the pit of his stomach. It felt like a hurricane, drawing tight on his guts and muscles and pulling on his strength, surging, pulsating. The mark on his heart felt as though it was growing in strength as well. Like black creeping vines, Xem'Zund's hold grew in his body until finally, with one last kick across Cydonia's nigh toothless mouth, the power gathering inside surged up and filled him, now like a prickling, burning sensation, as though showered with embers.

As the gray of his skin began to darken to a black, reminiscent of the stones volcanoes produced, the cracks of his skin began to close, and the light of his eyes grew in intensity. Kross's form swelled as he began to rise towards the tops of the trees of the Red Forest. Both of his legs split horizontally, and his spine twisting, cracked, and grew away from his body. Plates the color and material of the bow-arm he'd manifested grew across his body and face, as his lower body took a decidedly equine appearance. Stopping at fifteen feet high, the Saraelian's arms were last to change; twisting and spinning into a blur until they were a shield and an axe of the dully gleaming chitin.

Kross stared down at the small form of Cydonia, raised his axe hand, and brought the huge blade down upon her. Completely regenerated, she sprang to her feet and away from the descending bio weapon, charging for Lillian as the blade slammed down into the earth and cut a wide furrow into it. Despite his size, Kross twisted and dashed after the ghoul, arm shifting into a long, peaked form; a spear. He thrust it down onto the earth, and as it drove into the ground, she lunged up at him, smile wide and terrible. The shield vanished in a twisting blur of crackling bone and chitin, and Kross sliced her in two with a two pronged claw, with much the same results Godhand had had. Snarling, he lunged forward as she leapt off the crook of his spear-arm, slamming his smooth face into her body. When she slammed into the ground with a resounding crash and a puff of debris, Kross raised a hoof and brought it down on her.

The leg trembled as he struggled to bring it down on her and crush her, even as she held it over her head, barely straining. Cursing, Kross swiftly raised the hoof just a few feet over her, unbalancing ghoul before bringing it down again with better results. Enormous shoulders shaking with unheard laughter, the Saraelian ground the hoof down, hoping to tear and scatter the crushed remains.

'Maybe I won't be needing the little bookish thing after all,' he thought smugly as he lifted his hoof to admire his handiwork - and recoiled as Cydonia launched up from the torn ground. Smiling with incredible, black malice, skeletal fingers flexing. Before he could react, she had latched onto his stomach. A pinpoint of pain flared up where she clung - then burst into a monstrous amount of torment, casting brilliant stars across his eyes. As the color exploded before his eyes, he could see, but dimly, the bloody, sweet smile of Cydonia as she chewed on his entrails in the middle of a great bloody tear in his abdomen. He shrank, and the power faded as the agony increased, until the human form of Kross, gasping and grimacing, stared into the face of the monster munching on his flesh. The world grayed and black flickered on the edges of his vision. Her horrific stench washed over him, raping his nostrils with the husky scent of wet, rotted meat.

He wished he could say this was the first time that this had happened.

With his blood dripping down her chin, through a mouthful of his guts, she leaned in with an earnest smile and settling two bloody hands on either of his cheeks. "It's good to know that you're not invincible, boy," she crowed with a tone so saccharine sweet it made him almost as sick as the wound in his stomach. He mumbled something and her smile flickered. She leaned in closer, slowly chewing.

"Weak...you're weak."

She threw her head back and her long golden hair cascaded down her back. Cydonia continued to laugh even as Kross stood, stuffing his guts back into his body and struggling to hold the wound closed as he did his own act of regeneration. She didn't so much as bat an eye lash at the gigantic black sword he summoned. The pain that had caused his body to tremble had seemed to retreat, and the blood pouring down to the ground had slowed nearly to a halt. Kross summoned clothes to cover his self, turned the sword to the side, and spat blood on its flat.

"You are weak." The gasp and stumble in his voice had vanished. The regality in his posture returned. Whispering a series of words, he invoked one of the charges on the sword; white sigils of burning holy power coated the blade, and Kross sliced off Cydonia's right arm. The rotted flesh at the shoulder blackened and blistered. The arm itself flopped to the ground, the bony fingers curling into a fist. The ghoul sprang to her feet, and Kross cut one of them off from under her at the knee with the glowing blade.

"And for Him, I am stronger. For even when my strength fails, I remain resourceful. You, girl." Kross's gaze went to Lillian as he continued to hold in his stomach and intestines.

"Work your magic."

[Ataraxis]

Jags of displaced rock darted upward around the point of impact, surrounding the crater like crude and broken petals from a stone-carved flower. Godhand had done nothing short of spectacular work, even in his diminished state, but it seemed that no amount of strength, skill or genius could keep the Queen still and prostrate. Skinless fingers wandered up from the hollow, running along the coarse edges of the shattered stone tiles to find a solid grip. With an effortless pull, the corpse wedged herself out of the ground, clambering up from her freshly-dug grave, the second time since the onset of her morbid life after death.

“My, my, how unbefitting of a gentleman. A lady such as I should be treated with the utmost respect.” Again with that spine-chilling giggle, shrill and coy as if there was still anything precious about the abominable corpse-woman. As she walked over toward the wounded titan, her hands were set slightly beneath the concealed shape of her breasts, dusting off the remaining top of her deep purple dress, as if oblivious to the unspeakable details of her nudity below. “You are slow to learn, my child, and slow children get their wrists slapped,” the witch said with condescension, a wicked glower on her face as she raised her curling fingers into a fist of coiling, rotting wires.

The strike sailed like a cannonball but never connected, for the first wires to reach the man had been ten threads of sorcerous black. They snaked around Godhand, around each of his limbs and his waist like boas about their prey, constricting to grind bone into a white mush. Rather than finishing off the wounded behemoth, however, they had tugged on his massive body, the unnatural force behind the motion sending him flying backwards and out of the cadaver’s deadly reach. At once, the strings faded into puffs of caliginous smoke, unfettering the drifting giant to let him land on his own. “Kross!” Lillian bellowed as she emerged from the shadows of the airborne man, a rage not her own seeping from the summons.

Lillian was no mind-numbed fool, having been the first to catch a glimpse of the plan that would save them all from certain death, herself included. Apparently, Kross had seen it too, which explained how fiercely he kept the zombie at bay, far away from the little girl. The librarian had seen the battle-scarred warrior discard his humanity to take on the aspect of a demon, seen the hellacious horns grow from small stumps on his forehead and the crackling veins in his greying skin, spreading like a pulsing green disease. Most importantly, however, she had seen this new monstrosity protect her from an older one, repeatedly boring holes into her dead flesh with his transmuted crossbow-arm. She still did not trust the man himself, but she trusted his quick wits, his strategic mind and his skilled assistance in combat: she trusted those enough to rely on his help, on his strength.

And what strength indeed.

The librarian froze up at what sight had followed her enraged call. Kross had undergone a second transformation, his ashen skin giving way to a midnight black, like the obsidian of the nearby tower. The eldritch pulse of green guttered as the new coat of stone spread like volcanic glass, though its flame had not been doused; rather, the intense glow had been channelled into his eyes, now alit like sickly stars. Even the shape of his body had undergone a substantial change, losing half of his humanoid aspect, the lower portion instead favouring an equine form. It was a breath-taking vision, that of a colossal statue instilled with life, similar to a centaur but nothing like what she had ever read in books. The man had stepped beyond truth, beyond fiction, beyond legend.

It was, unfortunately, not long before he stepped back. The guardian of the spire was an implacable power, capable of contending against the devastating stomp of his gigantic hoof, even emerging from the struggle on top, as rottenly-fresh as she had entered it. The gore that followed was too much for Lillian to watch; the corpse had torn out his intestines and unwound them like daisy chains of a dripping, festive red. It was painfully ironic, how he looked more cadaverous than the beastly simulacrum of a woman that had just done him in. Lillian’s teeth cringed as the creature began its ravenous feast on the unfurled entrails, cringed as Kross recovered his humanity in defeat. But she did not move. Something in her newfound guts told her that this man had not yet spoken his last word.

Her inkling proved itself to be true when his imposing bearing, his majesty had recovered as quickly as the gaping rip in his stomach, now concealed in modesty behind a set of clothes she hadn’t seen him don. In the time span of seven blinks, he had calved off from the unliving horror an arm and a foot, the holy fires of his summoned blade cauterizing the wounds to impede her prodigiously quick regenerative abilities. For the first time in this unthinkable clash of pure might against pure might, the monstrous woman was down for the count. That was more than the red-eyed librarian could ever ask for.

Dallying no more, she suppressed the wayward waves of violent energies that wrecked and stormed within her small body, unexpected symptoms from the assimilation of Godhand’s titanic strength. Retrieving herself in equanimity, Lillian slipped her fingers into hidden pockets on her white dress, producing with the left a trio of throwing knives, with the right a single jagged dagger, a single vertical seam running along the blue hues of its flat. Applying pressure to it with her thumb and index, the grooves within the hilt disengaged and the blade split in two symmetrical pieces. Then, all five weapons flew at once, tumbling through the air like howling disks before embedding themselves halfway into her forehead, her rotten shoulders and the flesh above her skeletal thighs.

From their tangs, five black lines were pulled taut, glowing faint and obscure in the dim light, all affixed to the tip of the Cillu dirk she had just withdrawn from the rope belt at her waist. Before the zombie queen could even retaliate, Lillian broke the pavement once more, dashing forth with the glass weapon as spear tip, leaving deep holes and dust clouds in her backwash. She punched the dirk square into the meaty region of her chest, right next to the hollow cesspool of squirming maggots, stopping not at the hilt, but at the Kiramaini beads that glimmered in its pommel. In that moment of reckoning, the only words that rang through her mind belonged to Kross. He didn’t need to tell her twice.

Black light flickered from her hands, bursting into tenebrous smokes. At once, the magical energy seeped into the dirk from the magic-receptive beads, spreading through the glass and into the decaying body. The threads that tied all six of her weapons together were now ablaze, a dark fire eating through the lengths until they hit metal, sank into rotten meat and began devouring the abomination from the inside like a swarm of carrion crawlers. Lillian had already saved three lives this day with her healing powers; this time, they would serve her to slay one, and to save all.

A wicked miasma now seethed from the ghoul’s every orifice. The sacrilege of necromantic flesh was being purged at last, and the curse of the Undead Queen was coming undone; already, her preserved skin was cracking and flaking, falling back to the earth as chips of stone, as waves of dust. "Return from whence thy came, you freak of nature!"

[RumpleGrumblePuss]

Watching Godhand pull away from Skie's offer of help to safety annoyed me to no end. Skie is a leader that obviously knows when it is prudent to run and went it is time to fight. I thought at Godhand's rough question though I dared not to say it aloud, let alone loud enough to draw attention to myself. It was obvious that the demon bitch didn't want us in the Spire. Also, the Spire was the safest place to be at the moment. Not to mention that once in the Spire we would have the advantage in this competition of who could hit harder and still walk.

Recovering my place in the melody I softly sang, I neared the other students that stood either transfixed or milled about uselessly. Like sheep waiting for a wolf to come and pick a snack. I was a little surprised when the closest students turned to me, their bodies relaxing as my soft, soothing song reached them. What in the world? I'll so have to ask my teacher what properties this song holds. If I survive and if she's still alive once the war is over. Pointing at the tower I gave the nearest of the bunch a gentle push.

One by one I got the other students scurrying towards the Spire. Glancing back towards the battle I shook my head and ducked low as I started running. It's a shame to miss the show. I just hope there are no other surprises waiting for us in the Spire, this day sucks hard enough as it is. With the sounds of battle and the world ending behind me. Broken and tortured earth beneath my feet I fairly flew after the students, catching up to them quickly. As I reached the glossy surface of the outer walls, upon closer inspection, I could see spider web like fractures in the rock.

"Move around the far side of the Spire we'll head away from battle for a moment then try for the door." I paused my song long enough to give the new order to the others and push a couple of the students forward. Like Orpheus I looked back. When people say the gods have no sense of humor I shall forever disagree and argue for instead of those in battle disappearing like Eurydice I saw Cydonia feasting on Kross's inhuman body. The image was disturbing enough to raise bile once more in my throat, I turned and fled after the students fighting to hum loudly through the foamy acid in the back of my mouth.

Our path clear of the fighting, we found the entrance, a black rectangle cut into the dark stone. I stared into the black opening for a long moment, unable to see much beyond the doorway. Barking a rough command at the other students I ushered them into the Spire before placing myself squarely in the doorway. Quietly I prayed for a quick death or victory and watched Lillian's final attack on Cydonia, unsure of what to think.

[Skie and Avery]

Skie refused to look away or be ashamed at Godhand's comment. Of course she wasn't a leader; she wouldn't dare ask people to follow her along the path that a dan Sabriel must walk. Something pulled at her conscious; her father would have jumped into the fray and taken his chances with Cydonia, she felt. Her actions weren't those of a heroes, but of a Moontae. Natamrael had been a woman who knew when she wasn't going to contribute anything to a fray and felt no remorse at doing what she could to survive first, and then lend a hand. It was Natamrael at work in Skie today, the woman who looked so much like her, a woman who Godhand had once loved, in some form.

Kahlina had begun to usher the students into the Spire, and before she knew it, Kross' blade began to glow. Skie watched, transfixed as Cydonia screamed into the day, cut down as easily as if she'd been a child. What impressed her was that even as she stood by Godhand, keeping him, in her mind, from being foolish, the librarian stepped up and finished the task that she herself would have been useless at. Her fleeting thought, before turning from Godhand and moving into the Spire was that perhaps she had doomed Eluriand by taking defenders too great for such a small task as escorting a bunch of quaking students.

The moment she entered the Spire, she felt it. The sword at her side seemed to weigh more heavily than normal. It wasn't much, just enough to remind her that it was there. Her heart pounded as she approached the staircase, her hand resting on the hilt of her family weapon to soothe her. Had her father felt like this when he first came to slay Aesphestos and ultimately save the world? Had he felt the storm of danger rolling in? Something seemed wrong, she turned her head to catch a glimpse through the open doorway of the demonic Kross. His form should frighten her more than it did; but then again, who was she to judge based on demonic physical appearance. There had been a time when Moontae wings graced her back.

She had climbed several flights when something caught her attention. She fled up the stairs, pausing at a window to gaze out onto Lindequalme. Through the trees, she saw it, still in the distance. A shudder of familiarity it her. It was much like the feeling, with the smell of blooming apple trees all around, that she had in Eluriand. In the distance, she could see a small army advancing. They weren't heading for the cities in the north, however. They doubled back, clearing Carnelost, following a trail of hacked vines and trampled grass. They were heading for the Spire, and the strange amalgamation of warriors and scholars within. Twisting to peer down the staircase, Skie cried out to the others.

"Get to the top of the Spire now! The Scourge comes for us!"

Post conclusions, and we'll end this chapter. As soon as all conclusions are in and I submit the thread for judging, I'll put up part 2. Any questions can be focused towards me on AIM.

[Slayer of the Rot]

With a vindictive smile, Kross watched Cydonia die.

She shook and howled as Lillian's strange black threads did their venomous work on her rotting body. The Saraelian stared right into the fallen Queen of Undeath's eyes as they begin to gray with the touch of the Antifirmanent. A skinless hand locked on his ankle, even as he heard the marching feet of soldiers advancing through the forest. And like inside of him, and all over the trembling Cydonia, he felt the Black. It rose up strong behind him and pressed on his body, surrounding him with cold comfort that sent a tingling sensation like cold spider's feet up his spine. Kross dropped his blade and drew dirt up into his other hand, and even as he pushed the impurities out of it, turning it rich and black, the glowing Bhidyate vanished. He packed the black dirt against his torn flesh, making the soil one with his unusual body. Slender tubes of flesh rose out of the dirt like worms as it began to reknit, the pain began to was out of him. Kross turned his gray eyes towards the Spire in time to catch Skie staring at him.

End game. The fleeing students and their guardians had lost. Kross and Xem'Zund had won.

The Saraelian moved forward, bits of black dirt crumbling off his regenerating wound. The clothes he had summoned fluttered in a gentle wind, and now, Lillian only could see the dark red embroidery in the open mandarin collared coat he was wearing. She would be able to see, all too terribly, the sigil of Xem'Zund.

Kill one of his soldiers, and another rose to take it's place.

His smile as he reached her was mocking, but only somewhat so; the rest of it conveyed arrogance. It had been a test by the Necromancer, he was sure of it now. A test to see if he would betray innocent lives for his own selfish means, a test to see if Kross was capable of killing one of his stronger undead servants. And he had passed one of those conditions with flying colors, and was now moving to pass the other brilliantly. Stopping mere inches from the little librarian, he looked back slowly over his shoulder, at the still form of Cydonia. "Nice work, girl." His gaze climbed upwards, towards the small army advancing through the Red Forest.

"But not good enough. Think you can do that a hundred some-more times? Then do you think you can take me down?" Kross snorted, then laughed shortly. The laughter had no humor in it; it came in a few short barks, flat and rough like tree bark. Then, he walked past her, putting his bark to her in utter disrespect for her skill and power against Cydonia. More and more of the black soil fell away from the wound on his stomach to show shiny pink scar tissue, the drying rivulets of blood on his hand one of the only reminders of the brutal wound the ghoul had dealt him.

"Damn, it feels good to drop the act. Pretending to give a shit was starting to get at me." Kross ran his hand through his short auburn hair and roughly shoved his head to the left and right, working the stiffness out of it. The black mark 's power had begun to flow unhindered. Though not visible, the change was evident in him; in his eyes, in his very presence. More of the black dirt crumbled away from the wound, and Kross's boot heels clicked sharply against the spire's stone floor. Vestiges of his master's power pressed against the walls, feeling the presence of the mark, and the Saraelian felt incredible comfort wash over him the deeper he moved into the spire, the higher he climbed the stairs.

Maybe Skie already knew when Kross appeared behind her and the students, turning away from a window to shout a warning down at her charges. He knew from their glances they all had their suspicions, but the triumphant smile, the murderous, black aura that bled from his body surely confirmed their glances. Kross vaulted over them all, landing right in front of Skie to let the students, Kahlina, and Godhand get a nice eyeful of the necromancer's sigil on his back.

"The Scourge is already here," he said mockingly through a wide grin, and launched a flat palmed blow to her mid section to throw her into the wall of the landing at the top of the stairs. Kross approached her again, taking his time with a blatant swagger to his walk, and reached down to pull the daughter of the Starslayer up by her hair.

"For a dan Sabriel, you're awfully fucking pathetic. Then again, your father probably couldn't have stopped us this time. We're going to swallow the world." The Saraelian looked back towards the students and Godhand, ignoring Skie. For a moment, the certainty of his actions faltered as he stared at the silver haired mercenary.

"Not trying to stop me? Good idea." None of the students would be able to pose a single problem, but even with all his newfound power, he still wasn't sure that he'd be able to put down Godhand. He knew nothing about the man's own growth. With so many of Godhand's motions in his own combat, the mercenary wouldn't have much trouble anticipating his actions. Not to mention, those big guns of his, which he was reaching for past the pain in his ribs. Kross knew well enough the size of a hole one of those hand cannons would put in him, and he'd rather not suffer through the regeneration of such a wound.

The Saraelian threw back his head and let out another of those humorless, sharp laughs, and raised a hand to the wall. A clean, thin vertical crack appeared in the black stone, then it parted, creating a simple doorway. Grabbing at Skie's hands, Kross summoned up thick bands of obsidian from the floor to try and bind her wrists and ankles, and with a second thought, one to wrap around her mouth. Slinging her over his shoulder, he stepped out of the formed doorway, and hung there in the air for a moment. He looked down at the ranks closing in on the spire. Then, he turned his cutting gaze on his captive, smirking.

"Looks like you failed."

Kross soared across the canopy of the Red Forest with Skie in tow, laughing all the way.
_____
Spoils:
Saraelian Branch Form - Increases size and mass.
Gains centaurian form.
Triples strength from base amount (before any transformation).
Allows Dan (Kross) to change his arms to adapt to different situations, must be in the Root form for two posts before activation.
More details will be meshed out in level update.

Xem'Zund Uniform - A mandarin collared black vlince coat with dark red embroidery. Features the necromancer's sigil.

[Godhand]

Watching Cydonia finally go down was a relief for Godhand. Even on his best day, perfectly healthy and knowing what he knew know he wouldn't have lasted long against her. No chance with a couple of busted ribs. She was quick and vicious and she didn't get tired. She was too much. Too much woman. It somehow seemed right that it was the librarian that had finished her off.

But she wasn't done. Afterwards, helpful angel that she was, she had walked over to Godhand and helped him steady himself. This little mouse that had once seemingly wished him ill now looked at him with such unsure delight that it mitigated the pain in his chest. The swordsman started to feel pretty good about himself and life in general. He thought about how God was in his heaven and all was right with the world. That was probably a bit much but they did what they could. In the end that was all anyone could ever do.

Leaning on his new charge for support, he made his way over to the Obsidian Spire. With Cydonia gone nothing prevented them from seeking shelter in it and Kahlina had already ushered most of the students inside. They'd need to rest for a while; they couldn't travel like this. Godhand was battered and Lillian would be coming down from her battle high soon. Curiously, the only one who seemed none the worse for wear was Kross. It was a bit unsettling but after that little display he had earned his stripes, at least in Godhand's eyes.

Godhand was wondering why he hadn't approached the Spire. He turned around, however, and there it was. The face of their true enemy. Kross stood there, attempting to emulate some measure of regality as the uniform of the Cursed fell upon his shoulders. The mercenary now understood that everything up until this point had just been the thresher: something meant to wear them down and identify the pivotal members in the group. It was a good con and Godhand was impressed the thrall was able to run it from as far back as Eluriand. That took determination and, if that little trick that had deposited them in the Red Forest was any indication, quite a bit of power. The swordsman wondered what other tricks he had up his now-embroidered sleeve.

He didn't get much time to wonder, though. As soon as he revealed his true colors he was nothing but motion and cursing. He took the time to insult every member of the group except for Godhand. This seemed a little interesting to the mercenary. Was it some indication of respect? Or did he know he was going to have to go through him to get to Skie and was saving it for afterwards? Whatever it meant, Godhand was on. He was ready. Even in his crippled state he was still formidable, and wether he showed it or not that fight had to have taken something out of the traitor.

But just as the mercenary was about to lunge forward and lock up with Kross, his former ally leaped over both him and the students. Almost as a second thought Godhand bent his knees to match his bound but the sharp pain that cut into him let him know how unwise that was. He stumbled forward, pushing his way through the students that were too scared to make way. Kross had already manipulated the Spire into binding Skie. Godhand instantly unholstered his gun as Kross leapt into the air, calmly aiming for the bridge in the skull located behind the ear. One bullet directly into the brain and it wouldn't matter what he was or who he served: he'd go down. The gunman lined up the barrel, whispered an admonishment to the creature and pulled the trigger.

Click

All his confidence drained away, leaving him with a horrible sense of dread. Guns didn't work in the land of the elves. As the air became thick with the sounds of the approaching undead, Godhand regretted chastising their leader and silently admitted she was right.

He should have let him die.

((Spoils: None. Please take any gold I would have gotten from this quest and dump it into my exp.))

[RumpleGrumblePuss]

I felt both brows rise at the rather anti-climatic demise of Cydonia. I had almost expected well I wasn't entirely sure of what I expected, maybe an explosion or a scream or three. Oh well, at least no one is dead. I stood my post in the door way as Skie entered, waiting for the others. If I were truthfully and brutally honest I was a little hesitant to enter. Just standing in the doorway I could feel something from the Spire. It was a cold as if all warmth had fled, rendering the structure behind me absolute zero. Frankly, it set me on edge.

Great, they say no good deed goes unpunished. I thought as Skie's warning echoed down the Spire to me. Watching Kross pack his wounds with dirt, I vaguely hoped that he caught a really nasty infection. It seemed like fate the Kross' true colors finally appeared. As Godhand's gun dry clicked I raced to follow Kross, shoving everyone out of my way. What I thought I would or could do, I didn't know. I only knew that a tense situation has just gotten much worse and we were completely boned.

Kross' attack on Skie didn't seem to make much sense. It would have made more strategic sense to take out Godhand while he was wounded or to cut down Lillian while she was burdened helping out Godhand. Then I remembered long ago conversation I had had with Manda. Long talks about Skie and Avery's parents and deeds among giggled plots for our silly threads. Starslayer blood ran through Skie's veins and if I remembered correctly Devon had once defeated The Scourge’s master, Xem'zund.

As shimmering stone wrapped itself around Skie's captive body I caught one of Skie's ankles with a whip. Suppressing a winch at the sharp smack of leather against flesh I pulled back on my whip, dropping the other to hang on with both hands. My feet slid across the smooth stone floor a few inches as Kross flew through the opening he created, Skie in hand. Feeling the whip's grip loosen on Skie's ankles I yanked on it in one last desperate gesture, hoping that the sudden jerk would pull her free.

I closed my eyes a moment before I would have crashed into the wall and instead found myself painfully seated on the ground. The whip lay on the floor, coiled like a sleeping snake. Not trusting the opening in the wall I ran to the window and looked out. The first ranks of the undead were appearing at the edge of the clearing when I turned back to the rest of the group.

"Damn. If anyone knows a good teleport spell now would be the time to use it, other wise we have another fight ahead of us. Battle stations people" I glanced down at the nervous faces of the students and suddenly wished I could laugh. Afraid that if I started I wouldn’t be able to stop I shook my head instead. "Lillian, can you place those dark threads you create to surfaces or are they useable when they are attached to you only?" I asked as an idea for defense slowly built itself.


((Spoils: Calming song, it creates a soothing effect on thoes listening. ))

[Ataraxis]

Lillian walked away from a pile of crumbling dust, the red glow in her eyes smouldering bright with the embers that had burned the corpse to ashes. Her arms swooped crosswise, fingers darting to the washed out skies, and her weapons were fished out from the grave dirt in six bursts of smoke to gently land in her open palms. Stowing them away, she padded along the broken pathways between cursed forest and cursed spire, falling to one knee at the side of Godhand. For some odd reason, his close proximity no longer riled up the emotions that had so often put her to shame, this day.

He was a big idiot, she thought to herself as her eyes fell on the titan, chiding at first but softening like a mother’s before a troublesome son. She had done hard work replacing his rib and patching up his lungs, but all that was wasted work after his spectacular yet downright reckless leap; he had wasted it all, but he’d done it to help her. ‘A big, old, idiot of a caring oaf.’ The librarian squeezed herself beneath his arm and got him up to a wobbly stand, letting him use her as a little crutch. At the same time, she had sneaked her fingers onto his chest, and the same black glow enswathed her hand. “I should charge you for the hard time you’re giving me,” she finally said with a timid smile.

While they made their way to the Spire, Lillian heard the tap of muffled steps on the stone. Thinking that Cydonia had somehow risen from her ashes, she turned and steeled herself, as did Godhand with the best of his ability. Greeting their sight instead was Kross, the grin that tugged at his lips fraught with mockery aimed at the girl. It was, however, the symbol upon his summoned vestments that had pulled the wool off her eyes. She was all too familiar with the sigil of the Black, so often depicted in ancient texts and scriptures with ink like blood as a caveat. Kross was a conniving traitor after all. The only joy she had was of never truly trusting the man himself, but that meant nothing now. Trust or not, he had played them all. Trust or not, he had won.

And The Scourge was coming to congratulate him.

Even through the thick clusters of boughs and boles, of crawling vines and blood drop leaves, she could feel them come like a lone and baleful wind that roused the Red Forest awake from its years of slumber. The traitor was right, she could not even hope to repeat the miracle, not against a thousand, not against him, and certainly not against Xem’Zûnd. He crossed them both, climbing the winding staircases of the dark tower as the girl let her head slump. But it wasn’t tears that she was trying to hide. “We have to stop him,” she murmured, keeping a seething rage from bursting through her teeth. No more words were exchanged. They only hustled.

Kross had hurdled over the amassed students, landing face to face with Skie dan Sabriel. While he took a perverse pleasure in talking the leader down, Godhand decided that he wouldn’t listen to that drivel and do nothing. Plowing through the frightened sheep, he pulled out a dire-looking gun from his holster and aimed for the Dark One’s newest goon as he slung a manacled Skie over his shoulder and leapt through the rift on the obsidian. She heard the terse click, but heard none of the bang nor seen any of the fiery smoke from the cold barrel. The strange, eldritch field that swathed these lands had counteracted with technology, causing the weapon to misfire. Ironic, how Raiaera herself worked in favour of her own demise.

As cold sweats beaded profusely from her forehead, Lillian difficultly weaved through the helpless crowd, this burdensome flock now without a shepherd. Kahlina came into her line of sight, the only student here who’d had the presence of mind to react at their leader’s capture. Through the gap in stone, up ahead in the distance, she could see forms roil beneath the sea of blood, see dead-grey blotches forming into phalanxes as they came nearer and nearer to the black heart of Lindequalmë. For an instant, her mind wandered far off in helpless rage, bone-chilling dread and all-encompassing uncertainty, to finally end in a soundless vacuum, unable to hear in that moment the ophidian woman’s call to arms.

Only when her name was called did she stand to attention. “My… my threads,” she repeated absently, the red of her eyes slowly focusing on the chimeric form of the student. Breathing harder than before, she looked down to her sweat palms, then gave her a deliberate nod. “Yes… I can detach them from my body, and give them a highly-adhesive quality. Give… give me a moment.” Instead of asking how much the woman wanted, or what exactly she had planned for them, Lillian simply started her seamstress’ work. Ten lengths of strings fell from her fingers in a continuous stream, looping and circling as they tumbled down as fast as unfurling spools, and though they were sticky, they would not tangle upon themselves. The girl could have no moment’s rest, but she couldn’t blame any of them for relying on her. Everything she had accomplished this day, no matter how great, had suddenly become nothing more than trifling deeds in her mind. There was so much to be done now, so much that she had to do, that only she could do. “Just…just tell me when to…”

The ends of the thin black ropes fell loose from her fingers. Her eyes went wide as her body seemed to freeze. Without a warning, her knees slammed against the cold black stone, the girl squirming on all fours. A few of the students, for once, had moved toward her in worry, but were quick to move back at what followed. The librarian jerked back her head, then threw it down again as blood burst from her mouth like water from a broken dam. It splashed loudly, flecks and specks tainting her arms and white dress a deep, dripping red, stopping only when all the colors had been robbed from the girl and thrown out revoltingly to paint the stairway. The florid hues of her skin were blanched to a sallow white, the vivacity in her expression watered down to a sickly look of absent confusion. Her eyes buzzed with her ears as colors faded into ghostly blurs, as the cries of students blended with the loudening thunder of the undead walking, until her senses all spiralled as one, into nothingness.

Lillian had been at her limit long before the battle against Cydonia, and the forced absorption of Godhand’s physical might had taken its toll on her feeble body. She had cast countless spells, to heal and to hurt, and had continued to the end, weaving her threads to help those who could not help themselves. It was all such a pity, and the third and final irony of this day did not escape the last lights of her waking mind. Of all the people here, she was the only one who could save herself. There she lay, unmoving and bathing in a mere of red, eyes turned up to a still and lifeless blue, the girl trapped in a tangled web of her own blood and weave.

“I’m sorry.”

She couldn’t even hear herself speak, couldn’t even feel the tears upon her cheeks.

She couldn’t feel anything anymore.



((Spoils: Considering I’ve more than halved its original effectiveness and substantially restricted its use, I hope this skill will be granted without adverse effects on anything else. Also, as the second spoil is the direct consequence of a skill I’ve had approved, I hope it won’t cause anything to be deducted. Three of the daggers she used aren't in her profile because I forgot to add them from Saved (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?t=6138). I also don’t know if the minor magical item must be requested here or if it is granted at a later time.

Gargantua’s Might - The second power produced by the Welkin Body. By sipping the blood of a mercenary named Godhand, with his permission that is, Lillian has, on top of gaining nigh-immunity to his specific pheromones, made his sheer physical strength into her own. Though upon the first use of her newfound might, her body was capable of the same extraordinary feats as the man, she is no longer capable of drawing from it at the same level of potency. At most, she can lift up to 3000 pounds and can, with effort, bend Delyn; in this state, her running speed can as much as double, and she will also gain impressive stamina. Currently, Lillian cannot call upon her strength by will, as it only activates under situations of high emotional stress or duress and at varying degrees of effectiveness.

The equivalent of 4 shirts or 2 jackets in her magical black-silk cloth, as stated in her ability, Seamstress of the Sinister (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?t=8416).))

[Call me J]

Well, the big problem here that I saw was while there were a bunch of good writers who showed me some good writing in this thread, for whatever reason, not all of you finished strong. With the exception of Ataraxis and the smaller cameos, every one of you had a large amount of variance in the quality of your posts. The best posts in this thread are Judges’ Choice material, but the thread, overall, unfortunately is not.

Total Score- 75 This is one time I'm really happy how the rubric came out. It scored the thread just as how I'd want a thread like this to score. Very high, but not exemplary, which is what this quest, in its entirety was.

• STORY ~ 22.5/30

Continuity (7) ~ If there was a post hall of fame, I would put Madison’s first post in there, solely on the basis of the way he described the battle at Carnelost and the woman whose hand had been reanimated by Xem’zund. This little bit of continuity really brought me into this thread in a very good way. However, as strong as the beginnings were, I can’t really say the same about the end.

Setting (7.5) ~ Though this gets at action as well as at setting, Godhand’s use of a gun in his final post was absolutely brilliant. I really loved it and felt it brought a jarring image at the end of the thread. In general, I felt the setting was underused by the majority of the people in this thread, both as something that your characters could have reacted to, in addition to something to help create ambiance. There were good moments, Skie and Avery’s mention of the changed behavior of the Dur’Taigen was one of them, but there could have been so much more.

Pacing (8) ~ For a thread with so many people, you guys definitely did a good job at pacing this adventure. There were a few issues that dealt with brevity that hurt you guys, but for the most part, I found this thread an enjoyable read.

• CHARACTER ~ 20.5/30

Dialogue (6.5) ~ I don’t really want to get in to too many specific comments here, because there were a lot of different styles that the people in this quest took with regards to their character and dialogue. However, with the exception of RumpleGrumblePuss, I felt that all of you could have benefited from a little bit more dialogue in your posts.

Action (7) ~ I really didn’t get how Skie could have been reminded of Dan by Kross’ strength. Granted, they are the same person, but what about Kross’ strength would be any more reminiscent of Dan than say Godhand or any of the other muscle heads we have running around Althanas. I understand this was done as a literary device, but it was one of those things that jumped out to me and made me say “what?” and I really don’t like having to do that. Otherwise, this was very strong. Godhand, if you haven’t already, take note of my setting comment.

Persona (7) ~ With a thread this huge with this many PCs, did you really need to throw so many NPCs in it too, especially in the earlygoing? This thread really suffered from character overload. While there isn’t a max length a story needs to be if it includes a certain amount of characters, there is a minimum length for this, and I’m not sure if this thread achieved it. That said, there were some brilliant character portrayals in this thread, Findelfin had a great cameo, Leon had a solid one. Godhand showed a lot of character, though at the expense sometimes of Brevity.

• WRITING STYLE ~ 24/30

Mechanics (9) ~ There were periodic minor issues that cropped up, the wrong word used occiasionally, “conscious” vs “conscience” as one example, but for the most part, I can’t really complain here. In a thread this big, there are going to be mistakes despite yourselves. Then again, you have a lot of eyes for peer editing.

Technique (8) ~ Godhand has this wonderful way of putting a great deal of meaning behind mundane words. His ability to do this really shone in this thread. Slayer of the Rot’s use of imagery was also a treat.

Clarity (7) ~ This suffered because of a lack of brevity.

• Wild Card (8) ~ Pulling off a large multiperson quest must have been difficult, but you did a great job pulling it off. You all should be pleased with yourself, and the wild card score is to reflect this strong showing.

Spoils
Note, the EXP values have been modified based on importance of character to the plot, in addition to your relative writing skills.


Skie and Avery 5626 EXP and 675 EXP
Slayer of the Rot gets 5409 EXP and 600 GP
RumplegrumblePuss gets 2577 EXP and 525 EXP. Spoil approved.
Godhand gets 4526 EXP and 525 EXP
Ataraxis gets 3480 EXP and 600 GP. As for the spoils, I approve them, but I want you to run the exact specs past someone in RoG. I suspect they will be a bit excessive, given your level. Also, to that end, I request that you do not use them until after RoG approval.
Farsight gets 1094 EXP and 150 GP
Findelfin gets 2617 EXP and 150 GP
Artifex Felicis gets 1835 EXP and 150 GP

[Karuka]

EXP/GP added! Skie and Avery, Slayer of the Rot, RumpleGrumblePuss, Godhand, Ataraxis, and Artifex Felicis all level up!