Third Target: The Dark Apothecary

(Closed)

Godhand slowly raised his hand in the air, taking quiet pride in the fact that the undead shrunk away from it, before bringing it down with a chop over the head of the war-magi he had held by the shoulder. The man's head recoiled as if blasted by a shotgun and his body went limp in the mercenary's grip. Godhand gave a quick snort to clear his sinuses of the smell of rot before dropping the now neutralized zombie and scanning the remainder of his troops for anyone looking to make a move.

He was surrounded by a small contingent of Rangers. Well, they'd once been Rangers. At some time during their sleep the warriors had been turned by Xem'Zund; so great was the Necromancer's power that the formerly proud elven defenders did not even have to be bitten to be turned into his thralls. And, of course, it fell to Godhand to put them down for the long rest after they switched over to the Scourge's side. It didn't matter to him, obviously; he didn't know any of those guys. But a lot of other elves would have had serious qualms about murdering their own kind before they began to show any outward signs of zombification.

What remained of the corrupted Rangers were now much more disorganized. Now that he'd slain the person who had been, in life, their leader, they seemed to blankly await orders from Xem'Zund himself or one of his generals before taking any further action. That was probably the downside to being turned without actually being infected, at least for Xem'Zund; once their immediate leader was vanquished and without anybody there to give them orders, they simply reverted into vacant-eyed statues. Had any of them actually been bitten, they'd be mindlessly shambling towards Godhand like the animals they were.

Now that their wasn't any real danger, the swordsman was free to pick them off at his leisure. One of the things that pissed Godhand off the most about killing zombies was unless they were burned or dismembered, they were always still potentially at the Necromancer's beck and call. And since the gunman couldn't go around starting fires everywhere he went, this usually meant he had to go through a very messy, tiring process to neutralize them with any finality. Sure, he could have waved his sheath over them and taken them out for good, but the archmage that'd enchanted it had warned him against overloading the vacuum, so for the moment he had to do it by hand.

It was as the warrior tore off the last of the creature's arms that he finally wiped his brow, climbed unto his wagon and set a course for the nearest town. He knew this sort of thing didn't count; there were still four of the Scourge's high generals to go. Unless he neutralized them as well, the elves would keep on struggling with a losing war.

It had been three weeks since she had landed in Raiaera. She had been in Elven territory only a handful of times, but even as she did so, she knew that there were stares in her direction. The Hunter was a novelty to these people, a potential enemy or ally. Some people obviously were wondering just what someone armed so thoroughly was doing in a losing fight. She was interested in blood, but not the elves for once.

The Necromancers had to go first. Make herself a hero before she systematically slew through the ranks of the remaining Bladesigners, so she could escape with perhaps enough heads to return to Alerar, the conquering hero. That was her plan at the very least. As she moved through the area of the small village she could smell the stench of death. It pervaded the environment nowadays, saturating the skin and the food, forcing her to put up with its offending odor. It was a stench more pervasive than that of the so called "High Elves".

While the Guard had stopped her and asked her intentions in the area, they certainly couldn't just disallow a living person from retreating within the perimeter of the town. Even as she gave them no concrete answer, The hunter was aware of the eyes on her weaponry. Her own eyes darted about from under her cloak as she moved with a wistful grace. She had not had the fortune of seeing an area so thoroughly corrupted by Necromancy, but now that she had, she could honestly say this was going to go faster in her favor than ever before.

She could kill maybe one or two of the higher ranking members of Xem'zund's order of Necromancers, and perhaps in doing so clear a path for herself to Eluriand, and gain her the experience in fighting the mages she needed to be a decisive player in this war. It could even gain her enough money that she could survive in this Gods forsaken country longer than the week her money was projected to work. Walking down the street she would often wait to occasionally read the auras about people, looking for magical influence.

When anyone could be a necromancer, it paid to be paranoid.

Godhand understood the kind of horrible, horrible work this was when he'd taken the job, but there were some things he wasn't expecting. Or at least, not expecting at the degree they were. There were a lot of terrible things about being in Raiaera during this war: the famine, the pestilence, the rot...One of the things that was really exasperating is that he couldn't just climb into the back of his wagon and go to sleep when the sun went down. The countryside was positively THICK with undead abominations; if he gave them the benefit of being able to sneak up on him while he was sleeping then they'd end gnawing on his neck before he could do anything about it. Worse than that though, worse than anything else in the entire Goddamn war was something a lot of people wouldn't have even thought about.

It was the smell.

The scent of Xem'Zund's corruption sunk into his clothes, his skin...He even had the paranoid delusion that it'd manage to get behind his eyeballs and he'd be living with the damn stink for the rest of his life. That, more than anything else in the entire God-forsaken region, scared him. Who could imagine carrying that sort of rot with them for the rest of their lives? He'd tried smearing flower oil on his upper lip, but that was about as effective as spraying perfume on a turd. It was maddening.

He had to take the job, though. He needed the cash. Godhand didn't know exactly where all of his gold had gone; he estimated he'd sunk most of his savings into the sheath, but the NWO's treasury was quickly depleting itself as well. Which was weird, because he'd made it clear that the only reason anybody could dip into it was for an emergency. Ugh, as if that would have stopped those Goddamn swine. Raelyse had probably spent half of it by himself just on whores and frilly suits. Add to that the fact that The Company's efforts to expel the manor's former occupants had left it a bombed out shell of it's former self, and the repairs easily reached up to four or even five figures. It was nearly every day that he had the same conversation with Jame, who claimed that he was something of a handy-man.

"Can we fix it?"

Followed shortly by

"No, it's fucked."

So, there he was. Squeezing some coins out of this whole debacle while those Goddamn apes relaxed and got into his whiskey back home. An unintended consequence of his actions was that some of the elves were starting to look to him as something of a hero. Godhand knew that it wasn't anything he deserved, though. The only reason he'd been paid to take out the Necromancer's generals was because they were currently decimating the elven defenders. The warrior knew that if the war was going the other way, he'd have gotten paid to assassinate whatever was left of the high bard council. It was in the best interests of the powers that be to drag the war out as long as they could. Weapon dealers...

As long as the blood was pouring out, the gold would keep pouring in.

Moving down the street Drusilia was finally getting exasperated with the furtive looks. Either the guards would make their move, and she would respond in kind, or they would not. It was tiring to her, to be subject to the rather flimsy behaviors of the Raiaeran guard. Further, she was here for legitimate purposes, since she was after all heading for the capital city of Eluriand, if only to figure out how to get into the City and ply her trade.

As her eyes took on a blue tinge she once more searched amongst the groups of people. A few Elves were scattered about the area, and it became clear that these were the mere peasantry, even as the guards moved about. The Hunter's gaze moved unflinchingly over the guards, who glowed a faint blue, possibly from rather ineffective wards against necromancy. It seemed someone fancied themselves a mage, or perhaps a cleric, still as she looked upon the peasantry, she found her first surprise.

One of the Peasants, a woman was glowing a bright blue. Not the shade of blue the Hunter had learned was a magically touched individual, but one who drew upon the winds of Magic. Her eyes narrowed as she watched the woman. Her walk moved her into an alley way as she pulled the bow from its resting place, beside one of her long swords. As she strung it she watched the woman with intent eyes. She seemed to be fiddling with something in her bag, before Drusilia smirked seeing her pull out something from the bag, a small vial.

Immediately the arrow was pulled as she smirked letting an arrow loose. It flew through the throne as people screamed, hearing the arrow fly through the air, only inches from their heads before the woman's hand was impaled by the shaft. As the guard approached the woman more approached the Drow weapons drawn as she merely rested against the wall, a predatory grin on her face.

"Drop your weapons, and you will not be hurt!" The guard replied firmly as the hunter's smile widened.

"Vith tir," She replied giving a rather rude gesture to the guard's for their time. One of the guards began to draw weapon before the other guards near the woman shouted for their patience.

The woman was dragged screaming for mercy in front of the Drow as she looked impassively at the ruined hand of the woman. Her eyes cold as she grinned in mockery of the woman's desperate pleas. Even as the guard handed a vial over to one of the other guards, "She was found with this..."

"What is it?" The other guard asked as he frowned.

Drusilia immediately plucked it form the guard's hands before she studied it and sighed, tossing it back tot he guard, "I suppose they never taught the guards to recognize Wormfang poison. A drop of this stuff would have killed the populace, placed in a well."

The guards all froze as the woman looked at her hand and whimpered in pain. Drusilia immediately drew her blade before it was shoved through the woman's chest, leaving it to exit somewhere out her back as the Drow shoved the sword deeper. As the woman screamed in agony she let her grin widen before she pulled the blade from its fleshy sheath. Kneeling to wipe the blood off on the dead woman's shirt she began to walk as the guards looked at each other dumbfounded.

"Drow, wait!" One of the guard shouted as they moved up to the woman.

"Yes?" She asked questioningly.

"Please, stay in the village a bit, we've had a rash of deaths, and you may have prevented another. Perhaps we could use one of your-"

"What’s in it for me, elf?" Her tone grew colder as she looked at the pleading guard.

"Why did you help in the first place?" The guard asked dumbfounded.

"I was bored, and she was a mage," The hunter replied with a shrug.

The guard stammered before he said bluntly, "We'll take care of you until you move on."

The Drow smiled as she said, "Now, we're getting somewhere."

It was about three hours later that Godhand finally reached a town. It'd gotten hit hard by the war, but then which place in Raiaera hadn't? What once were sprawling valleys were now dark and hostile wastelands, and the grand architectural achievements of the elves that had once been their pride and joy were reduced to soot-covered refuges from the Forgotten One's marauding armies. Hell, the only real stronghold left was Anebrilith, and even that one was in danger of falling into the Necromancer's hands at any moment. And he knew, of course, what would happen if that city were to fall.

It was the last refuge of the elves, apart from the all but abandoned Velicë Arta. Hundreds of thousands of refugees, nearly the entirety of whatever remained of the once great elven nation, were swarming over the port, hoping for another desperately overtaxed ship to arrive and carry what few women and children it could back to safety. If Xem'Zund were to finally breach it's walls, all of it's famished and terrified denizens would be laid to waste. And then they would rise once more, and the size of the Forgotten One's army would be multiplied one hundred fold. The swordsman wondered just what the Necromancer would do then. With the land of his arch-nemesis' finally conquered, and his millenia-long crusade at an end, would he turn his terrible gaze west to Alerar? Would he turn his sword against the closest thing to true elves that remained after his slaughter of Raiaera? And if so, what then? If he managed to occupy Alerar and bolster his armies with their dead, there would be no army on Althanas that could stop him.

And then, of course, was the fact that very few veterans of the Necromancer's original crusade remained. It seemed that whatever men had once stood against Xem'Zund's might had been claimed by death, and had taken with them any knowledge they might have had of his vulnerabilities. Where once Devon the Starslayer, mighty hero of the war and the most noble of swordsmen, had stood against the the Forgotten One's wrath, now there was only Godhand Striker. And he didn't even want to be there himself.

Troubling thoughts on that cold Raiaera morning. He waved to a guard as he led his wagon down into the stables, giving his horses a chance to rest. He then wordlessly gave the same guard a hundred mark note. He didn't need to say what it was for; they both understood. If he left his wagon out unwatched then the refugees would strip it down to the core. A hundred marks now could save him a lot of grief later.

The apple was lifted with a casual grace as she shined it up. Her eyes looked at the fruit, a sigh of boredom leaving her lips before she gazed about. She had probably refilled her reserves of food, enough to get her to Anebrilith, and possibly further. The problem was there was no one worth killing out here near the edge of the Alerian and Raiaeran borders. She needed at least one head, one trick she could use to get her put somewhere important, and not waste her time slaying the casual undead that graced this doomed land.

And no mistakes would be made, this land was doomed.

The Drow sat on the porch of a building overlooking the crowds. Most people flitted about as they tried to live some semblance of a normal life, others seemed keen on talking with her, only to receive a rather rude comment in Drow, or questions about how dumb they were, only to confuse them. It appeared not many people actually spoke Drow, and with the exception of a few of the guards no one knew the insults she was throwing at them. It amused her to say the least, almost as much as the state of this country.

How they could think they had defeated a Dread Necromancer was certainly the punch line of a fantastic joke she was keen on learning. Xem'zund had decimated the Elven lands, and even she could see the beginnings of his corruption choking the very life from the land. It didn't take a Hunter to know that they were doomed, and yet people still fought. Better to pull out, and diminish his returns, rather than fight and engorge his fattening Army.

Of course, this wasn't exactly a popular opinion, and she wasn't keen on giving the advice. The fact that they had even lasted this long was probably the result of some Elvish stubbornness and the luck of others. She doubted any elf had struck a telling blow against Xem'zund's forces in months, let along the entirety of the renewed war. Her eyes once more drifted to the apple before she took a bite from it thoughtfully. The fruit was delicious, though she knew it was probably the last of its kind. Food such as this would spoil soon, and then they'd have nothing to replace it. Xem'zund was starving them out.

Her eyes flitted about watching the various people as she tried to gauge their threat to her. Some ranked so low she didn't bother with them, even as her bow rested against the wall beside her. A few of them bared further scrutiny, like the guards. She had barely managed to last long enough dealing with their rather flimsy whims. Another minute and she could have been cut down for what she did to the Elf Guard who had told her to stand down.

Still as she rested against the side of the building watching people go down the street she couldn't help but notice the stares. Apparently the war that had torn their races apart had caused more grief for the elves than she thought. As a smile graced the Hunter's deadly lips she relished in the attention. The fact she had saved them surely would chafe their better nature. To owe anything to a Drow must have infuriated some of them.

Just the way she wanted it.

Godhand was famished; he was walking down the street, trying to pick out a halfway decent place to eat, but it was easier said than done. Half the places looked like blown out bomb shelters. The other half had been destroyed entirely. Jesus, even this close to the border the Necromancer's hold could be felt. Finally, he found a simple brick tavern that looked like it wouldn't quite collapse at any moment and walked in. The place was...Well, it was holding up anyway. About half of the bar had been cordoned off paper-thin mattresses had been strewn all over the place. This building, too, had been transformed into a refugee center. Not a good one, mind you, but I guess when the war was going this badly you'd take what you could get.

The warrior took a seat on the only remaining free table. Soon enough a surly man in a dirty apron walked up to him.

"What are you, some sort of big shot? Can't come to the counter to order like everybody else?"

Godhand clucked his tongue without even thinking about.

"Save the 'tude, guy. Just tell me what's on the menu."

"Meat."

"What? What do you mean 'meat'? What kind of meat?"

"Just meat. That's all we got."

"Jesus Christ. Alright, how much?"

"Two gold pieces."

"Tcht. Pricey. Alright, I'll take a 'meat'."

"Alright. How do you like it: burnt to a crisp or bloody as Hell?"

"Are those my only two choices?"

"For two gold pieces they are."

"Most places in Radasanth will give you a full course meal and a glass of good ale for two gold pieces."

"You're a long way from Radasanth. Besides, these are inflationary times."

Godhand looked the barman in the eye, grit his teeth, then relented and rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.

"Ain't that the fuckin' truth. Alright, I'll take it bloody as Hell."

They made him wait way too fucking long for what was basically singed meat, and when the barman came back he handed him the plate with obvious disdain. Godhand stared warily at the dish of the day. It looked fine, he supposed. It looked like meat, anyway. But it smelled off somehow. Sweaty? Gamey. Something like that. But his stomach rumbled and he knew he had to make due.

"Is it good enough for his highness?"

"Yeah, yeah. Hold on..."

The swordsman picked up his fork and knife, and even though the knife was decently sharp cutting the meat was still a startlingly difficult task. As the blood poured out of the pink flesh, Godhand hesitatingly brought it to his mouth. As soon as he bit into it that 'sweaty' flavor rushed into his mouth and he nearly gagged. He tried to tough it out, but he couldn't even chew through the meat. Finally, he spit it out in outrage.

"What the fuck are you serving me, shoe leather?!"

"Horse meat, miss prissy pants."

"God, that's vile! Look, take that back to the kitchen and burn it to a crisp. I don't want to catch ebola."

The barman snorted and picked up the plate before turning and walking back to the kitchen. Godhand shouted at his back.

"And GOD HELP YOU if you spit in my food, you fucking ape!"

"Yeah, yeah!"

Godhand gave a frustrated sigh and looked around. Sure, it might've been a little harsh, but you had to be tough with these swine or they'd walk all over you. Still, he felt real bad about the whole scene when he noticed one of the war orphans staring hungrily at the lump of meat he'd spit unto the floor.

It was just one of those days...

As she relaxed upon the front of the tavern she saw many things. A human male had entered the town, riding upon a cart with two horses. Tossing his money around he seemed keen on protecting whatever was in the cart. Frowning as she eyed the older man she let her eyes take on the blue tinge of scouting out the competition. Looking upon the warrior she frowned when the scabbard at his side didn't glow blue, but instead seemed to dim.

Non-magical things didn't dim. It was only when something was charged with the opposite energy of magic that you could see they were...

Immediately she found herself at her feet her hand grasping for something to throttle that human with. The bastard had something that reeked of anti-magic. It wasn't his, no, there was no way some common scum human could produce such a substance, even she had taken years of training to figure out how it came to be. The fact that someone of such low breeding could have one of these sheathes, was a heresy of the highest order.

Perhaps he had scavenged it...

...yes. That had to be it, the man had to have taken it off of one of her fellow hunters. That was likely, humans were a thieving breed, and she could see a hunter falling under the curse of undeath. She'd just confiscate the sheath from the man after she found out where he had gotten it. Better to keep such treasures in the company of one who could use them, rather than allow them to be out in the public, perhaps broadcasting that the Mage Hunter's were in fact a farce and could be killed.

She quickly gathered up her belongings, the apple left to rot in the road as she forgot about it in her hurry. She moved swiftly through the sea of people, which parted upon seeing the dark emotions running behind her eyes. Under her breath she muttered many curses in the Drow tongue as she closed in on her target. The Huntress would not take her eyes off the white haired man one second.

As she entered the tavern she had seen him go in, the man was yelling about how he was not going to stand for the food. A derisive snort left her as she moved across the room boldly. Not even bothering with pleasantries she pushed back a chair and sat unceremoniously across from the human. Her eyes simmered with anger as she spoke, her voice thick with anger and her Alerian accent, "I would like to know, what a filthy cretin such as you, is doing with a sheath charged with Anti-magic. Did you take it from another Drow? Where did you get it? I will not tolerate obfuscating the situation."

Before he could even settle himself down again a drow burst through the door of the refuge, all fired up and demanding to know where the swordsman had managed to get a hold of his sheath. It had been a long day and Godhand wasn't quite sure how he'd take her advancing on him; on the one hand, he was glad someone had noticed how exquisite a piece his scabbard was. It truly was a masterpiece. On the other hand, he didn't like her fucking tone. Godhand looked up at the woman wearily before reaching into his coat and pulling out a Salvarian cigar. He drew a small needle he kept in a pouch on his coat for a single purpose, and that was to gently drill a hole with it into the cigar's mouthpiece. A lot of people just bit off the crown and spit it out but he always thought that was tawdry and low-class. Besides, this kept the flavor.

"I bought it. I bought it for twenty five grand in Corone. Now what business is that of- Hey, stop that! Jesus!"

In the confusion of the drow's entrance, the kid had managed to creep up on where Godhand had spit out the meat and popped it into his mouth eagerly. Just then, the barman came back and dropped the dish with a clatter unto the swordsman's table. The warrior bit into his unlit cigar and waved the kid over before handing him the plate with revulsion. He'd lost his appetite anyway.

"Just take mine. God."

The boy looked at Godhand gratefully, his lips still glistening with the piece of steak the warrior had spewed out. Godhand gave him a weak smile, one that couldn't quite hide his disgust, and waved him away before turning back to face the huntress.

"Now, what did you want?"

"You bought that? I somehow find that hard to swallow, that some random vendor in Corone could replicate anti-magic, let alone enough to permanently imbue that item with it. Tell me the truth before I carve it out of you, human."

Godhand furrowed his brow and puckered his lips, slowly nodding his head as if understanding. Then, faster than anyone in the bar could react or even see, he drew his blade and froze just as the tip was millimeters away from the mage hunter's pretty, if scowling, face. Two weeks on the road in the middle of flavor country had completely exhausted his patience.

"Before you carve it out of me, huh?"

The blade was brought to a halt mere millimeters from her face. To her credit, she didn't flinch, she didn't gasp, and she didn't react in any way that would befit the prey. She only smiled softly, revealing teeth as she pushed back from the table, her chair sliding to a halt at least a good foot from the end of the blade. Her eyes never left those of the human's as she drew her own long sword. The blade was held, tip to the ground, almost as if too heavy for her.

"I do not idly threaten human-"

"And I don't care about the both of you, either get out or kill each other. I won't have you ruining my business," The man replied as he eyed the both of them. Her face turned to a scowl as she looked upon the Elvin tavern owner before she looked back at the human, giving him a moment that he could have killed her.

Drusilia eyed the mercenary before she spoke, "As I was saying, before the tender interrupted, that sheath is saturated in anti-magic. That is not a common occurrence, and certainly is not something that would naturally occur. Only a few people know how to make it, and even fewer how to push it into something like that sheath. The fact that sheath has not discharged with how much necromantic magic surrounds us means that has to be a hunter's sheath. Now who did you kill to get that thing, and where did you find him?"

She tensed as she prepared to fight her eyes focused keenly on the older human's own irises. He would betray his move to her before she would have to strike him down, and take the sheath for safekeeping. Her eyes narrowing as she took it upon herself to avenge the perceived slight.

The boy that the human had given his dinner to was sitting in the corner chewing tenderly on the meat as he tried to stomach the ill timed meal. The stalemate seemed to be a standoff which only a twitch would end as she waited for his response. Her world had become the grizzled veteran as he stood opposite of her. Finally she spoke, perhaps giving air to her concerns, "I will not have some disgusting human violate the corpse of my kin. So either hand it over, or prepare to suffer the consequences of grave robbing."

Godhand crossed his legs and gave the woman an amicable smile, his blade having just nearly slashed her face off only a moment ago. He removed the cigar from his lips and gingerly placed it on the ashtray upon his table, careful to make sure the lit tip wasn't smothered. Afterwards he reclined backwards in his chair, as if about to deliver a long exposition on just how exactly he'd acquired his sheath. But just as he opened his mouth he uncrossed his legs, lurched forward off the chair and purposefully pushed the edge of his blade against that of the huntress. All, quite literally, in the blink of an eye. The drow barely had time to dig her heels in before Godhand powered forward, the only buffer between them their crossed swords.

The double doors swung open as Drusilia was nearly hurled out of the bar by the pressure the swordsman exerted upon her blade. And then, when she'd been pushed right into the middle of the street and the warrior felt he could comfortably handle her, he quickly withdrew his blade from the deadlock. The Adamantine Muramasa combined with the swordsman's unnatural strength had resulted in deep grooves being left on the mage-hunter's sword. Godhand smiled warmly at her. He had her; he knew it. Very few people could go toe to toe with the warrior without employing magic, and his sheath took care of that.

The drow glared at him as she dropped the damaged sword, quickly drawing her other in its place. She narrowed her eyes dangerously before she spoke, "I should have known you were a magical abomination. I suppose I'll have to kill you anyways, and it would explain how you killed one of my brothers..."

"Ah-ah-ah!" Godhand waved a finger in front of her face, "If I was a magical being this sheath you seem to have such an interest in would have already devoured me. No, sweetheart. I'm not magic. I'm just that damn good."

"Then where did you get that!? I refuse to believe you strolled into a shop and plucked it off the shelf!"

"It occurs to me that what you believe is none of my Goddamn concern. I paid for this thing; it's mine. And perhaps most pertinent to our current situation is the fact that you're not strong enough to take it from me."

For a few moments, Drusilia was tempted to rush in, his superior strength be damned, and try to take him out in one blow. Surely the human wouldn't expect such a thing, but the image of her long sword, scored deep with the force that had pushed her out of the tavern was overwhelming. It was obvious there would be no victory today, at least, no easy victory.

Her eyes narrowed as she looked upon him, but could see nothing easily exploited. The man was just a brute, and his posture, while relaxed was not unlike similar postures she had seen from humans before. It was more of a taunt, the kind of posture meant to make you think they were being careless, until they reacted faster than expected. She wasn't going to get him off guard. Pulling her bow was an option, but only so far as she could potentially get one shot off before he cut her in two. If he had scored into her sword, what he could do to her was probably far worse.

In short, she was fucked.

She couldn't back down, and he couldn't do so either. Him backing down required giving up a powerful artifact, which she could somewhat understand its desirability. The fact no magic could be cast around him meant that he would be safe from the necromancers during the war. She however couldn't let such an artifact remain in a heathen's possession, not while she still drew breath. The use of Anti-magic was a privilege, and this moronic titan was not worthy of it.

However, it seemed fate conspired to free her of the cage she had dealt herself in. An unearthly cry echoed through the air, sending a shiver through Drusilia's body as she suddenly felt her balance shift. It was as if she had suddenly ascended several hundred feet in the air, and only now was she catching up with the journey as she clutched her forehead feeling the after effects go. Fear, cold and unnatural gripped her heart as she looked about.

Guards were shouting as people ran indoors. Mothers plucked children up as they rushed to reach any open portal. Soon there were only men clad in arms and armor, the human mercenary and the huntress. Before long one of the higher ranking guards jumped between the two fighters and shouted a halt on the fight that was brewing between them, "You'll be fools if you kill each other! Derris Warsong is heading right for us, and we need every living body we have."

It was as the last of Godhand's patience drained and he prepared to run the haughty drow through that their fight was interrupted by a roar. The swordsman didn't know what the Hell it was; it seemed to be coming from all directions. He couldn't get a bead on the source. His opponent seemed shook up by the feral shout, but before she could say or do anything a startled guard stepped between them. He seemed to be as rattled by the roar as the huntress, but he at least managed to explain himself.

"You'll be fools if you kill each other! Derris Warson is heading right for us, and we need every living body we have!"

Godhand recognized the name; it'd come bundled with the Necrosition list since apparently he was likely to bodyguard or at least partner with one of them the warrior took down the first couple of them. It was supposedly some big, imporant general: the fist of Xem'Zund, simultaneously his right hand and emblem. He'd read up and apparently just the mere sight of him was enough to reduce most inexperienced soldiers to shambles. Could get messy. Technically he hadn't been paid to kill Warson, but if he was around then it was likely one of the weaker Necrosition members was skulking around too and he figured acing them both would probably demoralize the rest of his troops, or at least empower the flimsy guard stationed to protect the border town. The swordsman sheathed his blade, ignoring his former opponent, and placed his hand on the agitated guard's shoulder.

"Calm down. Where is he coming from?"

"Why!?"

"Why wha-...listen, just tell me where the attack is coming from, alright?"

"To the north! But you can't go out chasing that monster; we need to seal ourselves in and brace the doors!"

"North. Alright."

And just like that, Godhand sprinted off at full bore. Quite a sight to behold, or not behold as it were, considering that at seven times a healthy man's speed his form was barely discernible to the human eye. He shot past the panicking townspeople, quickly scurrying to and fro as they attempted to find something heavy to brace the town's gates with. Leaping as soon as he reached the walls, he cleared them easily and landed outside with what seemed like an almost choreographed crouch. Steadily advancing was a single platoon, led by the general himself. Godhand dug his feet into the ground, clenched a hand around his sheath, gripped the handle of his Muramasa and waited.

The huntress seemed oblivious to everything that went on about her as animalistic fear threatened to override her martial training. As she clutched her forehead she groaned softly before she leaned heavily against a wall. One of the guards looked at her before he spoke, "Are you alright Drow? We need you and your blade right now, don't die-"

"I'm not dying you simpleton," She snapped as she felt the heat of anger rise through, dampening the chilling touch of cold. She finally understood, the monstrosity that was this Darris Warsong had some kind of magical fear producing effect. As she focused her mind her rage at having been so casually affected by magic overwhelmed her, and the light in her eyes grew brighter. Shaking off the magical effect she reached out and picked up the damage long sword, sheathing it in the scabbard for her back.

Moving to the front gates one of the guards rushed up to her, "I have no clue what is going on, but the human just leapt the wall. I told him not to go, but he seems like he's going to die now. Can you do anything to stop them?"

Drusilia sighed before she spoke, "I need on the other side or at least a place I can fire my bow. They should have some necromancers to keep that beast from destroying itself. If I can take them down, there will be little keeping the force together..."

"What good is there in killing the necromancers?" The guard asked before he pulled her over to one of the supply depots. Drusilia looked over what was before her. There was a few bandages, a few suits of metal armor. However as she looked she finally saw what she sought. A suit of leather armor rested untouched on the table, perhaps the only set there. It was flexible enough for what she needed. As she picked up the bandages she looked about the area before she sighed.

The guard pressed, "Again, what good does killing the Necromancers do? They remain animated separate from their creator!"

"Because when I rob the land of its magic, I wish to make sure no one is around to restart the flow," Drusilia snapped. She then picked up the leather. Made for a man, but she could make do with little modification. She then began to unbutton her shirt as she looked at the guard, "Don't just stand there being useless help me! I need to bandage my chest tight so I'll fit in this mockery you call armor!"

He could already hear the monstrosities drawing their ragged breaths as they approached him, a mindless moan occasionally escaping one of their tattered lips. Godhand grit his teeth and prepared himself for an attack. He'd entered the classic Iaido stance, which he knew would be good for this type of situation. The creatures weren't smart enough to attack him from several directions at once, and since they were all coming from one group there was no chance of him being blindsided. That meant that all he had to do was dig in and wait for them to come, picking the stance that allowed him to maximize the arc of his slashes.

The swordsman felt the first of what were undoubtedly many victims near his range of attack. Godhand proved immutable, never hesitating or even acknowledging the presence of the abomination, until he was finally within striking range. Then, for seemingly no reason, the creature uttered a groan and fell in two. It must have been quite perplexing for anyone on the outside. The warrior remained still as ever, in the same position he'd always been. What they hadn't seen was Godhand quickly drawing his blade, vivisecting the zombie with one fluid stroke, then sheathing it again. The more perceptive might've seen a burst of movement, but it was so quick and Godhand entered his former stance so comfortably that most would have judged it a trick of the light.

Two more of the undead shambled towards Godhand, but they were dispatched in much the same manner. It was only when the true brunt of the attack force reached the warrior that his movements became evident, his right arm a blur as he quickly drew and sheathed his sword for each strike. It was tiring, yes, but holding the sheath with one hand and the blade with the other, whipping out the Muramasa with each strike allowed Godhand to imbue the blow with more power. He didn't need to, he supposed. Most of the zombies were in such an advanced state of decay that their flesh gave away like butter, and the Necromancer never bothered to outfit his lowliest troops with anything but the decrepit leather armor they'd fallen in. Armor which was, of course, no match for the masterwork Adamantine Muramasa he wielded.

He knew, of course, that the most important thing was not to surrender any ground. But this was easier said than done, as the zombies were no longer coming in sparse waves. The main force had arrived and it was all Godhand could do to stem the tide of rotting flesh. He stopped sheathing his sword after each strike, deeming it a formality at that point, and did his best merely to hold the shambling undead at bay. The sounds of Godhand's slashes were muted, however, when a loud roar exploded from the battlefield. The scores of zombies instantly parted for their master, and the warrior understood why as an enormous behemoth he didn't understand how he could have missed approached with a perverse purpose in it's step.

The armor was a tight fit over her chest, and while she appreciated the fact it was present, sooner or later she'd need to find a set actually made with a woman in mind. At the very least it protected her skin from the raking claws of zombies. Grabbing a few quivers of arrows she moved along the wall before she climbed up on it. The guards gathered around the gate nervously as she watched with keen interest what the human thought he was doing.

He had sprinted rather quickly and bounded the wall, so he was fast; he had shoved her out of the tavern without breaking a sweat, so he was strong. Yet he stood there impassively sword held in the sheath she could have sworn he had stolen. A snort of derision left her lips as she focused on the pestilent patch of diseased flesh, which even now was approaching the mercenary. Her eyes focused keenly on the group before they took on a slightly blue tinge. The mass of flesh was a brilliant blue, strongly imbued with magic, yet she continued to watch, picking out individual auras while focusing on the stronger of them. Finally she saw them; hiding amongst the zombies they didn't look like much, to anyone who didn't know what to look for.

Still her eyes strained to pick them out and she could understand why. If anyone was capable of detecting magic like her, they would of course have to hide amongst the animated corpses, or else they would not be able to hide from such detection. As she lined up the shot she heard another shriek before once more the ground felt as if it had fallen a thousand feet below her. As she struggled to keep her balance she groaned the arrow dropping from her fingers. If it wasn't for the presence of mind she had drilled into her, the bow might have fallen suit.

Still as the fear threatened to overtake her she shook her head and cleared her mind. She was needed, and these abominations had to die, now. As she drew another arrow she once again focused on the mass of flesh, seeing on of the abominations reach the front, seemed to call for the human's flesh all for himself. Her eyes narrowed before she looked closely at the tangled mass from behind. None of the zombies looked out of place, and she was loathe to waste time trying to find the right ones. Nocking an arrow into her bow, she took aim for one of the zombies closest to the behemoth that even now seemed ready to tear the human in half.

The arrow struck true as it sunk up to the fletching into the skull of the half rotted zombie. It promptly keeled over and fell with the force as she shook her head. Wrong zombie, she'd have to search while thinning the herd so to speak. Once again her eyes took on a blue tinge as she began firing on the brighter of the zombies, hoping to find the hiding necromancers in the army.

Godhand watched cautiously as the creature approached him, stopping just out of striking range. Whatever it was, it was smart. He looked human, or like he might have been human at some point. He had mostly stark grey hair, similar to Godhand's and almost the same shade as his surprisingly non-decayed skin, but there were long grooves in his head where he'd been scalped or otherwise scarred that prevented the hair from growing back. His eyes were red and beady, but what most drew the warrior's attention was his mouth. Sharpened teeth criss-crossing into a shark's smile, he definitely looked messy. The swordsman smiled right back, calmly drawing himself up to his full height, which was admittedly still paltry compared to Warson's, and sheathing his blade. The hulk wordlessly reared back his tremendous rust-covered mace, seemingly giving Godhand one last brief appraisal before swinging it with all his might.

The warrior, for his part, swung his fist and attempted to connect with the head of the weapon right when both their inertias reached their peak. It did, and a deafening boom was heard as the iron head of the mace practically burst apart when it collided with Godhand's fist. Shards of rusted shrapnel flew everywhere; Godhand was spared given that the force of the blow was directed away from him. Several of the zombies were felled, and though many of the shards had blown back into Warson's face, he showed himself impassive. It seemed that unlike most high members of the Necromancer's forces, he was as dead to pain as his troops. He slowly drew his hand up, removed a particularly large piece of shrapnel from his face, then flashed that terrible smile at the mercenary once more.

Godhand pulled his fist back knowing he shouldn't be too impressed with himself. That mace was heavy but it was just poorly crafted rusted iron; it was a wonder that it'd held together as long as it did in the merciless hands of Xem'Zund's undead enforcer. What'd actually damn near broke his hand was the power with which Derris had swung it. The warrior rubbed his doubtlessly bruised knuckles before walking forward and placing a hand behind the abomination's neck. No small feat, considering it was a good foot taller than Godhand. He then drew back and attempted to smash his forearm into Warson's face, though given that he was so tall the mercenary only managed to get him in the upper chest.

The creature stumbled back, surprised by the power in Godhand's hit. But it quickly collected itself, walked forward and responded with an identical blow, only he actually managed to connect with Godhand's face. Godhand took a couple of steps back and clutched his head, attempting to stop his brain from rattling around inside his skull. Jesus, that blow had shook him to the teeth. The enforcer mercifully allowed him a brief moment to run his tongue over them, and the swordsman was happy to find none had been knocked out. He regained his bearings almost as quickly as Warson, though. The mercenary steeled himself, dug one foot into the ground and then leapt up so that'd he be at the same height as the beast before striking him with a forearm shot that, apart from catching him in the face, now had the added force of Godhand's inertia. Godhand landed on his feet, barely, and that one finally toppled the monster.

Drusilia cursed as after the third zombie was left on the ground, with more holes in its head than it began with. Her eyes were picking up highly magical creatures, but she couldn’t seem to pick them out of the crowd. Part of her blamed the monstrosity’s battle cries which seemed to jar her mind and give her an overwhelming sense of foreboding. However, that was an excuse, and not one she was about to make.

Who cares if she was scared? She had a job to do.

As she opened fire with another arrow she sighed as she tossed down to one of the waiting guards another empty quiver. Some of the arrows had flown off the mark and she could have sworn she was aiming better than that. Still as the tangled mass of flesh parted for the brutal spectacle she was trying to weed out the casters from this motley crew of undead miscreants.

A sigh left her lips as her eyes narrowed, it wasn't so much of a headache after she had gotten used to the blinding blue hue that the world had become covered in, from the guards right down the that mutant monstrosity, she was having problems detecting the necromancers that had to even now be fortifying that brute against the human mercenary, who despite her predictions stubbornly remained alive.

As the human traded blows with the undead creature she sighed nearly ready to give up and charge from the sides when it occurred to her, perhaps she was having problems, because she was looking in the wrong spot. Why would they have even hidden the necromancers in the army? No, if they had tried to poison the well, that meant she had to get the poison from somewhere, and if that poison was meant to soften up the town for an assault such as this, then others had to be prepared to...

Immediately her eyes wandered over the guards as she saw others on the ramparts firing arrows much like her. Some seemed to take aim and fire relentlessly, wasting ammo as they fired upon the zombies, others, however, seemed all too keen on watching, and it was these guards she focused on. One of the guards had taken the poison, what if he hadn't disposed of it? That meant that the poison was still around, and was a potential hazard. What could they hope to gain if they killed a human and a Drow?

As far as she could tell, a whole town of people and bodies for the army of Xem’zund, which already was ghastly huge, no something else was at work here. As she saw one of the watchers finally nock and arrow her eyes focused on the man, delving deep into the mysteries of the aura about him. As she had come to recognize a few auras, at least telling her of the schools of magic involved, she realized this man was not warded by the schools of the bards. No, this aura was different, twisted, perverted, so similar to...

An arrow was knocked as she opened fire hitting the guard squarely in the shoulder. Cursing at the off kilter shot she nocked another one as he clutched at the arrow, struggling to remove it. The guards nearest to her were already drawing steel as she fired another one, this time striking home. The arrow sunk in the man's chest punching through the leather he had clad himself in before she rushed forward, seizing her prey.

The man was gasping for breath, but seemed otherwise unaffected. His eyes had a glazed look as if he was seeing things far away. Even as the other guards rushed her location, demanding explanations she cursed in her native tongue and slapped the man across his face. As she locked eyes she saw a hint of awareness in them before she hissed, "What did you do?"

The guard laughed as he hissed gutturally in her native tongue, "Dos orn zhaun jiv'undus, dos orn zhaun treemma, t'yin dos orn el." Drusilia again repeated her question only to recieve laugher and the guard spitting on her. As she slammed the man into the ground she hissed the question once more before he answered, again in her native tongue, "L' Mercenary orn rei, lu' xuil ukta, l' Necrosition zhal ku'lam 'sohna. Flamgra wun uoi'nota dos waele elg'caress."

She let the man go as some of the guards watched, apprehensively before she spoke, "He thinks he doomed us..."

"What do you mean?" One of the guards asked as they leveled their blades, still unsure as to what had happened.

Looking at the rampart she drew her only good blade as she looked back at the guards, "Check the well, don't let anyone drink from it, check the food stores, don't let anyone eat. We may have been undone."

Before the guard could even ask her for an explanation for her assertions, she had leapt off the wall, and charged into the mass of undead flesh, bringing her sword about in cleaving blows to the limbs, she was on a mission to disable, not kill.

Godhand lunged after Derris after he fell, locking an arm around his ankle, grabbing the end of his foot with his free hand and twisting. Just as he was about to slip in a leg and turn it into a grapevine lock so it'd be harder for the abomination to escape, Warson powered himself over to his back, curled his legs and fired both feet into Godhand's face. The zombie's legs were incredibly powerful, so much so that the mercenary was not only knocked to the ground but actually led backwards, completed a spin, then rolled back unto his own ass before laying back. Godhand cupped his face and tried to get the world to stop spinning, but as he sat up the creature ran forth and nailed him with a swift kick to the chest. The wind rushed out of him even though he hadn't actually hit his stomach; the strike was simply that powerful. The warrior was certain his ribs had gotten cracked.

The beast leaned down and grabbed Godhand's hair with his left hand before raining down blows with his right. If Warson's forearm wasn't blocking the view, you could have seen the mercenary's features degrade as the zombie pummeled him. His nose quickly began to blood, though he was surprised the kick he'd received earlier hadn't broken it already. Suddenly Godhand blocked a punch with his forearm, grabbed the creature's skull with both hands and then slammed his forehead into Warson's, a dazed and far-away look on his eyes the entire time.

Derris stumbled back long enough for Godhand to get to his feet, shaking his head to try and get the haze out of it. Godhand regained his bearings and dashed forward to try and clothesline the beast, but it countered with a kick to the midsection that really did knock the wind out of him. The beast grabbed his head and drove a knee into his face, but before Godhand could fall back down he grabbed the mercenary's arm and whipped him into a nearby tree. Godhand bounced off it, groaned in pain, then fell back against it, too dazed to protect himself. The monster ran forward and struck him with all it's mass with a splash that nearly knocked the tree down. It was like getting hit by a runaway truck. Godhand slumped against the now cracked stump, barely keeping himself on his feet, and the monster prepared itself for another splash. The gunman's tongue lolled out of his mouth and he had a blissfully unaware dullness in his eyes as he took a few hesitant steps forward, but just as the monster approached at full bore Godhand slipped out of his apparent trance and fell back executing a drop toehold, causing the beast's head to collide against the tree at an astonishing speed. There was a sickening crack and Warson rested against the tree with his chin up at an unnatural angle. The warrior was confident he'd broken the thing's skull.

Drusilia was hacking away at body parts as she fought to keep the majority of the zombies away from the mercenary. As the zombies became aware of the tasty treat in their midst they stirred and groaned, turning on her with a mindless frenzy. As she grinned she reached into a pouch at her waist, even as more of the Zombies began to clamber over their fallen brethren.

Holding tightly onto the null stone she had been given she swung viciously to give herself time before she focused solely on the stone, just as her mentor had taught her. Finally she dropped low before the bright flash of white light hit the area surrounding her, just as the last of the zombies had pressed forward hungrily to get her. Immediately, as one the bodies fell into disused pile, but Drusilia wasn't done yet.

She had to disconnect these bodies from the Necromancer himself, and there was only one way to do that. As she focused she could feel a soft breeze, distant, yet alluring. It promised power, control, and immortality. It promise power without price, and without reason, but she knew its siren song well. It was the Song of Necromancy, the wind that offered everything for the mere price of turning against the order of nature, in a most heinous fashion.

Her hands plunged her sword into the ground before they reached out, grasping for the winds of magic. Even as she closed her eyes, she could feel the eyes upon her as she began to tug, and pull at the magic in the area. While she couldn't stop the necromancer, not entirely, she could at least put him at a disadvantage. As she began to pool the dark energy of Necromancy within her, she focused solely on that which animated the bodies, even now seeking to reawaken their former puppets.

It was sickening, it promised so much, yet offered so little. It was a gruesome display of power, one that sought to reanimate the dead, time after time, and it would only take the briefest spark of magic to set off the kindling for this flame, a fire that would spread across Raiaera in an unholy blaze. This is what she was meant to destroy, and perhaps she had been foolish to not realize it before. High Bards be damned, she had to destroy this cancer, lest it return to destroy her beloved homeland.

The more energy she drew upon, the more it sought to infest her, to encompass her and join her. It caressed over her skin as a lover would, and it was all Drusilia could do not to retch in disgust. The winds of magic were seductive yet cruel, requiring such sacrifices the likes of which no sane man should ever pay. She continued to pool them as she looked forth at the beast and suddenly, she understood.

This best was a magical malady the likes of which a true Necromancer could only dream of. Its creation was lovingly done, at the behest of perhaps the most demented minds in Xem'Zund's army. Its existence was as the Herald of his armies, but that was not what its true purpose was. The winds of magic had told her as much, even as she struggled to not listen, they whispered, offering her more, if only she reconnect to them in the way she had at one time been.

Her eyes narrowed as she reached forth at the Behemoth. her eyes raging with an inner inferno. Her hand clenched once more as she gritted her teeth, and yanked for all she had. She could feel a give in the winds of magic surrounding the beast, and she clenched her teeth tighter before she muttered,

"Magic is for the weak.
It corrodes the Body
And withers the spirit
It drains the courage
And befouls the air
It gives the weak false hope
And the pathetic false wisdom
Magic is for the weak
Only nature is strong!"

With each syllable the winds of magic seemed to grow colder and more distant. Each incantation of the litanies of hate steeled her resolve against the magic as she once again grasped at the winds that enveloped the beast. Finally gripping tightly with both hands she let out a cry of rage and yanked hard. As her arms spread out wide she felt the magic strip away, before it sought a new target and immediately latched onto her.

A garbled cry left her lips as waves of nausea overcame her. She stumbled a step, her balance shifting wildly as she tried to fight off the waves of magic. Her skin before her very eyes was growing pale and sickly. Her limbs were being twisted and deformed to match those of the undead before her. The null stone had been wasted earlier by her attempt to strip the zombies of their unlife, and now she was stuck with the curse of the Necromancer as it raged through her system. Fighting through the pain as her body withstood the magical onslaught she cried out, "Kill that behemoth before it strikes you down!"

Godhand watched hopelessly as the hulk got back to his feet, put a hand on either side of his jaw, and in one fell swoop got his skull back in the proper position. Sure, you could see that some of the roof of it had collapsed and some of the flesh on his scalp sank disgustingly into his head, but apart from that it was like he'd never taken a single one of Godhand's hits. The warrior spit out some of the blood that'd dribbled out of nostrils and into his mouth, ran up to the beast and kicked it in the side of the knee. The flash sunk in disgustingly, yet the creature didn't collapse even though the bone had quite clearly been broken. He grabbed the creature by the arm and pulled back so he'd face him, then ducked and drove his shoulder twice into it's stomach. It bent over, but it still didn't fall. Godhand hesitated but then ran past him, grabbed both of his shoulder and leapt, falling back and driving both knees into it's back. The thing fell back from the mercenary's pull, but it didn't seem as if the blow had affected it. Godhand grit his teeth and scissored his legs around Warson's waist, wrapping an arm around his neck and locking it in with his elbow to complete the rear naked choke.

Godhand stretched his back to it's limit trying to get as much force as he could into the choke, mercilessly stretching the beast's neck. And yet the result was negligible; Warson began to throw his weight from one side to the other until he managed to get his arm out and heft himself back to his feet, Godhand hanging on to his back all the while. The monster's decayed hands reached back, attempting to gain some sort of hold on the mercenary as he held on for dear life. He knew that if it managed to pry him off, it'd be over. It wasn't a clever creature; if it knocked him down it wouldn't be going for any technical locks to incapacitate him or cause pain. No, it would throw him to the ground and then stomp him in the chest until he stopped moving. And he would. His ribs weren't in any state to take that kind of punishment.

But then, just as Warson managed to catch a good grip on Godhand's forearm, something happened. It was like whatever was motivating him had been destroyed; the beast barely managed to support both it's weight and the mercenary's. It's legs got wobbly and he finally fell to his knees, where Godhand gratefully took the opportunity to push him forward and lock in the Camel Clutch. He reclined back as far as he could, his fingers interlocking with each other under Derris' jaw, and popped his hips with what little remained of his strength. Finally, the beast's head came off entirely and Godhand flew backwards holding the skull, not quite knowing what to do with it.

Godhand dropped it and gazed at the monster's motionless body, the moans of the undead and the screams of the guards providing a backdrop for him. He knew what he had to do. Unstrapping the sheath from his belt, he pulled out his blade and place the handle in his mouth. Then, aiming it's mouth downwards, he leapt forward and drove it into the beast's chest like a stake. It's disembodied head uttered a wordless groan, and then it was as if the creature's blood was being sucked into the vortex. The mass began to leave it's body until it's skin was like a grey, leathery cloth hung over a dessicated skeleton.

He had ignored the drow's shout earlier, consumed as he was with eliminating the Necromancer's flag bearer. But now that it was done, he turned back and saw the woman beset on all sides by the ravenous undead and somehow unable to protect herself. He pulled back his sheath from Warson's corpse, hoping it's reserves had been filled, took his Muramasa out of his mouth and sheathed it. And then, staring at the huntress who had wanted to kill him only a few minutes earlier, he drew his weapon and slashed in her direction.

A dull grey wave arched forth from the blade, and as it washed over the zombies they instantly fell into their final rest.

Drusilia fought the urge to throw up as she fought against the encroaching magicks. As she saw her arms continue to deteriorate and slowly decompose she fought back with a ruthless aggression. Still she seemed to be losing the battle before the mercenary finished off his prey. More zombies, as if there was ever an end to them had begun to scrape and clutch at her flesh. Trying to get at her while she was still alive. Still she fought to maintain control, until mercifully she felt the waves of anti-magic wash over her.

The curse broken she was left on her knees amidst the dead of the battlefield. Her legs unable to support her weight as she finally began to vomit, reacting violently to the mana she had tried to manipulate and store safely. When she was done she wiped the back of her mouth as she saw the dead Derris Warsong, the monstrosity finally dead, and his threat no more. Weakly she rose to hr feet before with a grunt she pulled her sword from the packed earth. Placing it back in her sheath she looked about the battlefield and at herself. The armor had protected her at least somewhat, but her arms were covered in scratches in a few cases, bites.

She would need to get herself cleaned up and soon. The blood loss itself was dizzying as she tiredly wiped the sweat from her brow. Cleaning her sword off on one of the corpses she turned back to the guards before she barked, "Don't just look stupid, burn the corpses before they get up again!"

She shook her head as she felt an inordinate amount of fatigue course through her body. She had exerted herself perhaps too much as she fought to recover from whatever the hell that enchantment had been. It was proof however, that she was out of her league, and that were it not for the Human, she would have been dead. It was yet another annoying fact to add on her list for today.

The huntress slowly turned back to the gunslinger before she looked him over, seeing him in just as bad a condition as her, if only worse because his was more physical. Hers was an extreme allergic reaction to the magicks she had been manipulated, his from being used as a punching bag. Still as she managed a few steps closer to him she spoke, her tone softer than the usual hostility she bore towards human, "Good work."

Godhand opened his mouth to reply, but before he could say anything there was suddenly a slow and steady clapping. Clap, clap, clap. The town was completely silent, too awestruck by the pair's defeat of the undead horde to say or do anything but look at the newcomer. And that was when he finally managed to break through the crowd. He had flawless porcelain skin and well kept black hair, his eyes betraying no emotion. He was handsome, Godhand supposed, in that closet paranoid-psychotic sort of way. Nobody blocked his way; they could sense that he wasn't someone to be trifled with and the guards were too spent to do anything to stop him. He finally made his way through the town gates where the majority of people were huddled around and walked forward to greet the pair.

"Well, well, well. I'm very impressed. I never thought anyone would ever manage to defeat Derris Warson. But you forgot about the Warsmith," He laughed in that pompous way only fops can and then held a hand up as if to apologize. "You'll have to excuse me; I understand that was a terribly droll line but I simply never thought I'd get a chance to use that pun again. Allow me to introduce myself; my name is Aegon Warsmith. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Striker."

The mercenary had a hand on his knee, propping himself up the only way he could. He took in a deep breath, tried to speak, but only managed to cough. He shook his head and merely extended his hand as if to shake. Suddenly though he felt a terrible tremor run through him and he fell to his knees, clutching his stomach. The apothecary smiled.

"Oh my, it seems the poison has finally kicked in. I must say, I'm surprised it took this long. I put enough dark root in that steak to kill...Well, Warson! Now, if you'll pardon me, I'm afraid I must take your life."

Godhand thought back. Jesus, had it been that horse meat? He hadn't even been able to stomach that shit! He'd given it to...

The mercenary grit his teeth and lowered his eyes, waiting for the apothecary stalked forward like the murderous coward he was, drew his short sword and held it in reverse before driving it down to stab Godhand. Yet he froze when the blade stopped cold as the mercenary caught him by the forearm, squeezing the bone and feeling it splinter apart in his hands. The coward gave a strangled yell as Godhand stood up and jabbed his thumb into his throat. The man stumbled back and looked at the mercenary helplessly, slowly backing away from him. He didn't need to breath, but the sharp stab to the throat still managed to make the blood clot and stagnate and make his neck swell like some sort of disgusting toad. Godhand then drew his sheath once more, smiling at the coward and then throwing it in the air. Aegon turned around quickly to see who he'd tossed it to only to meet with the same sheath being stabbed into his stomach.

Out of Character:

Spoils: Godhand's sheath has devoured the souls of Aegon Warsmith and Derris Warson, the implications of which will be revealed later.

"Vith tir lu' el, yeunn nesst," Drusilia said as the Scabbard pierced the flesh of his stomach. As Aegon looked her in the face, questioningly, she offered him a predatory smile. She wrenched the scabbard turning it a full ninety degrees as his body shuddered purely from long dead instinct. His mouth opened to ask a question, only to be consumed in a white light that slowly sucked the soul from his body. As his body shriveled and decayed Drusilia held fast to the sheath as she took a morbid pleasure in watching the abomination die.

She jerked the sheath out of the body long after its grisly work had been completed. Having for the first time seen it her finger idly traced along the intricate patterns crafted into the sheath, even as she could sense much residing in it. She could tell that it was in fact a masterfully crafted piece of work, and that it would protect many people for years to come. It was an artifact that hearkened to her soul, and she knew, with this single piece of equipment at her side, she could perhaps kill any mage she ever encountered.

A soft pleasant sigh left her lips as she hefted the weight of the scabbard, her eyes nearer leaving it, even as she sense the human shift and walk towards her, his eyes glued on the femme fatale. A hand stretched forth in the gulf between him, the implication clear. Her eyes looked up into his and for the briefest of moments; she entertained the notion of trying to keep it. However, as much as she wanted to, what she couldn't believe previously, what she refused to believe was that it wasn't one of her fallen brethren. It wasn't her birthright; it was merely something she wished she had. To keep it would be to be no better than what she had accused the human of.

And after all they had been through; she owed him at least a begrudging respect.

She looked down at the sheath one last time before a soft smirk lit up her face and she placed it firmly in the swordsman's own.

Out of Character:

Spoils: Drusilia has found that while she cannot safely store spells of a higher level when using her ability to drain magic, she can act as a pseudo magical lightning rod, taking those enchantments onto her. When using her Drain Magic ability, Drusilia may become the target (or victim) or any spells she attempts to manipulate.

Quest Judging
Third Target: The Dark Apothecary

A bit short for my tastes, but I have an admitted bias when it comes to the Necrisition/Necrosition. Still, you two have done a pretty decent job with this one. It introduced an element of espionage and paranoia (Mage Hunter) that I hadn't thought about before and Godhand's disposal of Warson was a suitably Burly Brawl of Near-Epic Proportions. The real reason this isn't going to get a Crazy High Score is because there's not much emphasis on the story of it. No worries though.

STORY

Continuity: 3. Very poor here. Your intro posts were lacking and your descriptions of your characters were spartan at best. As mentioned in the notes section, you could've done a lot better.
Setting: 4. Poor again, but you did an acceptably barebones job of portraying the craptastic situation in Raiaera right now.
Pacing: 8. The pace was generally natural, dragging only at the start and stumbling only when Warson's attack kicked off. Godhand in particular knows how to pace a fight scene.

CHARACTER

Dialogue: 6.5, almost ended up being a 7. For the most part, dialogue was natural and flowed well enough. No real problems but nothing standout.
Action: 8. As mentioned above, Godhand knows how to write a fight scene. Probably helped by the fact that I know so much wrestling terminology. From a purely logical standpoint, Godhand had no reason to not use his sword and sheath on Warson...but screw logic because the Rule of Cool applies. Drusilla's actions could use some work, but didn't detract.
Persona: 5. Godhand was Godhand, Drusilla was Drusilla. I could see their characterizations coming five miles out but neither of you did much to flesh them out or explore them. Understandable, but not worthy of a high mark.

WRITING STYLE

Technique: 5. Nothing especially standout, and your intro skills need some work.
Mechanics: 6.5. Clear for the most part, but some of the wording got redundant and there were spelling errors to go around.
Clarity: 8. I could follow pretty much everything but a few bits scattered around here and there.

MISC

Wild Card: 9 for the horsemeat chitchat and the fight scene.

TOTAL: 63/100

EXP/GP

Godhand: 6,595 EXP, 300 GP
Mage Hunter: 1,395 EXP, 300 GP

Rewards

Godhand: The soul of Aegon Warsmith. Derris Warson had no soul to capture, but Godhand may claim whatever magic animated him during his next character update.
Mage Hunter: Magical Lightning Rod ability.

Out of Character:

Intro's a bit sparse; I think I expected more after what hype I'd heard of Godhand. Admittedly, the GORO HEADCHOP was a nice way to say “Hello!” to a prospective reader, but it wasn't stylish enough. Bit heavy on the ; use for my tastes, but no biggy. Too many uses of the word 'neutralized' as well. Likewise, both Godhand and Mage Hunter's intros were a little too undetailed for me to get much of a feel of the characters. I know of Godhand from talking to the player, I know of Mage Hunter because I was always trying to figure out ways for Caden to kill her if necessary, but if I were just some Schmoe Reader this would all be downright alien to me. Continuity's gonna take a big hit if you don't fix that up as the posts go by. Posts are a bit redundant, but Godhand did a better job explaining his motives on the second go round. You kind of get a sense that this actually is taxing even for Mr. GARhand Boston Crab. It would help if the two of you had set down an exact place for all of this, as opposed to Generic City That Has No Name And Which May Or May Not Actually Be A City At All. Drusilla's mage kill was also...just...ow. “Immediately the arrow was pulled as she smirked letting an arrow loose,” should be “She pulled the arrow back with a smirk, then let loose,” or something along those lines. That whole post should've been reworked into your intro sequence. It could've been a standalone vignette, followed by a cut to Godhand doing his Bruce Lee imitation followed by “War. War never changes.” The Godhand-Starslayer contrast was the first thing that actually made me like this thread. Could've been followed up with Godhand waking up in his wagon naked with a few elven refugee whores, but I digress. Quality of posts is crazy inconsistent, more so on Mage Hunter's part: One second she's making a Stylish Kill For Great Just As Planned, the next she's being purple prose seduct-o-elf. Whut ensues. Godhand's order for meat just saved this fucking thread. D: Drusilla's at least got the arrogance, racism and sheltered feel of the Drow down pretty well. Godhand's response amuses me. I'll be surprised if they don't end up knocking boots by the end of this thread. And also mildly disappointed. [Skip Commentary here; nothing about the Enemy Arrival seemed worth mention] Godhand v. Warson was equal parts amusing and disappointing. I remember Warson basically being a primal, unrestrained force of nature. It makes sense that he'd evolve over time, but not that he'd be so...polite as he was with Godhand. The Shoryuken finish saved the fight from being lame though. Oh hay, fight's not over yet. (Drusilla's bit wasn't too bad either; she handles paranoia pretty well.) That's more like it. My only qualm is the lack of Godhand getting brutalized by all the weapons Warson has stuck in his body, though I'm willing to take it at face value that Warson's evolution may have included the loss of those. Mage Hunter's Mantra makes me think of the Sith from Star Wars. Which conjures the mental image of Magical Nullifying Night Elf Darth Sidious Druid Militant. With boobs. I'm not sure if this is a good thing or a sign that I need therapy... Admittedly, I'm somewhat disappointed to see Aegon drop that easily. Or to be that much of a foppish dandyboy. But it makes sense, and the build-up to it was fairly logical. Ending is abrupt. So I'll just assume Godhand took her back to the inn and they had raunchy sex on top of a bed made of dead elven children. Everybody wins!

Exp and GP added!