Round lasts for 2 weeks! Good Luck!
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Round lasts for 2 weeks! Good Luck!
It seemed like all of Raiaera had shown up to cleanse the Red Forest, lines of wagons filled with young hopefuls looking to make a name for themselves had been streaming down the makeshift dirt road for days. People who had fled the hordes of the dreaded Xem’Zund ten years ago were pouring back into the land in a horde of their own filled with hopes. A purified forest could be just victory enough for a purified land, a restored kingdom, and perhaps a home once more. Every high elf had heard the call, and every able body had found their way to the makeshift tent city dubbed new Eluriand.
The Tarot Hierarchy, as enigmatic as it claimed to be, was not beyond the scope of this project. Leona Stevvains, their leader, claimed her lineage through Raiaeran nobility via adoption. The call arrived in the form of a letter from a scouting party that was on their last legs from the surrounding fauna’s attacks. The demands had been simple, Leona did not have to send men but her doors were required to be open for those who needed a sanctuary from the wilds or be disowned.
That being said several of her “Cards” had opted to join in in the purge efforts, others simply opted to leave the base to avoid the headache. Vincent Cain had found himself part of the former group escorting the scouting party back to the main base. With his guidance along the path the group had managed the feat in one day, arriving at nightfall to a camp mid revel. Tomorrow would mark the start of the “attack” and everyone was celebrating as if they had already won. Kegs of ale had been tapped and distributed freely, not a single coin seemed to be changing hands. Whores had men lined up outside their tents for once last chance at a quick bedding before possibly dying, and bards were wailing some of their best songs to get everyone pumped up.
The scholar had found himself stepping over passed out drunks as he made his way through the camp looking for a friendly face. He had been the last of the Hierarchy members to make way for the camp, and he was hoping he could stand alongside them when the time came to delve into the forest. However all he managed to find was perhaps too much ale for his own good. Somehow someone had managed to find out he knew how to get to the House of Cards, and suddenly he was everyone’s best friend. His glass kept finding itself refilled, and before he could blink he was fumbling around in the dark piss drunk. He found the ground rising up to meet him, the cold earth greeting him.
He grunted as he landed and rolled over onto his side. Somehow he had found himself on the edge of the camp, his drunken mind had long since given up keeping track of his position. He watched the edge of the forest as he contemplated rising from the dirt, but he was comfortable now, and the dirt would probably make a better bed than anything else he could find at this point in time. Just as he was beginning to doze off he watched a slow moving fog creep from the forest.
While the rest of the makeshift town prematurely celebrated a victory that would possibly never come to pass, Ciato Orlouge spent his time within his quarters. Lloyd, his son, volunteered to join the alabaster bastard on his quest to purify the taint of the Red Forest from the map of Althanas. It was an invitation the father welcomed with open arms. His son was a valuable asset in battle, and the fact that he could be used as a distraction should the ivory assassin require more time to do what needed to be done. For now, his progeny was off to find a thrall of some sort to use as a puppet. It would give Ciato enough time alone to take inventory.
His blade was a rapier of solid stone, sharp as the steel it once was before a chance encounter with a cockatrice changed the texture of the weapon. He raised the weapon up to the torchlight of the camp in an examination of sorts. The stone was flawless, as though a craftsman with a skilled hand smoothed the rock down to a perfect form. There were no evident chips or breaks in the rocky sword, though Ciato felled many an opponent on the weapon. Truly, it was a weapon suited to one who bore the name Orlouge.
He brought the weapon, his Asterodeia, to his cheek and ran it against his soft skin. Small flakes of hair flew into the breeze and were carried into the night air as the Mystic gave himself an impromptu shave. He brought the blade to his other cheek and repeated the process while he allowed the hollers and howls of his ‘comrades’ in this pathetic ‘army’ to continue in their premature saturnalian festivities. .
“Interesting,” the Mystic said as he sheathed the sword and walked out of his tent. The night air welcomed him with a foreboding chill that would send shivers up a normal man’s spine. His eyes shifted around at those already passed out from their party lifestyle, and the pale rider anticipated many others would be too hungover to actually accomplish the task at hand by the morn.
He spat on the ground at the whole farce. Pode would surely end most of these men with a mere thought, and she did not even have a physical body. He turned to enter back into his tent when a certain tinge of green flesh caught his eye. His form paused for a moment as his eyes looked over two dozen feet to see a familiar orc woman gallivanting in the activities of her peers (and Ciato’s lowers). The beast known as Erirag had returned.
The Mystic’s eyes grew wide, and he saw the beautiful image of himself as he bathed in the blood of the poet. Ciato proved to be Erirags better during the Lornius Cooperate Championship, but his sword still thirsted for her life. To be marked for a kill and survive was a blemish upon the alabaster bastard’s record that needed to be remedied. A smile formed across his face as he ducked back into his tent. He would rest now, at least for a few hours.
~~~
He woke up with a smile upon his features. Slowly, he began to drag himself out of his cot and used a single hand to slick back his messed hair. There was no need to look disheveled when in the act of murder, after all. He stepped outside the tent to the sounds of snores. Most of the soldiers were passed out now, either a woman or a drink around their arms. His eyes shifted to the Forest that would be his target on the morrow, and noticed a crimson fog at the edges of the woods. The Mystic assumed the color of the mist to be a result of Lindequalme, and focused his attention back to where he saw his prey hours earlier. Erirag was gone now, but the smashed barrels and bloody guardsmen that littered the way to a particular tent gave her location away fairly easily.
Soft footsteps made their way towards the tent, careful not to alert the soon-to-be victim with paces upon her tarnished bounties of the night. As he crept towards the fold of the tent, he unsheathed his weapon and prepared to resheath it with Erirag’s heart. Cautiously, he opened the tent flap with his free hand...
The merrymaking and revelry lasted hours as Lloyd wandered around the crowd of rutty mercenaries. It was amazing really how quickly this hill had turned into slums of tents. Lloyd noted the utter filth that had already blanketed the narrow alleys between the close quarters. Within each tent were strong men who had come here to free these lands of the taint but they themselves litter and pollute. The sun slowly began to set while the young mystic surveyed the men of the crowd.
He was on the prowl, surveying his possible subjects. There were so many to choose from, some looked rougher than others. Some looked more skilled than others and some even came with shinny armor. The young psychotic Orlouge felt like a kid at the candy store trying to claim his next thrall. Yes… I found you. Lloyd licked his lips as he gaze stilled on a young man sitting still at a makeshift table. Lloyd pulled down his top hat to cover his devilish eyes as he made his way to the table. The man sat with stoic beauty, at his side rested two twin katana and he wore slim fitting leather armor.
Lloyd waited for hours until the fun had started to die and until his perspective target had finished his preparations and found his tent. He seemed more focused than the other mercenaries. It was clear that he was here for a reason, determined to the cause and not here for the glory. Like his shadow the child of the Alabaster Bastered stalked his prey all across the encampment until finally there was only a thin sheet separating hi from his trophy. It had been a while since the soldier retired to his bedroll; Lloyd was sure as he stepped into his tent. He could hear his heavy breathing as he crept ever closer to his sleeping from.
“Sleepy, sleep, sleepy…” he started to talk to himself as he looked over the man closely. “Triceps, biceps, you have it all.” His shivering palm reached into his satchel and drew one of his razor shard scalpels. Watching his chest slowly raise and lower over and over again as he slowly took in air. The anticipation was overwhelming. “Hey mister sleepy head wake up.” Lloyd said softly crouching over the man. Gingerly tapping face with the tips of his long fingernails. Tickling his face until his eyes flashed open in shock. That very moment Lloyd plunged his scalpel deep into his neck severing his jugular. He closed his eyes as a perpetual wave of warm crimson blood splashed up in his face.
Terror was the only expression on his face as he lived the last few seconds of his life staring up at his killer. Lloyd loved the trill of ending someone’s life and even more so the thrill of returning them to life. As the flow of blood stopped Lloyd reached once again into his satchel and began to stitch the man throat wound. It was a clean cut so it was a clean stitch, Lloyd was always careful to make his job as easy as possible.
It didn't take long for Lloyd to finish up and take control of his newest thrall. After suiting his thrall up with the man former gear both made leave for the tent. There was little to no noise at all, and the ground was covered not only by filth but a cloud of crimson colored mist had rolled in.
Interesting.
It had been years since Erirag had existed, at least in her mind. The Lornius had taken the proud orc and broken her down, piece by piece. Her nights were consumed by nightmares of a blade, her flesh, and sand. Her days had been spent doing odd jobs away from the metropolis. The deep depression that had taken hold of her was best masked by work, so she worked. It had taken her across Corone, and then Raiaera. She'd hate to help the elves reclaim their homeland, but she couldn't help but feel as if she would witness something epic. As a bard, she couldn't let that go. Maybe, a small voice within had suggested, she might find herself in Raiaera – somewhere she had never entertained going. Now she stay encamped, feeling like a tower as she pitched her tent, gambled and brawled. She’d gone to bed when the fog rolled in. It was strange, but she thought that she heard men passing out where they stood just outside of the burlap of her kadar just as the first tendrils of crimson mist began licking under the canvas.
Immediately, she backed away, but stopped in her tracks when it began to infiltrate under another wall as well. Her first thought was that it was a poison vapor, sent to kill. However, within moments it had filled the floor of the tent, innocuously whirling and writhing like some worm washed aground from a summer rain. Erirag took a moment to gauge how she felt. Nothing hurt or burned, and the skin of her ankles didn’t feel particularly strange as the mist caressed it. It didn’t feel strange to breath, and while she was tired she could blame the day’s work and the late hour for that. She felt completely fine. Gathering her skirts so that they would not catch on her knees, she sank to a sitting position, her legs crossed and went back to the work she’d been engaged in when the fog had caught her attention. As she washed the blood from her hands laid there by brawling, trying to decide if she should undress for bed or stay more at the ready for action, she felt the smallest of breezes caress her shoulder. In the edge of her vision, the fabric of her tent was flicked to the side and she turned her head inquisitively to see all too familiar a face.
Her acquaintance with this man had only lasted mere minutes, but she would never forget his face. His smile made her sick, and instantly her stomach cramped. The skin where he had inscribed something she’d never learned to read ached, and her hand reflexively went to shield it, her soapy fingertips wetting the fabric she liked to wrap her torso in now. She swore as she sprung to her feet, “Nar thos…nar udautus!” Spit flew from her lips, her words almost indecipherable as she roared. Erirag cared nothing for the humans around her. However, her roar had reverberated in her tent, and echoed out the open flap. She had woken something. Behind Ciato, the men who had laid strangely in the walkway began to stir, shifting in the muck, and on the other side of the tent a soft scraping of mortals rising to their feet sounded just a little bit off. The red mist still pulsed on the floor, oddly enough to the same beat as the shambling footsteps from outside.
Vincent woke in a pool of his own vomit, chunks of half-digested bread and meat glaring back at him as he stumbled to his feet wiping a trail of vomit from his lips. His mouth was dry and tasted foul, his sandy blonde mane disheveled. His blue eyes were slightly glazed over as he licked his lips. “Why...the fuck...am I awake?” he seethed. The sun was hours before rising by his guess and as far as he could tell nothing was really happening, however it did seem a lot of people were up and about. They all seemed to be shambling around aimlessly.
“Looks like everyone here needs a cup of coffee.” Vincent muttered as he ran his hand through his hair. His head felt like someone was driving a spike through his skull. With a grunt, he began to shamble back towards where he had been drinking in some hopes of finding some breakfast. The entire camp seemed to be hungover as they shambled around in some zombie like trance. The silence in the camp was deafening as nobody seemed to be making as much as a sound. The only sound Vincent could hear was the mindless shuffle of feet on the dirt.
The scholar walked in the eerie silence, disturbed by the sharp contrast in last night’s festivities. Almost all of the energy in the camp had been drained by their raucous celebrations. A quick movement caught his eyes, and Vincent found himself staring at a porcelain skinned man facing off with a jade colored orc. The youth could feel the tension in the air, practically seeing the sparks flying between their gazes.
“Hey now…” he began raising his hands in a disarming gesture. “Let’s not start a fight before we’ve had our morning meal? It’s bad for your metabolism you know…” he stated smirking slightly. He felt a tugging at his vomit soaked sleeve and he turned to find a gruff man standing too close for comfort, fetid odor assailed his nostrils as hot air washed across Vincent’s face from the man’s breath.
“Hey buddy fuck off.” Vincent grunted through gritted teeth as he shoved the man back. “Your breath smells worse than an otters asshole.” he continued growling. The man staggered back, his green eyes glazed over as he tumbled into the dirt. He seemed to sit there for a moment confused, as if he was still drunk, and then rose to his feet sloppily. Not a sound escaped the man’s lips as he stared blankly at the scholar. Several other figures shambled forth and gathered with the man and joined in his blank stare. One opened his mouth, and a simple moan escaped his lips only to be joined in a hellish discord with every other gaping mouth in the camp. Something was clearly wrong.
The fact that the beast woman before him turned out to be awake caught the alabaster bastard off guard. The scream of his quarry did nothing but cause Ciato to dive deeper into the tent, his sword prepared to lunged into the heart before she could alert more people of his presence. He could already hear several bodies rouse from her initial declaration, a fact that made the Mystic regret not waiting later still.
His sword was inches from the chest of the orc when a certain smell danced through his nostrils. He stilled his blade and stepped back at the scent, his head turned towards the soldiers that woke up and the man who attempted to ease the tensions.
"Death," Ciato said as he looked down at the red mist now below their feet, "they are no longer of this world."
His first thoughts went to his son Lloyd. The progeny was gifted in the arcane arts of sinister resurrection. The number of people who carried this potent smell seemed to grow as the seconds pass which told the Mystic that it was beyond his sons abilities at the moment. A small chick peeked out of the head of the pale warrior's inner breast pocket as if to look to verify his words, and quickly chirped at the sight of the trance like men.
"No... not dead. She does not react to corpses. These men are still alive.." His gaze went back to Erirag, a thought in his mind that still involved the green skinned gargantuan ran through by his Asterodeia, "We will put this on hold, wretched thing. Until then, perhaps you should give me a reason not to kill you before they do."
The red mist cloaking the ground parted with each of the young mystic’s footsteps. Lloyd was making his way back to his father’s tent, he was done after all. He had only one thing on his to-do list, make a monster, and he had. Trailing close behind the boy was his tall, dark and handsome new pet. “Hector!” Lloyd spouted out. He had been milling around ideas on just what to name the hulk of a man. Normally with all his little monsters he has a lot more fun with them before he operates. Thus results in him leaving behind scars and other obvious signs of surgery in obvious places. There was nothing that frustrated the Sinister Surgeon more than having to cut up the faces of his victims. Those were the worst scars, they drew too much attention his being.
“Hector… HectooOOoor,” Lloyd liked the sound of the name. “Yes, so it’s settled buddy. Your names Hector.” His newest plaything didn’t respond. It couldn’t even if wanted to. He was only a weapon for the young mystic. The two traversed the tent sea by the cloak of night, stepping over collapsed men who had obviously had too much to drink. There was an eerie stillness in the air, not a sound other than snores and heavy breaths to be heard. “You know what Hector, hah, there is no one around.” Lloyd found that talking to himself made him look like he was screwy. Or rather his lovely sister teased him about it endlessly. So he has taken to speaking to his puppets instead, finding it makes him seem less like a psychopath.
Lloyd was no stranger to the darker sides of magic. Being that he was born in the sign of the shadow he was actually rather proficient in this topic. So much so that he offered up his knowledge on the topic as a tool for this occasion. As he neared his father’s tent everything seemed to hit Lloyd all at once. It was quiet, too quiet. Lloyd stopped dead in his tracks, to focus on any noise he could hear. There was nothing but the sound of sleep. No conversations or laughter at all, though just earlier there was a celebration of celebrations going on. The strange mist that rolled in under the shroud of night emanated from the forest. Clearly black magic was afoot. On impulse Hector gripped the hilt of his primary katana, a direct reaction to Lloyd’s realization. He was alone here; he hadn’t seen anyone since earlier.
“Let’s go.” Lloyd hissed as he quickly made his way for his father’s tent. If anyone would know what was going on it would be him. Hector followed his master with his sword drawn and ready.
A blade, a bird, and too many flowery words – the Mystic hadn’t changed much to the orc’s mind. Erirag's muscles never relaxed from where she had been poised for their epic clash, her mind barely able to plow through what he was saying. She caught bits enough to figure out the puzzle, and if he wanted to shelf their spat for a time when she was better prepared, she wasn’t going to stop him. Despite the way his words made the hair on the back of her neck stand up, she snorted and reached back, grabbing one of the yew poles that held up her tent.
“Erirag owe nothing.” She grunted angrily, jerking the pole to her. A sharp twang signaled the snapping of the twine that had held it with the other two poles and around them the canvas fell in waves. It toppled the makeshift sink she’d been washing at, the basin of water careening across her blankets. In the same motion she’d saved her lute, swinging it to hang on her back as she moved. The great orc emerged from the ruins of the tent quickly, gracefully, and weaponized. Somewhere nearby, a human was trying to soothe the fighters, no doubt having seen the scene from behind Ciato and the open tent flaps. Behind him, Erirag could finally see what Ciato had been talking about.
Dozens of people from the camp were on their feet, moving as if they were guided by marionette strings. Their eyes were unseeing, their muscles twitching as if trying to fight every movement. She had seen sleepwalking once, and this felt almost like that. This was sleepwalking’s nonconsensual cousin. Around their legs the red mist rolled harder, growing more opaque as it spread and condensed over the camp. Now this was what she would write songs about! As Erirag leapt towards Vincent, she threw the yew staff. It didn’t sail as much as jetted with painful accuracy past his face and hit with a sickening crackle in the chest of one of the possessed men behind him. From all around, the thralls of Podё jumped on her. She threw one, and punched another and as her hands began to tear away at flesh in earnest, her deep voice rose, reverberating through the camp.
“Pralul zo gaj’ lakog mab kok!
Na Porandaum Alerar – Rrausan, Votar!”
Her mirth was barely contained as she began to craft her epic ballad, unseeing eyes bursting beneath her fists as she left a wake of split skulls and bodies behind her in the writhing mists.
Vincent watched as the orc sailed past him in a jet of jade screaming something in her native tongue as she went. The thralls chased after her with great zeal as the scholar turned back to see Ciato ready his blade. Vince gritted his teeth and drew his own blade in his left arm and clenched his right hand to release a foldable steel shield from his gauntlet. The strange words seemed to reverberate in his bones, forcing adrenaline into his veins as he dashed after her and ran in the wake of the bard’s destruction.
Three more thralls dashed out from the shadowy alleys of the camp, faster than the others by far. The scholar gritted his teeth and blocked the first attack with his shield as he spun around to cut another down as it sprinted at him. Vincent took about three steps back to set him apart from his first attacker when the third barreled into him. Instinctively the scholar thrust his sword before him and watched as his assailant ran blindly onto his blade, fountains of crimson blood gushing as it blindly groped for Vincent. The scholar spat and kicked the fiend off of his blade and parted his first foes head from his body.
The tall pale man who slightly reminded Vincent of Emma Orlouge in some way had already run ahead and was expertly dealing with thralls as they assaulted him. The man was a whirling dance of death as he ripped through each of them with his stone blade. Vincent began to run past him as he dealt with one expertly. The pale man simply glanced at Vincent and matched his running speed as they ran down the tent city once more. They had come to some wordless agreement, Vincent had any of the thralls from the left, and Ciato would take any from the right. They fought wordlessly for almost an hour before the found Erirag in one of the mess halls at that end of the “road.”
The area seemed to be strangely empty of shambling thralls as they stopped to catch their breath. “Perhaps we should try to hole up here…” Vincent suggested to his otherwise silent partners. “There are plenty of tables we could use to form a barricade, hopefully meet some none thralls and figure this all out…” the others seemed to ignore the scholar as he spoke before Ciato spoke.
“Perhaps you are right, but there is no telling how many more of those mongrels running about. We could easily get swarmed if we stay still, but we could also easily get swarmed if we continued to run around like children with their heads cut off.” He paused for a moment and turned to the scholar scowling slightly before pausing. “What in the blazes…”
Vincent turned to follow his gaze to find him staring at a very large crimson full moon filling the deep green night sky. “That’s…weird…” Vincent managed between gritted teeth as he rubbed his temples slightly. His head was throbbing and he was starting to regret all of the alcohol he had consumed.
Ciato's body pulsed from all the exercise. While his companion was a bit more tactful in his approach, the alabaster bastard adopted a more brutal way to dispatch his enemies. Vincent's uniform seemed a little more clean than his paler ally, who was covered from the neck down in the red crimson of his trance induced enemies. The grey stone of his blade matched its master's makeshift visceral camouflage.
The red moon above did nothing to curb the bloodlust of the Mystic. The moment anything that looked remotely unfriendly came within arms reach, the middle Orlouge title would quench his weapon's thirst with further gore. The orc was easily holding her own against their foes and would even occasionally use one of the bodies as a club against the others. It would have made the ivory killer laugh were he not so busy with his own enemies.
"For every one that falls, there are four more to replace it," Ciato spoke as he looked down towards his breast pocket, "there is only one way we're going to get out of this alive."
His voice brought about the heads of Erirag, Vincent, and the small chick that resided by his chest. "What's that?" the younger man asked.
"I have an idea..." the azure eyes of the alabaster bastard settled on his prize from Lornius' tournament.
“Father,” The Sinister Surgeon said allowed as he reached the cloth doors of Ciato’s tent. Hector, Lloyd’s faithful corpse, stood at the ready behind him. Their relationship was symbiotic in nature in that his dolls feed off his emotions. They were all unique for the trade of necromancy, as was the style he fashioned them. With each and every stich he infused his own being and soul with their very make up. In essence they are literal extensions of himself, each and every one like a second pair of eyes, ears, and arms.
Gingerly the young Orlouge lifted the cotton vial of his father’s entry way. Lightly he stuck his head within to take a quick look within. He could see nothing, only of the faint outlines of his make shift abode. “Are you in here Father?” He said softly as he took his first step inside the tent. The crimson mist permeated the wall of his tent and fogged the grounded within as well. The only light within was the strange moon shining in through the thin fabric above. Hector stood with twin katana unsheathed at the entrance. In the distance the Lloyd could hear a faint noise, like the sounds of chaos ringing.
With great caution the son of a killer approached his father’s bed side. With this poor light he could not tell weather his father was in bed or not, he was know to be a quiet sleeper. Ever so lightly Lloyd reached for the wool blanket. He took a deep breath and with great anticipation ripped it off the makeshift bed.
“What?!” he gasped as nothing but a mound of pillows lay in his bed. His father had gone out it appeared. “Now where did you run off to papa?” He said frustratingly as he threw the sheet across the tent. The sounds of struggle started to grow all around the boy. Threw his thrall’s eyes he saw slow lurching movement. Through the layer of fog the men who had succumb to sleep were starting to stir. Lloyd quickly made for Hector and stood at his side. The men of the camp started to make to their feet.
“Hello there,” He called to a man whom had stood up and turned to face him. The man stared at him with lifeless eyes, like those of his own Hector. “Ooooohhhh, ho ho… I see what you are. I do, “ Hector spun his blade before firing out at the shambling man like a well made bolt. His left handed katana slashed at the man chest, slicing the through his clothes and skin, showering Lloyd in a rain of blood. Again and again he slashed at the man until he lay once again on the ground. Though he was down others were slowly grouping around them. Lloyd reached over his shoulder gripping the mid section of his shovel.
“You go right and I go left!” he said with a grin before drawing his heavy shovel-spear and dashed left at the other shambling men. He spun his weapon above his head before smashing it over one’s head. Hector with both katana lurched out putting down the others around them.
Out of Character:
“Parmab losogug tok Erirag strohto dautasuk. Floug gakh udhrim, losugug mabas ajog.”
Her song was lifted from her lips as she rampaged, a green beast fighting under a greener sky, all before the blood red forest. She felt alive, brawling and breaking. It was a long shot from the work she’d been doing in Corone raising barns and shoving carts up rusting mine tracks. Her heart fluttered, elated, until a voice dripping with derision and effort called out behind her, “Will someone shut that thing up?” Her orange eyes flickered to the side, though she saw nothing but the servants of Podё around her.
She whirled on her heel then, taking the fight back around. Somehow she’d managed to bring the thralls to the edge of the Red Forest, Lindequalmё itself. After a moment when the tide of her enemies had abated for a moment, she saw the silver bastard some ways away. His chin was thrown back, sneering down his nose as he continued to talk, and reap. Blood sprayed around him as his blade worked, and now he was talking about some famous musician that Erirag had once seen in Radasanth. “Of course the beast wouldn’t know a thing about Hendelminn!” he crowed. She didn’t quite grasp how most of what he said was insulting, but she was no fool. She could tell by the tone he was mocking her, dragging her character through the mud by the heel of his boot.
A noble was worse than an elf, she thought miserably to herself. All her fun had been sucked away and she wanted so badly to kill the mystic. She warred within herself. Erirag wasn’t a woman accustomed to staying her hand in times of anger, but they had a common enemy. Even better, it was an enemy that seemed to have no end! If she kept him alive, more of these puppet men would fall. She had almost resolved herself to push past the bile rising in her throat and her aching shoulders and return to the fight with renewed vigor when she caught it.
“Undur kurv,” Ciato Orlouge said. It gave Erirag pause, to hear the man she hated most use her mother tongue. The poetess paused just long enough to be taken down to the ground by the wave of attackers that violently undulated, crashing against her shocked, frozen form. Her breath was knocked out of her and her ears rang, but still she heard him talking, claiming he was disgusted with himself for even daring to stoop to use such an ugly language. Suddenly, there it was - a line in the sand that she had drawn when she decided not to face him in the tent. The funny thing about sand was that both water and wind could disturb it, and lines drawn there weren’t meant to last.
She rose, thralls falling from her shoulders and back as she sprang to her feet. Her face was flushed, a purple wash spreading from her ears to her trembling tusks. A bestial growl burst from between her lips, spittle following as her hands reached out. In one hand she grasped the skull of an elf bewitched and flung him to the side. In the other, she grabbed the supple, spriggy trunk of a sapling that had yet to be trampled, though crimson needles littered the ground around it where branches had been stripped bare by the fight. She could feel and hear the ground giving as she ripped it from its bed, roots raw and glistening in the moonlight. Rushing forward, she brandished it like a javelin and vaulted. When her feet hit the ground she used the momentum to burst forward. The sharp upper branches of the sapling splintered as they torrented through Ciato Orlouge’s chest. With a grunt she swung her makeshift weapon upwards and lifted his body, his smile still frozen on his face, up to the heavens. Time seemed to stand still for the barest of a moment before the bloodied tip of the young tree was brought back down to the ground, twisting and bending as it did. Erirag was sure she heard the mystic’s neck crack and give, proof of her murder.
The orc had said nothing about the plan, but had instead continued to barrel off in a random direction after she had caught her breath. “It was a terrible plan anyways!” Vincent muttered to no-one in particular. The pale man and the scholar took off after the poet as they began their fight anew, barreling in one direction blindly smashing into anything and everything they saw.
“The plan was solid up until you expected a mutt to strategize.” Ciato chided over his shoulder. The two of them methodically cleared out the thralls left behind by the orc as she continued her bloody march, once again having each member take a side and cut down anyone they saw. “You fight well.” Ciato grunted as Vincent sliced down five thralls in a fluid string of slices.
“You too!” Vincent shouted back panting heavily. “You’re fighting almost seems like a ballroom dance” the scholar continued. “Like you’re dancing to Hendelminn’s Fantasia in B Sharp!” The alabaster bastard stopped mid-stride to stare at the scholar.
“How did you know that was my favorite song?” he asked bewildered.
“I fucking love the Coronian Symphony’s rendition of it, I could recognize the beat pattern in your swings!” Vincent said gushing like a teenage girl. “I can’t believe I was right!” The scholar dodged a thralls swipe and cleft it’s head from it’s shoulders as blood gushed upwards in a fountain of crimson.
“Hendelminn is a genius” Ciato responded as he thrust his blade through another thrall before pirouetting and slicing three down in onc strike. “I love his bassoon solo in the third act, it’s spine shivering!” the fanatic cooed delighted at the chance to talk music. “My name is Ciato Orlouge, yours?”
“Orlouge?” Vincent asked curiously. “Do you know Emma Orlouge?” he continued as he bashed a thrall with his shield before plunging his sword into it’s body.
“She’s my neice…” Ciato replied scowling. “Not too fond of my family…” he broke from his elegant dance to hack a thrall to pieces.
“My bad, didn’t know!” Vincent said wincing. “My name is Vincent Cain!” he exclaimed grinning. “Seriously though, sorry about dragging up family issues, my family is pretty crazy too…” he chuckled for a moment. “My brother Tobias threw me off a fucking roof…”
“At least you know about Hendelminn! Of course this beast wouldn’t know anything of Hendelminn!” it was at this point the mystic went on to talk about how much he hated the orc, taunting both her and the language spoke. That’s when the orc snapped and made him a human kebab with a young tree. The scholar could only gape as he watched his newly acquired, now deceased friend sail through the air.
“Oi I fucking liked him!” The scholar paused for a moment before adding “No homo though.” it struck Vincent that the orc would probably not even understand the phrase ‘no homo’ or his words for that matter. It was a simply a force of habit All that mattered was that she had just brutally murdered Ciato, and if he wasn’t careful he was likely to be next. The orc shot him a dirty look and grunted something before a very loud cracking caught their attention. The two turned in horror to see what should have been a very dead man
pull himself off the natural pike the orc had fashioned for him. His body convulsed as he tore the pine lance from his corpse and let out a gurgling roar.
“Oh fuck.” Vincent muttered
His intestines dangled over the trunk of the sapling as he peeled himself off. The camp echoed with a slurping sound as the Mystic stood with a giant hole in his chest. Those of their right mind stood in awe as the alabaster baster's neck hung downwards as if he were asleep. A low, guttoral growl escaped from the pale warrior as he slung his blade around with no reservation.
Several of the trance induced soldiers approached him only to find their heads completely removed from their bodies. The chick in the Mystic's breast pocket slipped outwards again, now covered in the azure lifeblood of its master, and gave a solemn chirp. His stone sword swayed back and forth as though it were an extension of his own limp arms. The orc and human had little time to react as the zombified warriors tried to close in on them.
The 'dead' Ciato advanced towards his party members while slowly mowing down anyone that came across his path towards the group. Every step he took caused his body to lunge forward as though he absolutely had to attain his goal. Vincent began to walk towards the man he just recently bonded with, a hand extended to check on the ivory skinned swordsman. Before the hierophant could react, the Mystic lunged forward and opened his mouth.
His teeth clamped down on the ear of his former comrade, the squishy blood a fine wine to go with his entree of flesh. He could hear the glorious scream of his ally as Asterodeia skewered the man through his chest. He growled, vincent's ear still in between his teeth, ans he started to shift towards Erirag. The boys body fell to the ground and into a pool of crimson as he reached up towards the red moon above....
~~~~
Ciato's eyes shot open and his body lifted up from his cot. His forehead dripped with sweat as he looked around as if to see the threat that once was all around around him now gone. Was it all a dream? The Mystic wondered as he stood up from his bed and left his tent, the bright light of the sun nearly blinding the alabaster bastard. What the hell...
The camp was still alive with jubilation, most of the soldiers full of cheers and jeers towards each other as they armed themselves ready for their adventure. It seemed as though Ciato was the only one who seemed effected by the nightmarish landscape he had just suffered.
"Did you hear about Cain?" he overheard a soldier ask, "I heard the guy has been sleeping since early last night, and nobodycan wake him."
This caused the Mystic to turn towards the source of the rumor. "Did you say Cain? As in, Vincent Cain?"
The soldier, clad in a helmet that hid his features, nodded, "Yeah, he's asleep over in his tent over there and sleeping like a baby under a rock"
As the warrior pointed towards the singular white tent that housed his 'friend',Ciato took off. If Cain suffered through the same dream as the Mystic, then perhaps it fell upon Ciato to wake him from the nightmare.
Lloyd and Hector worked in perfect synchronization as they fought off the growing horde of soldiers. The mystic had complete control over his puppet; Hector’s every muscle reacting as if they were directly connected to the young mystic. If took intense focus for Lloyd to fight this way but the payoff was wonderful.
“Four, five and six!” The Sinister Surgeon cried out counting the number of soldier he had personally taken out. A simple smash over the head with his heavy shovel seemed to be working fine to put them back down. Lloyd raised his weapon over his head, spinning it then swiping the spear end down and impaling a soldier as he lurched forward. His weapon pierced through the foes chest with ease, pinning the shambling corpse to the ground. Its body acting like it still wanted to shuffle and claw at the Mystic though it was pinned in place.
The Surgeon’s puppet continued to slice up the horde at was starting to grow larger with every minute. Hector was quick, Lloyd found himself a seasoned fighter whose body was already well tuned to combat. Nimbly dodging each soldiers attack the, zombie swordsman raised up his blades and cross slashed at the masses. The situation was grave to say the least.
Though they held themselves quite well, Lloyd was constantly calculating as they fought. Not only was he versed in the dark arts, he was also a masterful tactician. He had to be to control two bodies at once.More! he thought to himself as though his puppets eyes he saw body after body stand and join the crowd around them. He ripped his spear up and out of the chest of the soldier and retreated back to back with Hector.
“Umm… Father if you around now would be a good time to show up!” He yelled out loud so it would echo throughout the encampment. Hector let out a deep growl as he eyes watched the shambling army creeping in all around them. He heard no response to his call, nothing other than the sounds of the horde around them. Their odds were not good, there were easily forty men surrounding them now. Lloyd and Hector spun around back to back, both sets of eyes scanning for an opportunity. He was looking for anything that could help them.
There! the mystic internally exclaimed as he saw a break in the enemies’ line. There was no communication between the two at all yet both bolted for the break in their defense. Both Lloyd and Hector both yelled as the mystic and the zombie swordsman broke free of the horde and continued down the crimson covered path. I can’t be the only one not affected by this. Where is everyone? Where is Ciato? He thought as he and his zombie made for safety.
Erirag’s initial elation had quickly turned to horror when she watched Ciato remove himself from the sapling. Dark liquid spilled from him, splattering onto the earth that had been upturned by dozens of feet stamping and pushing. His blood sounded like a rainstorm, heavier than she remembered it being in the sand. Still, he worked the way he had in the arena and her nightmares afterward. She stuck around long enough to see Vincent fall, and then the orc turned and ran.
She crashed through underbrush, kicking and shoving at bodies in her way as she fled from the thing that was Ciato Orlouge. The whips of grass and thin saplings stung her legs and cut her feet. The orcish word for run was rend and somewhere in her bardish mind she thought it was funny that running was rending the flesh from her legs. Maybe it was on purpose, but probably not. Either way she tripped on vines and fronds and her escape ended, but not far enough from where it had begun. She wasn’t made for sprinting, and her lungs burned as she ripped herself to her feet. She was in a deeper part of the forest now, and the sun had been blotted out by the foliage above.
”Erirag…”
She whirled around, spinning as she scanned the darkness with wide, terrified eyes. The red fog was thicker here than she’d seen elsewhere, though somehow it was as colorless as a deep midnight pool. Her stomach threatened to spill the mead and meat she’d eaten that day, her abdomen cramping sharply. Something was coming towards her from the camp, something that had no care of disguising its movements. Twigs were snapping, brush rustling, and a deep sound that wasn’t breathing but was definitely alive began to emerge. She heard it only every few seconds, in the silence between the thunderous pounding of her beating heart. She felt truly scared, an emotion foreign and shameful. Erirag had no need of pride here in the thicket of Lindequalmё.
”Erirag…”
She heard the voice again and jerked to the left, staring as she saw a ghostly face peer at her from the darkness between the trees. An elven face watched her, bright blue eyes dancing under a pale brow. The woman vanished, as if she’d merely been a reflection on the crimson mist. Motion caught Erirag’s attention and she turned back to where she’d heard the predator stalk her in the night. Setting her jaw defiantly, she lifted her chin and peered past the tips of her tusks as the creature in Ciato’s body was birthed into the clearing. Rivulets of sapphire gore still dripped onto the grass.
“It… unfortunate.” She said, using the common tongue, struggling to find the words that so poetically bloomed in orcish. A grim grin was the best she could do to hide her clammy skin and trembling fists. “Stars and Zahuv line up above and watch us, but no one know that you die here. Maybe I am in need of singing this song.”
It took the mystic about an hour of intense questioning and wandering to find the scholar tent, all the while being made aware of the predicament. It appeared that the night before a crimson fog had rolled into the forest and cursed anyone who had already been sleeping to remain trapped in their slumber. Several druids had caught wind of the plot and dispelled it quickly, but about a quarter of the reclamation forces had fallen unfortunate victim to this affliction.
However people were starting to drop like flies over time, something about their slumber had started to kill them and it was starting to become a race against the clock to save as many people as possible. The mystic was starting to question how he had broken free of the spell, perhaps he had simply delved deeper into the illusion but that seemed to be far from possible.
The Alabaster Bastard found the Hierophant in a massive war tent in the center of the sprawling camp. Something about his organization had warranted his status as pseudo nobility, and thus he was the main concern for the bardic council. Two guards stood solemnly at the entrance and went to cross their spears barring the mystic’s entry, he caught them and tossed the two men aside easily as he threw the tent flaps open bathing the gloomy chamber inside with pure sunlight.
Two bard’s broke from their song to turn to the intruder scowls on their faces. “This man is a valuable asset to our cause and we’re working to wake him from the curse, please do not inter…”
They were cut off by the sleeping scholar jerking awake with a loud retch as he rolled over and bile gushed from his pale lips. One of the bards grabbed a bucket and caught most of the mess while the scholar retched. “Steel your stomach and calm your menstrual cycle Vincent.” Ciato chided pushing the unoccupied bard out of the way. After his stomach was empty the youth managed to pull himself into a sitting position, panting for air as he scowled a bit.
“You Mike Tysoned me Ciato.” he grumbled rubbing his temples. His head was throbbing from what he imagined to be a hangover and any aftereffects of the dream he had just had.
“Pardon? I did what?” the mystic replied incredulously as he sat down on a stool that one of the bards had just been perched.
“You bit my ear off.” The scholar explained. “It’s...a long story. Perhaps I’ll go into greater detail later.” he paused for a moment. “I guess dying in the dream wakes you up?”
“Most likely, dying to a thrall seems to kill you though…” Ciato responded frowning a bit. “My corpse bit your ear off? How...barbaric.” the bastard muttered. “Anyways I must find that beast while she's still asleep.” The pale man rose to his feet. “Perhaps if we meet again it could be over some Hendelminn?” The scholar nodded.
“I guess I'll ride out some of the nausea then head into the forest and find the source of the fog..." the scholar muttered.
The Mystic made his way through the camp with a new fervor. One of the two people he could tolerate was now safe, and the second would either take care of himself or die in the process. Ciato's faith in his progeny far outweighed his concern for the thrall maker. He had unfinished business with Erirag, and he needed to make sure that she would never forget the name of Ciato Orlouge.
After some deep questioning, the alabaster bastard found the green skinned beast's tent, and before he could even enter, was greeted by the sounds of deep snores. The breaths of Erirag were more akin to a revved up chainsaw than it was to a sleeping habit. The Mystic walked slowly over to her, his blade drawn slowly as he placed the tip upon the exposed thigh of his nemesis. The leg dangled off of the side of the orc's bed as Ciato pushed Asterodeia deep into the poet's flesh.
Dark red liquid streamed down her leg as Ciato slowly carved the letters to his name once again into Erirag. Her snores indicated deep sleep still even as Ciato finished, each of the cut letters deep enough that the scars would remain even with healing. The beast would forever know that she was a piece of property to the Mystic, that she was no more than a cattle who merely needed to be branded. She was nothing.
To punctuate his point, the ivory slayer leaned in and pressed his lips deep upon Erirags, his wet lips spread onto her dry mouth. As he withdrew from the gesture, he smiled and gave a small whisper. "You must kill yourself to live," he uttered as he began to leave the tent. If the orc died, she was never worth the time of Ciato Orlouge to begin with. If she lived, however, she would find herself marked much like she was during the LCC.; a declaration of spite, a declaration of spite.
"I hate to....cut into your time," Ciato wiped his lips with fingers and smiled, "but my children and I have a witch to slay. Farewell, Erirag. I hope the next time we meet, you will know not only your place, but the name Ciato Orlouge."
The shrilling sound of metal hitting metal echoed in the young mystic’s eardrums. Hector ripped his blade from a man’s shoulder and followed swiftly after his master as he traversed the body ridden isles of the tent city. It seemed like Lloyd had made enough distance himself and the large horde of reanimated soldiers. He slowed his pace, preferring to stick to the shadows and not drawing too much unwanted attention to himself. Hector stood resolute behind Lloyd as he crept looking for his lost father. He had no doubt in his mind that his father hadn’t succumb to this simple black magic curse.
The Sinister Surgeon and his puppet had been searching every nook and cranny of the encampment for the better of an hour. Finding only more reanimated men and empty beds. There were no signs of ‘life’ other than Lloyd himself. Why had he not been affected by the mist? Was it because he was a mystic? Or maybe because he practiced the dark art of reanimation which this curse was similar to?
“Where are you damn it!?” Lloyd coughed out as he and Hector strolled out into the main road that divided the tent city down the middle. Low moans roared all around them as through the thin walls of fabric. The young mystic held his shovel firmly by his side, ready to use it at any moment. All was starting to seem lost. “I’m getting really annoyed with you father. I’m leaving now.” He said biting the tips of his forked tongue. “Don’t even try to follow me. I don’t want to hear it.” Talking to himself helped ease his nerves.
What would you do if you were here? Lloyd caught himself thinking. What would his father do? He hated being shown up when wreaking havoc. Kill em’ all! Then go on and kill that bloody witch. A sinister smile ripening on his face. He was completely content doing as his father would, as any of his litter would be. But how could he set himself apart from his siblings.
Up farther on the road began a series of oil lanterns that mapped out the main road. That’s it! Lloyd broke out in a cold sweat as he hurried to the first of the lanterns. Yeah this could work. I’ll just burn the place to the ground! That will one up Amy and her stuck up face. Lloyd hated that his father favored his sister over him. He knew that if he could just show her up a few more times then finally he would take his rightful place as number one.
With a mighty swing of his shovel, Lloyd knocked the oil lantern off its hook and onto the fabric tent next to it. The oil ignited the top of the tent like a bonfire and quickly the rest the entire hut was ablaze. The fire spread quickly across the dry tent city. So quickly that a wall of flame began to grow behind Lloyd and Hector. The young mystic hastily began down the length of the road, knocking off each lantern as he went. The flames ravaged everything, nothing was safe from its blaze.
“Piss!” Lloyd cried out, noticing that the flames had crossed over the road both ahead of him, he was surrounded. With loud crackling the flames reached out catching Lloyd’s sleeve on fire. The pain was unbearable as it began to melt his flesh. The fire quickly started to spread up his arm catching his entire person ablaze. Lloyd knelt down in agony as his cloths fused to his body through glorious fire. He let out loud screams of pain as he slowly charred within his own bright idea. In the end his own jealousy was his undoing.
In a jolt of energy Lloyd flew awake and out of his sleeping roll. Gathering himself on the ground he looked frantically around. He saw the sun glaring into his tent through a hole in the stitching. There were no signs of any of the red mist anymore and the sky was its natural color. Had this been a dream? Did he just have another nightmare? It didn’t matter, nothing mattered. Only fulfilling his father’s wishes mattered to the young mystic.
He was only a tool.
Later she would feel foolish for feeling such fear. Ciato Orlouge was far smaller than she, heads shorter and slim enough that she could crush him between her breasts if she felt like it. Still, he had eluded death before her eyes twice now, and cut her down as if she were simply a passive oak. Now his eyes were staring her down, red and unyielding like the mist that had taken over the land. The orc swallowed hard and steeled herself. There was only one remedy for fear, she knew. She needed to find the iron in her blood and use it to clad herself against her own emotions. Reaching over her shoulder with bruised and bloodied fingers, she grasped her lute and brought it forward. Her thick fingers strummed the strings and a disjointed melody played in the air. The thrall jerked, as if the sound made him angrier. She wanted to grit her teeth and run again, but instead the poet began to sing.
“Erirag nar zo, baj Erirag rau.” She sang of rebirth, and a plea to the heavens. “Nar vrapar, Erirag za lat.”
Something felt strange as the words left her lips. Around her fingers the mist lingered and almost felt as if it were thick and alive. As the last note she played faded, a light from above the foliage flashed. An orb, hot and bright, came crashing through branches and landed right between the orc and the puppet. Almost as if she had been grabbed by an invisible hand, Erirag was jerked forward. So was the thrall. They met in the middle, with Erirag stunned at what had happened, her lute Thingur falling to the grass. The thrall of Ciato, however, was no longer human with such emotions as surprise. It was ready and it struck.
--~~--
Erirag jerked to waking in her tent. The sudden difference of day from night was jarring and at first she didn’t feel the pain. It was only when she moved to swing herself off her cot that the blinding jerk of wrecked flesh pulled her into the present. Her leg was a mess of blood, dried and dark and fresh and bright, welling to the surface and running down green skin. She choked out a hiss, wiping at her mouth. Why was it wet? What had happened? There was too much confusion. Instead of answering them, Erirag set to the task of cleaning her leg. The last thing she needed was for infection to set in, and who knows how long her flesh had been open to the air of the camp. As she scrubbed and wrapped the thigh, the bandage spotted brightly with blood along the line of the cuts. Soon she was looking at a familiar insignia – the “C. O.” inscribed into her flesh matched well the scars on her torso. Ciato had been to visit. Her mind worked over her waking moments. The water on her lips had dried, but still she scrubbed at them with her knuckles, pressing hard enough to make her tusks ache along her jaw. He’d violated her in her sleep, been in like a thief in the night. Had he been behind the red mist and her visions as well?
Rage bubbled up and she destroyed the tent as she stormed out, bringing down the walls and poles much as she had in the vision. Men shrinked away from her as she ravaged through the camp, crawling away from her as she barreled out towards the woods with a limp to her gait. She was angrier than she’d ever known, and she wanted answers. Who was the elf she’d seen? Had she cast a spell with her song? Mostly, she was determined to murder Ciato Orlouge as many times as it took to keep him dead.
As always, this is a tournament so commentary is limited. If you have any concerns about your score, please contact me and I'll be happy to share individual notes.
This was a well rounded quest; however, the sense of urgency that you attempted to display following the false climax never really sunk in. I admire the attempt though, as it was the first I've read in the tournament so far. Overall, the battle reminded me of my Diablo III game last night, with our heroes being overwhelmed by thralls in the Cemetery of the Forsaken. The dream sequence was a predictable, but pleasant twist. Storywise, your strength was pacing. With the exception of Lloyd's posts, your combined efforts pushed along the story at a nice pace. Despite it's length, your quest was an easy read.
In terms of character, I admired the banter between Ciato and Erriag. Ciato's "death" at the hands of the orc was gruesome and awesome. Several of Vincent's oneliners, especially his simile about otter piss literally made me laugh out loud. Action was also fine. You quickly dispatched NPCs without being overly detailed or harmfully vague. Beyond that though, persona was a missed opportunity. The relationship between Ciato and Lloyd was an afterthought. While I appreciated Lloyd's attempted character growth in the last post, it was too little too late. The majority of the thread was spent with Lloyd out doing is own thing without much regard for others. Similarly, the budding relationship between Vincent and Ciato was too abrupt and forced. Frankly, I was surprised when Ciato sought out Vincent first after he awoke. I was shocked when he went after Erirag next. Erirag remained true to her character, though.
Writing was the biggest weakness. I notice multiple spelling errors, omitted words, replaced words, grammar errors and usage errors. Cards, you have an issue with run-on sentences. If you change subjects in the middle of a sentence, you either need to create a new sentence or use a semi-colon. Similarly Lloyd, you need to add commas when there are natural breaks in the writing. Ultimately, these run-ons (all were guilty at one point or another) hurt your clarity scores, because I found myself consistently having to go back and re-read items to clarify their meanings. Also, I did not like how Erirag advanced time in one of her posts (referencing a playwright), then both Cards and Ciato went back in time to fill in the gaps. Given that the rest of this thread was written actively, this passive writing was a distraction. Ciato, you did the subject of a subject thing that I absolutely hate with the line, "Soft footsteps made their way towards the tent..."
Judgment Group 8 (Ciato Orlouge, Cards of Fate, Erirag the Poet and Lloyd)
Story - 5
Setting - 5
Pacing - 6
Communication - 5
Action - 6
Persona - 5
Mechanics - 5
Technique - 5
Clarity - 4
Wildcard - 5
Total = 51/100
Cards of Fate receives 438 EXP and 51 GP
Ciato Orlouge receives 471 EXP and 51 GP
Lloyd receives 370 EXP and 51 GP
Erirag the Poet receives 404 EXP and 51 GP
EXP & GP Added!