Vandal Valiance (solo)

Well. It used to say,

"Reliable. Honorable. Virtuous.
The City Guard.
Join Today!"

But that was before Mathias got to it. The rope was snug around his waist, and, after testing the line's stability, he lowered himself in front of the giant sign. As his feet touched the ledge of the bilboard, he carefully found his balance. "I'll show you some propaganda," he muttered under his breath. By mere starlight, he raised a simplistic looking wand to the message. The stick itself was made of plain oak and ended in a diamond-shaped point. When tapped, it sounded hollow, but then again, illusion was one of main ingredients in magic. Whatever enchantment had been placed upon it, one couldn't tell from a mere glance. Although it was not a hefty boon, the simple fact remained that plenty of damage could be rendered from the Vandalwand.

Feeling the energy between his hand and the wand activate, Mathias began to spray out the letters, covering them with a thick, black paint. Before long, reliable, honorable, and virtuous disappeared under a coat of ebony. Replacing them, in the same, large-lettered white caligraphy, were the words, "Lazy, dishonest, and pompous."

Math chuckled to himself, shaking his head as he mused over his own wit. In the corner of the sign, he made a few quick strokes, adding his signature - "Do the Math."

As he finished dotting the sentence, a light swept under his feet. The slick sound of steel ringing forth from a sheath sounded against the walls in echoes. A voice, rough and authoritative, called out from below the boy. "Halt there! Cease your vandalism and come down peacably. If you fail to comply, then I will be forced to take action." Of course, Mathias thought, he'd be forced. It wasn't like he was going to lay down and let himself be cuffed so easily. Taking care not to smudge his artwork, he kicked off from the ledge and let himself fall, his rope feeding through the rig he'd hooked up, until he came to an abrupt stop. He unfastened the belt that attached him to the rope and immediately fell to the ground. The man let out what sounded like a sigh of relief and began to sheathe his sword. As he did so, Mathias sprung to his feet, flashing the watchman a white, toothy grin, and turned, dashing down the street.

Stunned for a moment, the guard blinked. The boy turned had already turned a corner into an alleyway before he had gathered his wits enough to give chase. Rounding into the avenue, the officer broke into a rough sprint. His boots clonked noisly as he trudged through the street, whereas the boy, garbed in all black cloth, padded against the ground almost silently. By the time the watchman had turned the next corner, back into one of the main streets, he realized he had come to the Old District, and along with this revelation, came the next; His quarry had slipped out of sight and the chase could not continue.

Grumbling and flustered, the guard stomped back to his patrol route.

~

Everyone was sitting on the three couches surrounding a medium-sized, round maple table. As the door swung open rather violently, all the heads turned to face the source, rather nonchalantly. Mathias appeared, out of breath and smiling like a devil. "Hey, Vandal," came a scattered greeting. Shutting the door and taking a step forward, Math situated himself between a girl and the arm of the closest couch.

"Hey Cleric. Hey Fingers - hey there, Knuckles. What's up, Matches?" he said, greeting everyone in turn. He looked around, taking stock of everyone. He'd only been gone for a little under two hours, but it seemed like an eternity. And as the adrenaline began to subside from exploding through his veins, he felt the urge to look at everyone and reaffirm his reality once more.

Cleric was a pretty lass. She couldn't have been much older than Mathias was. Her skin was pale and her face was a sort of mouse-like cute. She had rounded cheeks and thin lips that were always bent into a kind smile. She had her chestnut brown hair pulled up into a bun pretty much all the time. She was usually enshrouded in her over-sized black jacket which held most of the vials and pouches and other stuff that she used to patch up the crew whenever one of them fell ill or got injured.

Her older sister, Matches, was rather different. She was drop-dead gorgeous, with a deep, flame-red hair that curled and bounced about her shoulders and down to her upper back. She had freckles, but they obscured nothing and were nicely spaced; not blotchy or anything. She showed off her well-rounded body a bit too much for Math's tastes, though. (Not that it, in any capacity, offended or disgusted him. As a matter of fact, he owed the reason for his dislike to the sheer magnitude to which it distracted him. And he hated being distracted.) She was a bit of a firecracker; her temper was equally unpredictable. She was the absolute contrast to her caring and docile little sister.

Fingers and Knuckles, although they weren't brothers (and you could definitely tell), were two peas in a pod. Fingers was a sly, short young man with weasel eyes and a weasel nose. He had small buck teeth and looked like a skittish rodent. Not to mention, he had a mustache that probably would never thicken or darken, no matter how many times he shaved and grew it back. As per his namesake, he was an extremely deft individual. Lockpicking, picklocking, pickpocketing, pocketpicking. He could do anything, so long as it involved picking and/or pocking of some sort. But Knuckles, unlike his counterpart, wasn't quite as blessed with the agility, intelligence, or charisma that Fingers was. On the absolute other end of the spectrum, Knuckles stood a daunting six feet, five inches tall and had a massive, lumbering frame. From this golem-esque body, hung a whole lot of meat. Whether it was mostly muscle, or fat, or a combination of both - that didn't quite matter. The simple fact of it was, was that when he hit you, you moved. You weren't going to worry about the science of it, or his bodily composition.

"So, Vandal," Cleric said, suddenly, her little squeaky voice piping up out of the soft silence. "How'd it go?"

It had been almost a month and a half since Mathias had turned up in the Zirnden, fresh off the boat. Scrappy, scrawny, and in absolutely no way scary, he was good pickings for an easy bet. His first match, he remember, was against a burly man that hit like a charging elephant. In the same capacity, however, he had just as much grace as one. Outmanuevering him, Math had managed to wear him down, avoiding most of his blows and trading back his own. Although his fists usually slammed in futile effort on the padded mass of muscle and meat, time took its course and the larger man ran out of energy. Taking advantage of this fatigue, Mathias had rolled behind him, kicked out one of his knees and dropped him to the ground, coming up and grappling him into a strangehold. In the span of a five second eternity, his opponent tapped out and he'd won.

It seemed odd; Having found a home and friends and some sort of stability, since then. And now, here he was, coming back to fight a match in simple celebration of his victory over the city guard. Funny, still, how his first victory here earned him that home and those friends and all the comforts he now took pleasure indulging. It was in the locker rooms that he had met Chapter - the leader of a small cell of the Scara Scourge. Offered the proposition of a free home and boarding, he simply had to fight with the Scourge's approval and do a slight bit of advertising - which, honestly, Mathias still could not figure out how he did. Really, it was Chapter who'd done all the work.

After losing only two bouts out of the five that he'd done in that first week, he was invited into their headquarters. He had then met Cleric, Matches, Fingers, and Knuckles. At first, they were mistrusting; of course, they were thieves, rogues, and scoundrels. There wasn't much else they could be to a new face. They quickly warmed up to him, Cleric being the first and foremost of them all. She took special care while tending the wounds that whatever shift was working the Zirnden couldn't fix up - she made sure, if not for Math's sake, that he was in tip-top shape for his next match.

But he'd stopped having to earn his keep in the fight club some three weeks ago, when the orders came from "Up." They were to start mobilizing their smear campaign against the City Guard, do some high-profile robbings, vandalizations, and skirmishes, across the city and, if they could, spread into some of the surrounding Baronies. Chapter's cell didn't have any specific designation ; after all, they had an arsonist, an enforcer, a picker, and a medic. With Mathias's addition to the team, they had a scrapper - and recently, they'd discovered, a vandal. His original nickname had, in fact, been Scrapper, until Chapter had told him given him the Vandalwand, in order to go blot out some wanted posters. Then, they'd all found out he'd had a bit of a penchant for graffiti.

All of this happened over the past month and a half. The realization of how fast life was moving hit Math in the face like a brick. A brick covered in spikes. And coated with oil. On fire.

He shook his head, clearing the cobwebs from his thoughts. His attention moved back to the Zirnden and the comfortable irony of coming back here. Dannian, the barkeep, waved the group towards the island, where the six of them each took up a stool and sat down. "Well, if it ain't Scrapper. Where've ye been the past couple of weeks, kiddo? Ye can't raise a big stink about ye, and then just disappear after ye made a li'l splash!"

Before Mathias even had time to answer, a mug had been placed before him, and then down the line, for all his mates. Dannian was one of the best damn 'tenders he'd ever seen. Gabbing aside, he was always keeping track of how many drinks someone had taken, how many they'd had, what they were probably going to order next. It was like a calculator of alcohol inside his head.

"We've been preoccupied with business, Danny. You know how it is," Chapter spoke up, interrupting the Vandal as he cleared his throat to speak.

Chapter was a tall, slim individual with sunken eyes, big and brown. Splitting them was a hawk-like nose, bent and crooked in the middle of the bridge. He had slicked back black hair and very nice posture. Tonight, he had on his signature "business suit," which consisted of a black vlince jacket, black shorts, and black boots and gloves. Mathias mused, often (and very privately), that he looked like an aristocratic hitman. Which is to say, a hitman with a hint of aristocracy, rather than a hitman OF the aristocracy. But either way, it would fit Chapter well.

Dannian laughed a deep, gruff laugh which caused his plump belly to wobble and jiggle and waver a bit. He scratched his beard and leaned forward over the bar, eyeing up the assembled crew as he began pouring drinks. "I hear Leader's going to start moving in on the foreign syndicates. What are ye guys up for the next few days?"

Chapter leaned forward and whispered something into Danny's ear, inaudible to Mathias despite his strained attempt to listen in. The crowd that huddled around the center of the room, where a cage match was being held, roared. Nobody could've heard the loud curse that Dannian threw out into the thick air as the pitcher of ale dropped onto the table. His eyes were wide, his jaw slack. He shook his head and tried to collect himself. "Ye're all batshit insane, if you ask me."

"Well, I didn't, Danny, but thanks for your opinion anyway," replied Chapter, a wicked and mischeivous grin spreading across his thin lips.

"Come on, man. Tell me. What's about to go down? It sounds pretty heavy," Mathias said, breaking the dead silence of the two men. The locker rooms suddenly sprung around both of them as their attention turned to eachother. Both were wrapping their hands in bandages and stuffing their shirts and shoes into their assigned cabinets. As they began their warm ups, an odd tension had fallen, and Mathias had decided to test it.

"I don't want to talk about it," Chapter said in a sober reply.

"Oh, give it up, Chap. I have to know. Are we really going to start moving in on the new organizations cropping up? I know that the Bartholo Gang's been gathering up some firepower lately..."

Chapter turned, his eyes a fierce blaze that hushed Mathias before he could continue. "I said I don't want to talk about it."

A million questions invaded the vandal's mind. Danny had said the foreigners. If that were true, were they going up against one of the bigger groups? Bigger than the simple street gangs and district outfits? He'd heard a lot of talk about the "Blackhood Syndicate," and that they were supposedly some sort of big-wig criminal collection from across the seas. The word that was spreading was that they had a few politicians in their pocket in Radasanth, and even some connections with the elven nations. He couldn't imagine going toe-to-toe with them if they had been importing Alerarian tech and had some of Raiaera's master-crafted weapons.

"You seemed all happy and shit when you told Danny. Why can you tell some fat-fuck bartender, and not someone who's a part of your crew?" Mathias said, his voice cracking a bit as his frustration grew.

"I'm going to say this, and this alone, Van," Chapter said as he walked towards the door leading back out to the fight club. "The whole double-damned world is going down in a whirlpool, and this is about staying above water. Not about making a difference. Now shut up and get ready."

Math's brows furrowed in thought as he tried to roll the meaning of his superior's words around in his head. It wasn't working very well.

~

"Fuck him up!"
"Come on, hit him in the face!"
"LET'S SEE SOME BLOOD!"

The world was speaking in tongues; it was beyond words and comprehension. It was all about feeling - emotions that you could only grasp if you were there, in the moment, with the hundred and a half other people surrounding the cage where Vandal and Chapter were duking it out. Everyone had their own two coppers to add to the shouting, the urging and egging, and the degradation of whichever contestant was losing at that particular moment. Fighters, however, learned to neglect anything that was said - even if it was a cheer for them. It became background noise, everyone speaking some sort of mantra that became a physical, sustained thread of emotion that worked its way through every body and soul in the room.

Math felt his head explode as Chapter's fist slammed into it. He wobbled as he tried to strife and put some distance, but to no avail. Several more blows came in quick succession, one to his cheek, his chest, and then his lower ribs. As the younger man began to double over, the assault stopped, with the refined, yet savage male correcting his own posture and standing high above him, in a victorious sort of stance.

Mathias moved up, attempting to take advantage of the split-second reprieve he'd been granted. His arm swung forth, aiming an uppercut for Chap's chin. With amazing speed and such fluid grace, he stepped backwards, reached out and caught the planeswalker's arm. Before he could even realize, his commander had positioned his leg behind and in between his own. Within a moment's breadth, the scrapper was laying on the ground, looking up at the dimly lit ceiling of the Zirnden.

A fist slammed down. Crack!

Blood gushed from Math's nose and he instinctively licked his lips, tasting it. He coughed and spit out of reflex, spraying blood across Chapter's face. With the last few moments of consciousness left in him, he tapped out. As his eyes, ears, and mind all closed at once, the last words to reach him was the sound of Danny's voice, amplified by a speaking-spell to resound across the room. "Aaand the winner is our very own, Cruz, the Tornado, crushing the potential that, surely, we all saw in our up-and-coming young Scrapper!"


A single thought bubbled up in his mind, popping loudly to the forefront of his dwindling consciousness. Huh. I didn't know his name was Cruz...

And then the world turned black.

"I know it's how you break in the newbies, but come ON, Chapter! That was not you. That was a fucking monster. The kid is good for it, and you know it! Why did you have to do that? By the Sway..." came a familiar, feminine voice.

"Don't you berate me, Matches. I don't give two shits and a shake if he's 'good for it.' He's got questions, and I can't have questions. Not right now. You're the only other one in this crew who's been up on the Syndicate since they came here. What if, I'm not saying he is, but what IF he just managed to play us for this long?" Chapter retorted back, his voice intense, quickly diminishing from a yell, into a furious whisper.

"And what if he isn't playing us, Chap? What then? You know, last night, three kids, not much older than Vandal, came up to Picker outside the Zirnden? You know who they said they wanted to sponsor them?"

For a long moment, there was silence. Although it was only one word, it was laced with bitterness, venom, and even a twinge of jealousy. "Who?"

"Math."

Mathias perked up at the mention of his name... more specifically, his graffiti tag. But before his pride could swell, even just a little, a pain ricocheted through his thoughts and he winced, propping himself up on his elbows. Chapter had done a number on him, that was for sure. Gathering his surroundings, he was on his cot, in his own room. On the desk next to him was a dimly lit candle and a box filled with bandages, herbs, vials, and other assortments of first aid tools. Cleric's tools.

Outside, in the hall, Matches and Chapter were arguing... about him. Or, rather, about what the vandal assumed to be this evening's match. Or was it this evening? Did Chapter really knock him out that good?

He opened the ratty curtain above his bed and looked out into the starlit sky. The moon was at it's zenith. It couldn't be more than midnight... he'd probably been unconscious for something like three hours.

The voices outside had stopped. Obviously, they'd heard the rustling and creaking of his mattress. Surely enough, a soft knock rapped against the door, three times. He knew it was Matches. It was her personal tap. He called out to her, half groaning, "Heyyy... come on in." The door slowly swung open and she stepped across the threshold, with Chapter a begrudging step behind her. His eyes weren't fierce anymore, despite Mathias having pictured them being so, especially considering his tone only moments beforehand. Matches's eyes were calm and, remarkably, as compassionate as he'd expect Cleric's to be. Maybe there were some sibling similarities afterall.

"Hey, punk," she said, her sultry voice soft and gentle. She reached out and placed a hand on his head. He recoiled, partly out of the pain that occured from her touching the goose-egg that was forming on his skull, but also, because it was just plain weird to see her something her being "normal," which is to say, soemthing that was completely NOT normal for her to be. "That headache clearing up alright?" she asked him.

He nodded a bit and gave a weak smile. She returned one, albeit, it was much toothier and unforced than his. She turned and walked out, leaving Chapter in the room. He crossed his arms and gave Mathias a look that was something in between genuine regret and bitter, but mild contempt. "I'm sorry about tonight. We've... I've always hazed. It's nothing too big. I just go overboard sometimes," he started to explain. His voice was heavy, sort of choked, and obviously, he was having trouble (if for once in his life) to find the right words to say. "If it's any consolation, it's usually the members with real potential that I test harder...

"But lately, things have been getting to me. There is some crazy shit about to go down," he continued. He leaned in closer to Math, lowering his voice to a total whisper. "You're going to be put to a lot of work in the next week or so. In the meantime, get some rest. And in the nicetime, you might want to do a little research on the Blackhoods."

Math nodded solemnly, looking into Chapter's eyes. His expression had become more concerned, almost brotherly, in the past few moments. He reached out his hand and patted the planeswalker on the shoulder. Then, he snuffed out the candle and turned around to follow after Matches, shutting the door behind him to leave Mathias in the dark. It was time to sleep... after he toyed with the torrential sea of questions and thoughts that had suddenly welled up in his mind.

~

Mathias groaned. His eyes fluttered open and he was staring at the ceiling, lit dimly by the cheap flood of sunlight that was attempting to break through the half-torn, half-rotten curtains that hung over his window. "Good morning, lumpy," Cleric said. The vandal turned to look at her and met her smile with his own. She was wearing a baggy, tattered light blue shirt and over-sized shorts. Even with a belt looped tight around her stickthin waist, it still had a tendency to start falling off her hips.

"Hey, tubby," he replied, trying to muster up some of his own cheer. To hell with that, though, it was too early and he was just waking up. She scoffed lightly and rolled her eyes. He picked on her a lot, for being so small and thin. Then again, it wasn't like any of them could help it. Ever since Math had come to Scara Brae, he'd been living pretty rough. All of his babyfat had disappeared, and his frame and become wirey and scrany - hence, the first nickname he received, "Scrappy."

"Are you feeling better? Sis told me you were pretty groggy when you came-to last night."

The vandal shrugged. "Eh. Probably as good as I can be. Thanks in no small part to you. How'd you clear up my nose and all that?" he asked, sniffing. He felt nothing inside and, when he pinched or touched it, there was no pain. There was a bend in it - something like what Chapter had. Well, atleast Mathias knew where he'd gotten that. But, usually after he'd been in a fight, he'd have a sore throat from the blood that he'd accidently swallow. And to boot, if he'd gotten a bloody nose, it would be encrusted along the insides. However, there was none of that.

"Oh... it wasn't much. It was this vaporizing balm I put on your upper lip and your neck. It cleared up all the blood. Eased the pain. There's only a small fracture in your nose... nothing shattered or cracked too hard." She smiled and let out a nervous giggle. She was an odd sort of prodigy, shy and introverted.

"You're something double-damn amazing, you know that?"

Again, a shy and anxious giggle. One of those silence-filling habits that allowed someone the satisfaction of a response without actually having to craft one. Usually, it was an annoying part of conversation. It was oddly appealing, though, when it came from someone like Cleric. "I'm nothing special... I just... I just know a few things. It's not a lot. Not like everyone else knows things. Like you, and your music and art and weird thoughts... or Sis with her... stuff... or even Fingers."

Math shook his head, grinning. "Whatever you say," he said quietly.

Mathias put his violin to its favorite spot along his shoulder. Tilting his head to hold it in place with his chin, his fingers slid into the right places along the strings. His right hand held his bow and gently slid it along, his offhand sliding along single notes to reverberate them. Cleric sat attentatively on his bed, her hands folded in her lap. She smiled, closing her eyes every once in a while as she was lulled by his song.

After it's conclusion, they sat there, quiet for a lingering moment. The silence lay unbroken, the two neglecting to make any eye contact. Mathias set to putting away his instrument and, while turned away from her, he asked her a question that had been worming around in his skull for a while, now. "So, how did you and Matches come to join the Scourge?" he asked, trying to pass it off as an idle question, meant to spark conversation.

"Well," she began to say. Her voice was choked and kind of hesitant, although Math knew she was ready to come out of her shell. She just had yet to realize it, herself. "I didn't know my dad. He left when I was real little... Matches, she knew him. She's about ten years older than me, so she was already grown-up when Mom died when I was six... We lived in the streets for a long time, until Chapter found us. They fell for eachother pretty quickly, and we moved in here. Back then, there was an older crew, but they all eventually moved into other outfits, and then we got Fingers and Knuckles... and now you."

He turned to look at her. His brows quirked as he regarded her, asking, "And this... this sort of life. Is it what you want to do for the rest of it?"

She shrugged. "It's all I can do, really. I mean, it's nice - everyone. We're not bad or mean or evil folks... and I mean, I help out a lot. It makes me happy, helping others and making them happy. I just... I do want something more, but I don't know what to do, or what I can do. I always kind of wanted to work at the Hospital... but it'd be hard on Matches to try to afford the schooling for me."

"Bullshit," Math said. "You don't need to go to some fancy, avant-garde university for anything. You can already patch us up from all the fights we get into... I mean, a simple balm, and you can clear up my sinuses, even though they were caked with blood."

Cleric giggled nervously and looked away. The vandal seated himself next to her and reclined a bit, resting his head against the wall. "What is your real name?" he asked her. It was a common practice among even the smallest splinters of the Scourge to withold their names from eachother. It was a sign of trust and brotherhood to be told someone's true name. Even the leaders didn't know their subordinates names, until they knew they could be relied upon. Mathias only knew Chapter's name because the Zirnden had messed up last night...

She turned, her eyes staring deep into his own. "Your eyes are like emeralds today..."

"Hey. Don't change the subject," he said, smirking and nudging her with his shoulder.

"Well... what's yours?"

He looked at her, as a serious, but calm, expression took to his face. "Mathias. Just... Mathias. I don't have a surname. And if I did, I don't know it."

Cleric nodded, smiling. She reached out and clasped his hand with her own. "Nice to meet you, Mathias. I'm... Saralynn," she replied, her voice quiet and hushed. He smiled back, nodding to her. "Nice to meet you, too."

A moment came and went, when suddenly they both realized they were staring at eachother in the midst of an awkward silence. Cleric piped up first, breaking the ice. "So... why did you join the Scourge?" she asked him.

He shrugged. "I really don't know. I don't have a history. I can't explain it... I don't remember much. But I don't think it's not because I can't remember... it's just because there isn't anything there. Like, everything up until arriving in this city was erased. The only things I knew were about me were my name, how to play my 'lin, and..." He trailed off, unsure of what to tell her next. Or rather, usnure of if he should tell her what came next.

"And what?"

He clasped her hand tightly. "Believe in me," he said, a look of concern washing away all prior fixations. Anxiety and, to a small extent, fear, began to grip Cleric as the world started to slip away. The bed and walls and room melted from sight, being replaced by a colorless nothingness. At first glance, existence seemed black. Covered by an indiscernable shadow. But, looking closer revealed that it was true darkness. Absolute and utter emptiness.

The only other thing in this place was Mathias, standing beside her with his hand gripping hers, firmly. Just as quickly as they'd entered here, they left. The blackness was wiped from view, the inexplicable ground changing to empty air. The two of them began to tumble towards a bottom they could not see; the two of them in a sky that had no end.

"What are you doing?!" she screamed over the sound of the wind rushing towards them as they plummeted.

Then, time seemed to slow down and their bodies came to a tedious, but eventual halt. Before she could blink, they fell into the soft comfort of Mathias's mattress, bouncing up and down as their momentum left them. She looked him again, breathless. "What... was that?!" she shrieked.

He smiled. "That's... what I can do. I can... move to other worlds.. Other places with rules and laws different to what we know. I can take you to a place where you fall up and jump down, where you walk faster than you can run, or where you can only see when your eyes are closed. I can take you to a world filled with shades of colors you never thought existed, or a place where you can look down and see the tiny lights of a million stars scattered below you. I don't know what it really is, or why I can do it... but... I just can... And I've never really told anybody about it."

Cleric stared at him in awe for a moment, before she slowly replied with a question. "Why not? It's... it's incredible! That was the most amazing experience of my life..."

He shrugged, frowning. "I don't know. I did try to do it to someone, once... during a fight at the Zirnden. Grabbed their arm, took them to a place I thought I would have the upper hand. But, I felt them... disbelieve. I can't explain what that's like, but I could comprehend, almost in a physical sense, their inability to grasp what was happening. We returned to the cage, as if nothing had happened, but my mind was on fire. It was intense pain... And the guy got out of the grapple and beat me to a pulp while I was weak. Since then, I kind of just haven't done it around people."

Not knowing what else to say, Cleric put a hand on his shoulder and offered a reassuring smile. "Well.. it's safe with me." And almost as an afterthought, she asked, "Can we do it again?"

He smiled, squeezing her hand and nodding.

It was incredible to see Fingers at work. His dexterity was simply amazing, and the sheer magnitude to which people either ignored his existance, or even merely did not notice him; You would think he was the invisible man. Every time Mathias bumped into someone, he would apologize profusely while his partner crept up from behind and slipped his hands into their coats and pockets. Then, they'd remove themselves out of the crowd and into an alleyway and count their earnings.

The market was alive and busy with people, bustling from stall to stall. It was endweek, so everyone was picking up fresh food for the next two days, as well as bring some trinkets home to their families. The sun was approaching its zenith, so it couldn't be much past or before noon. The day had been good to the mischeivous pair, so far, but their luck wasn't bound to last. They had made up to roughly one hundred gold pieces, rather impressive, considering the area of the bazaar, the time of day, and other minor factors. However, Fingers had been determined to break his old record of two hundred and fifty, which had been a whole day's worth of pickings. Therefore, he was working vigorously to cut, swipe, kife, pocket, and otherwise steal from whoever looked like they'd have a fat purse on them.

"Oh, shit," Fingers said, his tone denoting excitement rather than apprehension. "No way. No bloody way! Ha! Check it out, Van, check it out!" He was giddy, jumping up and down. He could barely even reach Math's height at the vertex of his hopping, which, coupled with the already comical appearance of him, made the vandal extremely amused. But, he followed the path that Fingers' finger was pointing, and saw three burly-looking men shoving their way through the throng of people.

"Oh shit. The Bartholo Gang," Mathias groaned. Before he could even blink, Fingers was scampering off through the crowd, racing to get up behind Granite, the largest, most intimidating of the trio. Coincidentally, he was also their leader. "Fingers, you're fucking crazy," he mumbled under his breath. He tried to get closer, but before he could even find an opening in the crowd, Fingers busted out through, running wildly down the alleyway, carrying a clanking bag of gold. Mathias turned to follow, only to see three angry figures emerge from the traffic.

"That little bitch! HEY! You're the fuckface who tried to tag our turf last week!" Granite said, recognizing Mathias from before. He swore at himself, having gotten spotted by them a week ago while trying to spray up, outside of their hideout at Bartholo Street, "The Scourge Always Wins - Do The Math." Before, however, he was lucky enough to have gotten away without having to fight them.

"Oh, shit, son! They're part of that little Scourge crew! Let's show 'em some of our hospit.. hopistal... ity...ism... Let's fuck him up," Killer said, or atleast, tried to say. He was the one to Math's right - an albino man with extremely blonde hair, pale skin, and pink eyes. If it weren't for the fact that he was a mountain of muscle, anyone could have been baffled as to why he'd been nicknamed, "Killer."

The one on the left was Murder, and he was a tall drink of mutt - had the face of one of the sandscummers out of Fallien, with the crispy tan skin of a Berevian. Granite was, for a "gangsta," as they were proclaimed, the most eloquent and refined of them all. He was a barrel-chested man with a chocolate complexion, but he didn't wear the cut-off clothes like his bretheren. His clothing was intact and actually looked a bit more expensive than what most of the slumrats wore.

But despite the "civil," looking garb, he was anything but. And almost as if acting as to prove that, he charged forward and aimed a hook at Math's face. Reacting quickly, he ducked and launched forward an uppercut, spearing him right in the gut with his fist. Granite let out a pained exhalation of all the wind in his lungs and stumbled forward as the scrapper spun to the side, against the wall. Killer aimed his own punch, only to have Math dodge to the side. He grunted in pain as his hand collided with the brick wall. Mathias brought up his knee, hitting him in the privates and bringing down his elbow onto his neck as he bent forward, doubled over in pain.

Murder came out of the peripheral and landed a well-placed punch on the vandal's cheek, sending him sprawling backwards against the wall. Cornering him, he unleashed a flurry of blows, pummeling Math's face. Instinctively, he cried out and in the blink of an eye, had vanished, to leave a confused Murder landed several blows on the wall, his fists smacking painfully against the hard, rough surface.

Mathias tore through the planes, his essence barely clinging together in one mass. When he was able to control himself, in his entirety, he moved a few steps forward, and began to descend back to the Firmament, where he appeared directly behind Murder. With a quick kick to the knee, the larger man forfeited to a kneeling position, where his opponent had the upper hand - demonstrated by a quick blow to the neck that caused him to crumple, unconscious.

Granite lay on the ground, sitting against the wall, watching as his two mates got demolished in seconds. Mathias looked at him, his face bloody, and smiled a wicked grin - genuinely enjoying himself. His features looked wolfish, predatory, and... for one instance... devillish.

Mathias left the alley as quickly as he could, leaving the Bartholo Gang to their agony. As he made his way through the streets, he started to think up a storm, becoming more pissed off with each passing moment. Fingers had left him there to get his ass kicked. Fingers, whom Math was protecting, didn't give two shits or a shake about what happened to his own comrade.

The little, rat-faced man was sitting on the front steps of their hideout - a small, shack-like house with two stories. Although, its roof was stunted, so it looked more like one and a half.

"Thanks for the fucking help," Mathias said, walking past him, opening the door, and slamming it before Fingers could even respond.

"No shit... all three of them?" Matches said, her eyes illuminated and her voice light. "By the Sway! What a shot to the proverbial nuts, eh? Three burly guys like that, getting demolished by a scrawny little runt like you!" She laughed, russling up Mathias's blonde hair. He grinned, blushing a bit. He looked away, at Cleric, who was smiling at him.

Chapter sat at the table, his arms crossed. A half filled mug was in front of him, the contents having long settled and left to become flat. He was staring off into space, when the vibrant redhead came over and tapped him on his shoulder. He snapped out of his trance, looking up at her. "What?" he asked, matter of factly. She let out an over-dramatic sigh and kissed him on his forehead. "Aren't you going to congratulate the kid, Chap? Come on!"

He shrugged and looked at Mathias. He nodded, once, and let out an affirmative grunt. "I'll talk to Fingers later," he said.

Supper consisted of potatoes, biscuits, and gravy, along with several chicken breasts that Fingers had kifed for them. Chapter and Fingers excused themselves to talk, midway through the meal. After they both had left, the tension eased from over the table, and the group began to chatter lightly. They talked mostly of some gossip they'd been hearing, or what tomorrow's plans were, and who from what gang was having sex with who from another.

After they'd finished, Fingers came back out and reclined in a sofa, somewhat content with himself. Knuckles went over and sat across from him. Matches and Cleric resigned to cleaning up, and Math was called back to Chapter's room. As he entered, he took a seat in the chair next to the nightstand and stared at his superior, who was sitting on his bed, cross-legged, staring over documents and reports and such.

"I've got a mission for you, mate."

~

Bartholo Can't Borrow No Pride
Do The Math. The Scourge Wins.

Good double god damn, Mathias loved his work. In giant yellow bubble letters, across the dark blue background he'd coated the wall with, lay his message. It'd take him all of half an hour, and he was just about out of paint, for now. The vandalwand would need a good rest before the next time he used it.

It hadn't been terrifically hard to sneak into the place - there was a firewalk along the side of the building. Just because it was in a back alley didn't mean that Mathias wasn't going to be able to find it. He'd climbed it up and entered through an already-smashed window. Carefully tip-toeing through the dead silence of the rundown apartment complex, he'd made his way to the main lobby where the Bartholo Gang usually hid out. After securing a spot behind a couch with a few blankets over some boxes, he'd had a good spot to hide in case anyone would come walking down for a late-night munch, or to stretch their legs.

Luckily, he hadn't heard anything, nor seen any candle or lantern light shine near him. He was able to complete his work in peace, and, though his message was short, but sweet, it had taken him a while to get the eloquence of his lettering right. And it was just so, that the moment he finished, a piece of glass crunched from the top of the stairs, and a muffled "Shit!" echoed down the hall.

Mathias dove for cover underneath the little fort that he'd made himself. Covering himself up, trying to become as inconspicuous as possible, he lay in wait. Granite came lumbering down the stairs, a lantern in his hand. He was talking to someone, but their voices were hushed, and the vandal couldn't quite make out was being said. It wasn't long until the pair had reached the bottom of the stairs and passed in front of the well-hidden Mathias.

That cheap little ratty motherfucker! his mind screamed in fury, as he saw that Granite's companion was Fingers.

"I appreciate this," Math was able to hear Granite say. "We definitely like this information about the Syndicate. Especially with what your punk ass Chapter is planning. Consider today's lift your payment. I won't hold that against you."

Fingers thanked him and went out the door. As it closed, Granite turned around and the lantern flashed across the fresh artwork that Mathias had left for him to find. The leader of the Bartholo Gang let out a deep howl of utter rage, which caused several men to awaken and scrabble along the floor, stumbling as they tried to descend the stairs and see what was the matter.

All of them cursed and muttered their affirmations of how "that little crew," was going to be dead before the week's end. As the crowd eventually dispersed and everyone went back to sleep, Mathias made his escape, quietly and quickly, slipping out the front door and running back home, where he snuck in and hoped that Fingers didn't hear him arrive.

Quote:

---

People have come to justify crime. Romanticize it. They made up stories about good thieves, stealing from those who didn't deserve their fortunes and giving it to those who did. Bandits who fell in love with maidens, rather than rape and then leave them with child. Being a criminal myself, I find it absolutely offensive. People murder, rape, and steal, and none of the reasons for it don't change it. That is the simple fucking truth of it, and everyone needs to stop dressing it up. Shit is what it is. Now, can I please get on with my hanging?

-The Last Speech of a Radasanthian Rogue

---

"Now, I know we aren't the most upstanding citizens of Scara Brae. But we do things the right way. There is respect, there are rules, and there's even a bit of honor, among us. It's not like we steal from honest farmers and bakers and the working class, and it's not like we murder and rape for fun. We are rogues, thieves, scoundrels, bandits, and misfits, but we are not the worst of our lot.

"There are evil, vile fucking men who have encroached upon us. To us, they've become known as the Blackhood Syndicate. Their influence reaches far and their resources are many. They deal in things that we'd never even dare. They have no respect for any code that any normal thief may. They deal in slavery, in the deadly narcotics and opiates from Raiaera, Alerar, and Fallien, and they run brothels filled with girls younger than even Cleric, here, taken from their families in the dead of night.

To me, that seems evil. We steal from the City Guard, we defile a few buildings and monuments, we get into fights and sometimes kill rival outfit or organization members. We might assassinate a few fat ass pompous nobles, and we frequent whore houses of the lowest kind, and we enjoy getting piss faced drunk and stumble our way home. But we are saints compared to these bastards. And for the future of the Scourge, of our livelihoods, for the respect of all decent scoundrels like us everywhere, we have to make a strike against them."

Silence settled over the room as Chapter finished his speech and put his hands on the table, supporting himself. He drew in a few breaths, the anger on his face apparent. His eyes were filled with fire, bloodshot and bulging. Mathias was reminded of the other night at the Zirnden - this was the same exact expression, explicitly stating his dissatisfaction that was, in and of itself, a whole other level beyond fury.

The new kid sat in a corner, collapsing in on himself and trying to seem smaller, more insignificant. He was huddling into his lap with his hands clasped together tightly, his face drawn down to the candle at the center of the table. He didn't look at Chapter, although it was clear he was listening and was afraid.

"The toadie, Vandal, and Knuckles are going to break the meeting. Cleric and Fingers will be on standby, clearing the perimeter. Matches and myself are going to kill two birds with one stone. While you are all completing your job, we'll be attracting the attention of the City Guard. We'll be doing a little bit of everything, tonight, it seems; Some crime, some vengeance, and a little bit of justice."

There were some scattered chuckles from around the table. The fresh meat, "the toadie," sat silent, taking in deep breaths in futile attempts to calm his beating heart that everyone probably heard. Second day in the crew, and he was already on one of the most important missions any of them would ever undertake. Mathias thought that he was getting an easy break - he was a lucky little bastard. Joining the right side at the right time. All he needed to do were the right things, and he might get pretty far in very little time...

~

"I can't even b'lieve it," the toadie said. "You're Math, aren't you? Man, you're a flickin' idol! S'like, seriously, you're famous everywhere around here! Can't go two streets without seeing your work." His eyes were a dark green, although the depths of them were unable to restrain the twinkle that emitted from them. They were big and bright, staring over Mathias in utter disbelief.

Knuckles shoved the kid forward, trying to keep the group moving. Mathias reprimanded him in a harsh, sharp whisper. "Shut. the fuck. up. We need to be quiet."

The boy nodded enthusiastically and made a zipping motion across his lips. He turned around and crept forward along the wall, ducking under the window that was adjacent to them. Knuckles, and then Mathias, followed suit, and they rounded the corner of the large, white warehouse. There were no other buildings on this side, and the vandal couldn't help but look out across the streets leading out from the Warehouse District, down into the Docks.

The moon was hoisted up into the sky, over them, and its light beamed down and made the seawater glisten and sparkle. A steady wind picked up, calm and casual. It sweeped past Mathias, and as he took in a deep breath, he could smell the salty breath of the ocean. It was odd, he thought to himself, that the world was so tranquil, when so much shit was just about to hit the fan.

The sword felt heavy and clunky in Mathias's hands. He would've preferred to have been equipped with metal claws or atleast brass knuckles. He was so used to using just his body; he'd learned to control his muscles, become intimate with every tendon and joint and thread of sinew and bone. He had learned to wield himself better than most scrappers, which is saying something for someone so self-trained. But, against actual weapons, the vandal had yet to learn the proper techniques. Thus, Chapter had given him his own katana, made out of delyn. The outer edges of it were a solid black, like a sort of doom-bequeathed razor. The inside and fuller were a steely gray - so in complete darkness, it looked like a large, metal batting stick, rather than an implement of laceration.

Math was starting to grow used to its weight, though, as the battle raged on. He dodged to the side, avoiding one of the Syndicate members' attempts to shank him. His katana flew outwards in a horizontal arc, making a clean, keen swipe through half of the criminal's neck. He let out a gargled choke and fell to the floor with blood pooling out around him.

Toadie suddenly jumped from out of the planeswalker's peripheral vision, moving right past him and lunging forward with his short sword. He pierced one of the Blackhoods in the stomach and Mathias couldn't help but grin. The right things, alright. Like saving my double-damned life.

Knuckles bashed two noticeably shorter men than him in the heads with both of his studded clubs. The crumpled to the ground with little resistance.

The last man of the Syndicate stood with his sword raised in a defensive stance, huddling right in front of a medium sized chest. It was ornately decorated, and from Math's guess, probably had some precious cargo in there. Incriminating, daming cargo, at that.

He charged forward, stopping just as the enemy lashed out, the tip of his longsword making a cut through the planeswalker's jacket and vest, and even across his pectorals. Taking the split second to use the criminal's recoil to his advantage, Mathias leapt forward and plunged his katana right through the man's stomach. Through the pain and blood swelling up at his lips, gushing down his chin, he attempted to bring his sword up and bash Math in the temple with the pommel.

He reached out and grabbed him at the forearm and reached forward, crashing his head into his adversary's. The man let out a groan and Math gripped his sword tighter, sticking it further in. With a fluid motion, he twisted it, then yanked it out - a spray of blood erupting and then quickly subsiding. The man's shoulders sagged, and as Mathias got out of the way, he fell to the floor like a hunk of meat.

He traced the wound at his chest. It didn't feel too deep, but he wasn't going to trust his gut against his own wounds. He'd have to find Cleric and get patched up immediately.

"Good job, guys," Mathias said, surveying the scene. Aside from a few wounds, they'd pretty much demolished the place. The Syndicate hadn't even seen them coming. It had been perfect ; the surprise on their face, the panic in their voice. It was a glorious massacre.

"Well, boys... let's see what our loot is." They approached the chest, after looking about and seeing that all the other crates and such belonged to whomever legitimately owned the warehouse - some sort of fishing conglomerate or another, judging by the gigantic bass logo on each one. The trunk, however, was completely out of place, and Mathias could only guess as to its contents.

Well, he wouldn't be guessing in the next moment. He kneeled down and looked at the combination lock attached. "Shit. Let's see if any of them have a slip of paper on them, or something," he ordered. All three of them rooted through the corpses, looking through jackets and pockets and pouches, pocketing whatever gold they'd had on them. After searching every last one, they all three let out a uniform curse.

As if almost on cue, a loud explosion rocked the world, and the party could almost feel the concrete below them shake. That meant Matches and Chapter had just completed their half of the mission. Which meant, they didn't have long to open the chest and see what was inside, before someone came along and found them in the middle of a gore-stained scene.

Chapter and Matches arrived only moments after the charge had been detonated. Breathless, they crashed in through the doors, weapons and magic at the ready. As the carnage-ridden scene greeted them, they lowered their guard and approached the three men huddled around the chest. "Shit. Where's Fingers?" asked the leader. Everyone shrugged. He grunted and turned around, rushing back out of the warehouse, calling out behind him as he did. "I'm going to go send him and Cleric in. I'll be back in a moment!"

That moment passed, and all four of them waited on tense feet, their muscles itching at the slightest noise. A bell tolled in the distance, with several lesser alarms going off. The aquamancers were probably doing whatever they could to stem the fire the Scourge had set off.

"Damn the dead and double the ditches, Matches. What did you do?" Math asked, looking at her with disbelief plastered across his face.

She laughed - it was a wild gesture that instilled a small well of fear inside the young boy. She certainly enjoyed herself, and for that reason alone, he couldn't help but want to distance himself frmo her. She was untamed and dangerous, almost like a tigress, stalking the night. Except, she was a feline armed with a fire-red mane and magics that could destroy single buildings in a giant cloud of combustion. Smiling with sharp, wicked teeth, she flicked her hair back and looked him over, her eyes dancing across his body. "I thought everybody wanted a show," she said, giggling in mock-innocence.

As everybody chortled, the doors opened again and Cleric came, walking at a brisk pace. She was carrying her briefcase full of equipment and set it upon a crate. As she looked everyone over, she asked, "Fingers and Chapter aren't back yet?"

Matches and Mathias muttered a confused, "No," in unison. The younger sister looked up at them, distraught caught on her features. "Fingers said he saw Chap running out of the warehouse. I didn't, though. Before I knew it, he ran off after him. I thought something was wrong, so I came in here to check it out." As she talked, she began to check everyone over, looking at their wounds and applying whatever balms, oils, ointments, and bandages she could manage. Whatever she'd rubbed over Math's chest burned, but after a minute of the sensation rushing through him, he felt a bit more at ease and was able to move with a bit more of his capacity again. Whatever slight crippling he'd received from that blow was already fading, and the cut almost felt like it wasn't even there.

Matches, in the meantime, had walked over to the chest and knocked on it, shaking it a little to see what rustled inside. She turned to the group, her large, fiery red eyes flickering with an intensity that almost caused the vandal to cringe and recoil in fear as he looked into them. She stated, solemnly and quietly, "There's something inside. I think it's a dog... maybe something else."

A silence fell over the group as they heard sobbing come from inside the hollow trunk. At that moment, the doors crashed open, and Chapter came rushing through, wild and frantic. He kept his pace as he ran straight into the general middle of the group, taking only a second to catch his breath. In between the spaces of his gasping, he managed to say, "Fingers... no time... Syndicate... they're on their way... gotta run. Gotta fucking run!"

"Double damnit! Knuckles, Toadie, get the chest! We'll bring it to the hideout," Mathias shouted, pointing to the ornate container between them. They started to protest, Toadie trying to say something about dead weight, but he was immediately silenced by the planeswalker's harsh tone, "I don't fucking care! I'll make you dead weight if you don't hurry up!"

Before he could even finish, however, an arrow whizzed by him and snapped against the floor. His reflexes kicked in and he moved backwards, looking up from where the projectile had come from. An archer, clothed in the same black garb as the corpses on the floor, had another arrow nocked. He let it loose, this one heading straight for Cleric. Everyone had seen it; nobody was fast enough to stop it... except Mathias.

His body suddenly disappeared, and, to his own surprise, he felt his soul being tugged across, to cover the yards between him and her. He materialized in front of Saralynn, taking the arrow through his left shoulder, with not even the splittest second to spare. Chapter screamed out, "Take the trunk and RUN! I'll distract them!" As he gave his order, three more archers appeared from the shadows and let loose their volley.

Everybody reacted instantly, not having time to dwell on the impossibility of the vandal's rescue. Knuckles and Toadie took the chest in their hands and immediately began to charge out of the building. Mathias almost attempted to yank the arrow from his shoulder, when Cleric protested. She grabbed his hand and, as gently as she could be, considering the circumstances, tugged him into following her as she followed their two cohorts. He unsheathed the katana as he did so, and with due course. Another Blackhood emerged to block the doorway, wielding a pair of kukri knives.

Stepping in front of Cleric, Math batted away the dagger that flew at him from his left. He tried to withstand the pain that shot through his torso as he irritated the shaft piercing him. With his right hand, he brought up his blade and cleaved into the assassin's ribcage, then charged forward with his right shoulder and batted him to the ground. Matches showed up beside them, fire twirling about in her hands. She sent two large bolts of elemental fury hurtling through the air towards the first bowman that had appeared, catching him unawares as he aimed for a sprinting Chapter. In a scream of agony and a burst of flame, he was reduced to bone, cinder, and ash.

Continuing outside, they regrouped at the edge of the street and began to run, with the redhead mage in the back, Mathias and Cleric in the vanguard, and Knuckles and Toadie in the middle, hauling their precious cargo.

The group made it out of the warehouse district without much other trouble. Behind them, the pyres of the burning building rose up into the midnight sky and blotted out the stars with their luminescence. Smoke billowed from the flickering tongues of flame, and alarms of all sorts were still being raised. As they rounded a corner into familiar territory, their home street, Maladine Avenue, they slowed their pace down to a brisk jog. They were still on guard, however, as they neared their hideout. Matches took lead, opening the door and checking inside. Making sure it was clear, she signaled the others in, and the two muscles of the crew down the chest in the middle of the den area.

Mathias immediately retreated to Cleric's room, where she was able to remove the arrow, after a careful and potentially hazardous incision was made. She stitched him up and he thanked her, profusely. She blushed, shaking her head. "You save me... I save you. That's how a crew works, right?" she said, smiling at him with her bright, glittering eyes. For a moment, he could've sworn she was going to cry.

As they left her room and went through the hallway, they became aware of the dead silence of the house. As they entered the living area, they saw that Chapter had returned, but was standing alongside the other three, staring at the chest in the center of the room. It had been broken open by, judging from its close proximity, one of Knuckles' maces. Nearing it, Mathias looked into the large hole that had been bashed into it.

Inside was an elvish girl, naked, shivering, and sobbing, curled up into a fetal position within the confines of the wooden trunk.

"No fucking way."

Mathias turned the knob and slowly opened the door. He cautiously stepped inside, looking around. As the elvish lass brought down her two fists, fingers meshed together in a weak attempt to sap him, his arms shot out and he caught her at the wrists. She struggled, trying to get away from him by thrashing wildly. He wrapped his arms around her in a bearhug and picked up her light frame, sitting her on the bed. As he let go, she immediately recoiled in on herself and began to sob silently, looking at the floor.

"Hey. Shhh...sh-sh-sh. Look at me... hey. Look. Look at me," he said, trying to calm her down with a tranquil, neutral tone. "Hey. I'm not going to hurt you. Hey. Shhh... Do you speak common?" His voice was as soothing as he could make it, and he wondered if it were any bit like his intention. He put a hand on her wrist, gently, and she tried to move away, but he leaned forward, placing it on her shoulder. After a minute, her crying began to die out, and he kneeled down to look her in the eyes. "Do you... speak... Tradespeak?" he asked her, making childish gestures, like flapping his hand as if it were a mouth, speaking.

"Y-yes... I... can..." she choked out, between gasping breaths.

"Good... that's good... Look. Hey... look at me... ssh.. Don't be afraid. We're not... those men. We're not that kind of people. We're good. We don't want to hurt you. My name is Mathias... what's yours?" he said, talking slowly and clearly, trying to articulate his words without accent. He regretted it, because he felt as though he were treating her as if she were mentally deficient. A thought struck him, and he wondered if Elves were even capable of retardation...

Eventually, she calmed down to a point that she could function and have a conversation with Mathias. She told him that her name was Limali, and he asked her to tell him how she'd gotten here, and why the slavers had taken her. After collecting her thoughts for a moment, as well as gathering the strength to speak, she began to relate her tale, "The past... few months, I'm going to have to guess... I've been floating around. Captured from my home, on the Raiearan coast, they took me to Antioch. I don't know why, but only some of the slaves had been dropped off there. We were then shipped over to Corone, but we only stayed for several days. Since then, we came to Scara Brae."

Mathias comforted her as she broke into tears every once in a while, soothing her until she could speak again. After she trudged through her story, she began to tell him how she'd first been unloaded in a cove, marched through a cave until they reached a large area, with many men in black cloaks, and many slaves being shut into boxes. She was stuffed into the chest, and from there, carried into a basement where she was let out every few hours, to eat and stretch. That evening, she'd been crammed back into the trunk and then taken off to the warehouse, where she'd been rescued.

The vandal listened intently to everything she said, trying to pick up clues as to the whereabouts of the slavers. But, before he could even try to scan the map inside his head, Limali had a few questions of her own. "So who... are you people, exactly? The army or, something such?"

He shook his head. He grinned at her assumption, but quickly wiped it off his face and tried to remain as sober as possible as he told her. "We're... known as the Scara Scourge. We're a group of thieves and assassins and arsonists. We're ruffians, basically. But wait, wait," he said, cutting off and trying to get her to calm down as she pulled herself further back on the bed, bringing her knees up to her chest and hugging herself in a tight ball. "We're not... bad. We have a bit of a code," he tried to explain. "There are unforgiveable crimes that people commit. Slavery, rape, wanton and meaningless murder... that stuff isn't what we're about. We have pickpockets who steal fat purses from people in the bazaar, but we don't put honest men into poverty. We don't go out and kill because we think it's fun... And we're sort of abolitionists, as you can see... That kind of crime is just evil."

He reached out his hand, once more, to comfort her, but she recoiled and shivered as she began to cry more. He shook his head, frowning. The door began to open, and Matches popped her head in, looking at Math. "Chapter's calling a meeting," she said.

~

"It looks like Fingers is a snitch," he said. His voice was angry - the kind of pissed-off that he'd been when Mathias was bugging him back in the Zirnden's locker room. "Turns out, he's been bought out by the Syndicate. He thinks that he's on the 'winning side,' so he tried to get away and get some buddies to ambush us while we were combing the warehouse. We were there early, it seems. Their client hadn't shown up - I can only assume Fingers had them warned, and that was what caused those reinforcements."

Matches and Vandal cursed at the same time, affirming that they'd suspected him for a while. Cleric began to sniffle, trying to stifle her tears. Toadie slammed his fist on the bar, gritting his teeth angrily. Knuckles simply sat there, calm and stoic. His expression, however, had all the traces of giref and sorrow. He mumbled, in his brutish, dumb voice, "I never... ever would've thunk it..."

"But fuck him, okay? Seriously, fuck all of them. We're on the warpath now, guys," Chapter said, gesturing wildly as his speech gained momentum. "Our group, as well as Cell's outfit, are heading to a meeting of the powers, tomorrow. We'll be discussing an alliance, and a plan, to get the Blackhoods out. Everybody agrees we need to stop fighting amongst ourselves, because this shit is bad for business. I can guarantee you that even Don Banton will say that. Hell, even the Bartholo Gang is willing to put everything aside and cooperate. This is big. Really, really big. You all need to get some rest. We've had a tough night, and the next few are only going to get worse. Oh - Knuckles and Vandal. We're allowed to bring two bodyguards, and I've chosen you."

Mathias felt a bit of pride swell up in him. This was serious - Chapter was trusting him enough to allow him to partake in a meeting of the most powerful and influential crime groups in Scara Brae. This was unprecedented - in fact, he couldn't recall anything that anyone had ever told him that spoke of a time, so dire, that this sort of conference had to be called.

Math had been right all along. This was going to be pretty heavy.

The Underworld of Scara Brae was an impressive thing to behold. You had criminals of all kinds, organized in all sorts of ways, and all of them couldn't get along, except for now. Everybody was rooted in the old ways; turf wars, protection, alcohol, exotic goods rackets, political machines, mischief makers, thief guilds, and everything in between. Gangs, crews, families, businesses, syndicates, and all kinds of formal collections, and all of them had a stake in the criminal heart of the pearl of the ocean. The little island held so many distinct faces of crime that it, at an ignorant glance, it was hard to tell anymore who was in control.

"The Scara Scourge has been weakening. Forgive me if I seem blunt or rude, but it's been extremely transparent. You've all been doing very nice with your recent campaigns, however. I must applaud you on that," said Don Banton. He was grizzled and gray, an elderly man with bad posture. His hair was lightening, although it was still a slick, fading black. He had a raspy voice, low and quiet. Everyone strained to hear him; he did not strain to speak up. Even if someone at the gathering didn't like him, they respected him. The Banton family was one of the eldest of all the criminal families, and they'd had a long hand in the history of Scara Brae's underground ongoings. His father had even helped create the Scourge, themselves. It was a tale that was often spoke of whenever the two found common interests and their goals coinciding ; it allowed for them to bridge the gap that had grown between them over the years.

He was flanked by two men in black suits. They had short swords at their hips, although they weren't tense in any sort of way. Surprisingly, no hostilities had erupted yet. It was even more surprising, considering the company gathered at the table.

At one cardinal point of the round table was Chapter, seated between his two standing bodyguards, Vandal and Knuckles. To his right was Elric Kintzing and his two little brothers, Raldi and Vriti. They were part of a rough-and-tumble family known as the Kintzing Boys. To Chapter's left was their sister outfit, a man who was known as Cell, and his two companions, Cloak and Dagger. They were also members of the Scourge.

To the right of Elric was the Bartholo Gang's representatives, Granite, Murder, and Killer. They shot a glare at Mathias every once in a while, although they were being extraordinarily tolerant of his presence. Between Cell and Granite was the Don, and all five of these emissaries made up the convention that was being held. It was possibly the first time in all of remembered criminal history that such a meeting had been called. Five of the most powerful and active groups on the isle of Scara Brae had met in order to discuss the state of affairs and the growing influence, strength, and threat of the Blackhood Syndicate. All of them agreed on one thing; these newcomers weren't doing things by "the Old Way," and they were all...

"Bad for business," said Don Banton. Math grinned slightly, remembering Chapter's assumption from yesterday. Immediately, however, he reprimanded himself and fixed his expression back to a passive, blank visage. He could not afford to draw attention in any form and interrupt the meeting. There was so much etiquette among thieves, and in such a delicate situation, he had to abide by every single unwritten law that he did or didn't know.

"Alright, then. We are all agreed," Chapter said, taking charge as the Don reclined in his chair and became silent. "The Blackhood Syndicate, despite all their connections, all of their resources, and all of their tenacity - are unhealthy for the market as it exists in Scara Brae. They are the biggest threat that any of us have ever encountered - more so than eachother. We are kittens compared to them, and that is truly saying something. The Queen, the Knights, and the Watch will not sit idly by. As a matter of fact, I'm surprised that they haven't begun a campaign already, although I suspect it is because the Syndicate has yet to come to the forefront.

"It's been passed down to me by friends of the Scourge that there is a Syndicate ship docking tonight at the harbor. It will be transporting a caché of muskets, possibly a dozen or more of their agents, and I suspect a load of slaves. It'll be an extreme blow to them if we can free those captives, pick off some of their numbers, and steal their weapons. This is our chance to strike back. It will be the first step in a long battle for the Underworld that has been ours for generations, and should remain that way for many more. We'll all rendezvous at ten on the clock this evening at the Don's warehouse near the waterfront. It's there we'll plan our assault. This meeting is adjourned, gentleman. And may the Sway guide you all."

~

Angel Street was as quiet as ever. The only sounds were that of three men walking its length towards the cul-de-sac that it ended in, as well as the faint background noise of the rest of the city, droning in endless, but ignoreable waves.

They ascended up the porch of a small shanty, the first of them opening its door and taking only two steps inside. A sudden howl of rage pierced the relative stillness of the neighborhood, and the two companions jumped in fright.

Mathias surveyed the scene - there'd been a massive struggle. Furniture was tipped and torn. Plates were shattered, and everything was smashed up. Things that should've been there... things that belonged to the crew... were missing. A knot tied itself tightly inside of the vandal's stomach. "That rodent motherfucker! Look at this note. Look at this fucking note!" Chapter screamed, thrusting a piece of parchment into Math's face.

Quote:

---

We've got your three little lovely honies and the kid. We'll be waiting.

---

"We'll be waiting? What the fuck does that mean?" Mathias blurted out in frustration. Fingers... double gods damn him. Not only did he betray the Scourge, but he sold out his own crew!

"It means that we are going to be kicking some serious ass tonight," Knuckles said. Mathias almost jumped out of his skin as he turned to stare at the behemoth that he'd rarely ever heard speak. All he could do was nod solemnly. Nothing more needed to be said.

Everyone was nervous. On nails. On edge. Sitting on a cliff and waiting to tumble the fuck over.

Mathias had told Chapter, after they'd scoured their hideout for whatever was left, about Fingers' meeting with the Bartholo Gang. In response, Knuckles and him had orders not to trust their rivals - to keep close watch on them during the raid.

All the main players had put their soldiers to the front. Everyone except the Don had assembled. Nobody begrudged him however - he'd sent six men in his place, and everyone knew that Mister Banton was a businessman, not a fighter. Elric Kintzing and his family were sitting, huddling next to eachother on a large, flat crate. He'd brought all six of his brothers. The Bartholos sat across from them. Granite had brought his two comrades, as well as another man that Math had never seen before. He was a tall drink of mutt, his skin a very ethnically neutral color. He was outfitted in a chainmail vest and had a nasty looking hammer at his side.

Cell had brought Cloak and Dagger, as well as Tinker and Splode. Chapter had left to do his recon work, so they were only represented by Vandal and Knuckles. Mathias felt sort of bad for his superior, who despite all his passion, had lost most of his outfit and was facing the loss of his life and style.

His hand drifted to the hilt of the sheathed katana at his side. Chapter had bequeathed it, telling him, "I won't be needing this tonight. And after that, hopefully never again." He couldn't help but wonder what that meant; Was... he planning to die, in some sort of martyr-like fashion? What would that accomplish? Math couldn't figure it out - it ran through his head, over and over again, until it pounded against the low walls of his sanity. He felt his fortitude start to diminish and a huge, gaping pit form in the depths of his stomach. It was a nervousness of an extreme magnitude that he'd never felt before - not once, ever before in his entire life.

A horn blew loudly from outside, immediately spurring everyone into action. That was the call for them to mobilize. They all started running and made their way out the back door, cautiously moving between the tall walls of the warehouses. They emerged onto the waterfront and clambered down the boardwalk, breaking into a charge towards the target ship's boarding plank. The two guards that were sitting on crates made a feeble attempt to gather their weapons, but were cut short by two of the Don's black-suited men slicing through their torsos. The party ascended the wood, their footsteps echoing into the waking night.

Shouts came from aboard the vessel and men sprang forth, unsheathing their weapons and readying their stances. Math looked to his left, over the shoulders of Granite, who was next to him. He saw Chapter, perched like a bird of prey, on the top of the bridge's edge, waiting to strike at someone coming from out the cabin door. The warriors in front of the vandal fanned out and engaged several Blackhoods. He pushed through them, singling out one at the boat's edge. A woman's scream turned his attention away for a split second as his target turned around to spot him, charging.

Cleric?! he almost shouted. He looked to his right - there she was, pointing at him. Her mouth formed a shape and a sound came out. It was a word... it sounded something like, "Stop!"

The planeswalker blinked, stopping. He realized his folly and turned his attention back to his enemy - Fingers. "Vandal, no!" the rodent-like thief said, splaying out his hands in a halting gesture. Math hesitated for a moment as he raised his sword. What the fuck are they doing here? he wondered.

Fingers' eyes went wide, and he screamed, "LOOK OUT!" as he pointed wildly over Math's shoulder. As he turned around, the pommel of a sword caught him across the temple, and he fell to the floor. As his vision dimmed, he saw people fall to the ground in a similar fashion, except with blood pooling from wounds. His eyes began to close, and the last thought that was registered into the vast space of his mind was simply, I think we're losing...

he'll do fine...

What happened? Fingers... Cleric was there. She tried to stop me? Fingers tried to save me? Why is everything black?

he's a fine specimen. don't you agree, Needles?

They were waiting for us. Weren't they?

it's not so often we see such an odd piece of the Tap...

This place... why can't I move?

Why can't I see? What... what can I do?

Open my eyes. Can't keep them closed...

Open them.

Blink.

Mathias opened his eyes and the world slowly came into a hazy focus. The mists of unconsciousness started to dissipate from his collective thoughts and he started to feel blood flow through him, warming the far extremes of his body. Life returned to him and the dim fog lifted. He had no time to survey the scene, however, as a figure sprouted up into his vision, only an inch from his face.

Instantly, it faded from view. The figure wasn't standing that close... or was he? No... he'd been standing several feet away from him this entire time. His features... the vandal could've swore that he'd seen them. Now, however, they were cloaked by an impenetrable shadow. His face was hidden beneath the darkness of the black hood that he donned. His physique, as well, was shrouded by a draping, bulky black robe with silver trim along the sleeves, as well as an intricate silver lace pattern working across the chest and down to his feet.

Beside him was a sickly little creature with raw, red flesh and muscle covering its grotesque body. It was bald, hunched over, and constantly clacked its fingers together. Its fingers... they were like syringes. Or large sewing needles. Its eyes were large, each one taking up almost a sixth of its head. They were dotted by big black pupils, and it had no nose... its smile was twisted and showed rotten, black teeth. And yet... Mathias could not help but be more afraid of the mage than the thing, despite the fact that it was an atrocious affront to the sanctity of life.

What did I see? he thought. A... skull... rotten flesh, hanging off the cheeks and the scalp. Dried, matted hair sticking in small strands and clumps... I saw... death...

I saw Death.

The cowled monstrosity cackled - a dry, raspy, choking laugh that riddled a shiver down the spine of Math's soul. "I am beyond Death, child. I am beyond Life, for that matter. Thus to say, I dread you are terribly innacurate in your assumptions..."

His voice was like needles, sticking themselves into the planeswalker's heart. "You fear me," observed the man.... if you could consider him one. Mathias, however, was a little unsure. "Why do you... fear me?" he questioned. He moved a bit closer... the dim light of the cold, gray stone chamber did nothing to illuminate the grim visage within the hood - much to Math's relief. That mask of magic could stay forever, and the vandal would be twice the happier for it. A bony, almost skeletal hand reached out from the robes. Vericose veins bulged through the deathly pale skin, stretched so tight over bone and sinew.

"Do you even know what you are?" he asked Mathias. "You have no idea of the potential you have... you don't even realize what you are! Haha! Imagine that... you are everything I'd ever hoped and dreamed of being... of wielding... and yet, here you are...

Utterly... blissfully ignorant."

Math cringed, wishing he could squirm away. The chains that held him clamped a bit tighter around his wrists, causing him to wince in pain. They were no ordinary bindings... this was no ordinary prison... and this, above all things, was certainly no ordinary man.

"Correct," he said, reading the boy's thoughts. "Funny, isn't it? An extraordinary creature... yet, up to this moment, you've lived an ordinary life. Absolutely plain. A street urchin? A thief? How romantic. I'm sure it would make for a great fairy tale, someday. Some sort of nonsense about the good that can exist in chaos and rebellion and that sort of thing. But, I fear you won't be enjoying that particular existence anymore.

"You are mine, now... Yes, Mathias Planeswalker... Mathias Vinkuzri, as you may have been known at one time or another. Vandal... Scrapper. Whatever other aliases you have taken, or may end up taking in the future. You are indeed... entirely... mine."

The figure smiled, although the youth could not see it. But somehow... he could feel it, and he knew that it was a horrifying sight to lay eyes on. It almost made him weep.

How it worked, Mathias couldn't fathom. Whatever grotesque and macabre experiments that the Master, as he'd come to know the dark wizard as, had performed upon this creature were beyond the planeswalker's imagination. And that, in and of itself, is saying something, for Math had a near-limitless scope of a mindscape. This thing... "Needles," as it was called... it had the horrifying quality of having needles for fingers. Cleric had always complained, saying she'd wish she had a sewing machine. She'd explained them as automated, and that the Alerian elves had invented them. Many of the tailors that worked for the nobility in Scara Brae had been bestowed with such imported machines, and Cleric had always fancied them. She'd often bring it up whenever she was repairing a tatter in someone's clothing.

Math's thoughts kept going back to her, trying to take his mind away from the pain as Needles moved his sadistic hands across the boy's body, puncturing nad pricking and poking tiny little dots throughout his chest, his arms, and his legs. He was held in place by chains linked to two steel poles on either side of him. He was in the position for a crucifiction, his arms spread out like some morbid messiah. The poles began to turn, the circular plate that they were attached to spinning, slowly, with the grinding mesh of machines and gears echoing through the chamber.

Needles cackled in delight and began to move to Math's ribs and sides, and then, as he turned in a full arc, the creature began to "sew," across his back. The rogue heard a wall slide upwards, and the airy footsteps of his enslaver fall upon the stones. The secret door closed behind his Master, and the sorcerer called out in his dry voice to his servant, "Stop, Needles. That is enough for now."

Immediately, the twisted hobbit retracted itself and moved to the side. The platform turned around, once more, so Mathias was facing his Master. The cowled figure took a step towards the planeswalker and looked him over, from toe to head. He tilted his own head down as much as he could, to survey the damage that Needles had done.

Blue droplets had started to well up in the small pores that had been punctured into him. "What... the fuck is that?!" he screamed.

The wizard laughed, shaking his head. "You don't know anything, do you? You don't even realize."

"Tell me, child... have you ever heard of the Eternal Tap? Of course you haven't. You are an ignoramus. You barely even know what to call your power. You barely even know how to touch it. You barely even know how to command it. So of course you don't know what the Tap is. But that must change...

"The Tap... you might call it a tapestry. It was the weave, through which magic was spun. Althanas... this world was surrounded by this perfect, intricately woven mat of arcane energy. To touch one piece was to touch it all. But then, the ignorance, arrogance, and interference of the Forgotten Ones... and the stupidity of the Elves... broke it. Shattered it. The Tap was ruined, splintered into tiny shards. Now, some mages are able to tap Pyromancy. Others, still, Aquamancy. Necromancy. Some can use it to power golems, others use it to heal the wounded. Fertilize a desert. Cause islands to fly. But none of them... NONE of them realize the potential that you possess...

"Do you wish to know what you are, Mathias?"

The boy shook his head. He tried to spit, but the sorcerer raised up a skeletal hand, and the wad of it was forced back down his throat. He began to choke and felt an invisible force press upon his adam's apple.

"Planeswalking. That's what you call it. But that is not what it is... yes, you cross into other parts of the myriad web of existence. However, you are not doing it because you 'will,' yourself to. You do it because you simply can. You are not accessing the Tap, Mathias. You ARE the Tap. You are a perfect manifestation, in bodily form, of the raw energies of magic. You do not speak the language, for you are the language. When you cross into the Anti-Firmament, you are doing so because you are the link between the two realms.

"You are a shard... a thread of the Tap... a drop of the lifeblood that empowers our universe. And yet... you never even realized it, did you? You never once stop to think... 'Why can I do these sorts of things?' Did it never matter? Did you never even try to test your potential? No... you were too busy playing the role of a noble streethood, romanticizing young women and painting graffiti upon walls that will not stand for more than a hundred years. You were fighting wars over streets that will be paved over by the next civilization that comes along...

"You were too busy being insignificant."

Mathias thrashed against his bindings, trying to fight through the collapse of his lungs and the lack of air that slowly cut off his thinking. He felt like he'd explode, but every thought that passed through his burning mind was "fuckyou,i'llkillyou,fuckyou,i'llkillyou, fuck YOU!"

"Was there something you wanted to say to me?" he asked the vandal. He cackled hysterically, putting a long, withered finger to the boy's chin, lifting his gaze upwards into his own. Piercing red eyes glowed beneath the thick shadows of the hood, and bored into his skull. He could feel himself being probed and prodded, naked before the magics that held him in place, nude before the man who'd enslaved and experimented on him, and bare in front of the world that ceased to exist.

His consciousness drifted away into the black comfort of oblivion, and the last thought he remembered thinking was how much he missed Cleric...

Everything exists, or it doesn't exist.

That's easy enough to understand, right?

But, what happens when something borders on the edge, between being real, and unreal. Being tangible, or simply being an abstract wisp of wandering will. That is a question unanswerable by the imperfections of language. What if you were to contain the essence of existence itself - the turmoil, the stability, the pain, the joys, the complexity, the simplicity - all of it, within a single body?

The construct itself doesn't matter, merely the personification. It could be a bee. A tree. Or a boy.

A funny thought, I'd always had. What if there was a particular God, whom in some sort of self-imposed exile, came to the physical world as a mortal. What if he had forgotten who he was and instead, became an atheist?

To be something, yet not even understand it. You... in all the glory that you are, are completely ignorant. You don't know that, by simply wishing it, you can alter the truth of reality. You can subject the whole world, the entire multiverse, to your whim, by simply wanting to. And if you get bored, you can simply change it back.

Everything may be as you want it to be; you just have to want it to be.

~

Mathias was running.

The Master had him planeswalk, taking the dark wizard with him. But he'd made a break for it, and now... now he was running through an endless field of white and blue and red. A chromatic spray of mist burst at the side of his face, although he paid it no mind - this vivid plane wasn't as dangerous as its chaotic form seemed.

What was truly dangerous... was the sorcerer trailing him... He'd be extremely angry that his experiment had escaped...

He felt the bracers upon his wrist - shackles the Master had placed upon him - bind tight. He felt his blood thin in his hands. A magical tug pulled at him, possibly a sort of leash that had been woven into the bracers themselves. He tried to escape it, tried to fight it. He started to Walk, lifting his consciousness upwards. His body began to tingle, and the familiar rush of ascension washed over him, like he was suddenly heaved up into the air with no resistance.

A new plane greeted him, although it was dark... it was colorless. Beyond black. But it was not empty.

A sword gleamed at his feet, and he bent over to pick it up. How convenient... he mused to himself.

"Well, no shit it's convenient. I mean, you left me here, for how long? It's been atleast a year since I've seen you, you jerk."

Who the hell said that? It was... in Math's mind. He looked down at the ornate, golden hilt of the blade. In the center of the crossguard was a large, perfectly sphere emerald. A misty face appeared in it, obviously angry.

"Honestly, I was beginning to think you forgot about me."

Lysander.

"By the Sway, I remember you, now!"

When Mathias had arrived in Larapool and met Joshua, the elder man had studied and subsequently awoke the enchantments within his blade. The enchantment, however, was merely a dormant personality hidden within the sword itself. A personality that called itself Lysander.

...And oh, dear gods, Joshua.

Joshua Fencer, the Trade Prince of Larapool... and Antioch. That blasted wasteland, riddled with villages and outposts, plagued by undeath. The necromancer... the lich, Morian. The one who'd attempted to control the gods that had been sealed away within a great scar along the earth. The sibling gods. It all started coming back to him.

They'd been friends. Lovers, too. Joshua had been a mentor and companion to the boy, who'd wounded up there with no recollection of who he'd been beforehand. He'd given him a life.

Why'd I leave?

Why did I forget?

"You don't remember?" asked Morian, cackling insidiously as he stepped through a dark, twisting portal that had opened behind Mathias.

"The Blackhood Syndicate. Double damnit, I fucking remember all of it, now!"

~

The Blackhood Syndicate - a devious group of slavers, pirates, and murderers. Criminals of the lowest form. Scum, of the most bottom tier. They'd been operating since the Prince of Heretics' reign over Larapool... that bastard so-called king, who'd enslaved the Merfolk and destroyed all trade relations that the nation had worked up over the past several decades.

There had always been rumors, floating around that they'd fallen in league with the lich, Morian Fleshbane.

People had started disappearing in the middle of the night. Some said that they'd faced off their cousins or old acquaintances on the battlefield... except they had since become a part of the Undead.

It was a recruitment campaign, heralding the growing ambitions of the necromancer. Then, a few months after he'd been in Antioch, Mathias was caught up in the war as it escalated and became a full-scale conflict. Morian attacked Larapool one night, and Math had fought against him. He'd squared off with the wizard, one on one. He'd attempted to use the element of surprise by dropping on him from out of another plane, but the wizard had somehow anticipated this...

They fought, but it was over so quickly. Mathias didn't stand a single chance. He'd attempted to retreat into another plane, but as he did so, Morian launched a spell at him. It struck, but some of it dissolved against the barriers between realms as the planeswalker had crossed them. The impact, however, threw Mathias across the planes, and so far off course. He had started to lose consciousness, and the last thing he had remembered before blacking out... was an ocean, rushing up to greet him as he fell out of the sky and into the blue abyss.

When Mathias had come to, he'd found himself in the Hospital of Scara Brae. After they'd gotten him on his feet, he'd realized that he could remember nothing other than his name, and he had no way to pay the bill that had been amounted to him. He'd tried to be a street musician, but when some hooligans had tried to take his violin and money from him, he'd realized that it would be much easier to beat the tar out of people.

Finally, he wound up in the Zirnden and started a short career as a cage fighter. When he was found by Chapter, he was taken in and became part of the Scara Scourge...

And now, now he was here, alone, without any friends and staring face to face with an enemy he'd long since forgotten about. "So you've... been using the Blackhood Syndicate to feed your army... make money on the ones that won't help... and find specimens like me?" Mathias asked. It was rhetorical; he expected no real answer - atleast... not any that he didn't already know himself. His hands started to quake with anger, and he gripped Lysander so tight that his knuckles turned white.

"Hey. You uh. You want to do something, or are you just going to stand there and look pretty?" the blade asked him. Before the boy could even respond, the iron bracers on his wrists started to pull together and let out a loud CLANK! as they magnetized towards one another. Mathias dropped the sword and it slowly faded from existence. He felt it, however, nearby still. It was in a pocket plane, close to this one. He remembered that, as well...

The blade was an extension of himself... a part of him that he'd always had. He just had forgotten it was there. But now, he was hyper-aware, of not only himself, but of all the things that he could affect, if only he could break free of the Master's will. That, however, would not come to pass. "The magic within those shackles will pull you back to me if you ever try to escape. You are mine, Mathias. Now, and forever. And you are going to lead me to discoveries that I never thought possible. Beyond any mortal's imagination... you are going to lead to progress."

A shudder rippled down the boy's spine, and he felt himself being pulled through the planes, until he and Morian were back within the dark catacombs beneath Scara Brae.

~

"The mortal body and soul are amazingly intricate subjects. They can be explained simply, but the details within them are so impossibly complex that one may never know every single answer to every single mystery. But I have found something that has piqued my interest quite a bit: The adaptive capacity that all mortals have. You can be put under an immense amount of pressure, and yet, you still have a natural, uncanny ability to react and succeed. I, therefore, believe that complacency is stagnation. Rest causes the deterioration of progress. Therefore, the mortal being must be placed in constant danger, under complete and utter duress, and be the subject of continuous torture and pain."

The Master explained this to Mathias as the planeswalker hung once more between the two pillars of the experiment chamber.

"Now, combat, I've found, is an interesting solution to many aspects of our dilemma. Above all things, people cherish life. And yet, they have the undeniable ability to take someone else's away. Hasn't that ever bothered you? Or atleast, fascinated you? What possesses you people to do this to eachother? Haha! It's such an ironic little pickle, don't you agree?"

A raspy chuckle emitted from the depths of the black cowl, and the wizard shook his head. "I've met a particularly disgusting creature who holds some form of authority in the aristocracy of this pathetic little isle. And he's asked the Syndicate for a bit of help on some matters of much importance. Now, you should be paying attention, because this part concerns you.

"You're going to be taken to this... Vernanon... and you're going to do exactly what he says, and you're going to like it. You are going to kill... take lives... destroy futures... all for his foolish, near-sighted ambitions. And you will love it. You're going to revel in the bloodshed, and you're going to want more... and I'm going to give you more. And the more you slay, the less humane you will become... and you will become entirely apathetic to whatever hyprocitical sanctity you place upon the mantle of life. You are going to be groomed to be a warrior... because then, I'll be able to truly push your limits... and then we will see just how much potential you really have."

During his speech, the Master had moved to a table and taken up a syringe. As he concluded his lecture, he placed it against Math's bicep and plunged it in, injecting him with some foul-looking greenish black liquid. In moments, he felt his consciousness begin to weaken and his perception started to dim. He closed his eyes, and an unwelcome sleep overtook him.

Elvaline was a quaint, peaceful, beautiful town. It was the central hub of activity in the Eauruta Barony and boasted a population of roughly five thousand. It was only a small portion of the isle's populace, but it was a rather large chunk, considering the hamlets and villages that were spread across the land and away from the central city of Scara Brae. Elvaline was located on the western front of the barony's borders and had roads paved between it and several of the other major villages in the area.

It was bustling with activity and the people were a pious group. The Ethereal Sway had made a rather large impact there, although it was heavily bastardized from its journey across the seas from its origin in Salvar. The church had combined with the local worship of the thayne, V'dralla, and she had been integrated into the Sway as a mother of angels and a matron of justice and civility.

A large cathedral had since been constructed, and outside of it, was a large statue of Lieratas Eauruta, the founder of the city and the first of its Barons. He had once served as a general under the reign of King Ferora, who only lasted for a decade until he was assassinated by agents of foreign lands. This was generations ago, but the influence of the Eauruta family had never once waned, and they were still steadfast servants at the sides of the Throne. They never coveted it, nor did they ever disparage it, serving faithfully and without question.

This had led to prosperity being bestowed upon the village, and it soon grew into its own miniature imitation of Scara Brae, although it was nowhere near a correlating size.

Mathias looked out of the window of the tower. He'd arrived in the barony only yesterday, and it had already felt like an eternity had passed since then. He'd been marched, immediately, to this place, and his arms were bound by the magic of the bracers. He could not hope to run, nor planeswalk. He'd sat idle for hours, watching people go about their business. He dozed off every once in a while, waking at a sudden sound that may have occured. He'd groggily wipe at his face with his forearm, trying to clear away the hazy sands of his stinted perception, and thought about his life, up to that point. Then, he thought about his life that may be after that point.

So... Mathias Vinkuzri. That's who I am. Why did I forget this stuff? More importantly... how did I lock all these memories away? This fucking sucks. I'll be damned if I live the rest of my life as a slave... as an experiment.

Up until then, his identity really never mattered much to him. He'd been accepting things as they came, letting them come and go with no other thought than mere acknowledgement. But now that he'd started to learn about who he really was... he couldn't help but be hungry for more. He had to escape... had to be free... and he had to learn everything he could, and above all... he had to understand.

Footsteps aroused him from his self-pitying stupor. A man in fine black clothing with golden buttons down the vest, and a golden chain hanging from his waist, ascended up the spiral stairs of the tower. Vernanon Merix - a count who owned a small portion of land within the barony, and therefore, had a modest weight that he could throw around in terms of authority and infleunce. Mathias saw him now for the first time - he had slicked back brown hair and a large, break-like nose. His eyes were large, like very deep, dark ambers. A thick brown moustache covered his upper lip, and he stood with a posture that made his chest stickout, making him look like a strutting cock.

Inwardly, the vandal grinned. I bet he's more like a pretensious cock, really.

The noble looked him over with obvious contempt and disdain. A sneer curled upon his thin lips and he said, with disgust dripping off his nasally voice, "So you're the pet of that old, decrepit bastard? You look like a runt... and he expects you to work for me? Ha. Just what does he want you to do? Bark at them to death?"

Well. I'd like to say I'm a pretty judge of character, Math wanted to say aloud. He kept his mouth shut and merely stared at the man's feet, avoiding eye contact or any sign of defiance.

"Well... I suppose we'll have to see how good you are with a sword... Let's hope that you're not as useless as you look."

The man turned on his heels sharply and began to descend the stairs once more. When he reached the bottom, the echoes stopped for a moment, and were soon overtaken by the sound of clanking chainmail, marching up the stairway.

"Aren't you going to give me a fucking sword?" Mathias shouted. He rolled to the side as the hulking mass of meat brought its huge maul thundering down, striking the ground with a loud smash. An imprint was left, several inches deep, in the dirt floor of the arena. This guy was huge - he was probably a half-giant. He stood atleast two feet over Math and weighed about three times as much. He was a walking mangle of muscle with two big white dots for eyes.

The vandal shuddered to think of any courtesans that might be given to this particular gladiator.

"Don't insult my intelligence. Morian's already told me about your little tricks. I know you can call a blade to you, if you need it," Vernanon said. He stood on a balcony that overlooked the arena, which was basically a dirt pit with high wooden walls raised. It was located in the depths of a large and several-floored cellar. Dried, crusted blood was spattered across the walls and the ground, and Mathias could've swore he saw fossils... no. Bone fragments... strewn about the place.

He let out a grunt of frustration as he focused on his planesmagic. He had to remember just how to recall Lysander from a pocketplane. It was basically the same principle as Walking itself, except concentrating on an object, rather than himself.

The hulking brute discarded his maul, having deemed that after several failed attempts at sledgehammering Mathias into the ground, that it was too slow. He lumbered forward, trying to pick the planeswalker up in his massive arms. He bent forward to scoop him up, ready to give a crushing bear hug and break the puny youth's spine, when he saw metal catch light glint across his eye. He felt something sharp prick into him and bury itself in his left pectoral. Looking down, he saw a small blade biting into his chest. It took a moment before he realized that it was hurting...

And that only made him angry.

Mathias felt two large hands close around most of his abdomen and thrust him into the air as he tried to push Lysander deeper into his adversary's chest, hoping to find his heart... or whatever organ that would be close enough to it. He held fast in keeping his grip on his trusted sword, as it spoke to him, musing on the situation.

I must say, good chap, you look like you're in quite a predicament. Good thing you called me when you did.

"Now's not the time, Lyse," he replied aloud.

Oh, I think it's always the time. After all, I'm that witty voice in your head that keeps you going right?

"You're such a dick," he said, before he was cut off suddenly by an immense pressure on his ribs. The beastly man started to crush his torso with his bare fists, applying an enormous strain to the boy's comparably flimsy bones. Pain exploded through his body and he attempted to raise his sword, moving his arms above his head, despite the stunning agony that gripped him. He brought his blade down, wildly hacking at his opponent's chest.

A cry escaped the youth's lips as he was tossed by the increasingly frustrated mammoth of a man. His back hit the ground and, whatever precious little air that had been left in him was suddenly pushed out in a violent gust of an exhale.

He scrambled, crawling across the floor, wobbling as he did so. He scurried to where Lysander lay, only a few yards away. His hand reached around the golden hilt and the familiar groove of the metal slipped into his palm, comfortably. Then, a large, meaty hand closed around his ankle. He looked back and aimed a kick, right at the enemy's face. A loud "oof," drowned out the crack of his nose breaking, and the hand suddenly loosened.

Getting to his feet, Math raised his blade above the brute, his eyes flickering with intense ferocity. His body ached, his mind ached, and his soul ached more than both of them. How he'd love nothing more than to dish out just a little bit more pain - give back what he'd been receiving this whole time.

Are you okay, old sport? You're scaring me a bit, Math, Lysander whispered in a frightened tone into his thoughts. It didn't quite penetrate, however, and the planeswalker prepared himself for the killing blow.

"Enough," Vernanon shouted. Immediately, the boy snapped out of his haze and looked up with absolute contempt at the noble. "That is quite fine. I don't need my best gladiator dead because a child lost his temper."

Wait. If you're a child- Lysander started to say, but he didn't get the chance to finish. Mathias pushed him away, sending him back into a pocket plane with a single, focused thought. He didn't want to listen to anymore of his friend's witty insights and cynicisms.

Ferrian Zalinhar did not believe in ghosts. He believed in spectres and wraiths - he knew those existed. Souls that were caught by magic and brought back to the physical world to attack the living. But ghosts were for children. It was foolish to believe that the undead would waste time by simply haunting someone.

And yet, a cold chill had settled over the Eauruta Manor, as he walked along the walls with large canvas paintings hanging from them, depicting battles between dragons and serpents and gorgons, as well as valiant knights and portraits of the long line of Barons in the Eauruta family line. The pale moon illuminated one of the stained glass windows that he passed by, the odd pictures in them being brightened for a mere moment - enough to catch his eye. However, the exact image he'd seen was unable to be caught once more - the proper angle and glint was gone. A shiver went down his spine as he heard the boards of the old house creaking. He hated these nights - especially lately.

Dark things are coming... Aeric had told him. They say nobody has heard word from Antioch in months. Not to mention the troubles in Salvar and Raiaera? Corone? Civil war is erupting everywhere, the Forgotten Ones are on the move... and now, those sorts of problems are about to arrive on our doorstep.

The criminal underworld was also heating up. Some were saying the old crime families, the Scara Scourge, and some of the streethoods had put aside some differences to fight some of the newer foreign syndicates that had been encroaching on their shores. Scara Brae was a hotzone now, and it was only a matter of time before it seeped into the countryside.

Someone said they saw ghosts in the sewers. Or... undead of some kind. It's getting pretty serious, Ferrian. I'm not sure if the baronies will be able to handle this if it comes to us. And the Church has been closed and silent for how many weeks now? Three?

It was fall; approaching winter, which was coming very, very soon. Ferrian knew it was going to be a long one - cold and stormy...

He'd told the Baron not to worry. His Watch was keeping guard, and he'd increase security. If the Church was retracting its influence on Scara Brae to deal with the heat in Salvar, it wouldn't matter; it had already been waning in the past few years. He regretted admitting that truth; Deep down, he was a pious man, and knew that Aeric was, too, as had been their fathers and their fathers before them. But it was a day and age were delusion could not complete religion anymore.

He'd heard about so many strange things, lately... he'd seen some of them. Dogs that, by all means, should be dead. Their ribs hanging out of skinned, flayed patches of red, bloody flesh. Mangy and mangled and mottled. He'd seen a corpse eviscerated in such a way that made him physically ill. It had been the first time he'd thrown up at the sight of a dead body in over twenty years...

So of course, he was thinking about ghosts, lately. After all, it was part of the talk, and it was past midnight in an old, silent mansion. What else was there to think about?

A thud interrupted that thought, drawing his attention away from the nonsense. He heard the ringing of steel and groans of pain. He started a jaunt, his leather boots padding against the cyper floor as he went the length of the hallway and then turned, heading towards a closed door that was the epicenter of the commotion.

As he entered, he saw the guard's lounge as it should be, calm and quiet and cozy and warm. However, there was one terrible thing wrong with it; two guards lay on top of eachother, their blood mingling and pooling together on the shag carpeting in front of the fire place. A young man in a white jacket stood over them, deathly pale and with eyes of glittering sapphire. He was soaked in blood, tilting his head back as he let out a sigh. His gaze drifted lazily towards Ferrian, and then he disappeared.

The noble roared a thunderous battlecry, unsheathing his blade as he charged forward to slash at where the boy had been. Looking around for a single moment, he collapsed to his knees and began to check his comrades to see if any signs of life were left in them.

As anger overtook him, his fists began to shake. However... they were stopped in a single instant as he heard an icy cool voice whisper behind him. "I'm sorry," it said, and before the Duke could react, a blade sliced through him and emerged out from under his chin.

Blood welled up in his throat and he tried to cough, wincing. Tears formed in his eyes and his vocal chords let out a last, gurgling, gasping rattle, and he collapsed on the floor. His blood would soon join his friends' and, so too, would his soul.

Something about it made him sick.

He didn't want to kill good men. There was just... something about it.

He had killed thugs and ruffians and slavers and thieves and robbers and rapists and murderers and drug dealers. He was one of the romantic rogues that he often wished himself to be; He was a chaotic force of good - dealing out the justice that Law was unable to dish itself and taking a slight bit of reward for himself on the side. He didn't delve into the unforgivable crimes - meaningless slaughter for sadistic pleasure, or taking advantage of maidens, claiming their maidenhead. He didn't try to take the gold from a farmer who'd only walked into the bazaar for a new head on his plow. He hated to think that he was a detriment to the state of health of Althanas.

He didn't want to be a leech or a scourge. He simply wanted to do things his way.

And killing a noble, just, well-respected and generous baron of Scara Brae was definitely not his idea of his way.

Mathias had stolen into Baron Aeric Eauruta's manor in the middle of the night, cloaked under the cover of darkness. He snuck through the halls as silently as he could, checking on any open doors to see if there may be someone inside. He'd been given a description of his two targets, and he'd yet to find them.

His search continued through the somewhat winding pathways of the mansion's well-decorated interior. He couldn't help but marvel, out of the corner of his eyes, at the splendor of the beautiful busts of the Ethereal Mother, V'dralla, or the golden and silver swords crossing eachother, or the tapestries woven with silky golden strands and littered with tiny diamonds, depicting the coat of arms of the Eauruta lineage.

Mathias passed a door, feeling himself drawn to it with an inexplicable hunch. He entered it, finding himself swallowed by a labyrinth of bookshelves and tables, littered with papers and texts. He cautiously carried himself about the study, hoping to find the Baron up, late at night, almost half-dead already from sleep deprevation. To no avail, however, did his search yield anything. However, from beyond a thin wall at the back of the library, he heard voices, muffled by the barrier between them and the planeswalker.

His body began to fade from the physical plane. His soul moved into a halfway world between the Firmament and the Anti, travelling through the meaningless and useless blockade of wood that no longer inhibited him. He saw two men louning in front of a fireplace, sitting and talking in hushed tones. Their faces and details were obscured by the hazy mist that seperated him from their physical existence.

The vandal brought himself, slowly, back to the world, and began to materialize in front of the two guards. Immediately, one took notice and shouted in alarm, springing to his feet and grabbing for his sword. Mathias reacted, attempting to yell, "Stop!" out of instinct - deep down, in his heart, he wished to avoid bloodshed, although he knew his continued survival at the hands of his masters demanded that blood, in fact, be shed.

He called Lysander from its pocket plane, bringing it up to deflect the guard's blow. He pushed against the oncoming blade and batted it away, kicking out as he did so to put some distance between himself and his adversary. He continued the arc and cut the other one across the collarbone, slicing a good part of his neck and down his chest. The man fell to the floor, tumbling out of his seat in a haphazard manner. He let out a gurgling rattle as blood bubbled from his lips and his eyes rolled around, unfocused.

Mathias ducked, collapsing his weight and falling backwards as the first guard lashed out. It swiped across his chest, leaving a large gash in his left pectoral. It only flayed through the muscle and had not connected with his ribs, however. The assassin allowed himself no moment of relief, not bothering to dwell on the luck... or generosity that fate had bestowed upon him. He landed, holding himself up with his arm. He pushed forward and thrust his blade forward, catching his opponent as he'd finished the arc of his swing. Lysander bit through, piercing the man's flesh. Math ran the blade as far forward as he could, puncturing skin, veins, muscle, and organs. Spurts and splats of blood shot at him, covering him in a crimson veil.

He then retracted his sword, moving aside as the man fell to the ground, now a corpse instead of a guard.

He looked up at the unfamiliar ceiling of Aeric Eauruta's manor and took in a deep breath, blood dripping off his chin and down onto the ground. He tilted his head backwards and felt a morbid satisfaction in indulging the violent whims that were hidden deep within him. It terrified him as he realized he had an unknown capacity for evil... and even worse, he had the ability to enjoy it. Perhaps that was the most sickening part of it all.

The door to the guards' room opened, and there stood a man clad in studded leather, a long, thick moustache curling with the lips as Ferrian Zalinhar gasped and then snarled with surprise. Math looked him over, his eyes cold and callous. The high of his adrenaline made everything perfectly, absolutely crystal clear.

As the noble moved to unleash his sword, slashing towards Mathias, time began to slow down. The youth's perception saw everything in slow motion... the hand reaching for the hilt, the steel sliding from the sheath... all of it seemed like a practiced pantomime that had been choreographed a hundred thousand times. He knew and anticipated every move...

It hurt him, however, to tear himself through the cosmos. He planeswalked once more, unable to recall the last time he'd had to do so in such quick succession. His soul screamed in agony as it was ripped across the thresholds between planes, thrown back into the ethereal state he'd thought he'd become so comfortable with.

Then, a voice spoke through his mind with the volume of a thousand thunderstorms. "Don't even think of running, my pet."

"Don't even think of escaping... You have your goals...

Would you let him escape, even though he's tried to kill you? Even though they didn't even listen to your plea? Come, now, child. Indulge... please. Let it all go...

just kill them," Morian said. His words echoed through the vast, empty plains of the ethereal world. The only ears there to hear them were Math's, and he felt a part of his conscience fade as his mind ceased thinking and his instincts took over. Everything became so suddenly clear.

His Master... was right. He should just kill them... all of them.

Reality washed over him as he stood once more in the physical plane. He stood behind Duke Zalinhar, his blade raised and his eyes glazed. A mist clouded them as they flickered between a violent emerald to a deep ocean, his emotions whirling around like a maelstrom inside of him. It was inevitable however; both the instinct of survival, and the influence of his Master, had long since won this fight. His blade drove forward, entering the back of Ferrian's neck with a smooth, sickening slide. A clarity overtook Mathias - a perfect moment where he was no longer disgusted with himself. He was, instead, disgusting with everything else in the world, and something... something terrible inside of him told him that it was his right... his prerogative to murder.

However, his conscience overtook this epiphany in a mere moment - it may have subsided soon after, but for that one perfect second, his heart cried out as he realized what he'd done. "I'm sorry," he whispered. The words were involuntary, but they were sincere. They came from a depth in the assassin that he was unable to express in conscious thought.

The first target, Duke Ferrian Zalinhar.

Dead, now. The first objective was complete.

Vernanon's superiors, the only two men that were in his way. Neither had legitimate heirs for they'd taken no wives in either of their years. Both were middle-aged, yet to leave the cusp of their prime. They still had time to settle down, although rumors persisted they never would; their families would die with the two, for they had eyes for eachother.

Count Merix, however, could not wait for that to pass. Action had to be taken now. Mathias was merely a tool - an instrument in the ascension of the petty, avaricious noble whose sole purpose was to spread misfortune, lies, and evil across the lengths of the barony. His entire whim was to indulge his short-sighed ambitions, and the planeswalker had enabled the first part of the chain to collapse.

A voice of reason came through him as he stood there for a long minute, watching the blood pool from the three corpses, still twitching from their fresh deaths. "Not that I'm rather anxious for the next one, but I think it would be wise to start moving again," Lysander said. Silently, the boy agreed. He needn't say anything for the blade to know what would be said.

He closed the door to the room and started to pad down the hallway, looking for a flight of stairs. The library had yielded no results, and it was the lesser of his choices, although the first in his path. He'd decided that, should the Baron still be awake, he'd be in his study. If not, the next place he could logically be was his chambers. As Math rounded a corner, a hall to his left showed him the way to a spiral staircase leading up into a tower. With no other options apparent, he made his way to it, and cautiously ascended it, attempting to muffle his footsteps as best he could. Soft patters echoed through the hollowed tower, although no more than the creaks of the wood, or the wind outside.

As he reached the top floor, he found himself in a singular hallway with only one door at the end. A golden knocker hung on it, admist ornate carvings in the blackened-brown mahogany. Blood began to flow through Mathias in anticipation - he could feel his veins heat up and his mind buzz. His eyes twitched, looking from side to side, taking in every detail. He caught himself breathing heavily and attempted to pacify his anxiety, coaxing himself to a calm and clear state. Closing his eyes, he summoned his strength, trying to ease his way across the planes so he could step through the door silently.

The muscles of his soul ached. When he planeswalked, it became a physical entity - it was a manifestation of himself on another world where he was a foreign body. Even attempting to stabilize himself upon an alien realm took strength, stamina, and concentration. Three times in one night... not even five minutes apart from one another. He was going to be sore for the next week. He was going to ache as if he'd ran across the entire breadth of Corone in an hour... he didn't envy himself the days to follow. He'd be hustled about, regardless of his condition.

Mathias let out a sigh. It was the last motion he could make while in the ethereal plane. Quickly, he reverted back to the Firmament and the room appeared around him, registering every detail in his mind as he began to perceive physical existence once more.

A large bed lay in the corner of the room, in front of Math and to his left. Beside it was a man, his back turned to the planeswalker. He sat huddled over a desk, writing with a large quill on pieces of parchment, illuminated only by a small candle on the head of the desk. The vandal took a step forward and cleared his throat, causing Aeric Earutua to almost jump out of his skin. Immediately, he grabbed for a sword which was sheathed and laying against the bedframe.

"Who are you?" the baron demanded, his voice strong, deep, and calm. It was the kind of voice that a benevolent, but cautious authority should have, and it befit the noble in every single way. His large steel gray eyes scanned the assassin and his hand gripped his weapon instinctively. "I see. So it's that time, is it?" he asked rhetorically, his eyes locked on Lysander.

"I'm sorry, sir," Mathias said, his eyes full of sorrow. They conveyed a further, much deeper apology that he could not convey with the imperfect medium of language.

"I know you are, my boy. I am, too," replied the lord in a grave tone. He took in a deep breath, and let it out, and the two ran towards one another, bringing their blades crashing together, the grind of steel against steel filling the solemn, cold air.

Mathias grunted as he pushed his weight forward, attempting to knock Aeric off-balance. He succeeded, but not as well as he'd hoped. The baron let himself move backwards, sidestepping as he did so. The assassin was able to turn around in time to bat away the oncoming sword. He backpeddled, swiping a horizontal arc out in front of him to keep distance between them. His back hit the wall, and he held up Lysander in a defensive stance, eyeing the elder man warily.

"He's good... really good. Better than you, probably," the magical blade commented. No shit, Mathias replied bitterly.

As Aeric moved forward, his longsword levelled perpindicular to his chest, Math brought his sword crashing down. The noble blocked it with expert precision. The boy's right arm flung backwards from the recoil of their clashing steel, and this left him wide open for his enemy's blade to bite into him.

He didn't feel it as immediate as he thought he might. It was a clean cut until it hit the dense meat and muscle of his shoulder. It cut into some of his upper left chest, and was lodged there for a moment. A cry of agony escaped his lips involuntarily and a haze began to gleam over his eyes, obscuring his cognative thought with a blood-red mist. He fought through the pain and drove Lysander forward with a thrust. He felt the resistance of skin, and then the sickeningly satisfying slip of it, breaking through the tender, yet tough web of flesh. The nauseating sound of a blade, flaying skin along its edges, reached Math's ears. It almsot drowned out the whisper, until the vandal caught it as the cobwebs of his bloodlust were immediately set aside.

"Good show... boy. Go... to my desk. The note. You'll... need it," the noble said.

The baron fell down and Mathias's grip on Lysander was loosened. He let go and backed away, letting the man fall to the ground and rasp out a harsh, heavy breathing. He rolled over, grasping the hilt of the sword and pulling it out with an intense grimace on his worn, elderly visage. Math did the same, taking the blade that was wedged into the his left shoulder out. Tears started to roll down his cheeks as he did so. He gasped and wheezed, almost to the point of hyper-ventilation.

He set the baron's sword down and reached for his own. With Lysander in hand, he raised it above his head and struck a killing, merciful blow to the suffering Aeric. As he cut through his neck and the metal hit the wooden floor, Math stumbled forward and collapsed onto the ground, crashing against the chair and curling up into a ball. His breath came out in ragged sobs, and he drew his knees up to his chest. "Why didn't you stop me?" he asked.

"Ssh... calm down, old sport," responded a voice. "I'm a part of you. Whatever you do, so do I. And you couldn't have avoided this. It's the way it happened. Ssh... stop it, kid. Get yourself together. Even he knew this was going to happen. Get up and get gathered. We're not done yet."

Lysander wasn't often a soothing part of Math's conscience. This was a rare moment that it had ever showed true, heartfelt empathy towards the planeswalker. Usually, it was jovial, but sarcastic. Happy, but cynic. But now... he realized that it was right. He couldn't undo what had happened. All the events of the past few months lead up to this point. And this moment would lead to the next. It was an unstoppable flow of time and fate that he was unable to prevent from overtaking him.

He choked down gulps of air in between sniffles, and slowly, but surely, he composed and drew himself up to his feet. He used the chair for support, and when he was standing, he surveyed the scene... the carnage that he had caused.

He kneeled down and picked up his blade, using the very last of his stamina to call forth its sheath. He strapped it to his back and slipped Lysander into its hard leather casing. He couldn't afford to keep calling it to and from the pcoket planes. Especially now that he had no energy left. He'd used all his strength, and his body hurt more than if he'd spent three days straight at the Zirnden. He shook the cobwebs from his head, trying to stabilize his vision and get his thoughts flowing through his mind once more.

His eyes wandered for a moment, until they became locked on the desk beside him. The desk... the freshly penned note that the Baron had been working on lay upon it, the ink having now dried to become solid, permanent letters. The boy picked it up, scanning across the hastily penned, albeit legible note.

Quote:

---

If you're reading this, you killed me. It's okay.

It would've been someone else, if it wasn't you.

Read this carefully:

Concord. Seek them out.

Sorry this was so brie

---

The final letter looked something like an "f," although it had been trailed off and a slip of ink was streaked down the rest of the paper. That must have been where he'd entered the room. Had he arrived five minutes later... he might have a more detailed set of instructions.

The last moment lead to this one... this one to the next.

He took in a deep breath, letting it out through a sigh. He folded the parchment and slipped it inside a pocket on his coat.

It was time for him to leave. He couldn't afford to be spotted again. Nor could he even fathom trying to fend off any more guards.

Luckily, the night still draped the town, and it was be much easier to leave than it was to enter. However, Mathias knew that he was going to find no comfort when he reached his... for lack of a better word... his "home."

The wagon hit a rock, and Mathias jumped with the short, upwards momentum that followed. His rear slammed against the wood, hard, and he grimaced as he fell to his side. His bracers were stuck together, initiated by a wand that the Master had bestowed upon Vernanon. They couldn't deal with him escaping during an unobserved period of time. How, exactly, they were able to keep track of him during the assassinations, as well as any other time, he couldn't quite explain. Yet, the necromancer was still taking precautions against the planeswalker's escape.

And that was certainly on his mind.

Concord. What the fuck does that mean? What am I even supposed to be seeking out? he thought to himself out of frustration. He couldn't even summon Lysander - the bracerse held his power in place, disrupted his focus and concentration, rendering him unable to control the essences and threads of reality. It was some form of counter-measure that the Master had installed.. activated when necessary. However, the questions that plagued Mathias would only be answered by his return to Morian, and thus, he had no reason to escape. The oppertunity would arise some day, he was sure. But not until he knew what he was... why he was... and above all, what the hell was going on with the Syndicate, the Master, and this "Concord."

He attempted to recap the events that had occured... starting from when he'd been captured during the raid on the Blackhood slavers. He'd been taken captive by a powerful wizard... experimented on and honed to become an assassin. But, more than that, his powers were being examined and dissected, learned from by Morian. He was trying to improve upon the basic control that the planeswalker was able to exert... trying to mold him into a weapon that used the core of reality itself.

I'm... the Tap. I am a piece of the Eternal Tap and yet... I can't even fight against this simple spell holding me here. How double-damn worthless can I be? By the sweet Sway, why can't I do anything?

In response, Mathias suddenly felt his momentum force him forward, sliding him against the back of the wagon. It had halted completely, and shouts suddenly filled the air. He could only help but sit in bewilderment, whether from what seemed like the success his will had exerted, or from the chaos that had suddenly engulfed the atmosphere, one could not quite discern. Blades rung out, steel clashing on steel. A few grunts came from behind Math, presumably the drivers or their enemies.

Footsteps rounded the corner and the flap covering Math's only view of the outside world opened up. A slim figure appeared, pulling himself onto the flatbed. "Fuck me running... I don't even believe my eyes. Is that you, Vandal?"

Mathias jerked his head upwards, squinting as he stared at the stranger... No. That was wrong. He wasn't foreign or unfamiliar. He was... "Toadie?" Math asked.

The boy's comrade immediately moved to examine him. Toadie had changed in the past few months. His cheeks no longer held the slight puff that they'd retained when he first arrived at their hideout. He was much more worn and gaunt, his skin stretched tight over his face. He looked fatigued... tired... battleworn. Math couldn't imagine the hell that must've erupted after the battle had ended that night. If the Blackhoods had won, then that would've proved a devastating loss. The combined efforts of the strongest underworld powers in Scara Brae should've been a thing to fear. But if they were defeated, then that would ultimately prove that the rookie syndicate wasn't just fucking around.

Toadie inspected him, seeing the scars that the planeswalker had accrued from his experiments at the hands of Morian, the wounds he'd suffered from his battles in the short span of servitude to Vernanon, and above all, the same tiredness that he, himself, had been feeling.

"It looks like you're going to get rescued," Toadie said, grinning slyly. He hoisted Math up, who grunted as he tried to protest.

An influx of confused emotions boiled up from the pit of his stomach. He took immediate comfort in the idea of being relieved of the horrors he would've suffered at the hands of the necromancer. Contrasting that, though, was the insatiable curiosity and disappointment that the answers he was seeking would be lost to the circumstances. He had been preparing himself for his return, training his mind to block out the pain he anticipated. He was ready to be put through torture... so long as he was able to obtain the knowledge that he knew, with every fiber of his soul, would lead him one step closer to his self-manufactured escape, as well as the assumption of control over his own destiny.

All I ever do... is get rescued... or kidnapped... he thought to himself.

Out in the open, Mathias saw the familiar faces of his crew, as well as those of the Kintzing Boys. Nobody had come out unscathed, but the bodies of the guards and escort led to the implication that they were easily overwhelmed by the gangs' superior numbers. Knuckles, seeing that Toadie carrying a body, came over and examined it. His eyes widened in surprise as he saw Math's face. "By the Thanes... VANDAL?!"

Immediately, everyone perked up and gathered around him. Toadie set the dazed planeswalker upon the ground, and the crowd leaned over, peering at him. All of their faces, however, dimmed out into the indiscernible mass of peripheral as he focused on one in particular - someone who now kneeled over him and examined his wounds.

All of the misgivings he'd had, all of the questions that burned through him, and all of the answers he may never find; all of them suddenly ceased as he saw Cleric's face smiling down at him.

The planeswalker awoke in a room that was completely alien to him, and although unnerved, he found himself looking into a pair of enormous, glittering green eyes that calmed him down immediately. He sat up, and Limali took a hold of his hands, chanting out in an eloquent tongue that the vandal could only assume was Elvish.

Mathias rubbed his wrists as the shackles around them came off. "By the Sway, you sure are something," he said to her. "Gods... I can't even believe you're the same girl I rescued back then... Everyone's changed so much. You all seem... battle-hardened... rough and callous, like bandits and shit," he stuttered over his words. He was nervous in the presence of this graceful creature who'd come into her own since he'd last seen her, fleshing out and coming back up to health. She was beautiful - there was no way to truly describe it. "So, how exactly were you able to remove those shackles?"

"Look. I know who he is. The Master, he's called," she said. "You might know him as Morian Fleshbane, the arch-lich of Antioch. Those bracers were woven together using Elvish magic. It was a very haughty mistake of his, to assume that you, or rather, nobody close to you, couldn't possibly know about song magic. He didn't put a great deal of effort into forging those manacles. I only know a little bit, but it was enough to dispel the enchantments on them. And you couldn't, because most Humans can only touch part of the Tap, and Elvish Magic is entirely separate from the Tap in and of itself."

Little did she know that it was only recently that Mathias found that he literally was the Tap... or atleast a shard of it. He was a manifestation of magic and reality... and that was the reason he was able to do the things he could. "So that means that Morian's an elf?"

"Half elf, actually... He was a part of the forbidden school of Istien University... and he was exiled after that school was closed and condemned. This is how he ended up in Corone... and subsequently, Antioch. And that's how he's now made his way here. I still haven't been able to figure out what... aside from that he's looking for magic... magic that comes from the Tap, and very rare, obscure pieces that most people haven't been able to tap into for generations... But that's all I know."

"That sure is a hell of a lot of information, either way... You've really become like one of us, haven't you? You're a true asset... a true friend," Mathias observed.

"They gave me the name Lady," she told him. She smiled, and he returned the gesture. In the Scara Scourge, it was an act of official acceptance into their folds for them to give you a title. It was your function and your identity - it was only a sign of absolute trust, and even then, only in the most extreme circumstances, for anyone in the Scourge to reveal their true name to another person. "After that raid, we all relocated to the countryside. The sudden assassination of the Duke got us extremely suspicious. We decided to check it out... and we happened to be lucky enough to stumble upon your caravan."

"So wait, wait... what happened after the raid?" Mathias asked.

It was a long story, and one that the vandal hadn't quite been prepared to hear. It turns out that Fingers, was in fact, on their side the entire time. The Bartholo Gang, as well, had been the only ones to trust him. Chapter had betrayed the entire established criminal underworld, putting all of his chips down on the Blackhood Syndicate. The entire assault was an ambush, and it single-handedly crushed the influence of so many organizations. With the crippling blows that were dealt to them, the remnants of the Scara Scourge, some of the crime families, the Bartholo Gang and the Kintzing Boys, all banded together and scattered themselves across the baronies, until they could regroup and find a way to counterattack the Syndicate. Not only that, but due to Chapter's betrayal, Matches had died during the battle.

Unable to comprehend the full scope of what he'd just been told, Mathias started to shake and quiver, not quite bursting into tears, but very much on the verge of doing so. Lady wrapped her arms around him, cradling him to her breast. "I trusted him... he loved her, didn't he? How could he do that? How could he let her die? How could he leave any of us to die?" he questioned, over and over again. Limali merely hushed him, running her hand through his hair.

"We all trusted him," she said, trying to comfort him. "But, we still have everyone else... we still have a chance."

"I swear to all the double-damned gods," Mathias said, sucking in his breath and steadying himself. His voice was sober, serious, and had a chill to it that ran a shiver up and down Lady's spine. With venom in his voice and fire in his eyes, he finished his vow, "He won't."

Toadie snickered as he plastered paint all over the walls. When he was finished, he and Mathias took a step back and admired their work. In Math's signature bubble lettering, was written "We're Still Here." Below that, Toadie had drawn a very intricate picture of two interweaving letter S's, with smaller lettering for each of them, so that it spelled out "Scara Scourge." Their target had been chosen due to its close proximity to the Guard barracks of Elvaline, and that made it the best place to announce their return.

The group had looked to Mathias for advice, after he had been nursed to health and was allowed to orient himself with his surroundings. He suggested that they go back to leaving messages, that all of them return to showing the world that they weren't going to back down from the fight, even though they'd suffered such a loss. They were going to start fighting the battle on their terms, and everyone agreed unanimously. Fingers, Knuckles, Cleric, Toadie, and Lady... they were all together once again. They allowed Math a little time to grieve for Matches, although there was a consensus that she would want them to fight on without stopping - that there were things that were far more important. She had died for something - they couldn't let her sacrifice be wasted.

"It's time to strike back," Mathias announced. And tonight was the first night in a campaign that he had planned in his head. And that was what had led them here.

With the whole town under martial law, and with Vernanon having ascended the position of Duke now that Zalinhar was dead, the Blackhood Syndicate would have no problem finding a base of operations in the countryside. Not only that, but with his influence, Vernanon would be able to steer the guard and Syndicate clear of any and all confrontation. That would mean that the Scara Scourge and their allies would have to fight both of them - rather than having it be a massive free for all.

Tonight was only a small step - a spit in the face of the Syndicate, the Master, and the new Duke. And with a little bit of their vandalism, of course there had to be violence.

The guard house in Elvaline was notorious for accepting whores as bribes. It was a pathetic practice, especially for the rural knight-wannabes. It was also whispered that the local bordello had been supplied with slaves brought in from some of the Syndicate's shipments. Tonight was a particularly special night - the guards were holding a celebration amongst themselves. The subject in question of the festivity was the promotion of the Count Vernanon Merix to the title of Duke, and his generosity in giving the guards this free night's worth of fun.

Two of the guards drunkenly stumbled outside of the barracks for a moment's fresh air. The sounds of merriment trailed out the door behind them - explosive laughter and exquisite moans, the clanking of tankards and the rolling of dice, and many other such noises that a party of ignorant, backwater guards would generate during their self-indulgence. The duo's course took them across the street, where through their haze they looked up to see Toadie dropping down from the scaffolding that they'd set up. Their eyes were drawn to the massive mark of graffiti that he'd left behind. "What the hell," one of them started to say, before Mathias phased into existence behind one, with Lysander in hand, piercing him through the stomach.

The other one was an easy target for Toadie. The man could barely fight back in his inebriated stupor as the lad began to pommel him with his spiked gloves. With their message written and the sacrifice having been completed, Mathias took a step back to survey the scene. "This will be enough to rile them up," he stated, matter-of-factly.

"Shit, man, aren't you sort of scared? I mean, even after everything that's happened... we're taking this a step further than anyone else has ever before. This isn't just a raid, or a heist," Toadie said.

"You're right. This is going to be war."

"Hey! Toadie and Vandal are back!" announced Fingers, as the mentioned pair walked through the threshold of the doorway into their hideout. They were a bit roughed up, and looked tired, but their expressions held an enormous sense of pride and accomplishment.

There was a sense of security among everyone - the sort of secrecy that they'd been accustomed to had since dwindled. Maybe it had something to do with the atmosphere of the old house that they'd occupied on the edge of Elvaline, or perhaps it was the true bond of camaraderie that they'd developed... it was hard to say. But the tension between them had disappeared since they'd left the city. The house, too, seemed to reflect that. It wasn't as dark and silent as the hideout that they'd had in the middle of Scara Brae's slums. It was much more lively, and candles and lanterns were often lit to illuminate every square inch.

"Well, first off," Mathias began to explain as everybody made their way into the parlor of the house. "You shouldn't be calling him Toadie anymore. The kid's gone up and graduated... from here-on out, it's official. We're going to call him Logo."

Applause broke out among the rogues, and the vandal turned to his apprentice and grinned wolfishly. He reached out and put a hand on the boy's shoulder, who was standing in disbelief and looked as though he might fall over from the surprise he'd been given. A smile spread across his lips, and he looked up at Math with genuine admiration. The planeswalker's heart twitched for a second. I guess that's how I always looked up to Chapter, he thought to himself. With that revelation, he made a solemn vow, in the cleared state of his conscience, that he would never betray anybody like Chapter had betrayed them.

"I also have something that I'd like to say," Cleric said, standing up and ushering the two boys to sit down. She took the floor, and everyone immediately silenced themselves. It was uncharacteristic of Cleric to speak up, and to do so with such conviction. Her eyes had a strong determination in them, and it was obvious that she was evoking a passion that was borne of absolute inspiration.

"We live a hard-knock life, but that's the way we chose it, right? But the events that have happened over the past few months... I can't imagine that they could've... or would've happened to us. And I know there's a lot of things heating up all over the world - you've all been hearing about it, I know... even the Sway's Church here in Elvaline has shut down and has been silent for weeks... and to top off that, the leader of our outfit betrayed all of us to the Blackhood Syndicate.

"But out of all of us, Vandal has gone through the most shit - things that I can't even possibly imagine, no matter how much he's tried to describe it to us. And out of all of us, I've been here the longest... with Chapter and my sister... I don't know if I really have a right to, but between all of us, Vandal's the one with the plan. I'd like to... to nominate him. To be the next Chapter, and to be the one we all look up to."

For a long moment after she ended her speech, there was silence. Mathias was shocked, both honored and confused. He hadn't seen them in so long, and he'd only recently been back with them. Everything he'd asked of them so far was off instinct and impulse alone - trying to get back at the Master and the damned Count who'd usurped his betters.

Fingers stood up next, and clapped for a second. "I remember the conviction he had when he and I ran into trouble with the Bartholo Gang... Honestly, I thought, then, that he lived for nothing other than violence. But I've started to see that... he fights for us. That's what it was..." With that, he seated himself.

Knuckles rose, and simply grunted, "Yeah. I think so, too," before sitting down.

Lady took the floor, and looked directly at Mathias. "I was so scared the first time I saw you... but you were there to calm me down. You made me feel at ease, and safe. I can't ever thank you enough, and I've been glad that I was able to help you, in the same way... I'm glad that all of us were able to save you, then."

As she sat down, Logo stood up and looked down at Mathias, who he had been sitting next to. "Hell... I... to be honest, Math... Vandal... he's the whole reason I joined up with the Scourge. I couldn't believe it, at first, that I'd even made it to the same organization as him, let alone the same outfit. It's been a complete honor, and that I get to be alongside you... shit, I mean... even if it's just among us, you've been using more words than fists, and that makes you a legend. I knew a ton of hoodrats that hated you, because you were able to do more with your graffiti than they could with their muscle. And man, if you were.. if you were leading us? What do you think that would make us capable of?"

Mathias looked up at Logo, and smiled. As he did so, the corners of his eyes creased in a wrinkle that broke the barrier he'd been holding up. Tears streamed down his cheeks, and he tried to laugh through it, only to end up in a sob. He hated it when he cried - he felt so weak. He couldn't control his emotions, and he couldn't keep up that aura of command and strength and valor that Chapter had... that had inspired him. It was something that Chapter would never do...

Something that Chapter would never do... That's actually... that would actually be a good thing, wouldn't it? he thought to himself.

Gathering his breath, he stayed his emotions... his happiness and his frustration, his anxiety and his fears... setting them aside for a moment, he stood up and scanned everybody's faces, directly looking them in the eyes with a serious smile. "Well, I... if that's what all of you want... if everybody agrees... I'll... I'll definitely do this. I'll be here for all of you, always... but I have one condition..."

Everybody looked up at him expectantly. "Let's tell each other our real names."

Quote:

---

I pity the sorry bastard who coined the phrase, "Honor among thieves." That poor fool probably never saw the knife in his back coming. ~ Jasmine the Poison

---

"My real name is Mathias," he announced to the room, full of his companions and friends - people he felt, that after all the things that had transpired against them, that they could be trusted. Everyone muttered, and Logo seemed to have a revelation, apparent by the flickering of his eyes.

"Shit, man. I thought it was Matthew or something. Like, do the Math. It makes sense, now, though, I guess," he said, chuckling.

"I uh. I'm starting... I've been starting to remember things from the past, the stuff that's been buried since I first washed up in Scara Brae. I was... a part of the navy of Larapool, in Antioch... and before that, I was one of the two Rogue Brothers who led the Black Sails Armada. That's about as far back as I can go, though, so far," Mathias explained, the brief summary that poured from his lips washing over everyone, giving them a sense of awe at the level of security and comfort with which their leader had to be blessed with in order to grace them with an actual and intimate knowledge of who he was.

"My name's Saralynn," said Cleric, taking the torch. "The first Chapter... he found me and my sister on the streets. Since then, I've been with the Scourge."

"The name is Travis Vehajo," Logo said, taking a deep bow. "My family's aristocracy, but I couldn't deal with that shit. I preferred adventure and trouble... and I found plenty in the Scourge."

And so on, the circle went. Lady was really Limali, of Raiaera - noble, and graceful, but now fallen and tainted by the unclean hands of poverty. Never to be accepted back by her family, she had stayed with those who had grown the same bonds with her. And after her, was Fingers, whose name was Eddy, and he was the son of a halfling man and human woman. Mother had died, and his father had been in and out of jail too many times to count. He took up the trade of his paternal lineage, using his dexterity for thievery of all kinds. He'd met up with Knuckles, whose name was Bruno. His father was an engineer, who'd been working on steamboat models for Scara Brae. He was too unintelligent to get a real education, and ended up leaving his house.

And all of them had gathered - the orphans, the abandoned, the forgotten. The unkempt, the unclean... wily and wild. Untamed, as they may be called, and all of them were banded together, making a pact of trust with one another by admitting the knowledge of their names into the open field, and allowing themselves to share with eachother who they truly were, in their hearts.

Mathias sat back, relaxing in his chair. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to take a small amount of pride in being able to allow everyone the medium with which they were able to spread the burden of their pasts across eachother. Everybody shared in everybody else's pain and happiness, and this was the first step in which the planeswalker hoped to be many, that they would grow and bond together. He was content - truly content - for the first time in a long while, with how things were going. And he knew, above all things, that he owed it to the present company.

Mathias unbuttoned his jacket and slid it off his shoulders, letting it pool on the floor where he stood. He yawned like a lion ready for a nap, and ran his hands through his dirty blond hair. He looked around his room, viewing the only furnishings - thick, dusty oak walls and a simple feather-mattress bed with no headboard, and a small table with a lit candle on top and a three legged stool. He took a seat at the desk and reached over, pulling his knapsack out from under his bed. From it, he withdrew a pen and his journal, and set himself to writing in it by the dim light of the candle.

After a bit of forced scribbling, the ink began to show up on the parchment, and his hand moved vigorously as he wrote at a quick pace. I still have yet to figure out what the Duke's letter meant. Concord... the only thing I can possibly think of is it is shorthand for Concordia... But what does that have to do with him knowing of my impending arrival, and the state of affairs in Scara Brae and Antioch? Only those two are apparent in any connection they have with the state of affairs..

What's happened to me up until this point? How did I get here? What the hell am I even doing? By the Sway, I'm not so sure anymore... of anything, really. I've started to remember so much - it's hard to think about, that I even had a life before now. That I've lost everything from then, and can't get it back from where I am now. I used to be in the Black Sails Armada... I used to be in command of it... how do you forget something like that? I had a brother... a twin, sort of. There were so many things... I can't even begin to think of what's happened to everyone I used to know.

And where am I now? Fighting back against the hands of fate that have, in their unfathomable machinations, put me here in Scara Brae. What do I do? I guess the only answer to that question... will be found in whatever Concord is.

As he finished the dotting of the final sentence, a knock resounded from outside his door. "Come in," he said, blowing on the ink on the page to dry it out a bit quicker. As he closed his journal, Cleric entered his room, crossing the threshold and closing the door behind her quietly. Mathias looked up, his blue-green eyes laden with concern. "What is it, Cleric?" he asked. And then, as an afterthought, he corrected himself. "Sara?"

"Chap... Mathias," she began. She took in a deep breath, and it was clear she was attempting to maintain her emotions at a steady level. "I... I know you might not want to talk about it... but I have to ask. What happened to you? You're... a lot different than you used to be." She approached him with a timid pause in her steps, and sat on the bed beside him.

The planeswalker took in a deep breath, and lowered his forehead into his hands, closing his eyes as he relived the events of the past few months. "You know... my power, right? Well, there's a man who controls every aspect of the Syndicate. A man who comes from Antioch - the arch-lich, Morian. He's been using their slavery business to seek out those with magical potential. He knew about me from when he and I met in Antioch, once. And then, I fell right into his hands, here in Scara Brae."

Cleric put her hands to her mouth, and she moved to Mathias, taking his head into her hands and cradling it to her chest. Instinctively, he leaned against her, finding in her a comfort that only she was able to offer him. "By the Thanes," she murmured. He knew she was attempting to fathom what had happened to him, and was trying, on some level, to empathize with him.

"But it's... it's not that," he said. "I mean... we, as the Scourge... we've never done anything horrible, right? We're misfits... that's what I always thought. But under Morian's command... he gave me over to a Count, in this barony. He turned me into a weapon. I had to kill some men. Good men, who didn't deserve it. Like... the Duke. That was me, Sara. And..."

"And that's why you're after the new Duke?" Cleric said, finishing his sentence. She took his chin in her hands and lifted up to her eyes. For once, in her shining smile and bright brown eyes, he saw a strength and reservation that was so uncharacteristic, so truly hidden, that he couldn't be sure if it was really her. She leaned forward and kissed him, their lips locking together for a moment before she pulled away. "I know you have a plan. And I trust in it," she said, standing up and walked towards the door.

As she passed, she snuffed out the candle on his table, and opened the door. "Good night, Mathias," she called out, before closing the door and enveloping him in the warm embrace of the darkness, as he crawled into his bed. It would be a long while before he would fall asleep, as thoughts ran rampant through his mind. But when that sweet oblivion did overtake him, he would hardly even notice it.

~ To Be Continued in Vandal Violence~

Spoils:
Vandalwand :: Trinket :: [Oak]
Nicely crafted, although simple, this brown, one-foot long wand acts as a spray can, although with a large resevoir of paint - roughly equivalent to a gallon. Aside from its capacity and function, it has two magical abilities. First, it will change the paint to whatever color the wielder wishes. The second is that it refills itself from empty to full within an hour.

Lysander :: Weapon :: [Steel]
Lysander is a beautiful sword of an origin that even Mathias does not know. The blade itself is made of fine steel and the hilt is made of what seems to be gold. In the center of the ornately carved out crossguard is a large emerald sphere.

If one looks into it, they might even see a misty face hidden within it, and if they hold it, it may even speak to them. The sword is an extension of Mathias himself, and the personality that is held within it is a cynical, witty, wise-cracking reflection of Math and his own internal workings.

It has another thread of magic embedded within, but one that only Mathias himself can call upon. It works as an extension of the planeswalker, and as such, he can call it from no matter where it is to his hands, working with the same fundamental principle of planeswalking itself. Also, in the event of being attempted to be wielded against Mathias, it will dissipate and return to a pocket plane, rather than strike down his own master.

Swordsmanship (Skill) - Average
Mathias has found that he is innately skilled with a sword, and with the returning of his memories, has further discovered he was once a very capable swordsman. Remembering all of this, he has refined his style and is capable of holding his own in a swordfight.

Quest Judging
Vandal Valiance

Overall, this was a pretty good thread. It had a lot of potential, the shortcuts were understandable...really I was only thrown for a loop once or twice. Admittedly, they were big bloody loops, but still. Good job overall.

STORY

Continuity: 7. Strong, lots of good references to past events. It actually felt like I knew the characters even though this is the first time I've ever read one of your threads.
Setting: 8. One of the better characterizations of Scara Brae that I've seen.
Pacing: 8. Generally good, one or two slip-ups here and there.

CHARACTER22

Dialogue: 7. Overall, dialogue was strong. Weakest parts were probably Needles and Morian.
Action: 8. Generally good, easy to follow, not too confusing.
Persona: 7. This is something I was honestly torn on. While your characterizations were somewhat predictable (see the notes section), they were usually strong and consistent.

WRITING STYLE

Technique: 7.5. Strong overall, but enough gaffs here and there, and you didn't put much effort into describing the scenery at times.
Mechanics: 9. Purple prose early on and some scattered typing errors throughout keep this from a 10.
Clarity: 9. See above.

MISCELLANEOUS

Wild Card: 10. Because of the Vandalwand. :D

TOTAL: 80.5/100

EXP/GP Rewards

Mathias: 2277 exp, 464 gold

Other Rewards

Mathias: Vandalwand, Swordsmanship (Average) are approved as listed. Lysander will require some revision to include a summon time for Arena battles and so on, but is otherwise approved.

Out of Character:

...not even one paragraph in and I approve solely for the Vandalwand. Let's see if he's got more to him than magical prankster. Bit heavy on the prose; it reads like one of those sparkly slow motion sequences in the intro episode to an anime. No, really. Which isn't necessarily bad. The chase had a few wording errors and so on, but it was short enough for me to overlook it. Math's gang is a bit cliché. Bit too much of a five man band with too many archetypes in play: The Not-Quite-Pretty-Enough Boy Doubling As Joe Average With A Mischievous Streak (Math), the Mousy Quiet Girl Who'll Probably Be His Love Interest If She Does Not Die Horribly (Cleric), the Cool Big Sis Who Will Sit There And Look Sexy Before Being Removed From Consideration (Matches), and Those Two Really Ugly Guys Who Will Likely Be Dead Or Maimed, Mangled, Eviscerated, Or Otherwise Incapacitated By Post Three (Fingers and Knuckles). Description of the Zirnden match is a bit odd. First Math's a Vandal...then he's a pit fighter. But I've seen worse and stranger. And I choose to believe the so-called strangehold was a four-dimensional triangle choke. Your profile does say Planesmagic, after all. The description of the Scourge is refreshingly different from what I've been exposed to so far, but it's a bit odd to see someone supposedly kind and gentle like Cleric involved in that. I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume she's actually a poisonous little shrew who murders people with enough arsenic to taste. (Not happening, I know. A sh33p can dream.) Points for the brick. Because. Blackhood Syndicate's a nice name. Goes well in opposition to the Scara Scourge. Called it on Twiggy McMedic. For some reason, Gurren Lagann just came to mind. Saralynn. Yep. She's gonna die. Also: Hurray amnesia! With a side of Where's My Romance Theme Music And/Or Bottle Of Sleeping Pills And Tonic? Nice smackdown on the Bartholos, though I'm a bit O_o'd at the blatant ethnic gangery of it all. Even if that is how most gangs work. Vandal deserves the namesake, by the way. ...mmkay, and he didn't tell Chapter about Fingers, why? Also: Splittest? Called it again on Saralynn. Oh dear. Trauma Triangle of Love. Nitpick: If there are so many families involved, with so much power at stake, why are only five being represented? Including what seems to be a low-level outfit like Chapter's? Meeting seemed a bit rushed as well. Abrupt cliffhanger was also abrupt. And out of place, considering the kind of damage Matches seems capable of. Another round of betrayals, hopefully. I want to be proven wrong on the assumption that these people are Loyal, Noble Thieves. ...epic-level Whut. I have no idea what just happened. Mmkay, that's suitably random and out of nowhere and kind of a moodkiller. Origin story helps. Still a bit meh on the rapid change of pace and everything. Hate to say it, but this whole segue just...kinda lost me. Score's probably going to take a hit for that. ...yay. Back to, y'know. The actually interesting part. Except that it's interesting months after when it was supposed to be. Yay. Hopefully Math kills everyone. Traitor Chapter? Didn't see that one coming. Good show, would've been better to see firsthand though. Odd to see Math take charge like that, but stranger things etc. Cleric cursing? Shock. Awe. 'Cept not so much, because what little characterization we've seen of her since Math's drop back into The Real World is basically in line with that. Still say she's doomed though. Nice ending overall. [Tin Foil Hat]HER LIPS WERE POISONED! THIS THREAD ENDED WITH MATHIAS DYING![/Tin Foil Hat]

Exp and GP added! Welcome to level 3!