Round 2: Unreasonable Gentlemen v Paint-a-Wagon

Round 2 will begin 4/8 at midnight Eastern. Please note additions to the rules and regulations, and good luck.

Due to my forgetful ass, you get an extra 12 hours to post. You will have until 4/22 at noon EST to complete your thread!

The sun rose high over Radasanth, heating up the stones that built a strong foundation for a town with many personalities. Cobblestone streets shone brightly, soaking in the heat that would keep them warm long after the sun retreated to the west. Large buildings of marble and granite appeared to glow, an impossible bleached white speaking to the ageless history of the governmental architecture. The underbelly of the city saw the sun last, which had to rise highest to reach its darkest, wettest crevices and dry out the stench of stale whiskey and acrid urine. So were the people of Radasanth; a range of glorious, pedestrian, and vile.

“Vile” was of course a simplistic label, and one which Storm Veritas had long since sought to shake. He had made plans that would move him up in the world, pulling him from his socioeconomic shackles into the realm of the wealthy elite. One simple job to be executed, and the monogrammed cufflinks, bespoke suits and silk ties would be more than a clever façade. After today he would be infamous, wealthy, and very busy building a compound in Alerar. After today he would be called many names, but average would never be one of them again.

He popped back and forth from foot to foot, a nervous tic in the midst of the large gathering of mid-day Radasanth, all the fame-chasers who sought to catch a handshake of the Coronian Senate as they made their foolish waltz from their public breakfast to the Parliament. A few drops of sweat ran down his fingers and moistened the paper he was holding, which he checked once more to confirm his mission.

Quote:

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12 PM – Senator Franklin Woodheight
Last to proceed, typical company of three.
Execute and escape without question.
Collectible award of 500,000C (Crowns Royal) direct upon arrival to port.

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Holy shit, it looks better every time I glance. Half a freaking million crowns; this guy must be a real son of a bitch. I think my own airship would really look nice sailing over this square. Take a piss on these assholes from a thousand feet…

His fantasy was interrupted by the jostling of the crowd, calling to the parade of senators that strolled through the open avenue. A thirty-foot path was made in the street, as large metal railings and an armed guard every hundred feet ensured that the boulevard was devoid of the plebeian class. Dressed in a baggy brown tunic and hair tucked under a tight bandana, the unshaven magician looked the part of any common blacksmith. Gazing across the street, he met eyes with his accomplice, who was ready and returned a knowing nod.

Any time now. Come on, Franky, get your fat ass out here! I’ve got a yacht to catch and whores to visit…

The message had come in only hours earlier; the urgency driving up the price dramatically. Today was the voting day, where the Senate would decide upon tax structure. Franklin Woodheight had become quite famous for spearheading the bill, which would cost the wealthy business owners considerably, but earn him votes amongst the huddling masses of pitiful humanity. His emergence from the Rooster’s Yell Restaurant was heralded with a wild yell from the crowds. The short, rotund man smiled widely behind a bushy, mid-gray handlebar moustache. He waved a large top hat to the crowd before donning it, surrounded by four soldiers as his own procession began.

Storm felt his heart beat like a bass drum in his chest. The group had taken their time, as morning had long since yielded to the lunch hours; he suspected the politicos had enjoyed a few drinks of wine and juice with their self-celebratory message. His brow held back a few drips of sweat as he pilfered a long, thin wire from the leather satchel tucked under his arm. Nervously, he hid his hands under his tunic as he wound the wire tautly across a few fingers of each hand. Catching eyes with his partner in crime, he blinked twice to indicate the plan.

Four of them. I take the back two and the mark; you take the front two and control incoming.

The crowds were taut and wild as Franklin Woodheight and his convoy of guards approached. Each step was a heavy thump in the chest of the assassin in waiting. Storm assessed the guards surrounding his mark. Long swords, shields, and armor to the collarbone; a helmet on each left them as walking tanks. As convenience would serve, they were walking metal tanks.

The wizard muscled his way to the railing, pushing his hip and side against the rail and elbowing enough space to move. His body tensed as the convoy moved past, the older politician grabbing a confused glance as he continued by. The last guard was a foot beyond him when Storm made his move.

He acted more quickly than anyone could have been prepared to react to. He attacked the first guard from behind, and his wire was over the head and across the throat in a moment, before the crowd could offer any collective outrage. Twisting violently, the thin wire sawed through skin and flesh, thick blood pouring down the front of his chestplate as he futilely grasped at his throat. The crowd roared at the scene, and the three remaining guards turned their attention to the apparent madman.

From his defensive posture, holding the dying guard before him as a shield of metal and meat, Storm kept his clutch tight on the garrote, ensuring death for the first guard. Simply extending one finger from the chain, he pointed and blasted a sizzling arc of crackling white electricity at the next guard, the only one remaining between him and the now-terrified politician.

The rails about him fell as the crowd began to descend, other armed guards taking aim at stopping the assault. They would be far too late. The second guard was frying inside of his armor, and the horrendous aroma of burning flesh would soon follow as his body fell lifelessly to the cobblestone street. Spinning on his right foot, the electromancer released the clutch of the first guard, allowing to him to fall in a bloody heap. As if produced by sheer will, a long, thin dagger had appeared in the hand of the assassin. With the agility of a leopard, he sprang mercilessly upon the politician, driving the knife under the jaw and through the man’s tongue, palate, and brain.

The crowd had hesitated – a natural reaction in a moment of abject shock and fear. The remaining two guards should have been on him by now. Luckily, his accomplice had suffered no such hesitation.

Night after night since his defeat to Elijah Belov and Nanashi in the Citadel, the Telgradian revisited the valley of the Jal Shey lords in his dreams. Every detail was etched like a rune into his memory; the tiny flecks of glass that glistened within the beige bricks of rough sandstone that comprised the numerous Jal Shey temples and the dawn sun that hung low, pouring brilliant orange across the horizon. The sky was blood red, and the furrowed clouds were every shade from palest pink to deep crimson. A warm breeze stroked the sands away from his feet in wisps and bristled through his brown locks, disturbing them. Shinsou remembered how the wind whistled as it cut through his feral, incisor like teeth, leaving a tingling sensation in his maw. He remembered how his rough, jet black skin cracked in the morning heat, and how the razor sharp nails of his claws twinkled in the dawn light.

The Jal Shey soldiers by his side were waiting patiently. They had been expecting a Telgradian counterattack to come today. The Jal Shey seers were always right, and Shinsou knew what would come of their omen.

The first blood of the war would be split in the sands of the valley this day.

“Cavum Ira, my lord, should we inform lord Temperance of the omen?” One of the black clad Jal Shey cultists asked, standing to attention at Shinsou’s side as rigidly as any of the stone pillars that littered the gusset of the valley. He dared not take a breath out of turn in the presence of his master.

Cavum Ira. That was the name for it. That was the name for that form, for that murderous power I felt in the Citadel! Shinsou, looking in on his own dream in the third person, had forgotten much since his imprisonment in Kokushi, but now he remembered his Jal Shey namesake. Just repeating the words sent a cold shiver reverberating down his spine.

Cavum Ira, the Judgment.

“No. Let them come upon us,” came the booming response in a tone so distorted it was almost ethereal to behold. “…and we will grind them into the dirt ourselves. There is no need to disturb-”

Cavum Ira’s chilling voice was cut dead by something moving in the corner of his black and gold eyes. The sound of sand sifting underfoot accompanied the anomaly. The beast shot glances to each of his cultists present, who with such precision and synchronization ceased their talking and rested their hands on the hilts of their weapons. Nero-Ky, Shinsou’s retainer, still mid-way through cleaning and stripping down his unusual sword, put a finger to his black lips and motioned for the assembled squadron to be silent, slowly reaching down and clasping his blade within his scarred hands.

Telgradia approaches. The slender, white haired commander whispered to Shinsou, who nodded in reply, cracking the bones in his hands. The form of Cavum Ira began to emit a black, horrible, stomach churning energy. His dark claws clenched around an invisible hilt of air, the basis of which would form his dark matter if so required to be called upon.

Suddenly, all went very, very quiet.

The silence and anxiety was short lived as a male hooded figure darted from behind a Jal Shey needle monument on the valley’s edge behind Shinsou and his men, his feet pounding the sand and scattered shale rapidly. Cavum Ira wasted no time. His dark frame roared into action, scooping his clawed hand from the ground with a feral roar and guiding it expertly into a powerful upward arc. The figure’s hooded head snapped back violently on contact, a pitiful whimper escaping his lips and his long, matted black hair whipping the air about his head as the sharpened claws of Cavum Ira’s powerful hands carved a jagged crevice up the assassin’s chest and neck.

A pair of once bright, alert eyes that had gleamed beneath those black robes faded. Their last moments saw Cavum Ira’s enraged visage snarling back at them, the beast’s blackened face smattered with crimson splashes from the force of the brutal attack. The body of the Telgradian, carried by its own momentum, rolled carelessly over a fallen column on which some of the Jal Shey cultists had been sat and clumped in a bloodied mess in a pit of gravel, a crimson pool forming below the face-down corpse.

“Kill them!” Cavum Ira, “Judgment” of the Jal Shey, growled, “Saturate the sands with Telgradian blood!”

All in all, it had taken about ten seconds for the attacker to enter the small valley, charge at the Jal Shey and finish up in a crumpled, mangled heap near the steps of the Jal Shey’s main temple, but those ten seconds had passed almost in slow motion. Only now, with Cavum Ira’s cry echoing across the sands, did Nero-Ky and the rest of the men truly react. The rangers scrambled to arm themselves and then approached Cavum Ira immediately, forming a circle of defence around their commander. Cavum Ira moved in tandem with them, snaking around the fallen column he had been in front of moments ago and flicked his right hand out. Tendrils of black and purple electricity danced from his fingertips, sawing at the dawn’s air before a second flick of the wrist formed the structure of a lance of dark matter.

“There, behind the temples! They’re circling round!”

The assassins could be heard long before they came into sight. Their quick footsteps pressed heavily into the ocean of sand that blanketed every uneven surface for miles around, the crunches of their feet upon the golden grains and the pounding of their breath upon the morning air the only signs of their existence. To the un-trained ear, it was as if the patter of raindrops had reached the Jal Shey valley. To those present, it was the coming of death’s agents.

The cultists clung to the hilts of their swords tighter as the noises grew closer and closer and, collectively, anxiously awaited the first attack. Their eyes tried to follow the shadows of their assailants as they phased in and out of the standing marble columns like ghosts, but their opponents were so fleet of foot no-one could trace their movements. The growing number of audible steps, mixed with the rattling of chains, and above it all the tell-tale crackling of stone and lint as tens of men flanked the valley told the Jal Shey that they were badly outnumbered.

Suddenly, Cavum Ira picked up another sound; the familiar hollow rumbling of hooves.

“Nero-Ky, prepare the men!” Cavum Ira roared with his back turned to his commander.

“Cavalry incoming!”

Before Nero-Ky had even had a chance to respond, they were in view; the hooded men from the mouth of the valley and their outriders from the beaten gravel track into the clearing appearing in perfect formation. The ranks of black hoods, their curved, polished sabres unsheathed, ran towards the group from all angles in a nightmare sprint. The fine dust kicked up from the horses' hooves formed a cloudy trail behind the two mounted assassins charging in from behind.

“I’ll deal with the riders!” Cavum Ira bellowed, almost screaming. “Kill the skirmishers, take no prisoners and show no mercy!”

Whatever Nero-Ky had yelled in response was lost in the chaos. As he started his blurry kamikaze sprint over the dusty wasteland and across the valley carving a path between the rows of ceremonial Jal Shey temples, the smooth surface of his dark lance gleaming in the beautiful orange glow of the sun, Cavum Ira’s mind raced. He tried to calculate the possibilities open to him for killing his targets, consisting of two archers on horseback. It would not be an easy feat, of that he was sure. But whatever the method, he had to do it now. Any archer that crossed the threshold between him and the first row of temples would have free reign of the field.

All around the beast were the sounds of projectiles whizzing past his ears mixed with the battle cries of his cultists left in the clearing behind him. Ahead of him, Shinsou, in his most powerful form, could now see the maddened brown eyes of the beasts that thundered towards him, snorting and hissing clouds of white vapour into the morning air as their mounts let loose a volley of arrows that barely missed him.

I’ll send you to hell, Telgradian!

The hulking form of Cavum Ira slowed, calculating the speed and distanced required for his planned assault, and then suddenly dug his clawed heels into the floor as the lead horse threatened to career into him, pivoting on his right heel and thrusting the dark lance into the beast’s neck. As the horse let out a shrill scream, it threw its rider and collapsed to the sands along with Cavum Ira.

The other rider stormed by on his mount, too fast to intervene, and instead let loose another arrow that slammed into the dusty floor next to Cavum Ira’s arm. Grabbing the wooden shaft, the Jal Shey beast pulled it from the barren earth and turned just in time to meet the concussed, staggering form of the thrown rider standing over him with a dagger like some sort of drunken grim reaper. With a single thrust, the beast plunged the arrow head into the unprotected chest of his attacker, piercing his heart and killing him instantly.

I’ll obliterate you all!

The second black-robed assassin had already dismounted, but as he approached Cavum Ira was already back on his feet, snarling ferociously. Dancing upon the murky silt of the clearing with great fluidity for such a beast, the Judgment thrust his deadly claws forward and then spun at the last second, disembowelling the man easily on the backswing. Another two hooded men tried to flank him, jumping out from behind a burial mound in an attempt at an ambush.

Cavum Ira grunted, simply swooping left to right whilst anticipating the slow and clumsy motions of the men, who, like the others he had just killed, had great trouble fighting at close combat with any degree of fluency. With two strokes of his blade-like nails, he severed the head of one of the black-clad men, and then drove his entire arm into the heart of the other, who fell, choking to the ground, blood spattering upon the beast’s face with what could only be seen as satisfaction in the Jal Shey’s countenance.

As the last of the surviving assassins scrambled as fast as their feet could take them back towards the entrance of the valley, Nero-Ky approached a blood-soaked Cavum Ira. The beast was barely out of breath, smeared in the blood of his enemies, and had succeeded in driving terror into the heart of his Telgradian enemies.

Shinsou!

A voice echoed in his mind as the blood soaked valley of the Jal Shey lords faded to black. Gradually, the scene warped into something more familiar. Shadows danced along the cracked plaster walls of a bedroom as candles burned in oil lanterns over the doorway. The pungent smell of rising damp wafted into the Telgradian’s nose, stirring his senses in a way he would have preferred to not have experienced. As he slowly opened his eyes and adjusted his focus, Shinsou could see that the strange voice that had jarred the Telgradian from his slumber belonged to a strange face. Framed by dark hair the colour of tar after, it peered over him, over his bed, and blocked his view of the tavern’s timber beam ceiling.

“Shinsou, wake up!”

How many hours had passed since he had fallen asleep, the Telgradian wondered? As Shinsou sat up, only the irises of the Caucasian man in his room stood out on first glance, an icy, careless stare piercing young man’s face. It was then he recognised the gentlemen as one of Sorian’s messengers. Shinsou briefly met his gaze before glancing towards the window, thinking upon the significance of these dreams. The dark power of the Jal Shey that Bane had approached him about in that vision in the Citadel was coursing through him again. He could feel the throbbing weight of Cavum Ira inside him, tearing at his heart. It was disturbing. In fact, it was almost maddening.

“I have a message for you, so get up!”

The images from his dream momentarily crumbled from his mind as they were torn apart by the weight of the messenger’s words and the severity of his tone. The black, pulsating power within dissipated back into his gut as Shinsou began to take in the reality of today; a freezing cold, stormy Radasanthian dawn. Heavy rain began pelting the windows, and suddenly the view of the looming Citadel through the flawed glass was distorted by thick streaks of water. The Telgradian stared icily at it.

“Sorian wants to meet with you. Collect your things.”

Standing near two bodies with growing pools of blood around their necks, a red-haired woman held on tightly to her knife. The blood flowed into the cracks of the cobblestone. As promised, the remaining two guards were dispatched, but the pale-skinned assassin had a rather disgusted look across her freckled face. Although she was mostly obscured by a white cloak and a wool scarf with alternating black and gray stripes, she was still highly recognizable by her shoulder-length red hair and piercing green eyes. As much she would've liked to admire her handiwork, the perturbed masses demanded more blood to be spilled. With her free hand, she reached into her pocket and picked out a glass medicine bottle that was filled with a thick, black liquid. Its top was missing, instead replaced by a patch of burning cloth.

With no time to spare, Storm braced himself as the woman threw the bottle at the ground, causing a dark, choking smoke to expand and fill the immediate area. All of the people who entered found themselves stumbling out moments later, coughing as if their throats were on fire. A warm, oily smell spread faster than the smoke, causing even more panic in the crowd. Neither of the two assassins could be found, leaving a grisly scene and a commotion big enough to put the city on high alert. Within minutes, the crowd dispersed and the military flooded into the area. A high profile hit like this in broad daylight was no laughing matter, and at least one of the parties involved wished that they had better circumstances to execute this plan.

Not long before, a message arrived for the Senator from his bodyguard, stating that they’d be hidden in the crowd, offering protection as per usual on the day of the next vote. However, no such protection was conferred today, because the bodyguard was dead, and the message was forged. After all, the ice wizard responsible for the Senator's defense had met a rather unfortunate end at the hands of Rayse and Storm. An untouchable politician was rendered quite vulnerable; an unreachable prize quite attainable. All Rayse had to do was find someone audacious enough to shank a person in broad daylight.

With the dull roar of the crowd becoming further lost in the distance, the woman clambered up to the roof of a stone building, in-between rows of hanging linen. In the corner of the roof, overlooking a service road that lead to the port, there was a brick that was lighter, newer than the rest. The woman removed the brick and pulled out a satchel and a Damascus longsword. The satchel contained half a dozen more of the small items that were used to create the explosion, although all but one were filled with a clear liquid and they were packed into even smaller shot glasses. The rest of the bag was emptied to reveal an assortment of throwing knives, although they were quickly placed back into the bag.

After shedding the scarf and dropping it on the ground, the woman was no more. Instead, Rayse Valentino was in a cloak, which he also discarded to reveal his black vest, blue shirt, dark slacks, and laced black boots. He gave the scarf a contemptuous glare.

They didn't tell me I would look like a woman when I put it on. I'm never wearing that thing again.

Not that it mattered, because the illusory woman's face would likely be plastered on every wall for the next month. Rayse took a deep breath, his heart still racing from the ordeal. He didn't expect the murder to bother him this much. What's more, there was another factor at play in the form of the message they procured just hours ago. Rayse made it look like they were doing a job for someone else, but he was the one who wanted the Senator dead. He was going to pay Storm via a proxy, but now a new party was in town. Never one to turn down an opportunity, Rayse ran with the shady story. He wanted to know who had this kind of money and why they wanted the Senator dead. If they represented competition, all the more reason to investigate.

Throwing the satchel over his shoulder and strapping the sword to his back, Rayse prepared to descend and meet up with Storm halfway to the port. If it was a trap, he was as prepared as he could have been.

Sorian opened his eyes to the bland room he slept in. Sat upright in the old wooden rocking chair while his faintest of movements allowed for a silent wooden creak as it rolled forward and then back again as he adjusted himself. He had fallen asleep again, this time, sat down before he had even made it to the bed. His tired eyes still dozed to the waking world, the deep ocean blue hue was long gone, and his iris now featured a pale blue, appearing almost grey at first glance. He yawned, rubbing his eyes and scratching his beard as he tried and failed to make any reasonable attempt at getting up. Mornings were never his strong point and now they were as hard as ever.

He looked around the room, the tidy bed still looked tired and overused, the unlit lantern on the bedside table had leaked at some point, the table now covered with the spilt droplets of flammable oil. His own short sword, as basic as a sword could be, was left idle on the floor, still within its scabbard and appearing discarded and forgotten. Sorian wasn't sure of the last time he had drawn it from its scabbard, but its days of common use were long gone.

He stood up, stretched his back and adjusted his cloak and trousers. He always wrapped himself up in his large black cloak, not just for warmth, but because it masked his true shape and appearance. It was a trait he had grown up with, although, if he revealed himself now, he felt less than a shadow of his former self.

Why must everything feel such an effort...

He hated this life, he hated being in this room, unable to afford somewhere more lavish and appealing to his tastes. He had always imagined reaching a legendary status, and yet somehow, someway, life had found a way to stop that from happening. He was bitter, angry and hateful of others, not just anyone, but those that had made it, those that had reached the success that he truly deserved.

I'll never forgive you...beast...

Sorian had been part of the once presumed legendary group, the greatest of the soldiers of Corone that had set out all those years ago; to stop and take down the most fearsome of beasts, Sunwing, the Dragon. They had failed that day, he, had failed that day. For what could a normal human man do? Skilled with a sword, fast and intelligent, but lacking in the supreme power of a dragon. Sunwing had killed them all, fried them to a crisp and eaten their remains; only Sorian survived.

Now here he was, an old man, past his prime and aching in the mornings while he tried to arise to the morning sun. Only a single beam of warm sunlight peaked over the neighbouring building and reached the wooden beams of the tavern floor. Sorian held his hand under it, the warm feeling pleasant to his old cold bones as he wriggled his fingers.

"Another day and I'm still alive. I will find you again, Sunwing." His deep voice croaked out as he cleared his morning throat. It was dry and desperately needing refreshment. Sorian wandered over to the window, observing the less wealthy below. The tall buildings of Radasanth shadowed the streets and the walking pedestrians littered the roads already, which made Sorian feel he was probably one of the last to awaken. this day.

You should all know my name...

He looked at them with regret, the normal men, and woman of Radasanth should be respecting him, should be treating him like a hero, but instead he was a nobody, not even a failure. At least being a failure was something, and Sorian was neither. A good month ago, he had teamed with Elite Optic and various others of considerable power, to attempt a second time to take down, Sunwing. The battle was brief, and not a man had fallen, not a soul had been taken from this world as they combated the beast of death.

Then why did it pass with such neglect? Why did no one sing his name in the streets? Why did no one call for the name, Sorian. They had killed a beast that day, but that was the problem, it was a beast, it just wasn't the beast.

He should have known at the time, Sunwing could never be defeated so easily. The beasts skeleton that now lay in the mountains, it was that of another, smaller, younger dragon. Sorians quest to kill Sunwing, was not over.

"One day, Sunwing. One day I will claim your life, and reclaim the glory that I am owed. Not today, but one day."

Still, until Sunwing reared his head once more, Sorian had other things to accomplish. His hatred for Sunwing, and his promise to kill it was a morning ritual, and for now, would remain so. Each and every time he awoke, he would remember those days of the past, and he would vow for vengeance.

Sorian would soon leave the silence of his overnight room. While the exact time of day would elude him, he had never slept for that long anyway, so he would guess it was still late morning. He arrived downstairs rather quickly, having collected his sword, it remained hidden beneath the mass cloak that he wrapped himself up with. Arriving at the bar, he returned his key, took a long drink and then refilled his canteen with the fresh water.

He had no intention of staying in this place any longer, and with his black cloak shrouding his face, but for his beard, he immediately left. It was much brighter outside than it looked from the window, and even the light shade from the buildings wasn't enough to stop him shielding his eyes for a moment.

He felt the cool breeze sneak under his cloak, and the smell of the fresh air was much more appealing than that of the dull dry inn. He quickly walked with more vigour as he approached his destination, only a few hundred yards from his own inn, it was patrolled nervously by two town guards with spears and fancy studded leather armour.

Behind them in the small alley, a bizarre pile of bones, enlarged and accompanied by various skulls and an obscenely large weapon. Sorian smiled as he arrived, somewhat to the guards relief as they stopped their minor but important patrol. They weren't there to protect the bones but to protect the civilians themselves from the monstrosity the bones would form. The undead creature that was Elite Optic lay scattered and waiting. Sorian didn't know if he slept, or if this was simply through ease of being unnoticed, but it was time to greet one another again.

The bones began to rattle, and then rising like the son of the king, they not only compiled, but formed the great stature of a giant skeleton. Elite Optic, once Marcus Heroptic, a great warrior from thousands of years ago, stood in his fearsome skeletal form. All three men stared into the dimly lit alleyway as the skeleton appeared to stretch and wiggle its bones until it was completely formed.

Then, leaning down, Elite reached and grabbed his mighty two-meter long sword. The guards trembled inside at the sight of him. The twelve foot high Elite Optic was frightening to look at, and it was their job to ensure that the townsfolk understood his presence here. They didn't need panic in the streets, with fear spreading of the attacking undead; he wasn't here for that. He was here for the Citadel, and Sorian had negotiated a safe passage within the town streets. Albeit, needing these two, somewhat fearless men, to walk him there.

Sorian waved on one of the guards, his task to pass on further instructions to a man named Shinsou Vann Osiris. They would meet him soon enough.

Elite turned to face Sorian as he placed the meaty, rusty old cleaver on his back. "Are you sleeping even longer these days, Sorian?"

"No." He bluntly replied.

Elite stepped out of the shadows, his sizable frame coming into full view for the locals on the streets. A few shrieks still filled the air, but as long as the guard remained calm beside him, panic did not fill their hearts with fear. This way, they could at least reach the Citadel without any trouble.

"This is a tiresome affair, Sorian. Are we finally making are way back?"

"We have more people to slay within the Citadel, therefore, patience is required."

Elite enjoyed the sound of that. Another fight, another war and the potential to spill the blood of yet another mighty opponent. Elite had been getting stronger once more, and the more people he battled, the greater his strength became, in time, his former glory could be realised.

I hope this one is as exciting as the last. With so much scent of blood in the air, it all feels so exciting.

"Are we stuck with the same..." Elite pondered on his word of choice. Ally? Friend? Worthless weakling? Shit head? "...Man?"

"Yes. We accepted these terms when we accept this challenge. Regardless of his more fragile frame, he possesses some; aura, magic or power of some sort. He is no mere moral such as I. I would not call him just a man."

"You yourself were under great duress in the last battle. Were you not within the Citadel walls, I suspect you would be looking for a new body?"

Elite inspected his own arms, the rock hard bones of Elite were no normal bones, and would not break easily. No crack remained from his last fight, not a single fracture or scratch, and not because of his own physical power, but because of the magic of the Citadel. That fascinated Elite, and his own curiosity grew each time he entered this magical place.

The giant building slowly came into view as they walked up the long sloped street towards the centre of Radasanth. Its towering presence was something to be admired, and as fancy as the multi-storey houses were around them, only the Citadel itself, was big enough to house the frame of Elite Optic. It's very height bled into the low cloud cover, and its stonework, even from this far away, could be admired.

Elite's flaming eyes lay focused on its cloud line height, and his mind filled with thoughts of battle and blood.

"Not long now, Sorian, not long now."

The girl with the blades had cleared the two remaining guards with skill and precision; her knife diving swiftly across critical paths. She also produced a large explosion with the production of the blast-bottle. It was something like the grenades that Storm had witnessed in Dheathain; some explosive liquid in a shattering-glass chamber, itching for a breath of air that would allow it to feed. Upon receiving that holy breath, the blast created a substantial cloud of smoke and flame, along with a deafening boom.

An acrobat, Storm leapt high and sailed gracefully over the first few rows of the mob scene. The crowd itself was too gripped with fear to attack him, and they created a fine blockade from any guards stuck in what would be known as the Parade of Blood. Without hesitation, he sprinted, the wind ripping across his face as he screamed ahead of any pursuer. There were a few good outlets; his first option was available as the chaotic roar gave way to dull white noise and abject horror upon strangers reformed into slack-jawed confusion. He sought the shadows, ducking between two tall brownstones and using their network of back alleys to redirect himself towards the exit of town. The alley was only touched by the high sun; the scent of mildew indicating disrepair. More importantly, the characteristic urine odor was absent; he was alone.

Too f*cking easy. Radasanth has gotten soft in my old age.

His sheer speed had built a fine gap between him and any pursuers; he pulled away at the beard he had constructed; the intricate amalgamation of putty and his own hair came free in a singly tug. Relieved, he rubbed his smoothly shorn jaw and quickly tugged away the bandana and terrible tunic, using them to mop blood from his face and fingernails before throwing them in a heap in the alley corner. A quick spray of electricity popped the evidence into a small, controlled blaze. Pulling taut his cuffs and collar, he began to walk towards the main road as he considered this swimming success.

I should have thought of the female disguise, that was much easier on him. How many times has Karuka batted her eyelashes and conned the stupid into underestimating her?

Besides, tall and lean, I’d make a much prettier girl than the stocky ginger he pulled together.

A smile crept across his face; he couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of the ordeal. The plan had been thrown together, but the lack of coordination from the Radasanth guards was jarring. It was too simple. With as many adventurers as came through town, it seemed preposterous that a few talentless humans would be left in charge of protecting the talentless humans that governed the people.

His heartbeat hadn’t recovered yet, the pulsing thump still frenetic and his skin remained a touch flushed. The sense of wrong wouldn’t escape him, and it had nothing to do with filleting that pretending palm-presser politico tub of administrative goo. No; he had been down too many roads to fail to notice a trap when he felt one, and his paranoia clutched to his brain like a disease, clawing at him. The last minute notice, the ease of access and poor coverage, and the swift escape all seemed far too convenient.

Keep your head down and get out of town. Rendezvous with Rayse and we’ll sort this bullshit out. Hopefully over a tall bottle. Hopefully over…

…Holy shit…

A familiar form loomed over the large street he emerged unto. It was Elite Optic, the gargantuan soldier-puppet he had partnered with to kill Sunwing. He towered in contrast to the tavern, his head stretching high and above the edge of the single story thatch roof. Beside him, a large, multi-story brick tenement had given him some cover. Everything about the appearance of the great, heartless monster came together as a seamless mosaic. He was massive, brutally strong, and likely completely invulnerable to electricity or stabbing instruments. He was the perfect weapon to kill Storm Veritas.

Standing in the middle of the street, the experienced but impulsive wizard did not yield. He had fought through traps before, even If they were neither damned near twenty feet tall or made from animated skeleton. All had become clear to the pretentious wanna-be aristocrat. The big bony bastard was sent to stop him, an insurance of sorts from his promisor. For five-hundred grand, he’d have to tempt the fates.

Here comes a perfectly terrible idea.

Storm began walking directly at the enormous construction of cartilage and bone. His eyes scoured the streets for large grates, metal signs, or sewer caps, or any other potential artillery. He’d meet the trap head on, aware he was quite literally well over his head.

“Elite, you big son of a bitch! I thought things went a little too easily, but see they sent you to stop me. What did they end up paying you? You’ve always seemed cheap…”

From the second floor of tenement, a metal fire escape ladder suspended behind the behemoth, held in place by a simple toggle-hook designed for quick egress. Waving his hand as though in greeting, Storm sent a precise pulse to the hook, which sent the ladder swinging in a defiant screech towards the impossible undead soldier.

Quote:

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For the sake of record, bunnies are approved.

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The Drum and Monkey Tavern was located in the centre of Radasanth, deep within the winding labyrinth of filthy alleyways and grotty passages that comprised the complex innards of the city. It was a crooked, quaint and almost decrepit sort of building, barely propped up by its cracked limestone walls and just about protected from the elements by a brittle slate roof that looked as if it had been held together with tape and spit. Almost any time someone slammed the heavy front door, fragments of splintered shale tile would rain down over the pavement and pepper the vermin scurrying in the gutter below.

Yet, despite its apparent structural poverty, the tavern still boasted a healthy turn out. Through the bird-shit stained glass windows, a handful of oil lanterns burned brightly and the even in the early afternoon shadows of patrons jigged merrily about against the inner walls. Myriads of conversations crept through the crevices of the doors, catching the ears of those passing by. These types of back alley inns, traditionally, tended to play host to all sorts of rough, mysterious types.

It was fair to say it wasn’t really Shinsou’s type of place, but it was far enough from the types of people he wanted to avoid for it to merit staying in. At least that’s what he had thought.

The Telgradian hadn’t gone looking for trouble but once again he found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time, and all he had done was leave his room and come downstairs to pick up his gear. Shinsou, with golden eyes locked firmly on his prey, held the cold damascus edge of Enpera steadily against the jugular vein of the stubby gentleman standing in front of him and, for the final time, challenged the man to move out of his way.

“This is the last time I’ll ask. Move. If you don’t, I’ll cut your throat. I have a busy day ahead of me, and whatever your problem with Sorian is can be taken up with him. Not me. So, for the last time, move.”

Before the short, stubble wracked man said a word, a friend of the offender decided to clear up any misunderstanding about the reputation of the tavern Shinsou was in. Soon, a wooden bar stool found a whole new purpose as it was launched an almost admirable distance across the tavern’s breadth before colliding with the back of Shinsou’s skull. The former emperor’s legs folded underneath him, a trickle of blood forking down the back of his pale neck as he fell, and the dwarf went for him.

“You’re going to give that old bastard a message from Tryll! He’ll never fuck with me again!” He screamed in Shinsou’s dazed face as he pinned him to the rickety wooden floor, throwing a balled fist into his right cheek. The Telgradian’s head recoiled horribly off the wooden, sticky beer soaked planks that made up the floor.

Everything was fuzzy around the edges. The blow to his head hadn’t done him much good, but Shinsou was still holding his sword, and although he wasn’t in the mood for slaughtering random people the Telgradian wasn’t partial to getting gang beatings either. Deciding actions would be more effective than words, the bruised Telgradian kicked the floor to his left, pushing momentum onto his side, and log rolled with his miserable mount to his right. With a deft thrust forward, Shinsou’s blade slid neatly between the folds of flesh covering Tryll’s kneecaps. The dwarf cried out in horror while Shinsou, bloodied and beaten, challenged the other patrons with a cold stare, his sword still stuck in his victim. They backed off from around him and his new friend slowly.

“Oh dear, what a predicament you appear to have gotten yourself into! One twist of my wrist and that nasty looking wound isn’t closing anytime soon.” Shinsou announced with a great deal of smugness tucked away in his voice, gesturing dizzily towards the tip of Enpera. “Now, if you’ve got business with Sorian, take it up with him yourself. I’ve got things to do!”

It took less than twenty seconds for Shinsou to brush himself down, pull his blade out of the dwarf’s leg and get the hell out of the tavern.

It was now half past midday, but the Radasanthian air still seemed bitterly cold for this time of year. Even wrapped in the thick of his trademark white greatcoat and a smattering of uniform underneath, the chill of the wind seemed to cut through Shinsou like an icy, serrated knife. It wasn’t any warmer in the cold shade of the alleyway, where he stood with Sorian’s messenger on the cracked pavement some minutes away from the chaotic scene they had left behind.

“I can’t even get breakfast without someone baying for my blood. The sooner we get to Sorian, the better, because I can already see today is going to be shit.”

The Telgradian wiped the dwarf’s blood from the flat to the tip of Enpera with a white rag. It was well known that a sword’s worst enemy was rusting, and it was important to ensure that his weapon was well maintained at all times. Shinsou took considerable care to ensure he wasn’t taking any chances with his. Blood had a surprisingly adverse effect on weaker metals and, as it turned out, he would be relying on his weapon a lot from then on. With this in mind carefully sheathed the clean blade into its ivory and marble sheath, neatly lashed to the inside of his greatcoat, and turned to face the messenger boy, who was smirking to himself.

“What?” Shinsou enquired grumpily.

“Your day isn’t going to get any better I’m afraid” the messenger chortled to himself, lighting a cigarette with a concealed match. “Whilst you were fighting with Radasanth’s pond scum, I overheard a couple of guys talking about something big that happened about half an hour ago. It sounds like Franklin Woodheight was assassinated. There will be guards crawling all over the town and people running around panicked like headless chickens. It’s going to be pandemonium out there, which means Sorian will have to move. Problem is, I don’t know where to, and he has no way to tell me if he has. We’ll have to go to the original meeting place and see if he stuck around. It’s a long shot, though.”

The sound of Shinsou’s response rang heavily in the messenger’s ears, and echoed through the straight alley with a granulated ambience.

“Oh, fucking great!” Shinsou hissed, slapping a palm against his forehead. “That’s absolutely stellar! So now we’re being led on a wild goose chase as well? Great! Thanks very much Senator Franklin! That selfish fat prick should have saved someone the hassle and topped himself in his room! It would have been more than he deserved after the scandals he was involved in! But no, instead he gets himself killed in public!”

Shinsou brushed aside a bang of brown hair and stiffened his arms, straightening his back as he did. The messenger sighed, resting his hands on his hips and shaking his head.

“Calm down, Shinsou, for god’s sake. I’ll get us to the meeting place. Sorian was very keen to meet with you, so he won’t just disappear. We'll find him. Wait here and I’ll check to see if the road is open.”

With that, the messenger started edging towards the direction of the main road. Two child shaped blurs bolted past him and disappeared ahead, laughing as they played together, seemingly oblivious to the chaos that Radasanth’s latest murder had thrown upon the citizens. Shinsou turned, paid one last glance to the narrow corridor behind him, and faced in the opposite direction. Suddenly, a tingling sensation erupted within the pit of his stomach. It was then, as the sensation settled that the swordsman felt it; a power that felt like a sudden burst of light amongst a gigantic sheet of icy shadow. It was faint at first, barely even registering in his gut, but became heavier quickly. Shinsou had felt that same power not too long ago in the Twilight Mountains. If he was right, the Telgradian knew this to be from the lightning mage he had worked with during his battle with Sunwing, and the intensity of the light suggested an aggressive intent.

Is that Storm Veritas?

As suddenly as the first power had, a second energy manifested within the range of Shinsou’s senses. This one he recognised instantly as it clashed against the first. It was bathed in electric red and felt as if a kiln of dark, burning energy had overturned inside him. It was inhuman, evil and unmistakeable.

Elite Optic…and where he is, Sorian is. And where Sorian is…

“Hey!” Shinsou yelled to the messenger, who was pacing back through the alleyway towards him from the road. “I think I know where Sorian is, but we need to go right now. Do you have a route into town? I can give you directions.”

“No problem,” The messenger retorted, brushing his pale skin and dull grey clothes down.

“…follow me.”

Oh, for fuck's sake!

Turning another corner, Rayse encountered another trio of guards, all of them with questions. Considering he just left some in the dust behind him, he couldn't exactly plow through this next group. Jumping into the air, Rayse unsheathed his sword and sent a wave of heat through his right arm, engulfing the sword in flames. His strike was swift and decisive, exploding into flame on impact and sending a guard crashing towards the ground. The other guards barely lifted their weapons in time for Rayse to duck under and slash upwards, nearly cleaving the next poor sod in half. The last guard, ready to shit his pants, turned to run, but didn't get as far as the blade that stuck out of his neck. The contractor pulled the sword out, the flames burning the blood to clean. While it was still alight, he placed the sword back into its sheath. The fire caused the sheath to glow red but not burn through the material.

Why are there more of them the further away I get from the crime scene? Isn't it supposed to be the other way around? Or maybe there are just more of them towards the direction of the port... In which case, I need to find Storm.

There was no way to find his accomplice on street level, so Rayse took to the rooftops, jumping from one thatched roof to another. There were a couple guards in his way equipped with bows, but he dispatched them easily enough. He hadn’tt expected this kind of death toll.

It didn’t take long to find Storm, or rather, find him by proxy. The massive skeleton monster stood out like a furboar in a field of snow. When he saw the magician preparing to engage it, the edges of Rayse’s lips sank.

The fuck are you doing?! Did you get made or something?

For whatever reason, Storm was supposedly caught. As much as Rayse would have liked to see how this turned out, he couldn’t stay on the sidelines. Bursting through the window of the multi-story tenement building at the side of the battle, Rayse ran up the stairs to the roof. There was a garden up there with vines stretching across wooden supports, and blocks of dirt contained in meter-long stone boxes.

From up here, it was possible to get a good read on the situation, and the inevitable commotion Storm was about to cause. He looked down at the skeletal creature, more than annoyed at having to deal with one of their kind again. It looked as dangerous as a Servitor from the Plane of Unlife, although much more morbid.

Is that a goddess-damned rack of skulls on its back?

Ripping off one of the wooden supports, he shoved it under one of the dirt blocks and lifted it enough to get a good grip from its underside. He pushed it towards the edge and lifted with all his strength, flipping it over and watching it fall toward Viceroy Skullmonster, Captain of The Skeletal Division of pissing Rayse off.

Sorian would have said something had he really believed that Elite would listen, but as so few managed to understand, Elite was a mind of his own. He was no slave or ordered golem to Sorian, he was a former human who had reached a level of immortality that Sorian himself desired.

Is he mocking me? How intriguing.

Elite stood bemused, wanting to grab his belly and roar in the deepest of amused tones. It was a shame he no longer had a belly, no body of which to tingle at the anticipation of battle, no heart of which to pump the blood and adrenaline around his body. For his was a body of death, of bone and lifelessness. Yet, within that skull, within that magic abyss of fire that forever burned, he was still alive.

Elite found himself focused on the amusing man. Whether he had met him before or not, Elite never cared what he was or who he was; he was just another human being. The barely recognisable man; black hair, blue eyes, and brown tunic, he couldn't be any more average. Yet, his heart raced strongly but steady, somewhat fearless to Elite Optics presence, and Elite could smell it, deep within his undead soul.

He focused so much on the arrogance of the man before him that Elite paid little attention to anything else. So as the rusty metal stair structure flung open behind him, he failed to notice it. The sly attack was a clever one, and it crashed with a weighty force into Elite's Bone rack. It was more than enough to knock Elite from his current position, and he wobbled forward, surprised and displaced as it took several steps to halt himself.

The human part of Elite was furious, was it an accident? Or an actual planned attack that had caught him off guard? He wasn't so sure and he hated the thought that he had been so focused on the man's comment that he had not paid enough attention.

Then a mighty crash echoed around him, crumbling brick and dust flew into the air as what appeared to be a small part of the building collapsed beside him.

Sorian barely moved as it landed to his side, just about shielding his face as from the flying debris as small chips struck his face like a fly crashing into a window. He knocked the dust from his beard, and wandered off, a little bit of a skip in his step to avoid being caught up in the melee. There was nothing he could say to Elite to change the situation, and the outcome would never matter anyway. For Elite was immortal and had the falling brick and mortal smashed his skull, then it wouldn't be another day before Elite would be back in the world of the living.

Sorian watched as Elite gripped his sword, collecting it from the ground having been knocked clear by the falling ladder, then he stood tall once more. That emotionless face looked at the arrogant Storm, and in that moment, as they stared back at one another, only Sorian could see the true face behind the old stained bone. That barren skull of red burning flames was more than just a single face; it was a face that watched every lie a man told, it was a face that lived when another's died, it was a face that had lived through a thousand years of death and laughed as the mighty fell before it. Because if they won the battle, they could never win the inevitable war of life and death.

"Congratulations Storm Veritas. You've entered a very unique list...that I can't wait to cross your name off."

Elite meant every word and he never forgot a name from his unbreakable memory. The panicked screams of the morning locals finally shrieked into the streets, and even the so called protective guard began to back off. His spear, while decorative and sharp, was never going to touch either of these two.

Elite reached back, the steel ladders, had not only smashed Elite in the back, but had dropped free behind him. Elite raised it from the dirt, gripping one of the centre spokes with his free hand, and then tossed the steel ladders back at Storm. The two protruding bar frames, now a double edged blunt spear that threatened to protrude through him.

Elite, immediately steadied his sword.

The sound of his name spoken loudly across the fifty foot expanse across a heavily trafficked street in Radasanth sent a shiver down his spine. It seemed to him some form a breach of etiquette, given that he had just committed serial murder, although it was hard to argue that releasing the massive ladder into the back of Elite wasn’t a more rude introductory note. Similarly, Rayse had re-emerged, devoid of his female cover. It appeared that Rayse’s assault had had similarly disappointing results. The good news for Storm was that the thought of any guard nearby was completely vacant of the persecution of the assassins, given the omnipresent nature of a simply humongous clunking skeleton holding a sword that appeared longer than any man.

The bad news is he shrugged off that ladder like a f*cking Coronian Chatterfly.

The ladder came at him with a loud groan of twisting, defiant anger. It rolled about itself in a direction roughly parallel to the ground, crashing and bouncing some fifteen feet from him. The violent collision to the street tore a large brick free from its mortar, while the wizard poised to use an electromagnetic wave to redirect the looming framework.

Nothing. Shit, too big, too fast. Shit shit shit.

The ladder was too much for his abilities. Between the free space of iron, its significant weight and velocity, the projectile proved far too imposing for Storm to easily overwhelm with his electromagnetic fields.. He leapt desperately above the rolling ladder, avoiding abject disaster. The rolling metal structure still clipped his foot, sending him toppling down to the unforgiving street. He landed with a hard, sudden thump, only partially able to catch his weight on his hands before his face kissed the street with the finesse of a sledgehammer to a rail spike.

Oh, well f*ck me.

Still very aware of his surroundings, Storm sprung up to set his eyes on the bony behemoth. He spat a sludgy combination of acid tasting, abrasive dust-blood gel, which didn’t amount to much but felt much better out of his mouth than in. Crisis momentarily averted, he brushed the dirt and dust away from his dress shirt, oblivious to the tiny blots of blood his scraped hands left behind. He was of a transformed personality as his mind scrambled, thinking solely tactics and battle mechanics. The range of the looming opponent with that impossible sword would be spectacular; it was a fool’s errand to engage this abomination in any sort of melee combat. Storm allowed his eyes steal a glance at the thatch roof of the Tavern. The higher ground appeared appetizing, but leaping there begged the opportunity for Elite to knock him out of the sky like a child batting a softly-lobbed ball.

He would induce action, hoping to get the looming goliath to overextend, perhaps expose some weakness.

“Ooh, I’m on your ‘list’, am I? I suppose there’s not much unique about lists of those more handsome, or better kissers, correct? And I KNOW you’re not speaking of some macho dick-measuring contest because…

“Well…” Veritas let his eyes fall to glimpse exposed pubic bone. The juvenile in him would not be denied.

“Hah!”

If there was indeed man somewhere amidst the bone and thorn abstraction, he’d just pissed him off.

"I have to ask," Shinsou muttered to Sorian’s messenger, who instead of listening to Shinsou's directions had now chosen to guide him instead, apparently aimlessly, through the passages and cobbled alleyways of Radasanth, "Why the hell are we snaking through the small passages like thieves? I’m more interested in getting there quickly rather than quietly, before the situation gets worse."

Shinsou’s irritation at their seemingly pointless course was somewhat dampened by the sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach about having to break up that approaching skirmish. As they swerved left and dived into the gaping maw of yet another of the labyrinthine corridors, the Telgradian stumbled over a particularly jagged cobble in his haste and cried out in astonishment, nearly toppling to the ground before his guide jumped to his aid and grabbed him under the armpits. The messenger held back for a few seconds before sighing and answering in a flurry of words.

“Perhaps, but it would be somewhat inconvenient for me to be seen with you at the moment. I’ll leave it at that. Just trust me, and I’ll get you to Sorian. Let’s speed up, anyway.” he whispered.

The messenger nodded to himself and took off at a brisk pace, almost crashing through a set of metal bins as he went. Taken aback by the cryptic comment, Shinsou was almost left behind as he followed in the man's wake.

Inconvenient for me to be seen with him? What’s that all about?

Shaking his head, the Telgradian trotted forward, gaining on his charge. It wasn’t long before the alleyway twisted into another left turn and, as Shinsou carefully but quickly negotiated bags of rubbish and a sleeping tomcat, the dense pulse of the two colliding souls of Elite Optic and Storm Veritas once again reverberated through his body. The feeling was a lot stronger now, so much so that the next wave of power sent a ripple of nausea into his stomach that provoked the Telgradian into slowing his jog.

"What the fuck is going on over there?" he murmured, ducking to avoid a low-hanging pole as he clenched his stomach.

The man shrugged and snorted lightly. "Sorian’s beast doesn’t take much in the way of provocation to rile" he stated. “And when he’s riled, good luck trying to stop him.”

Shinsou chewed his lip again at the thought of getting between Elite Optic and Storm outside of the safety of the Citadel’s healing magic. If it was Storm Veritas he was sensing, then he would have mixed feelings about fighting him. It wasn’t any sort of perceived fear about the man’s power that made Shinsou hesitate, though the Telgradian had seen for himself what the lightning mage was capable of and it would be a less than comfortable experience dealing with that. No. the problem was that Storm had earned his respect in their encounter with Sunwing. He was crass, arrogant and downright offensive, but Storm went about it all with such a gentlemanly charm that he would make you believe his shit smelt like roses on a summer’s day. Shinsou had watched as the man’s foot had been stripped almost to the bone, his flesh melted by a bubble of molten rock, and yet Storm Veritas had gotten up and dealt with business that had to be dealt with as if nothing had happened.

On the other hand, Shinsou knew that fate was a fickle mistress. One man’s ally on a Monday could just as well be his enemy on a Tuesday if the circumstances dictated. Then there was the small issue of that rampaging menace, Elite Optic. The Telgradian had little idea of why their paths had crossed, but he cursed the gods that governed the fates that, today of all days, that bloodthirsty stack of bones had become his responsibility.

I need to find Sorian, and I can’t do that whilst Elite’s waving his sword around in the middle of the street like the unhinged lunatic he is. Either I rein him in, or we take down Storm. Oh, the agony of choice.

"Just over there," the messenger said, his voice low, “There’s the main road. It looks like someone kicked an ant hill over, though. It’s swarming with people.”

Considering the day’s events, it was perhaps not that surprising that there was a sea of bodies to wade through to get to where Shinsou needed to be. But that spot, that waypoint in the middle of the road, was marked with the only suitable beacon. Elite Optic’s giant, half-tonne, calcium encrusted bone chassis could take the cynicism out of any man, at least for a few minutes. The beast stood at least three times the height of any of the citizens on either side of him attempting to flee the carnage, and as he faced towards the slightly battle worn but none-the-less suited up Storm Veritas, who was contemplating taking higher ground, the crowd of people charging through the road broke around the skeletal warrior like water around a solid boulder.

From Shinsou’s vantage point, he estimated Storm’s distance as between thirty and forty feet away from him, well within his attack range. The lightning mage stood in the road like some sort of threatening gargoyle, contemplating the next move. There also seemed to be mixed debris in the road consisting of both stone and timber, and opposite him, above Elite Optic himself, the figure responsible for dropping it into the road seemed to be hunched over the lip of the building’s roof. Shinsou couldn’t make out whether the person was a man, a woman, a threat or just a clumsy spectator who had accidentally knocked something off the roof, but the Telgradian noted him or her with caution before focusing his attention back on the infamous lightning mage.

He hasn’t seen me yet. I’m not one for cloak and dagger, but the sooner, well, whatever this is, is done the sooner I can find Sorian. Here goes…

Shinsou opened his free left hand, spreading the fingers wide. Within two seconds thin, forking tendrils of black and purple convulsed and converged around each other to form a pulsating amethyst spear of dark matter within the palm. There was a snapping noise as the strange electrical discharge of the weapon met the Radasanthian air, but then in an instant the lance was stable. A careful man, the Telgradian would not allow this fight to go on longer than it needed to. From the mouth of the alley, Shinsou flipped the shaft of the dark matter spear around and with all his might drove the point through the air towards Storm Veritas’s silhouette.

Predictably, Rayse's plan had failed. From this height, all Sergeant Skellington had to do was move out of the way, although it looked more coincidental than anything. He could try again, but it's likely he was too far away to get any purchase on his attacks, and his more wider range tactics had a strong chance of collateral damage. He had a fine line between what he considered an innocent or belligerent that routinely involved possession of weaponry. He briefly considered jumping off the roof to do the most visually appealing attack, but the thought of becoming a pancake wasn't the most mentally appealing. The watchtower-esque position allowed him to assess the situation, finding a lot of guards trying to section off the street. The people that were caught in the middle of the fight were nearly all gone, leaving only a few key figures on the scene.

However, unless Storm had been hiding his abilities from Rayse all this time, he didn't quite see how he was planning to dethrone His Royal Skullness. He observed Storm tripping over the ladders and audibly sighed.

By the goddess...

After the attack, Rayse made his way back down to street level, electing to take the stairs again after seeing the misfortune that befell ladders today. The murders still weighed on his mind, not because of any sense of morality, but just the fact that he was willing to dirty his hands. He wasn't like this before his involuntary trip to the planes, but now he wanted a more active role. He wanted to take risks. Maybe he sought a way to release all the rage that he typically didn't allow to boil up.

The circumstances around this job were very exciting. If this was a trap, the bounty went through a highly reputable source, which meant a very expensive client was corrupting the entire mercenary system. If the military was involved, then this person or organization not only had money but power, and not the magical kind.

Woodheight must have had some enemies in high places, too bad I took his goddess-damned life! We just killed the only person who could've let me in on the conspiracy. Well, if there's a conspiracy. I still haven't ruled out that this is all some circumstantial happenstance. Involving giant skeletons.

Either way, he still owed Storm for saving his life during the job with the ice wizard. Any opportunity to pay that back was appreciated. Once downstairs, he slammed the door open and fled into the street, drawing his sword. For a moment, the sword was not on fire, but merely glowing for an instant before returning to its enchanted fiery state. Rayse was in no state to analyze this development, but he noted it for the future. He managed to come out just in time to smack the flying spear away from Storm with his blade. There was no time to look for the source, although the effort actually hurt his arms and nearly bruised his palms. Whoever threw that was not kidding around.

"Storm! Change of plans, we need to get off the streets."

The contractor figured that getting away wouldn't be easy, so he opted for a distraction, which coincidentally was what Storm was hoping for. Sheathing the sword again, he retrieved two of his spices. The shot glasses were filled with clear, volatile liquid and were lit with with a flame that ran through his fingers. After breaking into a sprint, he pitched the bombs directly at General Bonefiend's face.

Sometimes Elite could admire an individual, sometimes he could appreciate their skill, knowledge or boldness, and yet the teenage personality before him was nothing of the sort. Attacking not for the first time with an insult that appeared to have come from his days as an hormonal teenager. He brushed off his fall and bite of the dirt like a man, but his continuous nature to strike some emotional cue with Elite Optic only showed that of a foolish immature mind.

Is this a devious plan of which to deceive me? Or are you really that bull-headed as to believe you can anger an immortal with mere words?

It was hard to guess what his exact motives were, but Elite was far from being a foolish goon. He aligned his sword with his shoulders, resting ever so slightly, but prepared for release to either attack or defend.

"If you desire so much as to act like a child," Elite's voice hummed a deep tone of irritation. "Then I'll treat you like one..."

As Marcus Heroptic he had never harmed a child, and yet with his given immortality, he was not privy to such choice of who he was to slay. The god that had brought him back did not discern itself with; child or adult, man or woman, human or animal. If they were to die, they would all die with the same bitter level of shallow respect. Elite tentatively walked forward, his eyes not locked on Storm, but his very surroundings. Were there more ladders or bricks to fall? This chaotic mix of old and new buildings within Radasanth was plentiful for loose or miscellaneous objects for those who desired use of such things.

Elite felt more aware of this now, he had been fooled once, by this child of a man, he did not wish to be caught out again. Like the ancient creature he was, his heavy frame scratched against the cobbled floor, crackling and breaking those that were unable to take his weight. He raised his hilt defensively, the tip of his rusty cleaver still resting upon his shoulder, and searched the skyline for anything suspicious.

Why are you just standing there? Your confidence is staggering...

It felt like the time to strike, even if the man's actions seemed illogical he was still a standing target who could be cleaved in half should Elite's blade strike true. Yet, as the gap came to a close, a piercing purple like spear flew ever close beside him. Like a colourful long tailed bird the spear glided through the air, twirling as it stylishly honed in on its target with supreme accuracy.
However, as amazingly as it looked to strike its target, a second man leapt out and into action. Without an inch of hesitance he struck the magical spear astray from its destination, and then within a moment, it vaporized into the wind like an rapidly dissipating pool of water.

Shinsou... Elite knew of only one man that displayed such an attack.

The thought of an all out battle excited Elite, a two on two duel was much more enticing. There was more chance of blood, more chance of gore, more chance of death. Who was this new man? Dark eyed and bushy haired, fearless and flavoursome for battle, he who did not waste time with idle words of a child.

Appreciation filled Elites Soul, finally someone of some merit had joined the fight, someone willing to put their body and soul on the line. Why they had come to battle didn't matter, it never mattered, but if they could really change such a mundane walk into an exciting duel of the city streets, then it was worth it.

Suddenly his hands erupted into flames, his forearms and grasped object lit up with the bright red and orange glow of true fire. Like an enraged predator the man sprinted forward, his hands abreast with the fire flickering in the wind, and his focus targeted on Elite. Without a second of thought the flames pods of fire were flung through the air, Elite raised his hand and sword before himself, shielding his face as best he could muster. The flaming glass pods shattered, the first smashing over his sword, its fiery pray whipping out into the air harmlessly, while alighting the upper end of his sword. The second breached past Elite's fingers, taking a slight deflection and cascading over his hand, arm and shoulder. His left side lit up with dark red flames that stuck to him with the liquid, that ever so slowly dripped off to the cobbled ground.

That could of hurt...Oh, my hands on fire...I look glorious!

Elite roared out like am enraged beast, and tensed his burning hand into a tight fist. This could have been agonising for any human, but Elite lacked of nerves and therefore pain, which in turn now allowed for a fearsome display of power. To be burning and be alive at the same time was something that no mere mortal could ever experience, and Elite could use this to his advantage.

He stepped forward into his new foes sprint and crouched into a low powerful punch, throwing his weight into his swinging, flaming hand that aimed into the man's own forward momentum.

Storm had attempted to create bedlam, however how such madness had erupted around him remained quite the interesting mystery. The crashes and clangs of metal and stone, coupled with the news of assassinations within the city’s limits seemed to have spread like wildfire. A flood of humanity came and went, passing by the assorted adventurers, oblivious to the risk that they had all presented. As they eventually understood the omnipresent and life threatening danger about them, the same fools scattered like ashes in the wind, complete with random routes and disregard for each other.

Following such flood came fire; Rayse had blocked a mighty spear of black and purple that Storm hadn’t even seen, and then blasted the looming titan with glass and explosive flames. Naturally, everything seemed to only further enhance the juggernaut, as the mighty soldier simply marveled at his newfound flames. A counterpunch thrown by Elite was surprisingly fast and terrible, sending both men scrambling in low rolls away. Storm could feel the heat warm his skin as the bony, burning hand soared past him. His partner in crimes was hit, however appeared to flash at the crashing shot, popping in and out of space. He reappeared at a distance of not more than five feet from point of impact in a low squat, holding his head in clear pain. He rose, grimacing, and moving back towards Storm and away from the beast.

Fantastic, Bone F*cking Brulee… Rayse just armed him with fire on top of his outrageous other abilities. Does he know how any of this works?

“Screw the stack of bones; we’re not going to be able to hurt him. Let’s get up top and away from him. Who threw the f*cking spear?”

The luxury of traveling with Rayse Valentino is that Storm didn’t exactly need to worry about the pyromaniac’s ability to keep up. Veritas took three quick strides before leaping high, soaring away from the colossus and onto the roof of a tailor’s shop. From there, he immediately set eyes on a man he knew as “Shinsou Van Osiris,” who commanded dark magic of some sort. They had fought the mighty dragon Sunwing together, alongside Elite Optic. The reunion had proven less than friendly.

If I can’t taunt that big idiot into overextending himself, maybe I can get him to do the dirty work for me.

Valentino was already behind him, wearing an absurd placidity in the midst of the chaos. Without hesitating, Storm had crafted a plan and intended to get to work.

“We can’t hurt Elite Optic with lightning or fire. I don’t know where in the blue f*ck Shin came from, but I’m pretty sure he’s not impervious to… well… everything.”

His eyes once more stole to street level, assessing both the Telgradian and the unstoppable undead not more than fifty feet from him. Shin was on the left of him, Elite to his right. Here he was, stuck in the middle with Rayse.

“Crossfire. It’s our best bet. Try to hit the little one when he steps up to take a crack at me.”

Without another word, Storm bolted once more, leaping and firing a single, harmless blast at the human adversary. He wanted attention, and to draw another spear he could hopefully dodge. He drew a path between his enemies, closer to Shinsou as he ran, hoping to bring the human within the range of the titanic metal blade of improved disease that would soon come thundering his way. He landed on the stones and sprinted, a very vulnerable mouse scurrying through an unsolvable maze. His speed had never been more impressive; a blur of bright white dress shirt and gray suit pants doing well to disguise the abject terror on his face. If he could dodge an attack, he could hopefully instigate friendly fire and get the hell out of Radasanth.

A lot can happen in fourteen seconds.

Shinsou had taken care thus far to make his way as discreetly as possible to his quarry. It hadn’t been easy, bounding from passageway to passageway in an attempt to avert both the tsunami of frightened people flooding out from city centre and into the arteries of the Radasanthian suburbia and also the attention of the lethal Storm Veritas. His faint footsteps in the last of the alleyways had remained undetected. The air seemed staler there and the smell of mildew grew in his nostrils. Finally, he had taken some pre-emptive action, thrusting a powerful dark matter spear in the lightning mage’s direction.

The black-clad man seemed to have appeared from nowhere, hitting Shinsou’s opening gambit with his fiery blade with as much force as he could muster and smashing it into a million amethyst particles. Cringing from the jolt, the dark haired figure lurched slightly before turning his attention quickly to Sorian’s pet, unleashing some concoction of hell-fire against Elite Optic, the noise of the shattering glass and roaring flames almost imperceptibly louder than anything else around. Instead of recoiling in horror as most mortals would have done, Elite was almost chuckling to himself silently at the thrill of being on fire. This second antagonist had provided him with the means to launch a flaming assault on both him and Storm with one swift, fiery punch.

This is escalating out of control, Shinsou thought to himself, observing events from the dark mouth of the brick alley, so it’s time to-

The Telgradian’s thoughts were suddenly cut short as he witnessed Storm, beyond human rules of logic or sensibility, take three brisk strides before leaping high onto the thatched roof of a nearby building.

Holy shit! How high did he just-

He seemed to be looking for something, or someone. Shinsou knew it was obviously going to be the person responsible for the dark matter spear. A breath of cool wind splashed against the Telgradian’s eyes as Storm Veritas finally rooted him out, using his high vantage point to scout the numerous corridors effectively and eventually locking stares with the former emperor of Telgradia. Although surprised at the man’s athleticism, and fully aware of what his enemy was capable of, Shinsou was not deterred.

If this is how it has to be, then so be it; sneaking around is now unnecessary. One more worry out of the way.

It was then that Shinsou’s brain went into overdrive, assessing all of the available options to him now that he had been discovered. Drawing Enpera was out of the question entirely. That sword would be like a lightning rod and would do the Telgradian more harm than good if Storm used any of his magnetism. The alley would be good cover, but being separated from Elite was a problem.

Dark matter is the way to go here. I’ll spay the bastard before he can give me the shock treatment!

Before Shinsou could consolidate all of the little thoughts and plots into a single master plan, Storm finally showed his hand. The smartly dressed mage unleashed a warning bolt of lightning across Shinsou’s bow, which struck the brick wall mere inches from his’s skull, before leaping down from the thatch roof of the building to Shinsou’s right and breaking into a full run. The edge of the stale-smelling passageway hindered the Telgradian’s view, and the only tell-tale sign of Storm’s blurry nightmare sprint was the increasingly loud rush of air accompanying his fleet movements.

What is it with all of the people on this planet? Elijah Belov, Storm, this black-clad guy with the sword… Everyone moves at the speed of fucking light! He’s going to be too quick for one spear, I’ll never hit him! I have to go all-out. Enpera Kurohitsugi might hit that other guy too, but possibly even Elite as well. Shit. I don’t have a choice. Damn you, Storm!

“Enpera Kurohitsugi!”

Behind Shinsou, a few feet above the crest of his oaken hair, mysterious arcane energies began to meld together in the alleyway. Forking tendrils of black and purple convulsed and converged around each other to form a fifteen foot wide circular portal of black and purple energy. The sheer corrosive force of the dark magic chewed into the grimy brickwork either side of the Telgradian, opening up a massive semi-circle into each of the town-houses flanking him that left a whistling expanse of space where solid stone used to be. Out of the black chasm that gaped behind him, protruding from the abyss of marbled purple and jet, were fifteen thin, dangerous spears of dark matter. They were all aimed in the general direction of where Storm was running, where he was likely to run and also where Rayse was attempting to fight Elite Optic. By now, the crowd was starting to thin, but there were still bystanders and rubberneckers ambling about. It was tough luck, as there was no more time to wait. The spears momentarily hung there with an ethereal hum as they waited for an order.

Without even having to motion, Shinsou commanded eight of the projectiles to attack at once. They shot out of the portal and wildly tore towards their intended recipients, forks of blue and purple electricity ripping at the cobblestone around them and scorching the surface of the road as they travelled. Through the electric trail of his powerful volley, Shinsou gave the implacable Elite Optic an incredulous stare.

This is your fault, you stupid sack of shit, by picking fights with people you don’t understand. If I die here, I’ll be back to fucking well haunt you and Sorian, I promise you.

The Telgradian, with his forehead already covered in a thin film of sweat, and his skin on his arms numb from the electricity in the air, suddenly recoiled as if he had been hit with some sort of unseen magic. As he doubled up, Shinsou’s eyes diluted harshly and he felt a cold pulse that seemed to ebb and flow throughout his body, throbbing powerfully one moment before retracting the next. The Telgradian struggled to regain his balance momentarily, forcing his legs to relax in order to restore parity.

Then, it came.

Kneel…before me!

The hushed intake and release of breath was ethereal and terrifying, and the two-toned, raspy voice inside his head was horribly familiar. That evil, dense energy had sensed during his battle with Elijah and Nanashi a week ago was trying to manifest again. Those brilliant white eyes were staring out at him. The Telgradian sky, suddenly blackened, was alight with terrible crimson fires. It was chaotic. It was utterly inconceivable. The only feeling in those seconds, measurable only by a sixth sense that Shinsou could never truly rid himself of, was the force of the Jal Shey magic trying to tear him apart from the inside.

As Shinsou returned to reality, he came to know what it was he was hearing. It was the all-consuming taint of the life-force from the Jal Shey within him.

It was Cavum Ira’s voice.

Excellent, an undead that isn’t bothered by fire. I’ve officially bit off more than I can chew.

Between dodging a giant, flaming bony fist and scrambling up a rooftop after a flying man, Rayse reconsidered his earlier thoughts on the excitement of the situation. Not only that, but Storm just named their pursuers. Did they all know each other? Was Rayse the only odd man out? Did he just say that massive skeleton's name... was...

Elite. Optic?!

The pyromancer was defeated. None of his nicknames matched up to the majesty that was Elite Optic. He briefly pondered whether or not it was still worth living, but Storm wasn't going to wait around for it. The lightning wizard had given up on doing any sort of damage to Elite, but Rayse was unconvinced. There was nothing in this world that couldn't burn, not even him, and he was made of fire.

The only fire I know of that can burn everything is the White Fire. I really need a better name for that. The Alabaster Flame? I feel like I've used that word already. Either way, I've never quite felt the same in the many years when it...

It wasn't the power that invigorated him, but the euphoria. After a ritual that saved his life when he was younger, he found himself temporarily wielding The Alabaster Flame, or at least being allowed to wield it, but only briefly. Only once. Since then, he felt as though he was chasing a high. Nothing in the world excited him, and the risks continued to escalate. Until today. Had he finally gone too far? Was he approaching death? He tried not to think about these things, instead rationalizing that it was all for his business. Elite appeared to revel in bloodshed... was Rayse going to be like that? Living for a singular purpose? Lost in his own obsession?

For the moment, he agreed with the concept of turning an even fight into a more favorable, unfair two on one.

As he jumped off the roof to join Storm on the street level, he saw firsthand the threat that the man named Shin posed. The dark matter spears made him instinctively twitch his right hand, ready to pluck his knife from its slumber under his pant leg. He considered Storm's plan, and thought that maybe it was worth trying to take out the smaller, but more mobile threat. He figured he would give it a shot, even though technically the dark mage was far more unpredictable. The contractor was once again excited by this prospect as he dashed forward, trying to catch up to Storm in order to launch a dual attack on Shin. The spears were powerful, likely able to turn Rayse into swiss cheese, but they carried the same weakness as any other attack on mobile targets. While Storm's speed afforded him evasion through agility, Rayse had a different boon. He jumped into the air and bent his knees, unsheathing the knife Kapteyn strapped to his right shin.

Right before the spears reached him, he turned into hundreds of fiery wisps, each scattering around the spears and leaving a trail of yellow in the air. This was the one way he could surpass Storm's speed, while sacrificing his vision for that moment and making him vulnerable at the destination. The spears continued on their flight, threatening friendly fire on the not so friendly Elite Optic. The wisps converged in the air above Shin's last position when Rayse disappeared, with the contractor holding the knife upside-down and ready to plunge it into Shin's neck from above.

How impressive…

Elite barely made a connection, the crunching blow taken away by the man’s personal vanishing act. He had never seen a human do that before, to vanish before him without a sound and leaving nothing behind but the image of a memory. Elite glanced over his shoulder, then to his right and left; the curious question of where had he teleported to racing around his mind. He peered over to Sorian who still stood quietly under a small stone archway of an alleyway. Most of the crowd had dispersed and yet he remained and watched as if a spectator at a game of sport. Elite let his jaw drop, insinuating his surprise in the only way a surprised skeleton could.

Sorian, however, showed the an equal amount of the opposite reaction to Elite. He was not impressed, not surprised and shocked by the manner of the man’s disappearance. He nodded the most casual of nods to Elite, an encouragement to continue while he watched and waited.

“Cowards!” Elite bawled out as his hand remained aflame and burning ever so lightly. He was never very sure of the long term effect of such a fire, but in reality, the thin liquid was simply a fuel that, while extremely flammable, was not enough in quantity to accomplish any serious damage to his frame.

The benefit of the more common streets of Radansanth was its disjointed structure, and while the buildings were many in number, and the centre of the city was much more in size and quality than the suburbs, the further out anyone travelled the messier the place was. Elite had long since noticed the bath of water that sat by the building's base. The old water container was still used like the local well, but Elite now had a use for it. He wandered across slowly; there was no rush for such cowardly opponents.

Start a fight and then run off…Cowards…Scum…Pointless…

Then as bizarre as ever, the two men seemed to charge back across the street. Elite felt confused, what illogical thoughts had led them to return? What were they doing? Had they hastily gone the wrong way and had to turn back?

Am I dealing with a bunch of mentally incompetent idiots?

However, it was now time for Shinsou to make his own impression, the Telgradian man using his most unique of attacks. The distinctive black and purple colours of his magic were almost pretty, but there was no mistaking who was intended to be at the other end of it. The spear like weapons fired out in their many, spreading across the local area in an impressive attempt to lay waste to everyone before him. Elite paused in his stride as he waited to see the impact upon his foes.

Yet, as impressive as it seemed at first glance, the dangerous attack was as clumsy as it was powerful. Elite could only watch as not only did they seem to miss at least one man, but also placed him in the firing line.

You idiot…

Elite barely moved but twisted his frame as he tried to step out of the way. He was struck regardless. The first black spear crashed into his rib cage, shattering several ribs and sending splinters of his bones scattering to the ground. The second struck high up his arm, a direct hit from the purple light. The strike pierced his bone and broke his arm clean off.

Elite stepped back, his burning flaming arm now rendered useless and pointless. His ribs were a broken wreck, and yet his legs, spine and sword wielding hand remained in working order.

Shinsou! You moronic tool…

Elite stamped his feet, slamming hard onto his own broken bones, and smashed them with an anger filled rampage. He turned back to the battlefield, infuriated with what had just happened. His hand gripped even tighter to his sword, and he let its tip drop to the floor as he started walking forward. The blade screeched and scratched across the cobbled floor while his broken arm lay smashed and burning behind him. Like a wounded soldier of war, he stepped back into the battle ready to bring death to those who dared damage him.

Storm, you stupid ass. All the power in the world doesn’t make up for being human. Should have taken your chances running through the trap.

Before he had dashed, the wizard knew he was taking a chance, but it quickly became apparent that he had grossly underestimated the sheer power of Shinsou Van Osiris. The looming goliath Elite Optic was an unmistakable force of nature, however the bag of tricks the Telgradian “human” brought to the table were something from another plane altogether. Knowing his distance from the bone man, he eyed Osiris as the thin fellow yelled some nonsensical language and summoned what seemed like a dozen of those same purple-black javelins.

The instinct was always to get up, hoping that adding the dimension of height would make him a harder target. The spray of ballistics came not in some logical procession, but rather in a singular, horrible blast that covered the entirety of the space through which Veritas traveled, an inescapable explosion of horror. Despite his leap, he felt the spear hit him with tremendous force on his left side, cleaving through his arm and driving firmly into his side before coming to rest somewhere in his chest cavity.

Ungh… f*ck…

He was barreled by the impact, rolling to the right by the concussive force, landing hard on his side and coming to a skidding, tearing halt upon the unforgiving cobblestone street. The abrasions to his shoulder, hip and face were immaterial next to the terrible wound he had suffered. He hesitated to even look before he gathered the confidence to peek at the horror that had manifested upon his left arm and side.

The great terrible spear had cut through his arm behind the bicep, likely shattering bone and tearing through flesh like a dart puncturing a balloon. Driving through his arm, it also had broken a rib and punctured his left lung, and his wounded flesh was exposed to a horrible, burning sensation that dizzied him. His injuries were indeed horrific, although the lack of medical knowledge available to Storm Veritas simplified his assessment of the damage.

“God, ahh… shit. I’m f*cked. F*ck you, Shinsou.”

Around him, the other two combatants had fared with considerable variance. A great slab of bone crashed somewhere behind him; the juggernaut had been wounded. Conversely, Rayse had pressed the limits of immortality once again, bursting into an invulnerable patch of flames that reformed with a casual confidence. Valentino reformed upon landing, looking no more stressed than a Radasanthian citizen returning overdue library books. In the echo of the fight, at least one citizen had been killed by errant fire, although sympathy took a back seat to self preservation for the lightning mage who found himself in dire straits.

Get safe. We need to get the hell out of here. No more surprises. No more ambushes.

Desperation forced the electromancer to gather himself quickly. His eyes wide with a coalescence of fear, pain, and anger, Storm gasped once more as the spear quickly shrunk and proceeded to disappear from his side in a twisting cloud of smoke, steam, and evil. Blood began to stream generously from the new vacancy in his arm, a harrowing site. Any movement from the shoulder screamed with defiant pain, but he was no longer physically skewered. He rolled slightly, groaning the death throes of a dog as he sat upon his ass, driving himself backwards across the street towards the brick building behind him. In front of him, looking confused and angered, was the bone titan. On his right, hidden in the mouth of the alley, was the dark summoner. A few exceptional citizens tended to the dead and wounded, but the flux of people had ceased, as if in their own puff of smoke. Nearby, Valentino sized up the situation, looking absurdly unscathed for the chaos.

“Rayse, we need to get the f*ck out of here, and we need to do it now. Close me up; I can’t move pumping blood.”

He lifted his arm some ten degrees, exposing the entrance and exit wound in his left arm and the horrible torn flesh that a flimsy dress shirt would do nothing to disguise. The deep red stains continued to spread in widening ovals down from where he had been devastatingly wounded.

While waiting for assistance, his own brand of fire grew. His right hand began to pulse white and blue, tendrils of electricity buzzing with a crackling sound as the scent of ozone filled his lungs, displacing the sickening smell of burnt flesh and blood. Like wetted dynamite, he had become volatile, and was ready to explode upon the first to attack him.

Shinsou didn’t have time to see what devastation he had wrought on those in the street ahead. The Telgradian didn’t see the dark matter spears shatter the calcium-fused bones of the titanic skeleton; smashing the beast’s ribs like glass and shearing his arm clean from his frame. Shinsou failed to notice the sickening evisceration of an innocent bystander’s internal organs onto Radasanth’s filthy streets as one of the spears cleaved a jagged path through the man’s midriff, before failing to strike Rayse Valentino. The dark mage couldn’t observe as his magical, otherworldly barrage horrifically wounded his former ally Storm Veritas, penetrating into his chest and puncturing his lung, leaving the electromancer writhing in agony in the street.

Shinsou couldn’t see any of these things because the world around him had vanished.

Everything had turned as black as an inkwell in an instant. Shadows lurked in the corners of the Telgradian’s eyes and on an unreachable ceiling high above his head. Shinsou could see nothing else.

Where was he? Shinsou could not remember the last time he had actually seen darkness like this. It was as if he had the eyes of a bat. When there was any source of light around, his eyes would naturally use it to pierce through the deepest shadows. Only now they weren’t adjusting. That wasn’t the only thing either. His senses were not working and Shinsou could not perceive the power of any of the people he had been with like he normally could. Elite Optic, Storm Veritas and the man he would come to know as Rayse Valentino had simply disappeared from existence.

Wait…

As suddenly as his senses had disappeared, Shinsou could feel something familiar returning. It seemed to be the life-force of black-clad man who had deflected his first attack. His energy seemed to almost be porous in this place, but Shinsou couldn’t actually see it, or him. Then, it came to him. There were imperfections along the Telgradian’s network of senses but flecks of Rayse’s light started to filter through the seemingly impenetrable darkness.

The scenery of Radasanth suddenly exploded back into life, though askew. The cobblestone street that expanded out from the mouth of the alleyway rested on a thirty degree tilt. The sodden, cold stone of the passageway rested against the Telgradian’s right cheek and the bitter odours of rotting garbage mixed with the scents of moss and grime.

What’s…going on?

The breeze of the day made Shinsou’s hair flap in the wind like the sail of a ship. The world around him seemed to blur; the houses, shops and streets smudging into a hazy grey puddle. His joints ached terribly from where he had impacted the hard stone floor. Then, the Telgradian tasted something salty. His face had been spattered with blood. It flowed in crimson torrents from a cleft in his neck, streaming down his front and pooling underneath him. The pain was agonising at first, but Shinsou couldn’t scream. It was as if the energy had been sucked out of his body.

A man emerged from behind him, his footsteps barely audible over the Telgradian’s harsh breathing. It was the black-clad man he had sensed, the one he would remember as Rayse Valentino. He had been waiting for a moment of opportunity and had travelled unseen over the street after evading Enpera Kurohitsugi’s devastating volley. In a single smooth stroke, the sharp edge of a blade had sliced through Shinsou’s neck, severing hundreds of nerve endings and sawing through the tendons and arteries in his throat like a knife through warm butter. The Telgradian had been too slow to even notice Valentino above him.

How did it come to this? There’s…no Citadel to save me. I'll die here, after everything that's happened, in a grotty alleyway in a dark corner of Radasanthia.

There’s no coming back from this.

It took Shinsou a few moments for it to dawn upon him he wasn't dreaming about what had happened as his breath hung pathetically on the air. His body was numb from the pain of his wound and the fear of what was now inevitable; a final and absolute death beckoning to him. Fate had finally come to collect. It felt like he was bound in concrete and no matter how much he willed it, Shinsou couldn’t seem to move. He couldn’t even use his last moments to look up and survey the carnage about him. Shinsou’s brown, dishevelled hair tumbled about the wind in heavy, blood saturated strands. Despite the force of the breeze and the beating pain in his neck, his golden eyes barely winced as his life began to ebb away.

Out of Character:

Bunnying approved.

The Niema River afforded the city many vibrant ports, littering the way to the harbor that lead out to open waters. It was the most popular escape route for any would-be criminals, but that also made it the most protected area in an event like this. Yet with so many ports, it was impossible to have full coverage, unless someone had the idea that only one port needed security. Standing in the shipping area overlooking a very specific dock that held a peculiar white yacht, a man wearing similar attire to Rayse was smoking a cigar. Guards patrolled around him, but never ventured too close, always skirting around the sharp-dressed man with equally sharp Akashiman eyes. Unlike Rayse however, he wore the full business ensemble of a black suit, a blue tie, and silver cuff links. He had short white hair, a scar over his right eye and left lip, and some wrinkles to denote his middle age.

This man's name was Shigure Taisuke, and he was working for a higher power. Sitting on a shipping crate next to him was a cup of tea on a small plate. The liquid was mostly gone now. The people he was waiting for were late. Maybe he overestimated their avarice, or their valor. He decided to wait a little longer.

- - - -

Rayse didn't bother sticking around to admire his handiwork. A flame jumped up from his hand and cleaned the blade of blood, and then he placed the knife into his belt for later use. He turned his back on the body and noticed the scent of burning flesh.

Goddess-damn it! Just what I wanted for lunch!

He ran over to the lightning wizard and assessed the damage as quickly as he could. Storm was rapidly losing color from his face.

Rayse started fishing through his bag as he said, "You're a mess, Storm."

Storm was unenthused. "Shut up and patch me up! Do you have any medical supplies with you?"

The contractor only had the cloth he used to bottle up his bombs, but it would have to do. He put his hands on Storm's wounds.

What can I even do here? I can burn the wounds close, but the damage is severe. I feel like I remember... I could do something more. The way I preserve myself in a memory and restore it in an emergency, the restorative flames that wash over me... I remember doing that to someone else. Where was it? Damn it! I'm out of time!

Elite was almost upon them, so Rayse had to act. He couldn't heal Storm, but he could stop the bleeding. He shoved a piece of cloth into Storm's mouth and let a fire run down his arm and into the magician's wounds. The pain was unimaginable. Storm looked up into the sky, but he couldn't see anymore. It was like a thousand harpies screamed into his ears at once. Every nerve ending near the wounds burned off in unison, the smell of burnt flesh the only constant in this new world of torment. At the end of it, Storm dropped to his knees, and Rayse quickly wrapped the cloth around him. He had no idea if Storm could even move anymore, but he was not one to underestimate the tenacity of a man with a strong will to live. He told the wounded man to get a head start while he stalled Elite.

Without another word, Rayse returned to the fray, stepping into Elite's warpath with his hands up. He noticed that the spears caused some damage to the giant skeleton, but he was still as dangerous as ever. The streets were empty, but it felt like the calm before the storm. If they stayed here any longer, the consequences would be dire.

"Before you bash me into a million pieces, hear me out!" He pleaded. "I'm sorry about ditching you earlier, I had to take care of a small matter. I'm sure you can relate; everything to you is a small matter. In short, I have a choice for you. You've seen me move, so rather than wasting your effort, I promise that I'll stay put if you don't like the choice."

Elite seemed receptive to this line of reasoning, but kept his one sword-hand raised. If this little snake started peddling some tripe, he was going to make him into an omelette.

Rayse sighed in relief. "I felt it right away, that you aren't just some construct or corpse. I was briefly like you once, I had a form with neither a beating heart nor a compulsion for breath, and when you lose the need for food, shelter, your other primal forces start to take over. You start to seek excitement, you start to think that you don't need to worry about surviving what comes next. A challenge is what you want, right? Well I'm here to give you one. Storm over there is half-dead already, it would be nothing for you to finish him off, and me? I'm nobody." He took a deep breath, taking care not to lose sight of Elite's gaze. "The place both of us are heading... it's far more dangerous than all of us combined. I don't know what incentive you've been given to do this, but I can give you a far greater one. What do you say? Will you join us?"

His bushy blacked haired foe leapt to his feet before him. His bangs swaying in the air and his arms waving, not frantically, but defensively. He grabbed the wounded skeletons attention in the best way he could, using the most universal method for surrender a human could show. His hands up in the air, open palmed and unarmed, all he needed now was a flailing white flag.

His posture now reflected that of a surrendering, defeated man, but his dark eyes, black like the midnight sky, hinted at an idea. An opportunity or suggestion that he was an intelligent man, an intellectual who could offer more than just being a brief shed of blood for the streets of Radasanth. There was nothing subtle about his explanation; the begging of a man who while not totally defeated, believed there was nothing to gain from participating in this battle any further.

Disappointing...Is it really ending this way?

Elite lost a degree of spirit, his once radiant persona now disintegrating before them, as his first impressions of such an impressive man quickly waned. Still, the battle already felt somewhat one-sided, for what had they offered in return, but a moment of fiery fun? Elite had only been damaged by his allies own incompetence, and these two men did seem to desire escape beyond that of any real bloodshed.

The tone of his voice felt rather dull and disorientated, but within the monotone rant, he held somewhat of an understanding of Elite's existence. Rayse, while not entirely correct in his assumption of Elite's personality, was not also not entirely wrong. Like a begging peasant before a mighty warlord, he made his point and addressed an appeal towards the battle hardened behemoth that stood over him.

"Incentive?" Elite questioned the man's incorrect belief that Elite has any incentive to combat them in the first place. "You attacked me, albeit foolishly, and I merely replied in due course of violence. I have nothing to lose or gain from this induction."

Elite's fiery eyes glanced over to the bloody, bleeding man on the dirty, dusty, cobbled ground. Lay there like a broken flower trampled by a galloping horse, he looked at an end of which could not be resolved, not without serious treatment.

You did it to yourself...What could you possibly offer me now?

Elite found himself at the crossroads of choice, a moment in which the rest of this situation, the rest of this potential fight, rested within his next choice. Did these men deserve to die? Probably. But what were they originally running from? What did they really have to offer that was more dangerous than all of them combined? Rayse's words hung in his mind, his decision, his choice.

What would Sorian do?

Shinsou's battered body and soul would have to remain on the floor for now. As intriguing as his presence had been during these past few weeks, if he was dead, then there was nothing Elite could do about it now. Elite's momentary glance was about as much sympathy as he was going to get right now, Elite would leave the rest to Sorian.

"Enlighten me, human," Elite didn't surrender his readiness for battle but was all ears. "Please explain to me where you are heading, and of what interest it could really be to me?"

Shinsou Van Osiris was dead. The blood flecked face of Storm’s accomplice lacked any discernible emotion, stunning Veritas to see such nonchalance in a place where fear, remorse, or pity clearly belonged. The wake of Rayse Valentino was swift and terrible; his wrath and capabilities were clearly obscene. Rayse, a man who Storm had once considered a peer was of unimaginable power. The electromancer struggled to breathe as his lungs burned, as a fleeting consideration danced through his mind. Perhaps it was the matchup of the magicians against these two that favored Rayse’s power, but any justification was a pittance against the drumbeat of reality that Storm Veritas was of trivial power against these others. For this fleeting moment, he was able to swallow this blow to his ego, desperate to make use of his partner in crime’s abilities to cauterize his terrible wounds.

He had anticipated pain. He knew the wound would fester and kill him if left untreated. There were no medics or healers available to stitch or mend him. It was the only way. When the pain arrived, there was still no respite.

Holy shit… Gyaaahhhh!!!

For all of the driving agony that rang through his arm and side as Valentino blasted his skin with searing heat, his body would only tolerate so much. His vision blurred as his eyes dilated dramatically, the white-blue of his eyes being dominated by thick black pupils. His heart raced and slowed, his skin sweating a cold, clammy residue despite the physical heat. Dizzy, the only thing that kept him conscious was the hammering odor, the rancid scent of burning flesh. He had smelled it before, but this stench held an awful edge that would never be dulled.

Mercifully, it was over in moments. The heat subsided, his body falling near lifelessly to the brick wall behind him as he exhaled and gasped once more. Had he screamed? Cried? These were moments that were lost to him, memories gone by that would not be recovered. In fear, Storm glanced down to his right hand, relieved to see the pulsing energy he had collected had simply subsided; he had not lashed out at the man who hurt him to save him. Scanning about, it took him time to re-acclimate. Perhaps he had fainted, but if he had gone down, he was up just as quickly.

The sun’s bright light burned his eyes now, his breath returning to his lungs, albeit in short, spasmodic intervals. His left arm felt dead to him; it was numb and burned from the shoulder down and he dared not even glance at the cotton-wrapped atrocity beneath his arm. The lack of pain made him afraid again; if his nerves were burned, to what extent could he recover?

And what in the actual f*ck are we still doing here?

In spite of all the absurdity he had witnessed, nothing seemed stranger to him than the sight of Rayse Valentino speaking clearly to Elite Optic, the scene bizarre as a goliath bone-god appeared to actually be listening to the man of fire. A natural inclination to avoid predators, Storm sat perfectly still and observed, looking for a way to escape this ridiculous charade.

The possibility that the entire bounty laid before the assassination was merely a ploy in the first place finally crept into the wizard’s mind. Given time to consider the details of it all, a second helping of paranoia turned his stomach with a retch. The words of Elite Optic rang hollow as a deeper consideration sickened him.

Has this whole f*cking thing been built on a foundation of bullshit!?

((Cavum Ira and events in this post approved by all parties on condition that all abilities are locked at level 3))

Where the fuck am I? What happened?

Peeling from the darkness of oblivion, Shinsou Vaan Osiris stepped from the frigid void into the cold greys of Radasanth. The afternoon was made dark by heavy and cumbersome rain clouds that had rolled over the city, ones that hung there for what seemed like an eternity. It started to precipitate in sheets, bombarding the cobbles beneath his feet and kicking up spats of loose mud and grime. As the rain bounced off of his skin, the Telgradian looked down upon himself and was stunned to see there were no wounds. Checking himself twice, thrice, and once again after, Shinsou realised he was completely clean of any cuts or blood.

How is this possible? I was lay there, in that exact spot in the alley. I was dying in a pool of my own blood. Also, where the hell am I? Is this Radasanth? Where is everyone?

It wasn’t the Radasanth the Telgradian had come to know and definitely not the city he had been in what seemed like moments ago. The bustling streets were devoid of life and seemed cold and numb in the drab shadows of the clouds. As with the uncertainty of this strange, ethereal place ahead of him, there was the same uncertainty again about the violence of this storm. Just when Shinsou thought the rain looked as if it had done its worst, another two or three downpours would come in sudden bursts, the silver sheets driven by the wind to spatter against the landscape of the city’s stone labyrinth like grapeshot. With one final glance from the mouth of the alleyway where he had last remembered being lay, Shinsou carefully secured the buttons that held his greatcoat together in order to prevent the harsh winds from tearing into him.

"Where is this place?” Shinsou muttered, shaking his soaked brown hair as he stumbled out of the cool alleyway in which he thought he had died. A smell of burning wood hung on the air and it mixed with that abrupt feeling of isolation as he sauntered into the street. His soft, golden eyes veered through the rain and across the empty, rugged buildings not so far away. Shinsou could see the something ahead of him, something that seemed like pieces of broken stone pillars placed in formation on an obsidian pedestal.

What is that?

As soon as the Telgradian had noticed it, a familiar, horrible, rotting stench of flesh wafted into his nostrils, carried by the wind. It almost made him heave instantly but somehow he managed to keep the contents of his stomach down. Suddenly, the rain got heavier once again. Twenty thousand drumbeats pounded their snare patters on the roofs of the buildings around him. Second by second, new beats joined them, turning single, meaningless droplets into a never-ending cascade that washed over roads and down windows.

Suddenly, a new feeling crawled up Shinsou’s spine. It was a gripping cold, the unmistakeable tinge of that thick, dark Jal Shey power. There was no creature alive in this place, so why did Shinsou feel he was being watched?

“We meet again at last, my Emperor. Looks like you were too weak without my power. It would be inconvenient for me if you were to die. I can’t allow it.”

Like a hint of dawn, a single shred of light appeared in the inky, cloud smudged sky above the Telgradian. The raindrops turned to crimson, dropped by their tainted millions from the imposing tangle of clouds overhead, forming a pool of deep, thick red that covered more of the street’s floor than Shinsou’s eyes could render. The bitter odours of the blood rain mixed with the scents of rotting meat made Shinsou physically sick.

“What do you mean? Who are you?” Shinsou asked sharply in reply.

Then, with a mighty boom, the beast incarnate appeared before him, naked and salivating. Its skin was as black as jet and its muscles were toned, ripped and fiercely built. The whites of its eyes were ink black, accented by fierce gold irises. Its fingers were replaced by black claws and its teeth seemed to be external and all incisor-like.

“I am you. You are me. We are one, bound by flesh and fate.” Was the response, a beastly growl underpinning the tone of its voice. “We are Cavum Ira together, but because of your evident weakness I must now carry this alone.”

In a single smooth stroke, the edge of a razor sharp claw sliced through the hundreds of falling droplets and penetrated the bloodied, wet skin of Telgradian’s throat. Shinsou’s brown, dishevelled hair tumbled about the wind in heavy, saturated strands as his physical form in this place began to dissolve into the wind. There was no time for words from the Telgradian, but one last glaring look of shock and dismay told the whole of the story.

“It is done,” growled the hulking form of Cavum Ira as a steady stream of crimson rain forked down his teeth, “…I will ensure our survival from here, Telgradian!”

After a moment, the scenery of the real Radasanth suddenly tore back into focus, though once again askew. The cobblestone street that expanded out from the mouth of the alleyway still levitated on a thirty degree tilt. The sodden, cold stone of the passageway rested against the beast’s now blackened right cheek and the bitter odours of rotting garbage coalesced with that of the grime and rotting meat. Ribbons of dark energy lashed and tore at the stone surroundings, violent sparks of electricity smashing into the brickwork and scattering plaster shrapnel in all directions.

“URGHGHGGHHAAAHHHHHHHHHH!”

The only sound in that moment was that which echoed from the passageway. It was a blood curdling scream, one no longer of man but instead of beast; a beast fuelled with anger and hate. Where once Shinsou lay, the Jal Shey lord Cavum Ira now knelt in the bloodied pool, his white eyes ablaze with fury and pearl white, fang-like teeth slick with saliva.

"Wait. Really?"

There was no reason for the giant skeleton to lie, right? Had Storm assumed that familiar faces were here to hunt him down, but it was just a coincidence? This put Rayse's entire theory into question. He stared at the cobblestones in thought, wondering where he had gone wrong. In his quest to avoid falling victim to a conspiracy, had he made one up?

What are the odds that the most reputable mercenary organization was compromised, as well as the city guard? Shit, have I just been wasting time here?

If Storm and Rayse failed to show up for the kill fee, their prize would be forfeit. It was a common tactic to make it difficult to appear at the right place and time so as not to pay, instead claiming absence on the part of the mercenaries. Maybe the guards were tipped off to make this happen, but then again Rayse had no proof that the port was covered in guards... He was just following a trend. A dull ache grew in his head, and he pressed each palm into his temples, the sensation of a buried rage rising to the surface.

Calm down, you idiot! Don't get mad! Relax! Don’t give that demoness the satisfaction!

When he was trapped in the otherworldly planes, Rayse was cursed. Despite his best efforts, the spell was permanent, and he had no escape from the damnation. It was a curse with a simple condition: if he became infuriated, it would open a portal to the demoness' realm, and his death would be assured. In the few months that had passed, his efforts toward a more stoic outlook were successful, at the risk of appearing detached from reality. However, keeping everything bottled up carried risks of its own. If he was pushed too far, it would be over. He swore under his breath for allowing himself to enter a situation that drew so much of his ire.

Taking a job of this magnitude necessitated collateral. For Rayse, money was an easy option, so instead they required something that evoked sentimentality. They were going to keep his locket, the one with a picture of a rose with a blood-red droplet hanging from its petal. It was the emblem of the Barton family, his mother's family; the only thing that existed in the world anymore that was hers. In his recklessness to subdue the rage in his heart, had he lost something important? The thought was tearing him apart.

It was the scream that brought him back from the brink. While the dark energies of Psycho-Shin leaking from the passageway were a stunning sight, it was his partner in crime who had his attention. Maybe he overestimated Storm's condition, maybe the lightning mage wasn't capable of escaping on his own anymore.

Shit... Storm...

The man had saved his life. It wasn't the first time Rayse's piggishness caused the people around him to suffer. Everyone he ever knew in this business died eventually, and it always seemed to be his fault. Was Storm next? Was he going to lose his prize, his locket, and his friend in the same day?

"Sorry, Elite," Rayse said, his back still turned to the one-armed giant. He made the fatal mistake of turning his back on the body, and now a feeling of dread washed over him. "It's too dangerous here to talk further. I promise I'll get you a fight so amazing that you’ll grow a heart and start pumping adrenaline through it. But for now, I'm heading to port twelve."

He ran to Storm, who wasn't looking any better since he left him. Without the cloth holding them in, the volatile liquids sloshed around in the satchel. "We're leaving. Get away from the wall."

While Storm hobbled onto the street, Rayse went around the lightning wizard and backpedaled some twenty feet from Storm. He was still worried about the dark mage, and everything in his damn bag was useless now, so with a spin he tossed the bag over in the direction of Shin. He pointed at it with his right hand, and a flame curled around the index finger. The ring started glowing, and then a small, fast-moving burst of light flew from his finger, hitting the bag in mid-air and igniting it as it approached Shin.

Without waiting for the impending explosion of the makeshift bomb, Rayse prepared to transport both him and Storm to safety. A flame spread across his frame until it engulfed his body. With a grunt he burst into a sprint, threatening to completely knock Storm over. Instead, right as he reached him, he stretched out his arm and placed it on his fellow assassin’s shoulder.

The next moment, both of them were gone, having turned into fast-moving wisps of flame that dove into an alley on the opposite side of the street from the source of the scream. When they reappeared, Rayse had to put his arm in front of Storm so that his accomplice wouldn't fall to the ground from the momentum. He looked into Storm's eyes, a terrible feeling running up his spine. Something was still very wrong, but at this point there was nothing he could do about it.

"Forget about what I said back there. We... we just need to make it to the port, alright? Let's claim the prize together."

False truths and broken promises, they were all the same, they were no different from anyone else. No different from the people who lied to save their sorry lives, no different from the cheats who tried to hide their sins and no different to the lies of a child who hoped to avoid a spanking. Rayse dangled a carrot and then did not reward, now Elite was quickly going back to square one, and nothing was more boring than square one.

Rayse never seemed totally afraid, confident enough to turn away from Elite before advancing to safety. He needed to save his friend, and he needed to get his reward, for whatever misdeeds he and Storm had accomplished together, he seemed honourable enough to keep his colleague alive and share the bounty.

Honourable to a friend, treacherous to a stranger. Why do they always lie to me? Or do they fear me so much they cannot admit the truth? Cowards.

Elite felt enraged inside, he had been interrupted in his morning routine, he had been engaged to duel, prepared to shed blood and then denied his pleasure; just when it was getting interesting.

The bone giant stood still within the centre of the tarnished street. Marked with blood and graced with steel, the empty street was watched by the eyes of the many horrified residents, all hidden behind walls and peering through windows. Elite couldn't feel the wind as it breezed over his bones, he couldn't smell the nervous sweat that hung in the air but he could hear the hum of their frightened heart beats. What was to happen next relied entirely on Elite's next decision, for Sorian had faltered with his patience and as long as Elite met him at the other end, nothing else mattered.

Elite was left with a choice, albeit a boring one. Did he waste his time and pursue the wounded miscreant and his bushy haired counterpart, or did he turn to face the rising beast that now roared before him? Shinsou Vann Osiris was now something else, a challenge maybe, or an amusement for the time being.

Elite gripped his sword tightly and prepared once more.

"Oh, what a pathetic start to the day..."

Trikkkt-thip! Trikkt-thip! Trikkt-thip!

The ugly, sickening rhythm of the badly wounded adventurer trying to make his way across hard stone held all the hope of a Salvarian in a sauna. Convinced at his fate, Storm considered stopping, and simply letting the cowl of death fall over him.

What’s the point? You’re royally screwed. You’re half f*cking dead. It’s over.

The taste of blood in his mouth was heavy, metallic, and about the only element in the course of events that could serve to ground Storm Veritas. The periphery of his vision was clouded with shadows; the sound of his steps were faint, sickening things that only called to attention his terrible condition. Even the voices he heard banging around his head registered as little more than tinny echoes. The wizard believed that he had heard Rayse say something; there was the deep bass sound that came from Elite Optic that probably carried some historical yet hedonistic disapproval. For all of his idiotic appearance, the goliath seemed to be an intellectual device of war. Worse than the absence of clear sight or vivid sound was the lack of feeling. His memory of agony had already distilled into something more abstract, and in its place his entire body had gathered no more than a sense of numbness.

Only the taste gave him something that connected him to the living plane. He couldn’t hear the whispers of aghast townspeople as he stumbled his way behind Valentino. The two moved quickly – at least as quickly as the lightning magician could muster – and traveled through the network of alleys that latticed the “second city” of Radasanth. Behind the sun bleached marble and granite edifices of main street, the back alley of must, urine, and stale alcohol lingered amidst the miscreant flotsam citizens that drifted in and out of the attention of local constables. These people wouldn’t remember two more travelers, since they rarely carried compassion to concern themselves with others, nor any hint of sobriety sufficient to focus on any details they may stumble across.

“I’m okay. Stop looking back. Keep pushing. Keep moving. I’m fine.”

His repeated words to the man that had saved him were no more than lip service, of course. The reality was simple enough; he had a very vested interest in continuing on, and getting the hell out of town. He needed real medical attention or healing with a genuine desperation, but any help in town would certainly come coupled with questioning for the morning’s kill that he wouldn’t be able to explain.

Keep moving, let the wounds fester and infection poison me, or stay in town and let them hang me. All for a bullshit trap and a payday that you’ll never see. Absolutely f*cking genius, you stupid asshole.

His self-deprecation generated a smile on his face, another spark of life that gave him purpose. There was plenty for him to live for, regardless of how bleak his present circumstances were.

Storm had to keep going, to find Karuka and Taische, and make things right.

Storm had to keep going, to protect Rayse from incrimination or attack, and find a way to return the favor he was just granted.

Storm had to keep going, to find the man that had orchestrated this trap. He would find the man who had consigned Elite Optic and Shinsou Van Osiris, and positioned them in the path of returning for his kill fee, unbeknownst to them. He would find the man who sprung the hoards of people upon them, ensuring that the faces of the assassins had been seen dozens of times the morning of the assassination. He would find the man, and he would make him squeal.

Another smile, this one wider and more self assured, crawled across Storm’s face with a newfound sense of purpose.

Trikkkt-thip! Trikkt-thip! Trikkt-thip!

The same sound was no longer dull, wounded and desperate. The same sound was a reminder of his perseverance and strength. He wouldn’t die; at least not today. There was work to do.

There is no motivation for a villain more powerful than vengeance.

Something moved in Cavum Ira’s peripherals as the newly manifested beast turned his head towards the bag that had been thrown at him from the street, its contents almost spilling out. Suddenly, a burst light of light exploded inches from the Jal Shey lord’s face and a searing eruption of flame broke the silence. Accompanied by a terrible screech of pain, the foul roars of the Jal Shey rattled through the lifeless bricks and mortar of Radasanth, spreading a chill across a now silent and almost empty street scarred by jagged craters and reeking of death. With a pained grunt, Cavum Ira scrambled to his clawed feet and staggered into the open street, struggling against the intensifying burning on his visage as he instinctively sought his attacker. Shards of glass from Rayse’s bottles of incendiaries riddled his black skin, drawing thick streams of inky blood from the wounds that forked down his chest and neck.

He stopped sharp and scanned his surroundings, instinctively gripping Enpera. The spears of Enpera Kurohitsugi were still forged within the pulsating portal behind him as they had done with Shinsou. They were the Telgradian’s badge of office in this fight, representing both his power and the weight of responsibility he felt for taking down the electromancer and his tricky counterpart. As Cavum Ira searched frantically, seeing nothing but the damaged frame of Elite Optic in the street surrounding him, he snarled wildly. His attackers had fled. Few knew just how much he revelled in the chance to deliver oblivion to those who challenged his might, and even less knew of how vengeful this Jal Shey could be in the face of cowardly aggression.

The beast punched the stones beneath him in a fit of fury, creating a web of fissures in the cobbles.

“Cowards! Come out of the shadows! I’ll send you straight to hell!” He roared, saliva dripping from the tips of his fangs.

The fact there was no-one left to fight hit Cavum Ira especially hard. It felt as if Shinsou had betrayed him by being weak and allowing his opponents to escape. He longed for his share of the violence.

Then, he sensed it. There was a growing hunger in the skeletal colossus near him, a lust for blood and gore, for conflict. He could feel the titanic warrior’s eyes taking an interest in him. This sensation kept the Jal Shey lord from losing heart even as he realised there was nothing left to attack but Shinsou’s ally. The dark beast hailing from Telgradia’s black regions was fiercely conditioned for war, for strength of body, mind and soul focused entirely on delivering annihilation to any who opposed him. Cavum Ira alone was able to practice the arcane dark arts of both the Telgradian and Jal Shey races, trained to oppose even the gods. He was a weapon; it was his right to be wielded.

“You,” The beast crowed, “I smell the blood of thousands upon your bones! You are caked in the gore of the fallen. The honour now falls to you to entertain me…”

The afternoon sun beat down on the days’ bloodshed, and a bleak, void-like stillness enveloped Cavum Ira and the hulking skeletal form of Elite Optic as they stared each other down. The battle for control of the streets was over, but the battle for satisfaction of hungry souls loomed ahead.

That day, a pair of ghosts traveled through the city, leaving a trail of embers wafting in the air. Once they had left the impromptu battlefield, the guards decide to pursue the duo. With Storm moving at a snail's pace, Rayse had to use his abilities liberally to evade capture. The thought of leaving Storm behind never crossed his mind. Every look he took at the lightning wizard's fragile form only reinvigorated the contractor's efforts. After a particularly strenuous display of his fiery teleportation, a wave of nausea washed over Rayse, causing him to nearly lose what little hydration he had left. Turning to fire this many times was exhausting.

Gotta get to the docks... not just for this bullshit job, but because the river is our best bet out of here.

Even though the late Senator's actions caused several of Rayse's accounts to be frozen, he still had more than enough to purchase a bright, sea-faring vessel. He was going to surprise Storm with it, but at this point neither of them could give less of a shit. It was amazing that Storm was still breathing, given the extent of the damage, but he looked like a man on a mission.

As Rayse initially suspected, the port was teeming with guards. At least his boat was safe, due to paying off the port security to pretend to have searched it when asked. Where the cobblestones ended, wooden platforms extending far into the waters began. Wooden crates littered the platforms like an infestation, likely due to the shipping routes being backed up. He only had one more shot at the whole disappearing act, but that required them to be closer to the boat in question. The last thing they needed was to barrel through a swarm of armored buffoons. They concealed themselves in a labyrinth of wooden containers.

Storm, however, had a different plan in mind. His face had grown considerably more pale, but his eyes were no less determined. Using the crates to support himself, he started frantically searching for their contact. He wanted to make his unseen adversary bleed as much as he had. Each step was laborious, each breath followed by a hacking cough.

Rayse looked around for anything flammable to serve as a distraction, finally settling on a container filled with rich tapestries. They were in the middle of loading it when the guards cleared the dockworkers out, so it was perfectly exposed. Once he secured Storm on the yacht, he was going to look for the middle man in charge of confirming the bounty. He looked over to make sure Storm was ready, but his accomplice was gone. He walked over to where he last saw the man, thinking that maybe Storm had just turned the corner and was right there. He walked around the crate, only catching a hint of Storm's bleeding body lying on the ground.

He didn't even have a chance to react. The world was frozen, the commotion being replaced by a dark, serene silence. Rayse could no longer feel, no longer think. He had become a statue. In fact, everything had.

Everything but one man. His wakizashi was still covered in Storm's blood, and he took great care not to get any of it on his suit. Shigure Taisuke was the sole inhabitant of this world of statues and silence, but there was no fear in his eyes, no hesitation in his heart. He placed his free hand on Rayse's forehead, and a rush of information entered Shigure's mind. He spent the next few seconds walking around the contractor, taking in who exactly he had caught in his web. He thought Storm was big, but the memory of Rayse was too intriguing to ignore. He still had the cigar in his mouth, but he plucked it out and let it fall to the ground. It only fell for a brief moment before becoming suspended in the air.

Shigure didn't talk much while he was in the realm of sounds and motion, but here he liked the fact that his voice was the only source of sound in the entire world. "Huh, looks like you were on to something there, kid. Should've trusted your instincts. Your buddy there turned out to be smarter than you, although you're both blithering idiots." Shigure pushed away the very air as he walked, as if it was escaping from him, as if he didn't belong. "Every time I come here, I wonder about what I'm actually doing. I'm not really learned in the ways of magic, it just sort of chanced upon me, much like you. Did I just stop time for everything in the port? Everything in the city? The world? Nobody has that kind of power. I might be doing something else." He walked around to Rayse's back, briefly wondering if they had the same tailor. Rayse clearly had no good sense however, as he got Storm's blood all over his vest and slacks.

He walked back around to Rayse's front. "Maybe it's some form of super speed. I'm moving so fast that everything else is in slow motion. Again, that seems a bit grandiose for a single human." He stopped, his breath freezing just a few inches in front of his face. "Yet, I can still breathe here. Or maybe I'm not really breathing, who knows? My personal theory, one I've been toying around with the last dozen times I did this, is that I'm in another plane. I entered a plane where time flows slower, where thoughts can be transferred by mere touch. Oh well, maybe I should just give up trying to figure this out. Although, one thing's for sure.

Nobody has ever survived this explanation."

He plunged the blade deep into Rayse's chest, sending him to wherever the hell bastards like him and Storm ended up.

Storm Veritas
Plot 22/30
Story 7/10
I liked the overall story you wove, and how you continued to bring up hints at Storm’s paranoia. You wove a compelling tale from start to finish, and provided plenty of compelling moments to draw the reader in completely. With that said, the ending felt abrupt, especially with Rayse getting the death post in for your character, and thus I had to dock you a little for that. It read well, but it felt like it needed something more from Storm himself.
Setting 8/10
You have a knack for describing settings in a way that makes them vibrant without becoming overbearing. An incredible vernacular and ability to reference the smallest details through action or thought in a most natural way makes this one of your strongest categories. The ebb and flow of the crowds, the death of the bystander, helped to enhance the tale.
Pacing 7/10
I docked you here for the same reason as in story. Storm’s death at the hands of Shigure felt too convenient, and too quick. There was this build-up of Storm’s resilience, and then it was ended abruptly in an almost anti-climatic way. Overall, the pacing aside from the ending was well thought out, and as a reader it felt comfortable.


Character 24/30
Communication 8/10
You consistently do a remarkable job at maintaining the character of your lightning mage assassin no matter the circumstance. Not only are his words and thoughts calculated, so too are his actions and quirks. Storm’s dialogue is never obnoxiously long or drawn out, and it fits him so well as a character. On the flip side, though, sometimes the dialogue feels thrown in as filler. An occassional curse word muttered begins to feel repetitive and contrived, at least to me.
Action 7/10
The actions Storm takes, the way he takes them, the thought put into them - or the lack thereof at the end - felt to me as a reader as just right for the character. I never questioned what he was doing or why, and that is a high mark to reach. Even as he endured the sheer pain of Rayse’s flames to cauterize his wounds, it read comfortably and right on point. The only thing I could ask from you more comes back to the lack of a real concluding post from you specifically. I sense that final post would have yielded that bit extra of action this thread needed to feel truly complete.
Persona 9/10
Storm is who he is, and he doesn’t seem amenable to changes to himself. For him, it works. After years and years of torment, battle, and death, he understands his role and place in the world and adheres to it. Even when wounded, he finds ways to surprise while still remaining true to who he is. I applaud you for that.


Prose 26/30
Mechanics 8/10
Even on the Flames’ scale of mechanical aptitude, you succeeded with a nearly flawless mechanical piece. I’m impressed, as I tend to be a nazi on even the minor things and yet I found myself having to finetooth comb the hell out of your posts to even find one mechanical flaw.
Clarity 9/10
The way you write makes it easy to understand the points you are trying to make. As a reader, I never found myself lost in the midst of an action or a thought wondering why or how. As I noted above, you have a calculating manner to everything with how you write, and it just works so well.
Technique 9/10
You never went overboard with your use of technique, and as the reader, I most certainly appreciated it. You never became wordy in a description or explanation, and yet there were subtle nods to great technique in your use of appropriate semicolons, pregnant pauses, etc.


Wildcard 10/10


Total 82/100


Rayse Valentino
Plot 21/30
Story 7/10
Much like with Storm’s notes above, you wove a generally believable and enjoyable tale. My only real qualm was the ending of the thread, and I would assume the ending suffered as a result of the time crunch. Still, outside of the ending, this thread is better than the others of yours I have read.
Setting 7/10
You tended to avoid utilizing the setting, but you did a decent job of maintaining your posts within the confines of it. You did a good job of dropping the bit of the roof onto Elite Optic, and I liked your escape through the meandering alleys and walkways of Radasanth. Still, the setting itself, from your posts, more or less seemed like it just existed and less like it held purpose. The early parts of the threads could have happened in most any town or city, but you pulled back some quality here by your final couple of posts and the use of the docks.
Pacing 7/10
As I noted with Storm, it was the final post that didn’t sit well with me, and it wasn’t in how you wrote it. It was too abrupt, and I would imagine given more time to flesh this story out more there would be something more to the Shigure and Rayse bits. Still, the rest of the thread moved along nicely, and I never found myself feeling jarred by a post or anything of the sort.


Character 26/30
Communication 8/10
The threads of yours I have read have yielded a progression in your ability to write Rayse, both as a believable character and in how he speaks and acts. I’ve seen strong character development - did Rayse really insinuate Storm was a friend??? - and very good use of nicknames in the forms of petty insults. I applaud you for your growth in character overall. Well done.
Action 9/10
I liked how you used Rayse’s fire form to escape multiple situations, and I especially like how it put a strain on his endurance and stamina. It made him entirely believable and I was able to connect with him as the reader.
Persona 9/10
I mentioned above in Communication about your growth in writing Rayse as a believable character. Your introductions remain a bit flat overall, but your writing once you get into a thread is far and away some of my favorite. The development of Rayse as a person, and the subtle changes along the way, makes him relatable to the level where I begin to feel for him at times. Heck, I even felt like I was rooting for him to pull off the whole “Elite Optic, let’s just stop this silly battle.”


Prose 23/30
Mechanics 7/10
Whereas Storm was mostly flawless, you had a few moments - where it felt like you rushed a bit of what you were trying to write. Even still, those moments weren’t overly noticeable, and if I weren’t running through this thread with a finetooth comb, I’d probably skim right over them. The sliding scale for Mechanics in this tournament has been nazi-levels of strict, so take heart in your score here not being nearly as bad as it might seem.
Clarity 8/10
There was a moment where the clarity muddied a bit, where Rayse is beginning to realize he’s been moreso paranoid than just observant. The post holds a few questions, but they read like thoughts. Were this not a tournament, I’d probably chalk it up to poetic license, but I need to be a bit stricter than normal and thus the deduction.
Technique 8/10
Nothing over flashy here, but you still managed to throw in a few semicolons and pregnant pauses to up the technique level. You weren’t overbearing with your use of the humorous little insult-jab nicknames, and so I rewarded you for that. The foreshadowing bit with Shigure was nice, though it could have used just a tiny hint at the fate awaiting Storm and Rayse once they finally met him. Thus the 8 instead of a 9. Good job overall though.


Wildcard 10/10


Total 80/100


Shinsou Vaan Osiris
Plot 20/30
Story 7/10
Shin’s story extends to a past which you brought more to the forefront in this thread. My only real problem with the story, and it was the same for Storm and Rayse, is the abruptness of the conclusion. There was this hint at something brewing between Cavum Ira and Elite Optic, but it wasn’t fleshed out enough to feel concluded. This was a cliffhanger on both parts, and neither made the story feel truly complete.
Setting 7/10
This story took place in an alleyway, but it could have taken place - for the most part - in just about any alleyway in any city in any province of Althanas. It didn’t hold that moment where things really felt vibrant with the setting, and that was true for most every writer in thread. What hurt you more than anything was moments to utilize your messenger. What happened to him?
Pacing 6/10
I liked what you did with Shin and introducing the Cavum Ira, however, I didn’t like how you did it. Shin’s death didn’t feel abrupt, but there wasn’t enough of a lull to let it sink in either. For such a monumental scene, it read far too flat for my liking, and I chalk it up to mostly pacing. It wasn’t timed well, just as the story hit its stride, it was thrown against this brick wall and were it not for the other writers I’m not sure it would’ve recovered.


Character 21/30
Communication 7/10
You have a knack for dialogue. It flows well, reads comfortably, and moves at a pace which doesn’t feel like it drags. It also all makes sense with the character, with the minor exception of Cavum Ira, who I believe you’re still getting a feel for. More time with this form/psyche would give you a greater hold of the character, and thus in how to write him/it better.
Action 7/10
The same comments hold true from above. Nothing felt out of place for Shin as a character, but it did for Cavum Ira.
Persona 7/10
I feel like I should score Cavum Ira and Shinsou separately, even though you wrote both. The quality with Shin is very good, but as a reader the shift to Cavum Ira, both in the physical sense and the writing sense, just didn’t sit all that well. I’d chalk it up to lack of experience with the character/form, but it is definitely jarring and noticable.


Prose 24/30
Mechanics 8/10
No real major mechanical flaws, but again I’m judging on the highly strict level. Only a couple of noticeable moments, and so the deductions.
Clarity 8/10
The shift from Shinsou to Cavum Ira leaves the reader a bit confused as to what is transpiring, but outside of those moments, the reader never finds themselves at a loss for what is happening or why (or how). Again, the bold strategy to utilize Cavum Ira hurt you here instead of help you.
Technique 8/10
Much like my notes to Rayse and Storm, you also did well to not overuse literary techniques, and to keep them within the flow of the thread. Kudos.


Wildcard 10/10


Total 75/100


Elite Optic
Plot 22/30
Story 7/10
See comments to everyone else. Same exact thing for you.
Setting 7/10
Much like I noted with Shin, this thread, especially your posts and his, could’ve happened just about in alleyway, in any city, in any province of Althanas. It was a tapestry in front of which the characters performed, but the interactions never really felt vibrant enough to bring that tapestry to life.
Pacing 8/10
You kept the pace moving, and nothing as a reader felt too fast or too slow. You deftly flowed from one part to the next without any noticeable lag, or at least none that jarred me as a reader. Good job.


Character 21/30
Communication 7/10
You do well with most of Elite’s dialogue, but at times it reads a bit dry. The bits between Sorian and Elite always work well, but I wanted just a tinge more of the exuberation from Elite at his flaming limbs and weapon.
Action 7/10
Pretty much the same as Communication for you. Nothing truly out of place in this one, or out of character, but that little bit more would’ve done wonders for you.
Persona 7/10
The differences between Sorian, who has this bit of a past that you alluded to, and Elite Optic, who although he has this chasm of a past yet never feels connected with, were well played. My only real point of contention again comes from the same bit where I wanted more from the reaction to the flames, maybe even something when Rayse used it the second time. Instead, Elite just kind of stood that.


Prose 21/30
Mechanics 6/10
Your major deductions were for awkward tense changes and misuse of words. While I won’t list out all of them here, if you want a breakdown specifically, PM me and I’ll be happy to provide it.
Clarity 8/10
Honestly, your clarity in this thread was spot on. As a reader, I never found myself wondering what happened or why, and I chalk that up to your growing familiarity with Elite as a character and as a battle-hardened veteran.
Technique 7/10
As I noted with Mechanics, there were a few awkward tense changes, and those hurt you here mostly because they hindered techniques. You still managed to throw out a nice use of a pregnant pause or two, and nothing you did was overbearing on the flow of the thread.


Wildcard 10/10


Total 74/100




Winners are Unreasonable Gentlemen!


I will calculate rewards tomorrow. My apologies for the delay on those!

EDIT: Rewards as follows
Storm Veritas receives 4225 EXP and 125 GP
Rayse Valentino receives 4225 EXP and 120 GP
Shinsou Van Osiris receives 1000 EXP and 125 GP
Elite Optic receives 1000 EXP and 100 GP

Rewards have been added!