RE: When Heroes Fail (Full Version)

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Kellehendros -> RE: When Heroes Fail (5/17/2016 21:22:24)

Cendra’s glare swept from the old man to Tahir. “A great deal of pain might have been avoided.” She shook her head, the wolfish smile returning. “I did not come here to speak of old times. I have come for the Spear. You have refused to relinquish it. That puts us at an impasse.” The exile glanced over her shoulder, back towards the entrance to the temple and the cooling body of the dead acolyte. Her blue eyes landed on Marisa as a frown creased her face. “Nice of you to join us.” She motioned with her free hand to the Saint. “I’ll deal with Tahir. Take care of this one.”

The outlaw apparently had no more to say on the matter, for she turned back towards the Paladin and stalked to her left. She made her way between two sections of pews, leaving the remaining Saint looking helplessly between Cendra, Marisa, and Flannagon, a pair of curved kukri knives in her hands. The slender swordwoman paced slowly, almost reverently, towards the altar, Tahir pivoting to keep himself facing her squarely.

“You can still turn back, Quisling. Save your skin, run back to your exile.”

The skin around Cendra’s eyes tightened, the blue orbs sparking with fury, but the lupine smile had vanished from her face, covered by a countenance of fierce determination. No, there was no turning back now. This was the path that she had chosen, the avenue to which her choices, good and ill, had lead her. She would follow it to whatever end it led. Wordless, the exile quickened her pace, charging up the aisle. Her sword drifted out to one side as her right hand formed a loose fist.

On the altar Tahir scowled, angling the false Spear down at her from his slightly elevated position. Cendra reached the foot of the stairs and spun, expecting the sharp downward thrust from her opponent. Her hand flashed out and up, forefinger and pinky crooked down at the ground as her wrist rose. A noxious cloud of ash burst into the air, sending the Paladin backwards in retreat, a coughing in disgust. The outlaw followed, sword spearing for the man’s side but foiled by the weapon’s haft as Tahir spun the Spear to knock the blow away. The pair clashed across the altar space, the sound of battle, clashing metal, grunts of exertion, snarls of fury, echoing and reechoing disturbingly amid the hallowed hall.




Apocalypse -> RE: When Heroes Fail (5/22/2016 11:37:40)

The first leg of the journey was the easiest; Hendrik had left the tavern at the opportune moment where his would-be captors had fanned out to hunt him. The elf saw no one save a few stragglers on their way home. He avoided those he could and staggered his way by those that he could not. None tried to stop him but one did give him a drunken salute in his stupor. The pirate had replied in kind before stumbling his way into a heap of crates. It had been a planned toppling but nonetheless Hendrik had caught a corner in the inside of his thigh. The limp he had when walking away had been two parts intentional and one part pain. The affected area already felt tender under his weight.

Things became more difficult as Hendrik left the southern quarter. Being too deep into his drinks no longer served as viable cover from the Saints' searching eyes. With the facade abandoned, the scourge relied on the skills earned in his unsavory practices. Every barrel and tarp provided cover, every alley a chance to vanish from sight. The slightest noise was reason enough for Hendrik to obscure himself in his surroundings. He had done well for most of the journey, but his luck fell short as he neared the Plaza of the Paladin.

He heard rather than saw a trinity of Saints. He ducked into the nearest alley only to ran smack dab into another night prowler. The woman underneath the hood was young of face and wearing a dark cloak that reached past her knees. She had all the makings of a common thief from her attire to her gaunt look. A glistening knife was clutched in her right hand. A heartbeat of stillness separated the two before the stranger made her move. She thrust the knife forward but Hendrik caught her arm, the elf's strength dwarfing hers With his other hand, the scourge jabbed his fingers into his foe's throat. The thief sputtered as Hendrik grabbed her blade arm and twisted around her. A wrenching of the arm caused the knife to fall. From there it was a simple matter to grab the head and neck and give it a sharp twist. The end was just as quick and sudden as the beginning. He eased the now lifeless body onto the ground as he waited for the roaming guard to pass. Sorry, love, Hendrik thought as the Saint's footsteps disappeared into the distance, but tonight did not belong to you.

His entrance to the Plaza of the Paladin was uneventful; a few dead Saints were the only ones to greet his return. "Unlucky wretches." The lack of living sentries boded for his companions' success. "Now where is...there we are," Hendrik said as he perched over one of the bodies. He extracted the dart from what was left of the eye and wiped it clean on the dead man's clothes. He pocketed it and gave it a couple light taps to nudge it into place. With that, Hendrik made for the temple.

***

The Owl raised her right fist and the company came to a halt. "What the-", Rekis began before Ullr clamped a hand over his mouth. Sylvana tilted her head as she focused. The cry came again, this time much louder and clearer. Whoever the voice belonged to was coming from the alley ahead, the one leading to the Plaza of the Paladin. A good indication that the Lady Supplicant had been right but an ill omen for the city. She signaled to the alley with two fingers. Hans and Ullr moved to their positions on either side - Hans ready to pounce and Ullr with a hand to the ground. The captain peeled away to the side and out of sight. Rekis had been taken aback by the affair but was quick to follow his commander. Aendi, on the other hand, had long slipped into the shadows. Sylvana scanned her surroundings but was unable to locate her silent Saint. Once upon a time those disappearances had been unnerving. Now they were a standard reassurance.

The screams had been replaced by the pounding and scratching of metal on stone. A soldier, though whether it belonged to the enemy was yet to be seen. Ullr raised three fingers. One digit curled into his palm in a countdown. Hans nodded and flexed his own hands. Another finger joined his forming fist. Sylvana could hear the heavy breathing of the approaching stranger. Ullr's countdown came to an end...

Sylvana caught the glean of moonlight on steel as Hans sprung from his hiding place to catch his prey. Great arms engulfed the terrified man and trapped him. Hans's sheer height forced the man on his tiptoes as the giant held him tight. The Saint's mouth opened again to let loose another piercing cry.

"Man, hold your tongue," the Owl said as she stepped from the shadows. Unknowing eyes swept across her but did not recognize her as the Saint continued to cry out. In four brisk steps she crossed the distance to him and clenched his jaw with her armored hand. Cold sweat dripped down the Saint's face as his eyes darted to his new assailant. "Recognize me now?" she asked. The moonlight bathed her form, reflecting off the intricate designs of her helm and giving life to its winged form. Some of her fellow Saints made jests of her nocturnal nature, but none had dared to do so when she appeared as this.

The petrified Saint broke out of his stupor to shake his head up and down. With ease, Sylvana released her grip. She gave a nod and Hans relaxed, easing the man back onto the ground. The soldier of misfortune made no noise but heavy breathing as he stared in what might have been terror of awe as the rest of her Flock came into view.

"You were stationed at the Plaza of the Paladin," Sylvana said. Stating, not asking. "What. Happened."




Kellehendros -> RE: When Heroes Fail (5/24/2016 21:51:02)

Her blade flickered up, deflecting Tahir’s questing spearpoint with a scring of metal running over metal. Cendra smiled her wolf smile and advanced, pushing the Paladin back, step-by-step across the altar. Her foe’s face was strained as he whirled, the Spear’s haft whickering through the air toward her ankles. The exile leaped the strike, landing lightly and swiping a swift rebuke across Tahir’s shoulder, drawing blood and a grimace of pain. “What happened?” Cendra taunted, rapier sweeping through a blood-throwing arc. “You’re slow, soft, old.”

Tahir snarled, scything the Spear across his body and driving her back a step. “Curse you. May you never find peace or rest, blasphemer! Baan will strike you down for your transgressions!” The Paladin pushed harder, Spear spinning, slashing, thrusting as he drove the slender swordswoman back. “You never should have returned, never! I will be Baan’s agent of judgement upon your wickedness!”

Cendra gave ground judiciously, letting her smile falter as though the Paladin’s onslaught was rattling her confidence. In truth, she felt energized, more alive than she had felt in years. Her rapier flickered, flashed, deflecting Tahir’s blows and foiling his strikes. The outlaw felt as if she could take on five Tahirs. She felt young again, as if she had somehow been transported back through the years to the heady days just after her appointment, when all the world had seemed to spread out at her feet, waiting for her to lay her hands upon it.

He took that from you. Her eyes narrowed and Cendra halted, blade weaving a net of steel as Tahir sought desperately to drive her back. He could sense it, his momentum being sapped, his holy fury losing purchase before the exile’s absolute defense. Brefon had taken that from her. Taken her triumph, her possibility, and Tahir had been his willing dog.

She surged forward, right hand shaping around a gesture, a film of ichorous liquid coating her glove. Cendra waded in, thrusting, seeking a hole in the Paladin’s guard. Blade and blood sang together as she came on, and the taunting lupine grin returned as she forced Tahir back again, his parries slowing, his blocks becoming more desperate.

Then she saw her opening and struck.

The Spear clattered off her blade and the exile’s hand flashed in like a striking snake, fastening on the weapon’s wooden shaft. Tahir staggered in surprise as the weapon was jerked back against his pull. Cendra growled something incomprehensible, clamping down on the haft with her hand, the tarry substance coating her glove soaking into the wood and warping it. For a moment the Spear itself seemed to groan in protest, and then the wood snapped with a high, brittle crack. The Paladin’s eyes widened in horror. “Impossible!”

It was too much for the remaining Saint. Horrified beyond measure by what she had witnessed here, the woman broke. Her blades clattered to the stones as she took to her heels and fled for the temple door, no thought in her head but to put as much distance between herself and the Blighted as possible.

“Baan’s judgment.” Cendra returned venomously. Her hand flicked down, smooth and steady, unerringly accurate as it snatched the falling Spear’s head from the air, and then reversed and drove it into Tahir’s chest; her rapier slid through the stunned man’s guard, finding a nearby home in his flesh as well. “Just ask when you see him.”

Tahir shuddered, the Spear’s haft clattering woodenly to the ground as his hands came up and gripped the outlaw’s shoulders reflexively. “N-n-not p-poss… Never…”

“Never in hate, yes.” Cendra’s chill voice was as poisonous as her smile. “But I am willing to make an exception for you and Brefon. Before you go, one last thing you should know.” She released her hold on the Spearhead, grabbing Tahir’s shoulder. There was a faint hiss as smoke began to rise from the cloth, fraying and burning away under the aegis of whatever foul substance lingered on her gloved hand. The exile pulled the Paladin forward, twisting her blade. “The Spear was never here. You gave your life for a worthless fake. May the Pit take you, Tahir.”

With a final wrenching flourish, she tore her blade from the Paladin, casting him aside disdainfully. A shiver of heat flashed through her and Cendra shuddered in enjoyment. One down, one to go. Once her business with the Wyrm was concluded, she was going to enjoy settling accounts with Brefon.




Caststarter -> RE: When Heroes Fail (5/27/2016 18:41:57)

Cendra hardly seemed pleased with my presence. Predictable, seemingly weak. Though, have to take care of this one? Better than Tahir, I guess. As I held the grip of my cold blade, I stared at the nervous Saint. She was obviously afraid. Seeing a companion, dead. Obvious by the other body. Cendra truly is a killer. Is that why she is called Quisling? If only… no time.

I towered over the Saint on the ground, with a faint whisper from mouth to ear. “Can leave now, you know. Keep your life intact. Needless sacrifice, no?” The Saint held her knives even harder. “...Baan?” The Saint settled down a tad. “Do you need to do battle? I understand your predicament, if so.. Thinking Blighted are just plain evil is false though. I wanted justice, but my idea of justice was just grossly different from the normal mindset.” Grip tightened. No use in the end. Have to fight regardless. This one wants to avoid being Blighted. Being Blighted is to be treated worse than a slave. At least a slave can have some right, yes? Could hear her heavy breathing. About to be driven by the flight or fight response, with those eyes shaking erratically and what not.

The Saint’s eye looked in the other direction in horror then. Was about to look while keeping an eye on the horrified Saint before I came crashing into the ground when the Saint dashed into me, knocking me into the ground. Shook my head and took a glance at the altar. Tahir’s soul was now gone from this world. Cendra killed again in cold emotion. Perpetually focused on an objective. But for herself, perhaps? Wheeze Walked up, but kept a distance as to not provoke a lethal reaction. Just will wait for a response for now. Pretend that the Saint was dealt with. Perhaps being here would lead some distinct trust in ability? I know I could have proved myself in battle from just now but I want to prove myself against someone a bit higher. Not someone who can not control their instincts.
---

Logre and his retinue marched across the streets in unison. They gave haste though, for they were on a time limit before too much happens at the plaza. As such they took the shortest possible route from where they were stationed. Logre was in the lead, along with another Saint who acted as his personal tracker. “Marx.” Logre briefly let out.

“Yes, sir?” The tracker shifted his eyes slightly in Logre’s direction.

“You know who you could possibly meet, yes?” Logre stared into Marx's soul, gauging whether he will fall in regret.

“Yes.” Marx was fully aware. He overheard certain conversations from Logre quite sometime ago, behind cover. He slid his spear underneath his arm, hand right next to the head.

“Make sure you do not let your conflicted emotions overcome you. We have a duty, in the end.” Logre was strict in this regard, despite his own conflictions. They both knew why though. Someone of great potential was lost to them. Yet their duty forbade them to think of it as a lost. Just another instance of evil blacking one’s soul.

With that, silence. Silent as the windless plains outside their metal feet hitting the stone of the city. Marched, marched. A miniature war their movements constructed.

Logre held up his hand to signal his retinue to steady. He noticed other Saints in the vicinity were questioning another Saint, one driven by fear. He slammed his feet across the group to get the unknown group his attention. “Pardon me, please. State your names, organized group, and objective.” Logre tilted his head downwards on the fearful one, with a tad unsettling stoic expression hidden by his facial hair. “Calm, now. No harm is after you.” He then looked at Marx to signal himself and motioned him to come forward. Logre, however, partly knew what has happened. Violence has erupted at the plaza. He needs to march on quickly, before the worst event happens. He will need this group though as assistance, considering the strength he has encountered earlier.




Apocalypse -> RE: When Heroes Fail (5/29/2016 23:57:58)

The walk from the fallen Saint to the temple door allowed Hendrik a few heartbeats to reflect on the situation. Cendra had remarked that they were here to claim a grand treasure. It would not be the first time the scourge had robbed a place of worship.. How often was it that riches were stored among those who preached to the masses about giving all they had to their fellow man? Hendrik shook his head as he approached the decorated entrance to the temple. The stench of hypocrisy was more than enough to justify a bit of thievery.

The door burst forth from within, and the pirate was fortunate enough not to be caught by its swing. Hendrik braced his left leg back as someone slammed hard into him. “Ho there, what have we got here?” Strong seafaring hands caught her by the arms and pinned them to her side. The Saint stared wide-eyed in terror as he flashed his teeth with equal parts desire and wickedness. "So eager to flee, love? She struggled to pull away but could not escape the Blighted’s grasp. Hendrik pivoted on his feet and threw her to ground. Her head hit the ground with such force that the impact alone would have killed her had it not been for her helmet. Her saving grace of a hunk of metal was knocked loose by the collision and went careening across the plaza. "Here," said Songblade, brandishing his boarding axe, "let me lend a hand." The brutal weapon rose into the air and came crashing down with a sickening crunch. A spurt of blood blemished the scourge's face. "A shame." Hendrik placed a foot on the dead's neck and gave the axe a tug. It dislodged itself to reveal a hideous gash across his victim’s face. "Thought I would go the night without making a mess. Temptation is too seductive a mistress." There was satisfaction to be found in a clean death, but nothing quite compared to the sensation of allowing the primal side to rear its ugly head.

The elf gave a two-note whistle as he approached the temple's door. With no regard for secrecy, he thrust it open with the bravado of a stage performer. The sight of a slew of his crew mates was accompanied by the odors of ash and iron. Cendra and the others had been busy little bees in his absence.

"Found that treasure yet, or still dealing with the complications?"

***

With the approach of the other captain, Sylvana raised an open palm to keep her Saints silent. The Owl recognized Logre by his face, though she could not say that she knew the man. "If the good captain wishes for answers, it would be best to speak to their captain, Sylvana Raelin." Logre was her senior in years but not in rank. Any commands to her men, however polite, were not his to make.

“Under orders of Merkia the Supplicant, we are to guard the temple against the supposed threat of the Quisling’s return.” Sylvana turned and nodded to the Saint who had fled his post. “Speak. Tell us what has happened.”

The Saint darted his eyes from captain to captain before swallowing hard. “In…in the Plaza of the Paladin, we were set upon by a marauder.”

Sylvana drummed her fingers against the halberd’s shaft. “The Quisling?”

The Saint shook his head. “A man. Short with long hair.” The Owl let out a small breath. “Used darts and blades.” Beads of sweat dripped down the exposed skin of his face. The man was still shaken by the turn of events. Sentences came out short and words repeated more than once. But the tale came nonetheless – how one had killed two, how the marauder had fled and been pursued, how others had arrived and overtaken the stationed Saints. What disturbed the captain the most was not the number of invaders nor the slayings, but the revelation of the presence of Paladin Tahir.

When the man was finished, Sylvana put a hand on his shoulder. “Go – tonight you have done your duty. Rest, for your burden will be carried by others.” With eyes lowered out of either relief or shame, the Saint made his departure. The Owl turned to face her fellow captain. “Let us make haste. The Quisling has set her eyes on the Spear of Agemon or the life of the Paladin.”




Kellehendros -> RE: When Heroes Fail (5/31/2016 22:43:58)

But that is deep beneath the earth, where even Wyrms are not wont to burrow, I suppose. Do not think I have not pondered it, in my time. Those caverns, graven beneath the earth by inhuman hands, so far below even the deepest catacombs and pilings of fair Palora’s foundations... Who delved those subterranean expanses, for what unfathomable purpose? That such a passage should reach so far, touching the grounds of the Temple of Baan itself...


It matters little, when all things be told. The workmen reported an old and crumbling tunnel had been found during the course of the renovations. At first we had thought it merely an access to an old sepulcher, some tomb upon which Agemon’s temple had been erected, perhaps even the Tomb of the First Paladin himself. No one ever knew what happened to Agemon. He passed his title to his successor and vanished from the city’s records without a trace. Would that it had been a tomb, rather than that treacherous descent. But then, I needed it, and its discovery was perhaps the will of the gods themselves.

It is folly to question the motivation of gods and Wyrms. Qualbeck told me that when he stepped aside and I rose to the office of Paladin. Would that he had never recommended me to the Conclave, that I had never been a Saint at all. It would be better than this.

I can only say that I have done what I judged to be best. The Conclave cannot understand the Spear’s purpose. I cannot myself. Having held it, I can hardly describe it. Words slide off the weapon like the tip of a blade against a well-wrought shield. No, I cannot fathom the deepest purposes of the Spear, but I knew what must be done. The Spear had to be hidden. Vermonox lives. The Wyrm cannot be killed, except perhaps by the Spear. But the Spear…

Never mind that. Let the confession be complete, let the tally of my sins be known, even if only within these meager pages. I sent the workmen down into that pit, armed with my instructions regarding what I required of them. I isolated them there, down in that cavern, sending supplies in using chosen Saints upon whom I could rely, and once the work was completed, I feted them, Saints and workmen both. No doubt they thought me mad to have such a celebration in that pit, no matter the improvements made to it. But they were willing to celebrate nonetheless. The project had been long and arduous, and they deserved a celebration. I gave it to them.

And used it to poison them all.

The Spear waits beneath the city. May the trial of its discovery and recovery prove test enough for the Spear to find what it requires. May the hand for which it is meant find it swiftly.

And may Baan forgive me for what I have done.


~The Blasphemies of the Forty-Second Paladin, Book of the Wyrm



Cendra cleaned her blade on the hem of her cloak, straightening up and casting a swift gaze around the temple. The Saint had fled, leaving the old man, Marisa, and herself with the company of the two corpses. Annoyance flashed across the exile’s face. If the Saint made it to a command post, reported their presence… Still, it was done, and there was nothing else for it now. They would simply have to hurry things along.

To that end, the slender swordswoman stepped over Tahir’s body, moving back to the case that had held the faux-Spear and examining it for a moment. She found it much as she remembered it, but her inspection was interrupted by the sound of whistling from back at the door. Cendra turned towards the sound; blue eyes landed on the form of the rakish elven pirate, and a smile crossed her face. If the others had let her down so far, Hendrik had more than made up for it. The man had grit, and a certain flair for the dramatic. The exiled appreciated the former, and was rather surprised to find that the latter, of little use to her in the days before she had been Blighted, was coming rather in handy now. Without his distraction, getting into the temple would have been a nightmare, and Tahir might even have escaped.

So perhaps she owed him for his apt assistance. The outlaw found the matter did not really bother her. It would have once, but now Tahir was dead and the Spear was almost within her grasp. So what if the Saints were closing in? She had found someone she could rely upon.

At least until he finds out who you are. Cendra’s smile faltered at that thought. Her eyes darting to Marisa and the old man. Hendrik had not been present for the confrontation with Tahir. These two knew who she was; the old man had known for some time. They had held back during the duel, but now that Tahir was dead…

Keep moving. Yes, that was the key. Keep the momentum on her side, deny them the chance to act, to turn the situation to their own ends. And the pirate’s words gave her just the opening. “Good to have you back.” She smiled again, turning her gaze back to Hendrik. “Just finished with the complications.” Cendra turned back towards the case, running a hand along the underside slowly. A snap echoed through the nave as she broke a tile from the case, followed by a quiet snick as her fingers found the switch hidden behind it.

There was a faint rumbling from below, and then the grating of rocks being ground together as the case, and the stones upon which it was mounted, began to slide to one side, revealing a black and yawning chasm with a ladder carved into its side and vanishing into the gloom. “As for the treasure, it waits below.”




Apocalypse -> RE: When Heroes Fail (6/4/2016 23:10:24)

Of the Blighted who had gathered in the Third Burning only four had made it inside the walls of the temple. This, rather unfortunately, did not seem to be in accordance with some grand design but rather a consequence of the missing members’ ineptitude. Still, it could very well be a blessing in disguise as an extra set of hands was not always a helpful pair.

The witch he could do without, but the absence of Lilac was a right shame. There was nothing like the sight of a beautiful woman to perk up morale.

Speaking of beautiful women, Cendra at least seemed glad at the pirate's return, though there was a flash of what may have been dismay on her face as she stole glances at the other two. Hendrik furrowed his brow as he turned his gaze as well. There was no doubt that Cendra had just slain her enemy – a noble of some sort judging by his attire - and the bloody knife was a clear indication that the cripple had dispatched the other corpse blemishing this holy place. Three Blighted, two dead, one survivor.. Perhaps Cendra’s look had stemmed from what had transpired; sick little bird had failed to silence her target and now the captain felt the whole operation was at risk. Well, he had good news for her.

"Killed the Saint that tried to escape," Hendrik said as he strolled towards Cendra. "The guards after me are on a wild-goose chase in the southern quarter as well. Should have some time on that front." He brushed up aside her as the stone shifted to unveil a dark descent into an abyss. Experience had taught the elf the stronger the defenses the grander the treasure...and the greater the perils. If luck favored them, then the Saints and the hidden passage would be the last of their obstacles. Hendrik clenched his fist as tingling took his left hand and spread up his forearm. There was no fortune or favor for the Blighted but that they formed themselves.

"Shall it be you first or me, love?"




Caststarter -> RE: When Heroes Fail (6/5/2016 16:18:38)

She looks annoyed. Great. What can I do?

Oh, whistle? Bets on the seafarer. 3,2,1. There he is. What will our ventures brings us now? The prospect is just waiting to burst right out. Glanced at Cendra for a moment. Is it me, or is it the first time I saw a smile on her face? Must be taking a liking of the seafarer then, considering he just returned. He does have merit. Oh, he even confirmed that he slain the escapee. That will perk up Cendra some more. No matter, I suppose, of what choice I made in the end.

Tilted my head to the side to get a better view of the door. Contemplated on events for a bit, both that happen and possible. All a bit unnecessary in many ways. Think this and think that. Scrap that and merge this with that. Then, all of a sudden, stone separated to form a passageway, startling me a tad. Wheeze I retreated to Cendra’s side and gazed into the chasm. How come does she know this? She should be no regular Saint in order to know all of this. Could her being called “Quisling” be involved? In any case… the spear could be down there. “Let us just do this before daybreak or at least any point that someone could visit this place.” I muttered slightly, removing my confused and shocked expression from beforehand.

Of course, the seafarer is going for another flirt. Looked at Cendra for a question myself. “In the event that anyone comes, what should we do? There are now only three of us, where we lost the rest,” I shook my head in both irritation and being baffled. “For some unfathomable reason.” Let out a puff of air. “If anyone comes, we might not be able to fight back. Considering you seem to know the place.” That last part is especially important, for many obvious reasons that everyone can see.




Kellehendros -> RE: When Heroes Fail (6/8/2016 22:56:06)

Cendra arched a brow at Hendrik’s words, nodding her thanks. The Saint’s death was regrettable, but it was a necessary sacrifice for the greater good. If the Saints captured the Blighted… It did not bear to think upon the consequences, not just to themselves, but to the city as well. They had to get the Spear, that was the only thing that was important. Killing the Wyrm was worth any sacrifice.

The exile had told the truth in the tavern earlier. There would be no thanks for her and the others. Perhaps there was a redemption for them in the Wyrm’s death, but if their chances had been slim before, they were slimmer now, with half the party missing. Killing the Wyrm was all that she could hope for. That was knowledge she could live with.

As for the others, what they could live with was of little concern to her at this point. Marisa seemed to realize the problem herself, unknowingly echoing the outlaw’s thoughts by pointing out that their party was rather reduced in number from what they had begun with. But Cendra only shook her head and motioned to the ladder. “We descend. What we need waits below, beyond the Door.” The fact she herself was not quite certain how to open the Door would go unspoken just now. They would figure that out once they were there.

“Come, we have much to do.” She stepped to the edge of the descent and then glanced at the elf, coloring slightly at his question. “If you would go first, do so. But I’m afraid I’ve no skirt for you to sneak a look up.” Cendra replied before glancing at the doors. The pirate started down and the exile wondered vaguely what had happened to Jana. Her cousin had vanished somewhere between the Third Burning and the temple. She harbored a vague hope that the woman was alright, but like the other lost Blighted, Jana was someone she had little time to think about just now.

Banishing the matter, the slender swordswoman pulled her left glove back on and slipped over the edge of the descent. After the first dozen rungs, the passage became increasingly dark, the light dwindling to an ever-shrinking square farther and farther above. Hendrik’s voice floated up to her from the dimness below. "So captain, just what are we after? The Spear of Agemon, or did the good old Paladin have some other artifacts?"

Cendra continued down, the light continuing to dim about her as the shadows seemed to swell and thicken. “It is the Spear we need. It is the only weapon capable of slaying Vermonox. I have no interest in whatever else Agemon may have left behind. Surely there is something else below. Help yourself. Agemon is not like to object.”

And still they continued down. It seemed like hours in the dark, but it could not have been more than a handful of minutes at most. The temple was just a minuscule speck far above her head, and the exile could not remember just how deep the ladder descended. Her shoulders ached and her legs felt rubbery from the constant careful task of seeking out each lower foothold as she let herself down rung by rung into the pit. It was a miserable, interminable journey, and reaching the bottom was such a surprise that the exile actually staggered, fetching up against the elven pirate in shock and grabbing onto him for support.

“Your pardon.” Cendra spluttered, regaining her equilibrium. Moving carefully, she shifted passed Hendrik, feeling along the rock wall. Her gloved hands ran over the interlocking stones blindly, finding a faintly remembered alcove holding a slender lever. With a grunt, the outlaw tugged. There was a mechanical whirring, a series of ratcheting clicks, and then the faint hiss-snap of a fire sparking.

A torch guttered to life and the exile squinted against the fitful glow, blinding after the long darkness. About her flickered a halo of feeble light cast by the torch, revealing the disheartening sight of a set of stairs heading down into more darkness. “I’m afraid that we’re only halfway to the Door. The rest is steps.” She glanced at the others, a faint smile on her face. “I suppose this qualifies as a test of endurance. Let’s keep moving.”




Apocalypse -> RE: When Heroes Fail (6/15/2016 0:36:16)

“I may be no gentleman but I like to think myself a cut above the common pervert,” Hendrik said before swinging his leg over the edge. There was a pause as the elf gazed down into the abyss, his eyes unable to discern the bottom. No risk, no reward. As the scourge descended into the perilous pit, trepidation began to pool in his left hand. It was if a snake had slithered beneath his skin and coiled around bone and muscle alike. While the promise of the spear was almost certain, the presence of an escape route was not. Even with the legendary weapon in hand, Hendrik doubted that this motley crew would be able to withstand an onslaught of Saints.

Though it appeared Palora’s guardians would be the least of the Blighteds’ worries before their journey was over. With Cendra’s confirmation, it was revealed that these faulted fools and dastards were on the path to slay the eternal wyrm, evil incarnate and corrupter to all. Hendrik descended half a dozen rungs before realizing he had been holding his breath. While the elf fancied himself a fighter and select others of the group had proven themselves capable, none had the makings of a hero of myth. A ship without a proper crew could not sail, and the spear of legend would vanquish no foes in the hands of oathbreakers.

It was while in this thought that Hendrik reached the bottom. His foot struck hard ground sooner than expected, causing the elf to stagger a couple steps. He was not the only one to be caught off-guard by the floor as Cendra stumbled into him heartbeats after he righted himself. Her hands grasped for his frame and Hendrik’s right arm encircled the captain’s figure to steady her. The warmth of her body spread along his hand even as icy pain flowed from the blemish on the other. Fingernails bit down into skin but Hendrik did not feel them. The only indication of their presence and pressure was the slick sensation of blood ebbing from the wounds on his palm.

Vile little beastie, daring to act up when his master was out with new acquaintances. Could it not stay dormant until the task was done? Or…perhaps it could sense the weapon of its destruction nearby? The scourge flexed his fingers and clenched his hand as Cendra’s form was lit by a burning torch. Among the chatter of metalwork, Hendrik noticed the light being cut off from above as the plunge into darkness was revealed before them. Every step forward involved the previous one crumbling behind them. The path of a righteous crusade, not a burglary.

“No point in waiting,” the elf said as he took the torch with care. “Let us be on with it.” With fire alight in one hand and ice pulsing in the other, the Blighted scourge led the dark descent.




Kellehendros -> RE: When Heroes Fail (6/19/2016 16:34:04)

Cendra cast a last glance up into the somber blackness above them, relinquishing the torch to Hendrik’s hand as she peered into the shadows. She was remembering the last time she had been down here. Then, as now, the faint rumblings of unseen machinery, the sealing of the passage back to the surface, filled her with a vague disquiet. From experience the exile knew that pulling the lever again would cause the altar stone above to slide back and reopen the passage to the surface, but these mechanisms were ancient, surely as old, or nearly, as the temple itself. Who knew how long they would continue to function properly?

Shaking her head, the slender swordswoman left her contemplation of the ladder shaft, the landing around her growing increasingly dim as the elven pirate carried the torch away to the steep descending stair. It was not a pleasant descent. The stairwell was narrow, its walls damp with the perspiration of the earth and crusted with some manner of lichenous growth. It burrowed through the earth with monotonous regularity. Six steps down, a turn to the left, six steps down, a turn to the left.

Once again, as she had last time she was here, Cendra tried to keep track of the steps. Six steps down, a turn to the left. But after reaching two hundred her mind simply shut down, refusing to accept what it was witnessing. Six steps down, a turn to the left. It was not possible. Six steps down, a turn to the left. There was no way they could be so far beneath Palora and still descending. Six steps down, a turn to the left. Her calves ached from the combination of the ladder and this continued, torturous descent. Six steps down, a turn to the left. Ahead, the torch guttered lower in Hendrik’s hand. Six steps down, a turn to the left. The outlaw pressed a hand against her side, her breathing shallow. Six steps down, a turn to the left. Surely they were getting close now. Six steps down, a turn to the left. It was as if the long dead builders had bored this accursed shaft in an effort to reach the Wyrm Pit itself. Six steps down, a turn to the left. If they could not breach the Door… Cendra was not certain she could bring herself to climb the stairs back up. Six steps down, a turn to the left. She might not have the energy left for it.

Six steps down, a turn to the left, and the narrow stairwell flared open. It revealed a room small enough to be illuminated by the fitful glow of Hendrik’s torch, featuring a single low stone table with a pair of matching benches on either side. In one corner was a pile of time-ravaged crates and barrels, their staves bent and hoops rusted, contents long gone to dust. The space was little enough to speak of, but it was positively luxurious in its openness after the confining descent.

With a grateful sigh, Cendra brushed passed the pirate and settled on one of the benches. Her fingers gingerly probed her side, eliciting a faint wince of unvoiced pain. Tired blue eyes flicked over to the Door at the opposite end of the room from the stairwell. It was much as she remembered it: a large stone portal, featureless and immovable double doors meeting perfectly in their frames.

Frowning, the exile rose, moving towards the Door. It was not just as she remembered it, however. Next to the door, set into the wall, was a narrow bore-hole, an open maw with a smaller secondary hole set above it like a black eye. Approaching, Cendra touched the rim of the larger opening, running a gloved finger over the worn lip. To her eye, the aperture looked as weathered and ancient as all the rest of the stonework, but it had to be new, it had to be. She had been down here a dozen years ago and there had been nothing on this patch of wall.

Still, the development was encouraging. Perhaps the gods were smiling on them, though the outlaw did not like the look of the opening. It was obvious someone was going to have to stick their arm in there, and the who knew what might happen? But Cendra had led the others here, and for all their faults that leadership made this, somehow, her responsibility. Before she could imagine what horrible things might come of it, the slender swordswoman leaned forward and slid her left hand into the opening.

It was deep, and Cendra wound up pressed against the wall, her arm swallowed up to the shoulder as she groped blindly within its unseen recesses. There was a cool wind on her cheek from the slender opening above the one into which she was reaching, and she paused in shock as a quiet female voice echoed through the room.

“Who approaches?”

The exile glanced over her shoulder at the others, surprise plain on her face. “My name is Cendra.” On her cheek, the cool wind had ceased, as if something was blocking the small opening, perhaps speaking through it.

“Again, I ask. Who approaches?” The voice replied indifferently.

Within the slot something clicked, and the outlaw felt some manner of cuff or mechanism clamp around her wrist and arm. She gasped, tugging, trying to pull her arm out as panic flashed through her. “Cendra! My name is Cendra!”

“Thrice I ask, and done. Who approaches?”

There was a mechanical grinding and some mechanism within seemed to twist, forcing a cry of agony from the outlaw as pain flashed up her arm, the pressure in her shoulder building as her knees gave out. “Please…” She sputtered, “I’m just… I’m only…” But there was no answer, and the rumbling of the mechanism grew louder until a scream tore itself from her. “Strasna! Strasna Bhayan! Illyra’s mercy, please. I am Strasna Bhayan!”

With a shuddering thunk the clamp released and the exile reeled backwards, crashing to the ground and curling around her bruised and tortured arm. Quiet sobs that could not be attributed entirely to the pain wracked through her as she pushed herself away from the aperture and leaned against the wall.

“But not alone,” the female voice spoke over the sound the former Paladin’s whimpering. “Let the others approach and be recognized.”




Apocalypse -> RE: When Heroes Fail (6/29/2016 0:31:00)

Hollow. Hendrik had often heard that term used by lofty nobles in their ‘fits of passion’ as they ‘poured out their hearts’ contents’ after the latest lass had spurned their advances. The pirate had always thought it an odd word to describe oneself. A chest holds no difference if it’s laden with gold or filled with air. Its lock is no stronger, its frame no sturdier, and its appearance bears no dissemblance. A hollow man would be a dead man if the literal sense were to be taken.

And yet…hollow was the only word the elf could use to describe the sensation as he watched Cendra , no Strasna, no…her curled up like a child. Pain had been etched into the very fiber of her being. Pain not limited to the body but of the soul as well. Hendrik may not be the most well-versed in the history of the deities of Palora, or the Saints, but the tale of the Quisling who was Paladin was unknown to few. Her betrayal, her darkest moment was laid bare for the others to see and judge.

And by what right? Fingernails dug into his palm afresh as he clenched his fists. Who amongst them were to take the role of judge? Were not all of them gathered because of their sins? Each and every one of them had committed betrayal of the highest order. Hendrik’s jaw shuddered as his teeth ground over one another. Their lot were composed of naught but traitors and oathbreakers. They had lost their right to cast judgment.

Boots kicked up dust as Hendrik stomped to the crevasse that had left his captain naked before their eyes. He did not slip his arm in so much as thrust. Despite his shorter reach, the elf still seemed to satisfy the requirement as the voice spoke to him. "Who approaches?"

“My name is Hendrik Songblade,” he said with conviction. “Sailor, scourge, and traitor.”

He held his resolve strong in his face but it faltered in a heartbeat of silence. Would the voice demand the name bestowed upon him at birth? Unlike his captain, Hendrik had given up that name willingly but it may not matter in these depths. His hesitation was assuaged as the voice answered. "Acceptable, if only just."

The pirate gave an exhale a bit too sharp to convey true confidence before turning on his heel. He marched over to where the swordswoman still lay. He stood over and reached down a hand. His left hand.

“Rise, my captain. We are far from done.”




Kellehendros -> RE: When Heroes Fail (7/5/2016 20:36:52)

She wept.

Huddled against the wall, curled into herself, arm throbbing with pain, Strasna wept. It had been nearly ten years since she had named herself truly. In her disgrace she had buried the fallen Paladin under the shroud of the mercenary Cendra. For the first year it had been hard, remembering that she was Cendra, that she was no longer anyone of consequence. She had dyed her hair, hidden her face, taken whatever work there was to be found. It would have been easy to give up, to lay down and die in her ignominy and exile, or even return to the city and accept whatever fate awaited her there.

But the exile had never been able to do it. Each time she had thought herself finished, each time she had thought herself incapable of living another day in her shame, she had done it anyways. Thoughts of guilt had turned to thoughts of vengeance, no matter how petty and outlandish they seemed at the time. And a year had become two, then three, five, ten. Each day was a trial, but somehow each was also easier, as if with each passing month she was a little less Strasna, a little more the name she hid behind.

The Magister’s arrival taken that from her, torn off the layers of scabbing that had formed over her heart. They were old wounds, but they still ached when revealed. And now they knew, and if experience had taught her anything it was that even a Blighted might have hope of acceptance and companionship, if only among her own kind, but the Quisling... The Quisling was universally despised.

Whatever resolve had sustained Strasna, carried her through the long years of disdain, preserved her despite her refuge in the bottle, shattered then. The pain, the humiliation, and the knowledge that the old familiar scene was about to repeat itself again was too much for her to bear. She had failed. Over and over again she had failed, and now, to find herself once more at the foot of that metaphorical hill, the outlaw could not find within herself the will to stand again. All her defiance was gone. She was so tired, and all she felt was hollow inside.

Hendrik was speaking to her. His voice reaching her distantly as she stared at him, dull blue eyes rimmed in red. The elf extended a hand to her and Strasna blinked at it for a moment, uncomprehending. Her gaze shifted up to the pirate's face, searching for some sign of betrayal, some signal that his words, working slowly into her mind, were a cover for a waiting knife in his other hand.

But she could see nothing, nothing except for what his words conveyed. Stunned, Strasna reached out with her battered left arm, clasping his forearm and allowing Hendrik to pull her to her feet. Affection felt almost foreign after so long, but as the slender woman gained her feet she felt a surge of what could almost be called joy. Strasna’s grip on the elf’s arm tightened as she pulled him forward, her right arm coming up around his shoulders and hugging him tightly. She leaned forward and kissed him, impulsively and hard, drawing back after a long moment breathless and flushed. “Thank you, Hendrik. Thank you.”




Apocalypse -> RE: When Heroes Fail (7/22/2016 17:18:54)

Hendrik was, by no means, an amateur in the art of love (or at the very least, in the practice of the physicality of it). That being said, there was the barest sliver of a heartbeat where the elf was taken aback by the swordwoman’s forwardness. He almost left his feet as he was pulled into her embrace. But the scourge recovered as instinct took over when her burning lips met his. Remnants of tears wet his face as the two shared a brief bout of passion. Short-lived but beauteous like the candle flame fluttering in the gale. They broke apart but Hendrik's touch lingered. One hand traced down from her shoulder along her back before grazing over the curve of her thigh. The other rose to cusp her cheek and wipe away the trickle of tears.

“We are bound,” Hendrik began as his eyes flicked from her gaze to his left hand and back again, "by our own faults. The Saints, the citizenry, the undying wyrm and Baan himself are already against us. Who are we to turn on each other?" His hands fell to his side lest his hands begin to wander. The thumps within his chest were already too close together. If only they had a bit more time so he could run his hands through Cendra's hair and across her skin, trail kisses from her lips and down her neck to-

The pirate cleared his throat as he regained his posture. With a glance over his shoulder, he said, "Where are we on that door?"


***


"May Baan have mercy on us."

The scholar's words may have just as well landed on deaf ears for all the reaction they wrought. None moved as the burden of the sacrilege fell upon them. Sylvana could feel the crushing weight on her chest. It was hard to breathe and moving was out of the question. Torchlight danced across the crimson splatters that tarnished these hallowed halls. Beads of sweat trickled down the captain's temple as she removed her helm. She took a harsh gulp before steeping forward.

Gron Tahir, Paladin of Palora and Deliverer of the city during the Roshon War...

Dead.

The Spear of Agemon, slayer of the Eternal Blight and legacy of the First Paladin...

Shattered.

How could she have let this happen?

Merkia had known. Merkia had known the Quisling would return and had placed her faith in the Owl to stop her. And she had been too late. Sylvana stooped down and placed a hand on the deceased paladin's chest. He was still as stone. Now she caught the whiff of ash and smoke as the taste of iron coated her tongue. The mumbling of Rekis went unnoticed as she closed her eyes to embrace her other senses. Fire and blood. Once hailed as the champion of Palora, now these were the marks of the Quisling. Death and destruction would only follow in her wake.

"Still warm." Sylvana's eyes snapped open. Aendi was crouched next to her, a hand feeling the ironic wound where the spearhead had pierced Tahir. She gave a small shrug. "Relatively. The Quisling should not be far."

"Quite." Now Ullr stepped forward as the bronze woman wiped her hand clean. "And if I had a guess..." The veteran strolled up to the case that once held the spear. "When I was green boy, I had a habit of using my gift on anything and everything. From the garrisons to the sewers, I'd map out all the internal structures and inner workings." A gnarled hand stroked the tiles. "Not the most exciting past time, I suppose, but it kept me content." His hand disappeared beneath the flat surface. "Until one day, I found this..."

There was a faint quiet before a rumbling rose from below them. Stone became animated as it shifted out of the way to reveal an abyss below. A ladder welcomed them to descend into the void. Sylvana could not keep her shock hidden as her mouth hung open. A passageway beneath the temple? No, beneath the Spear of Agemon?

Ullr stepped back, refusing to glance down into the pit as he did so. "Once I sensed the fall, I never dared to sense further, much less venture into it. It was a secret I had come upon but had not been entrusted with. I've told no soul, until today."

Her hearts was almost bursting with exhilaration. There was still hope! Whatever treasure the Quisling sought would be in this hidden chamber. And her Saints would be nipping at their heels. Sylvana bowed her head. "All these years, you stood true to your trial. But Baan let you find it for a reason. Our search for justice would have ended in vain if not for the curiosity of a boy." Finding no other suitable option, the Owl hefted one of the fallen's weapons over the chasm before letting it fall. The time between the drop and the distant clash was not welcoming.

"Rekis. Hans. Stand guard over the entrance - lock the Quisling in this cursed pit if she tries to escape. Aendi. Ullr. You're with me. We pursue the Quisling."




Kellehendros -> RE: When Heroes Fail (7/26/2016 22:26:56)

Her heart galloped wildly, and Strasna was distantly aware of what must be a look of longing on her flushed face as she met Hendrik’s gaze, but far beyond those things she was conscious of the elf’s hands as his fingers ran over her body lightly. It was the touch of an expert. The exile swallowed, leaning into his hand as the pirate wiped the tears from her cheek. Her eyes closed and she nodded, grateful beyond telling for his words, for his support. Strasna’s lips parted, drawing in a swift shallow breath to speak; no, to ask…

Ask what? The slender swordswoman drew a second shaky breath as Hendrik drew back, his hands falling to his sides as her blue eyes opened slowly. She was trembling, snared in the midst of sensations that were wildly unfamiliar to her. Duty had always been Strasna’s first instinct. In all her years with the Saints the exile had never had time for anything else, had neither needed nor wanted more. If anything, once she had become Paladin she had been yet further removed from such things. Love, longing, she had thought these things had passed her by. How not, when she had stood atop that nigh unattainable pinnacle? From that perch, to commit her heart to another, even had she wanted to, might evoke the specter of favoritism in any decision she made. But she had fallen from that lofty height, and though Strasna had been convinced that this surely was the end of any possibility, Hendrik seemed determined to prove her wrong.

It was all too confusing, particularly when she had next to no past experience to draw upon. But Strasna met the elf’s next words with equal parts relief and quickly stifled disappointment. “The… the door, yes.” Shaking her head, the outlaw pivoted and turned her gaze to the door. “It…”

The aperture robbed her of her words as swiftly and surely as Hendrik’s touch had. With a grinding rumble of stone upon stone the double doors came slowly open, expelling a blast of dust and the overwhelming stench of corruption. Gagging on the foul miasma, the exile waved one hand in a vain attempt to beat back the odorous vapors, her eyes watering at the horrendous carrion stench. “Illyra’s mercy, what is it?”

By the febrile light of the pirate’s torch the fallen Paladin moved forward, drawing her sword cautiously with her aching hand. Beyond the door was a long and plain hall terminating in a surprise greater than any heretofore. Flickering beyond the arch at the end of the hall was light and, faintly heard upon the rank, still air, the sound of torches crackling.

Strasna edged down the hall, a hand coming up to her mouth reflexively as she coughed. The smell only grew stronger, until the hallway gave out into a charnel house. It must have been an ossuary, some manner of repository for the bones of the dead in ages passed. The walls rolled away from the hall’s exit, soaring into a long oval dome supported by two lines of thick square pillars that divided the space into three long corridors. Upon each side of the pillars were rows of sconces, soot from their dancing flames having long since blackened the surrounding stone though they gave the subterranean space near as much light as if it had been above ground. The grand illumination only served to disclose the gristly contents of the room all the clearer.

Innumerable niches carved into the wall held jumbles and piles of bones; newer deposits stacked upon the old with little regard for order or neatness; the calcified remains varied in state from whole and seemingly new to ancient and crumbling with age. Shattered shards and remnants, ground into meal and dust, were sprinkled everywhere. Yet, that was not the cause for Strasna’s disquiet, nor for the chamber’s noisome stench.

It was not the content of the walls that disturbed her, but rather the fact that the room was liberally strewn with corpses in various stages of decay. Bodies of all descriptions littered the space, from apparently fresh bodies still cooling into death to desiccated mummies ready to crumble into dust. They were garbed in the panoply of war and their discarded, shattered weapons mixed amongst the bodies. Corpses bearing the marks of Palora’s Saints were intertwined with bodies signed with Roshon marks and piled amidst weapons and armors stamped with the sigils of a thousand other lesser kingdoms and petty fiefdoms that had waged war upon Palora in ages passed. The odor of the chamber was appalling, so strong it was nearly a physical force, like a low eddying wave purling about her ankles.

The exile stepped cautiously forward, sword at the ready as she scanned the vault with watering eyes. She stopped short as a female voice called out, drawing her attention to the other end of the chamber.



The Grand Vizier brought it, bound within the gem by which it had been ensnared. I watched him set the gem into the back of the throne in the ossuary and could not help but shudder as the stone flickered, a vapor seeping from its facets and swirling into a form horrible beyond contemplation.

I knew the plan. I knew what he intended. He would release the binding upon the spirit partially, enough to tie it to the spells prepared upon the waiting throne. I stood by the chamber’s entrance, waiting. According to the plan, I was to slam shut the door behind us both should something go amiss. The Grand Vizier had assured me this would hardly be necessary, that the spells upon the throne would trigger as soon as the spirit materialized its physical form, and he intended to watch only to assure himself the bond formed in the manner desired.

So I shot him in the back with a crossbow I had secreted beneath my cloak, and then locked him in with the creature.

My hand trembles as I write this, but I will record it all, and leave judgment to those who come after. I heard a laugh then, one that chills my soul to remember. There was a sound like a rumbling detonation, a crackle of lightning, and then a strong and driving wind. But what followed was silence, until I heard the horrible mockery of a woman’s voice, clear even through the stone of the door.

“I shall hide your secret, little one. We want the same thing, after all. One day the door will open, but will it be for your champion, or his? Mhmhm, tell them Apollyon waits.”

Apollyon, the Bride of Vermonox, mother of his pestilent spawn. Whether the spirit is that most ancient and reviled being, I know not. In truth, I do not particularly care either. It will serve to guard the Spearforge. Mighty as it was, the destiny of the Spear, and of the one who shall wield it, will be stronger. I must continue to rely upon Qualbeck’s advice. If I think too long upon this confluence of fate, I may go mad.

And so I fled, the spirit’s laughter ringing through the stone as though it was no barrier at all. In the days since, I have reflected upon all that I have done, the friendships I have betrayed, the lives I have sacrificed in the name of greater good. We call the Oathbreakers foul and revile their Mark as a mockery of Agemon’s brand. Yet I, hailed Paladin, Agemon’s successor, have more blood on my hands than I can stomach, more than any Oathbreaker, much more.

The gods may have a sense of humor after all.


~The Blasphemies of the Forty-Second Paladin, Book of the Wyrm



“So good of you to come. I so seldom have visitors.” The woman’s voice was enchanting, a lilting soprano that danced through the rancid air like birdsong, managing to convey both amusement, and the slightest hint of disdain. “Particularly of the interesting sort.”

She sat at her ease upon a throne of stone, one leg crossed negligently over the other at the knee, resting her weight upon her right elbow as her left hand traced slow and idle patterns over the throne’s left arm. Her skin was blemishless, a perfect cream shade that would make any maiden jealous. A riotous cascade of raven black locks, so deep the torchlight struck blue highlights from them, fell in magnificent carefree array to frame eyes the color of warm honey fringed by long dark lashes. Full lips parted in a smile to melt the coldest heart as the woman spoke again. “I apologize that the setting is so… distasteful.” Her left hand smoothed a non-existent wrinkle from her dress, a simple peasant cut that seemed to emphasize her unshod status and the lack of any visible jewelry or adornment. Yet, the dress’ white silk material, and the bearing of the woman it encased, spoke of nothing but the highest breeding.

There was a quiet growl from behind the throne, and from its shadow emerged a creature out of nightmare. On the wide, heavy paws of a hunting feline it padded silently around the seat, a whiplike tail lashing back and forth slowly. The body was feline as well, lithe and graceful with killing muscle, but in the place of a furred feline head there was instead the the mottled brown-gold feathers and cruelly hooked beak of a bird of prey. Merciless avian eyes glared at Strasna and the others as the horror settled itself insolently next to the throne. Its eyes slid partially closed as the woman’s left hand reached down, stroking through its feathers and scratching lightly. From the massive chest rumbled an obscene saw-edged noise that must have been a purr of pleasure.

“What is this?” Strasna was surprised by the sound of her own voice, harsh, almost rasping, after the queenly stranger’s dulcet tones.

Upon her throne, the woman smiled, leaning back against the seat. Above her head the throne’s back rose into a graven sun disc, almost a symbol of Baan, but for the pristine heart-cut topaz set into its center. “This is the first test, darling. Are you prepared?”




Apocalypse -> RE: When Heroes Fail (8/9/2016 0:54:33)

Out of the corner Hendrik caught sight of Cendra’s face growing as red as her revealed streak of hair. A quick twitch ran across his lips. The elf had always had a way with the ladies, but this was far more than he had anticipated. Blushing was well within the usual reaction for some…inexperienced nobles but was more often followed by a giggle or hiding of the face. His captain was lost in a torrent of emotion. There was not a thought of doubt in the pirate’s mind as a coy smile crept across his face. All it meant was that he had her.

But his captain pressed on, and Hendrik followed suit. Deeper into the catacombs they trudged, where the walls became lined with skeletons and sickly bones. The elf was about to scoff at the haunted display until the ground became littered with all manners of the dead. Twisted and decayed, deteriorated to the bone and still rotting, it was no longer a catacomb but a graveyard. There were always tales, of course, of great treasures hidden and surrounded by the fallen bodies of their would-be discoverers. Hendrik had found the description quite laughable in his younger years. Not even a hint of a giggle escaped his lips as he stepped over the corpses.

The guardian that blocked their path seemed almost reasonable after the display of death. Tall, pale, immaculate, and unnerving, the woman sat upon her throne as a vicious creature prowled about her master. Beast and Beauty united against this motley lot in this pit of despair below the beloved sanctuary. Hendrik would have laughed at the irony had he not been struggling to overcome the Beauty's allure. Everything about her was perfection. No, beyond perfection. To receive a single lock of hair or the slightest touch of her skin would have been payment enough for their venture into this forsaken abyss.

Beads of sweat dripped down his fist as the scourge clenched his teeth. He avert led his gaze, stormy eyes trailing the predator as it paced round the throne. Gears shifted in his head as he sought the solution to his puzzle. It seemed obvious that the challenge was to slay the devil of a beastie, but there was no promise of the simplest answer being the right one. He licked his lips, his tongue tasting the saltiness of his own perspiration. Quick, decisive actions were how one survived in the company of liars and thieves. Although, having the correct action was also a crucial component. "I, for one, welcome, your challenge,” Hendrik said as he stepped forward, one arm raised in bravado. Pretending to be something else was the easiest way to mask oneself. “You honor me with this opportunity.” His raised limb swept down to cross his chest as the elf took a bow. “May I not disappoint.” The last word was spat out as Hendrik jerked his head up, hand flashing forward in the same breath. A silver streak pierced through the air to strike at the regal figure upon her throne.




Kellehendros -> RE: When Heroes Fail (8/15/2016 10:37:07)

Strasna stared at the creature as it emerged from the shadows, repelled by its alien aspect but similarly fascinated by its fearsome melding of avian ferocity and feline grace. The Beast lounged against its mistress’ throne, staring through half-lidded eyes. She could almost swear that she could feel the air about herself vibrating from the deep-chested purring of the thing, and it was only after a moment that the queenly woman’s words registered.

The exile frowned, tearing her gaze from the Beast and contemplating the woman. “A test. What sort of-” Her question was cut short as Hendrik stepped up beside her and addressed the regal figure himself. Strasna’s lips thinned as the elf bowed, but she made no move to stop the pirate as he made his extravagant gesture. If she had learned anything of her new companion this night, it was that he had a flair for the dramatic. That had, heretofore, served their ends rather well. And then Hendrik’s hand flickered up, launching some manner of bolt at the woman upon her throne.

Unaccountably, the first thought that flashed through the slender swordwoman’s mind was one of the first things the Archon of Illyra had said to her after Strasna had taken the Vow of the Paladin. “Remember that the ability to adapt to a sudden reversal of fortune is the hallmark of wise leadership.”

Was this the test? Slay the woman, kill the Beast? The outlaw had no notion of it, but the enthroned figure had seemed in the mood to speak, and Strasna had hoped to learn at least a little more before resorting to violence. Of itself, that thought was disturbing. Was she so ready to shed blood that she foresaw it as the end to any confrontation? No, that was surely false. Only that… as she had said and thought more than once this night, any sacrifice could be countenanced if it led to the death of the Wyrm. Perhaps in this the elf thought much as she did, and this seemed the best course of action to him. Shaking her head, the exile thrust the thought aside and darted left and away from Hendrik. If they must fight, she desired a little more room to work with, and it would be no great imposition to their chances to divide their enemies’ attention.



One dainty foot, unshod, tapped time upon the air to some unheard tune as the woman considered her visitors. She had watched them, so to speak, as they approached. Perhaps they recognized her voice as that soft and breathy whisper, the one that had challenged them at the door. If they did, it was really of little matter; an idle curiosity, and she could remember now that she had always loved curiosities. How not when she had… But that thought trialed off, dying a quiet death in a foggy part of her mind that was still coming into focus.

It was of little matter, for she had watched them, felt them out, and on the whole she rather approved of what she “saw.” There was enough in each of them to serve. For a moment her serenity was niggled by a doubt, a question of just what that service was, of what currently inarticulable thing she was measuring, finding acceptable. She laughed gaily as Hendrik stepped forward and bowed, uncertainty banished by a feeling of rightness, of players stepping into roles foreordained.

Inclining her head regally, the woman acknowledged Hendrik’s gallantry. A moment later, her hand rose, a languid, almost dreamy gesture as the elf blurred into motion. The silver flash shattered apart an inch from her palm, bursting into a starry constellation whose members fractured away into vanishing vapor. “Kill the girl. I want no interruptions.”

At her feet, the Beast rumbled its assent, sliding smoothing to its paws, padding right and stalking after Strasna. For herself, Beauty closed her eyes, rolled her neck slowly to loosen her shoulders, and rose, tossing her hair over her shoulder and sending a positively smoldering smile in the elf’s direction. “Hendrik, darling, I have heard that you have never left a woman disappointed. Are you really certain we must fight? There are much more… pleasant ways to resolve our differences.”



Strasna’s training as a Saint had prepared her for many things. Fighting a battle an unfathomable distance below the ground, in a charnel house reeking of rot and decay, against a monster the likes of which she had never heard described, was certainly not part of the regular training regime. The Beast almost slithered down the dais, all feline fluidity and raptor focus, killing claws unsheathing from heavy paws that it placed almost daintily as it picked its way between the piled and intermingled corpses.

Footing would be a problem here. There was every chance she could trip on a corpse, or better yet, step on some ancient weapon and lame herself. Of course, moving carefully meant moving more slowly, and moving slowly was like to get her killed. Luck and instinct then, and whatever gods were watching, though the exile had somewhat less faith on that matter than she had once possessed.

Pausing, the Beast tensed itself, feline tail switching back and forth. It seemed to the outlaw that the monster was making ready to spring, or perhaps to call out a challenge. A distant part of her wondered if such a noise would be a feline roar or an avian screech. Yet she was stunned as the Beast’s head snapped forward, beak opening as it spewed not sound but flame. A roiling torrent of fire blazed over the piled corpses, lighting surcoats and charring armor as the cone of blazing heat bore down on her.




Apocalypse -> RE: When Heroes Fail (9/3/2016 1:02:15)

Fragments of the thrown dart clattered across the floor and out of sight as Hendrik kept his gaze locked on the siren. Six left, the elf thought with a scowl as he slipped another between his fingers. Keeping the numbers of fortunes in his favor was a precarious balance – one that was all too easy to flip against him. Skirting the edge of his vision prowled the hulking form of the fearsome beast. With a body composed of nothing but talons, claws, and muscle, Hendrik had half a mind to his second missile loose. It would have solved more than one problem for the pirate. As luck would have it, the creature ignored the scourge and stalked off after the once-paladin.

As the siren rose from her throne, Hendrik awaited the arrival of the burning blood of battle to flood his veins. And the blood did come…in a sense. The soft movements of her shoulders, the faint ripple of grace along her arms as she moved closer and other small dances of her body caused a heat to rise up and through his chest. He let out two sharp exhales in quick succession. Her words were a melody to his ears, singing the song of his desires.

And was she wrong?

The dart fell through the fingers of his limp hand. It made a sharp clack as it collided with the floor. Blood had been spilled aplenty tonight. The tavern, the streets, the plaza, the temple...would it all be so wrong to write a fresh page here in the dark? Hendrik found himself striding towards the siren. A hammer beat on the anvil of his heart. A little more and it would surely explode. The elf had had more than his share of experience with various women of the world, but never had he ever laid eyes on a goddess.

The scourge came to a halt just out of reach of his siren. For once his tongue hung slack in his mouth. He had to wrestle the words out. "I...I suppose that is a favorable alternative..."




Kellehendros -> RE: When Heroes Fail (9/5/2016 19:32:42)

Flame and fury bore down on her and Strasna reacted instinctively, reflexes honed over years of combat and training tamping down panic, muscle and bone moving before the exile’s mind made a conscious decision. Her free hand came up, clawing at the air as though raking at the eyes of an unseen foe. The fire flared in response to her magic and then rippled, tongues of flame bending away from her like two magnets of similar polarity forced apart. The former Paladin’s blood sang, the fire twisting to her will for one glorious instant as it had in the old days before the Oath, before her fall.

And then the world was pain.

A scream tore itself from the exile’s throat, sudden searing agony flooding through her left arm in rebuke and nearly making her drop her sword. Fire danced wildly, unbound from her will, blossoming in crimson flowers that scrawled themselves across the shattered corpses, tore at desiccated flesh and tattered cloth. She had always seen the artistry in flame, the dance of warmth and light the gods had seen fit to let her manipulate. Before the Blight she had been a poet of fire and sword, a flashing blade underscored by flame and marked by glorious light. But Strasna could not see it now. The flames were distant now, fled beyond her reach and smothered beneath the Blight, their light dimmed as if seen through a heavy morning fog. She could force her way back to that place, that magnificent plateau where fire answered her call, but it hurt so much, and more and more often it proved out of her reach. Tears spilled from her eyes, crippling sensations flashing up her arm from nerve endings howling that they were burning. The scent of burnt hair and crisping flesh filled her nostrils as she staggered away from the flames her mind insisted were clawing into her limb.

Some obstruction, unseen in the tangle of bone and bodies, snagged her boot and the outlaw fell, crashing to the ground and beating frantically at her left arm. The traitorous limb was fine, whole and unmarred to her sight but for the black stain of Blight, and yet she could swear that it was burning. Phantom flames danced along her arm, chewing into flesh but leaving cloth and leather untouched. Strasna grit her teeth, snarling with pain as her hand clenched tighter around the hilt of her rapier. “Not real. Not real.

Bone crunched and a deep growl wrenched the slender swordswoman’s attention away from her agony and to the very real threat of the Beast. It stalked towards her, with something she could swear was amusement in its cruel avian eyes. “Hendrik…” Strasna pushed herself back with her heels and the palm of her free hand. Pain and fear mingled in the sheen of sweat across her brow as the Beast slunk closer, claws flexing into the breastplate of a dead Saint and punching four parallel lines through it like the thing was cheap parchment.

She tore her eyes from the creature for a second, gaze taking in the sight of the elven pirate’s weapon falling to the stones, the man moving towards Beauty as if bespelled by the sight of her. Another rippling growl drew her eyes back to the Beast, the creature lowering itself, haunches digging in as it prepared to spring. Heart lodged in her throat, Strasna flailed backwards blindly, only to be brought up short as her shoulder met the chamber’s wall with a dull thud like the closing of a coffin’s lid. “Hendrik!” She cried out, voice wavering on the cusp of panic. “Hendrik, please!”



Beauty’s smile was dazzling as she lifted a hand, twirling a lock of midnight hair about one finger as the Blighted scourge approached. “Yes…” Her voice was gentle, encouraging, the soft sigh of anticipation at the approach of one longed for. The woman’s eyes shone, molten with what must be desire, a husky edge creeping into her tone as Hendrik stopped just out of reach. “Not just favorable, darling, but oh so pleasant as well.”

The Beast roared, Strasna cried out, and the Beauty stepped forward, closing the distance between herself and the elf, lifting a hand to caress his face. “Think no more of unpleasant things my darling, my dearest. Take what is yours. A touch, a sigh, a kiss, more. Take what is yours and give what only you can give.”




Ryu Viranesh -> RE: When Heroes Fail (9/19/2016 21:14:57)

In the moments after she charged forward, Jana’s head grew heavy with the heady mix of adrenaline and excitement, the unspeakably puissant pull of combat - real, pitched combat - a siren’s song to the former Saint. Though she had been in her share of scraps during the ensuing decade, none had ever been able to replicate the profoundly satisfying tingle that she’d felt every day in the field with her squad. It was an indescribable feeling which burned an indelible afterimage onto the soul and made one feel unequivocally empty for its lack. Yet in the instant she felt her blow to the guardsman’s head connect, everything felt right once more; Jana forgot the Blight, forgot her cousin, and forgot exactly why she was there. All that mattered were the soldiers that stood before her and the singular joy it would bring her to leave them writhing on the stones.

It seemed that fate intended that honor for another, for just as the warrior woman twisted toward her targets they were engulfed by a veritable flood of acid. The foul-smelling liquid cast the remaining Saints from their feet and undoubtedly took them out of the fight, simultaneously quashing the symphony in her spirit down to a single sour note. Though it galled her, to be so close and yet so far, Jana restricted her frustration to a frown and made to follow the seaman. The man’s back was already turned to her, leaving him wholly unaware of the acrid annoyance that she felt at being cheated of her prize. Then she heard the tocsin. The whistle was close, and growing closer as its strident call faded; reinforcements would be here before too long.

It was a split second decision, to leave the group behind, but all of this would mean nothing if they couldn’t actually reach the Temple of Baan. Someone would have to keep the rest of the guard off their trail, and who better than her, the one that was familiar with all of their tricks? The siren feigned innocence as Jana mouthed a goodbye and spun on her heels, dashing into the alley opposite their escape route.

The girl’s gait slowed as she slipped onto the adjoining avenue, forcing herself to make an adequate attempt at appearing innocent while she listened for the sound of approaching troops. Beneath the surface she felt a barely contained anticipation, fingers twitching as she imagined what was to come. Every inch of her body practically ached to be put to use and it was growing difficult to beat back the urge to begin her conquest then and there.

This feels wrong.

Jana came to a sudden halt, frowning inwardly. Where had that come from? She cast a quick glance around her, a few guarded looks turning hastily away as those few brave souls remaining on that particular street took their leave. And at that moment came the whistle, its shrill call nearly deafening now. Jana’s head swung immediately to the right, the sound of armored shoes on stone audible as the klaxon faded. No time for this - gotta head them off. The amazon swallowed and hared down the next cross-street, pressing herself up against the building before her and willing her chest to still.

She waited for the first of their ranks to pass by, then the next, the seconds ticking by as she awaited the approach of her moment. It came - and she struck. Jana stepped out just as the last of the rearguard cleared her alcove, swinging her bundle hard at the nearest Saint’s ribs; the man crumpled before he even knew what hit him. Her second target went down nearly as easily as the first, hobbled by a heavy strike to the leg, but by this point the remainder of the back ranks had turned and drawn their weapons, each carefully eyeing her as they began to form a semicircle.

Normally she’d have taken notice of their attempt to entrap her, but Jana was beyond such things now; she was a wolf and they were a flock of sheep, trying to compensate for their lack of ferocity with numbers. There was no fear in her as she charged forward and to the left, her improvised bludgeoning tool crashing into the soldier’s buckler and shoving him out of formation, her wide follow-up swing driving the Saints on either side of her back as well. A laugh escaped from the wild woman’s lips as she brought the bundle back around to turn aside a sword swing, then spun around to smack the soldier across the chest.

How could this feel wrong? If anything, Jana felt more right than she had since she’d broken her Oath. This was where she belonged. A faint buzz raced along her arms as she drew up more mass from her legs, further enhancing the power of the strikes that had already broken three Saints. The manic smile that graced Jana’s face would have made the Magister proud, her transcendent joy almost overpowering as her next blow dropped a guard like a sack of bricks. There were still so many targets, and they even shied away from her now, carefully keeping their distance to avoid taking the full brunt of her strength. How foolish that they thought they could trap - could contain - her, no matter how hard they tried.

Their cowardice made it all the more confusing when her right arm suddenly exploded with pain, her sack slipping from the nerveless fingers that had once held it aloft. She was sent stumbling forward, her lighter legs giving under the force of the blow and sending the stones below rushing up to meet her. Jana lay there, eyes wide as she caught sight of the soldier standing over her; his mace was dyed red with blood. Off to his sides she could see the silhouettes of other Saints, the circle finally closing around her as they were joined by those she’d been fighting In those last moments of lucidity before some unknown shade’s boot collided with her skull, everything clicked into place. And before it gave her more than a few seconds to think about it, her world thankfully, mercifully faded to black.

*****

Jana sputtered to wakefulness, gasping as though to force something from her lungs; droplets of water slid from her sodden form to pool on the floor below.

“Ah, good. You’re awake. That’ll make this much easier.”

A shiver slid through the girl’s frame as she squinted up at the voice, shapes piling together as the darkness brightened and eventually resolved into a pair of Saints, one with a bucket tilted in her general direction. The other man, who must have held some kind of rank over his companion, dismissed the bucket-bearer with a curt gesture, waiting until the soldier had departed before speaking again.

“I am Lieutenant Sykes. Am I to take it that you understand your current situation?”

Jana steeled herself and glanced down, ignoring the chill of her soaked clothes and taking note of both the makeshift sling which held her right arm close to her chest and the wall-bound manacle that encircled her left wrist. Her Blighted skin had been laid bare for all the world to see, a certain satisfaction slipping into the officer’s smile as he caught her staring at the charred and blackened flesh. The amazon took a deep, steadying breath before she finally lifted her gaze to meet the Lieutenant’s.

“Perfectly.”

“Short, sweet, and to the point. I like that. You keep providing answers like that one and you and I won’t have any problems.” Sykes set his hands behind his back and began to pace, forcing Jana’s eyes to wander if she wished to keep him in sight. “Now, I could spend forever easing my foot in the door, but we’re on a bit of a tight schedule right now. So why don’t we just get right to the point?” He paused and shot a glare at her. “Where is the Quisling?”

Though she tried to keep the surprise from her face, Sykes’ smile told her that she wasn’t fooling anyone. Arrogant little pissant. Dammit, what would her sister do in this situation? Lena was the smart one, the one who’d know how to talk her way through this situation so thoroughly that she’d have this lout convinced of the opposite of what he wanted. Jana blinked.

“The Quisling.” She said drily, pausing to give the Lieutenant a look that said more than any words. “You think that I’m working with the dirtiest traitor to ever be born on Paloran soil?”

The man had schooled his expression well, though he was unable to prevent a brief quirk of his eyebrows. “You attacked a contingent of the Saints, Palora’s defenders, on a night when a group of Blighted believed to be associated with the Quisling have been causing trouble.” He turned on his heel and gestured at her left arm. “Need I say any more?”

Silence fell as Jana stared after Sykes’ retreating back, waiting until he was about ready to spin again before she let out a burst of bemused laughter, the sound tapering off into a series of coughs. “Sir, if I may be blunt: I think you’ve got the wrong woman.”

Sykes frowned, crossing his arms over his chest. “Explain.”

“I don’t remember exactly how I got into that fight, but I do remember spending more than my fair share of time at a tavern before that happened. If I got into a disagreement with some of the guard, then I probably didn’t take it too well and did some things that I’m going to regret when I sober up. In other words, now.”

The man resumed his pacing, though managed to forestall any further displays of emotion, his eyes boring into her at every turn. “So, if I have this straight: you were drinking at the Third Burning, stumbled out at some point, encountered the Saints, this didn’t go well, and then you went on a drunken rampage?”

“That sounds about right to me, sir.” Jana managed an embarrassed smile, unsuccessfully attempting to raise her left arm to scratch at her neck.

“But you’re Blighted.” Sykes said matter-of-factly, idly tapping his fingers against the opposite arm.

“Does it look like I’m some kind of noble to you, Lieutenant? I’m just a farmhand that was grabbing a drink after a long day’s work.”

“Then explain the equipment in the sack you were swinging around. That’s military-grade hardware in there, some of it pretty unconventional.”

“I took on a side-job, okay! It’s not exactly easy to make ends meet when you’re Blighted in Palora, so I agreed to transport that stuff for a few extra coins.” Jana sighed, slumping down to the cold floor below.

Sykes stopped mid-step, chewing on his lower lip as he considered her for a long, silent moment. Finally, the Lieutenant just shook his head, running a hand through his hair. “Okay. Here’s what’s going to happen: You’re going to tell me everything you remember, from the very beginning, including who exactly hired you to smuggle that gear. Then I’ll speak with the guards who encountered you, and if they corroborate what you’ve told me, you’ll get off with a fine for drunkenness.”

The officer began a slow approach, kneeling down before her and staring straight into her eyes. “But if I find out that you’ve been lying to me, you’ll be left to Captain Magro’s mercy. And believe me,” he chuckled softly, “that’s no mercy at all.”

Jana didn’t even need to fake the fear that flickered onto her face, Sykes’ lips turning up into a pleased, yet decidedly cold smile. “Let’s begin then.”

*****

Though the interrogation itself was conducted with the utmost of decorum, Jana couldn’t help but find something subtly unnerving about the treatment she received from Lieutenant Sykes. As though he almost seemed to take pleasure in seeing every fraction of her fear and worry laid bare as she told her story. Truthfully, it reminded her too much of feelings that she’d all too recently felt herself; how unabashedly happy she was when she’d broken that Saint’s ribs, or sent another crashing to the ground. In the moment it had been the purest joy, but now that the afterglow had diffused the thought just made Jana sick.

Once the officer had finally had his fill she was left in silence, her only companion the faint shaft of light that filtered in from the room beyond her cell. Jana shivered, scrabbling away from the sodden spot on the floor and doing her best to wrap her arms around herself. Her clothes had started to dry, but it would be hours before they would become anything close to resembling comfortable. Hours that she probably didn’t have if she wanted to live through the night. If Magro saw her… if he saw her then it was all over. The girl slid her legs toward her chest and took a deep breath, eyeing the chain that bound her Blighted arm. Okay, calm down and think. How am I going to get out of this one?

“The key is always an option, little lamb.”

The scream slipped from Jana’s lips before she could stop it, the amazon’s arms shooting down to the ground in a desperate attempt to push herself away from the voice. Or, what would have been such an attempt had crippling pain not shot up her right limb, paralyzing her body as her eyes frantically searched for the source of the sound. The room was so dark that she almost missed him at first, but the ebon black of the Magister’s robes proved to be distinct even within darkness, to say nothing of the glow provided by the man’s lambent eyes. Those azure orbs seemed to be studying her now, their very edges crinkled slightly with what she thought was amusement.

“I hope that a little time locked up hasn’t drained all of the fire from you. It would make you rather… dull by comparison.”

“Y-you…!” Jana blurted, her face reddening slightly as she worked to regain her composure. “What are you doing here?”

“Offering advice to one of my wayward sheep. I wouldn’t want to be seen as an inattentive shepherd, now would I?” The Magister coughed out a meandering little chuckle, the sound seeming to crawl over her skin and make each and every one of her hairs stand on end. “So, why not just use the key and leave?”

“Oh, you’re right, that would be a wonderful solution - if I actually had the key in hand.” Jana retorted, swallowing another wince as she settled her cast back into position. The Magister remained still, staring straight at - or perhaps through - her, the glimmering discs of his eyes shrinking down to cold little pinpricks.

“Tell me, Miss Bhayan. Did it unnerve you to discover that you enjoy causing pain to others?”

Silence greeted the Magister’s question, Jana’s normally fearsome gaze directed down at the ground as her whole body seemed to visibly deflate. “It did, didn’t it? It’s made you question just what you are, how you could have gone so long without noticing.” The Magister paused, his next words as gentle as a blade placed between one’s shoulders. “Whether or not you truly deserve redemption at all.”

“... What if I don’t?” Her voice was small, for once not the amazon but the young girl whom had realized for the first time that she wasn’t a perfect little angel. That there was a stain on her which might never be washed away; one that she might be forced to bear for the remainder of her life.

“It does the cruelest things to those it taints, you know.” The Magister was suddenly before her, tilting her chin up to meet his deep, ageless eyes. “Takes what you care about most and makes it into something that you can’t even recognize.” Jana quivered, but refused to back down, continuing to stare into his eyes even after his hand had withdrawn back into the folds of his cloak. Though the moment seemed to last forever, it was only seconds later that the Magister had his back turned and began giggling like a madman, shooting a snide glance back in her direction.

“Some would say that you got off lucky. You still feel joy even in the midst of your torture. Most aren’t that fortunate.” One moment he was standing before her, the next his voice filtered into her ears from behind, the sound like the rasping of bone against bone. “Your cousin, for example. She was brilliant once, a figure whose radiance cast everything around her into shadow. Yet now she scrambles around in the fog, her futile attempts to create light only blinding her further.”

The Magister reappeared before the doorway, his cloak swallowing any stray motes of luminescence that sought to make their way into the cell. “She’s strong still, oh so very strong, but she cannot succeed alone. No, if she is to fulfill her purpose, she will need others to create the light that she no longer can herself.” As if in time with his words, the room was illuminated once more, the enigmatic maniac returning to his original position and flashing a toothy smile. “Speaking of purposes, you still possess one you know; even perverted, it’s still yours. As is the decision about whether or not to make use of it.”

He slid a familiar golden pendant out from one of the many pockets within his robes, clicking it open and tittering softly before it vanished back out of sight. “I’m simply suggesting that you consider the possibilities. You could stay shrouded in this darkness forever, or reach up towards the light. That choice is yours, and yours alone. Just as it always has been.”

Before Jana could blink, much less respond, the Magister was simply gone, vanished as though he’d never been at all. It took several minutes for her heartbeat to slow, the sounds of faint chatter emanating from beyond the cell door an indispensable comfort. They were normal. Completely and utterly normal, unlike everything else that she’d been subjected to over the past few hours. Still, the girl gradually relaxed, setting her chin atop her knees and even closing her eyes. Sleep would not take her, though, and Jana’s mind lay awake long after the protests of her body ceased.

*****

Both of the men started when they heard it, each inevitably turning their attention away from the game and towards the cell door. The sound had been faint, just barely within earshot, and yet there was no way that either could deny hearing something. A briefly exchanged glance later the younger of the two groaned and heaved himself out of his seat, lazily approaching the lock-up’s door and peering through the small window that had been set into its frame.

“Looks all clear to-” The young guard’s words were cut short by a sudden clamor; a scrambling and the sound of a chain being pulled taut. The wench’s face was abruptly pressed up against the aperture’s bars, her cheeks flushed with exertion and her eyes frantically darting this way and that like some sort of cornered animal.

“Please, you have to help me. Just… please!” Her voice was rough with thirst and thick with some deeper emotion - worry, or perhaps… fear? The younger man had stumbled back several steps when she’d rushed the door and looked decidedly out of his depth, alternating between glaring at the girl and shooting pleading looks at his partner.

The older serviceman sighed and rose from his own seat, cudgel in hand as he cautiously advanced toward the cell. “Keep calm, Private. This isn’t anything to lose your head over.” His gaze slipped from his subordinate over to the prisoner, the young woman busy casting nervous looks back into the darkness. “And you’ll have to be more specific than that, girlie. Help with what?” As if I haven’t heard this one before.

The girl bit her lower lip, her whole body seeming to shake as she shifted it that much more fully into the doorway. “I-I… there’s something in here with me. I saw it, heard it. You had to t-too, that’s why he walked over here, right?”

The cudgel-wielder barked out a short laugh, rolling his eyes towards his companion and shaking his head. “Did you hear that Private? There’s a monster in there with her and she wants us to let her out so she’ll feel safe. Maybe tuck her in and read her a bedtime story while we’re at it.”

The boy tried to force a smile onto his face, his hesitant laughter joining that of his superior. “Y-yeah, good one Corporal Graham.”

“I’m not kidding, there’s really-” The girl shrieked as the Corporal’s cudgel suddenly smashed into the door, a toothy grin on the soldier’s face as he hefted the weapon back over his shoulder. “Listen, and listen good, girlie. I’m not some young buck who you can win over with a pretty face and the damsel in distress routine. I’ve lived long enough to see too many good men end up on the receiving end of a dagger in the back for believing that malarkey. You’re staying put in that cell until Lieutenant Sykes gives the word otherwise. No buts. Isn’t that right, Private Akro?”

His companion nodded quickly, eyeing the cudgel as he wrung his hands together in front of him. “Yes, sir. On the Lieutenant’s word, not before.”

Graham smirked and leered down at the prisoner, his eyes twinkling all the while. “So, what do you have to say to that, girl?” Even though he’d called her bluff, she only seemed to grow more panicked at his dismissal, a pathetic sounding whimper emerging from her lips as she struggled to steady herself. It was almost a little sad to see her reduced to such a state, quivering uncontrollably and unable to enunciate how she felt. Almost.

The Corporal stifled another laugh, leaning forward to rub it in further… as a claw the color of night thrust through the gaps between the bars, stopping only inches away from his eyes. The fell-looking thing was covered in reptilian scales and tipped with nails that tapered to fine points perfect for the tearing of flesh. As the two soldiers looked on helplessly, the claw settled over the girl’s head and then yanked her backwards, a faint screech and a thump all that remained of her presence.

Silence fell, hard and fast, on the room, two pairs of eyes staring listlessly into the darkness that lay beyond the cell door. Graham felt an involuntary tremor rush through his form, his gaze drawn down to his hands, steady at his sides even in the face of a terror he hadn’t experienced since the end of the Roshon War. Get it together, man! That girl’s going to die if you don’t. His grasp on his cudgel tightened as his free hand took hold of the key at his side, the sound of his voice shattering the pall that had fallen over them both. “Look alive, Private! Arm yourself and get behind me. I’ll distract whatever that thing is, you circle around and nail it right in the back of the head. Understood?”

The boy blinked and then lurched into action, his eyes wide as he took his own cudgel in hand and then huddled up behind his superior, nervous but as battle ready as he was going to get. The key slid smoothly into the lock, as it had earlier in the evening, a single breath the only warning Graham gave before he tore open the door and rushed forward. Right into something solid, his body sprawling forward as he landed hard on the ground, the wind knocked clean out of him.

Face down on the floor, the old corporal could do nothing but listen to the sounds of the struggle raging behind him. Shifting feet, skin sliding against skin, and the wheezing whine of a constricted airpipe, all of which culminated in a thud as one of the combatants collapsed to the floor. The soldier sucked air into his lungs and rolled himself onto his back, staring up into the waiting eyes of the prisoner - the very girl he’d rushed in to save. She had the Private’s cudgel raised over her head, held in a hand that was the same color as the claw. Her gaze was steady as her eyes met his. The look seemed almost apologetic for what she was about to do, but as the club rushed down to meet his head, Graham fancied that he heard a few whispered words.

“Shouldn’t have believed that malarkey.”

*

Jana stared down at her handiwork with a grim satisfaction, swallowing the revulsion that had accompanied the whole affair and dropping to her knees. Luckily for her, the Corporal seemed to have a similar enough build that she might be able to make this work. Maybe. She carefully unlaced his equipment and stripped him of all but his undergarments, slipping her hand around his neck and then beginning to carefully apply pressure to his- Jana blinked, hastily releasing her grip and jerking her hand away. The girl eyed the offending fingers, but ultimately set them back to work, hastily divesting herself of her own clothing.

It was something of a process to dress herself with a broken arm, but by the time Jana was done she thought she looked something close to the part. She’d been a corporal once after all. The old man’s helmet was a lost cause though; she’d put a pretty good dent in the thing when she’d knocked him out. So, it was with great relief that she saw the Private’s helmet remained perfectly intact where he’d left it - on the arm of his chair. The amazon snorted to herself as she deposited the boy’s cudgel on his seat, taking a quick peek at their abandoned card game as she stuffed her hair beneath the headgear. The thing was tight, but it would have to do.

She belted the Corporal’s cudgel to her hip as she strode back to cell door, pulling the portal closed and locking it tight. The key she left on the table, a courtesy for causing all of this trouble in the first place. Jana then gave herself a thorough once over, unable to prevent herself from repeatedly fidgeting with the glove that now covered her Blighted arm. Soon she could put it off no longer though, inhaling sharply as she straightened up and left the little chamber behind.

If things were the same as when she’d last been in these barracks, then the evidence room was two floors above her current location - and one below ground level. She would need to pass by it anyway, so there was no reason not to grab a couple of her things before she flew the coop. All she needed to do was make it there. Just walk through a few hallways and go up a couple flights of stairs. Easy.

It took a couple of turns before she ran into her first Saint, a bespectacled young man with a ream of papers in hand. Jana felt her arm start to tremble, but steadied it with a thought, plastering a casual smile on her face as she flashed him the Saint’s salute. He returned the gesture, seeming to eye her arm for a moment, but said nothing as he passed. As did the next. And the one after that. Yet with each encounter, Jana felt a part of herself wither away that much further, her smile growing dimmer and dimmer as the ordeal drew on. This feeling… this familiarity, the way that each and every person that she met treated her with respect and dignity. How they saw her as a person rather than a problem. Treating her like something that she wasn’t. It hurt.

The routine had become so automatic that she didn’t even realize she’d arrived at her destination, coming to her senses in front of the door to the evidence locker, her hand extended to take hold of the handle. Jana sighed, pushing the thoughts of what could have been far, far away and entering the room, careful to close the door behind her. Fortunately, the locker was empty, her bundle stashed neatly in the leftmost corner of the densely packed space.

Much as she might have liked to, it wouldn’t be practical to take the whole thing with her, so she would have to pick and choose what would be the most useful. In the end, she settled on her helmet, replacing the Private’s head-clamp, her lucerne, and her rondel dagger. The hammer she just couldn’t bear to leave, even if it would prove difficult to wield without a second arm.

Just before she moved to depart, something caught the girl’s eye; on a nearby table lay a series of maps, the phrase “Great Desolation” featured prominently over the relief. Casting a quick glance at the door, Jana hastily jammed the papers into a tube, favoring expedience over caution so that she could take her leave sooner rather than later. Time was of the essence, of course.

Fortunately, the remainder of her escape went off without a hitch, which is to say that no one stopped a corporal from walking out the front door of the barracks. Especially a corporal with a rather large polearm strapped to their back. The Western Quarter was familiar to Jana, as it was to most Saints. Even though the grounds were crawling with guardsmen, she was able to make her way north to the Trade District without too much trouble. It was here, hidden in an offshoot off of the main thoroughfare, that the girl called out into the shadows, all traces of doubt gone from her voice.

“Magister. Show yourself.”

The night grew perfectly still, nothing daring to break the silence that had fallen around her, as though nature itself sought to draw attention to the taboo she had just breached. Jana felt a presence settle around her, invisible yet there in every sense that mattered. It stood waiting, watching her in the same manner that a hawk would a hare in the moments before it struck. Parlor tricks. “Magister,” she called again, “I require your assistance. Come forth and treat with me.”

For a moment, all remained as it was, but then the air was split by a deep, rolling chuckle, the sound drawing reality back into the alley. A faint breeze tickled Jana’s nose and the Magister stood before her, less than an arm’s length away. His eyes gleamed, the orbs the same deep, endless blue as the sky.

“You know,” he drawled, “it’s rather rude to call for someone as though they’re your servant, is it not?”

Jana felt all of her breath rush out of her, but managed to hold the man’s gaze, inscrutable though it was. “Y-you said…” she began, pausing briefly to inhale. “You said that the seats at the inn were for masters. I call myself master - master of my own destiny - and so I call you.”

The Magister regarded her in silence, the very air seeming to hold its breath as he turned over what she’d said, before he finally smiled. The gesture was all shark’s teeth, a predator’s smile, but a smile nonetheless. One that she returned. “What is it that you want of me, Miss Keller?”

“My cousin. You said that she’d need help if she was to take down the wyrm. I want you to send me to wherever she is right now.”

He seemed to smirk with his eyes, folding his hands before him. “It is within my power to do so, though as with all services, it would come with a price.”

Jana frowned a fraction, crossing her free arm over its bound twin. “Name it.”

“When you come upon Vermonox - upon his lair, there you will find a hoard. Amongst his many riches lies a shepherd’s staff carved from the finest wood, a sizable oval of jade set into its crook.” The man’s smile grew wider. “I want you to bring it to me.”

She stared back at him, as though searching for some hint of treachery. Slowly, carefully, Jana slid her left hand down to take hold of her cudgel, drawing the weapon and moving forward until she was looking directly down into his eyes. “Done.”

The Magister said nothing, returning her gaze with a steady calm that seemed to belie the excitement she could feel emanating from him. She’d stared for so long that she was starting to lose herself in those blue orbs, as though they truly were skies and she had fallen into them. Then all of a sudden they were gone, and when Jana looked up she realized that she was elsewhere.

The first thing she noticed about her new location was the smell, the stink of death and decay a particularly foul odor, even centuries removed. Second she saw the bones and the larger bodies they belonged to, no doubt the source of the stench that seemed to pervade the chamber. Third… she saw the thing that was bearing down on her cousin. It was some kind of horror birthed from a children’s storybook, a bird’s head set atop a feline’s body and given all of the ferocity of both species combined. And it had Strasna cornered. No. The creature roared, a horrible, ululating noise that cut straight to her core, and Jana rushed forward. Her cudgel whipped across with all her might, arcing towards the back of the beast’s head as she let out a scream.

“Get away from her!”




Apocalypse -> RE: When Heroes Fail (9/27/2016 0:46:54)

With fingers coiling through strands of ebony silk, the siren closed the gap between herself and the pirate. Her body moved with the hypnotic sway of a pendulum. Her words were firelight and honey as they fell upon his ears. Her caress was softer than starlight. Hendrik tried to hide his exhale but it escaped faint yet sharp. Heat flooded his chest and melted him from the inside. He sucked in another breath as his eyes drank in all her beauty. The elf had danced to this song before, but never had he been so outclassed. Hendrik felt not so much a dancer as a puppet on strings.

A shout pierced through the lustful veil, and Hendrik's gaze slipped from the entrancing goddess before him. Lazy eyes drifted over to the source even as a hand rose to cover hers. Calluses fell on satin skin, sandpaper against lace. Off in the distance that could have been ten feet or ten miles away was the scrambling figure of the swordswoman. A prowling beast stalked closer with knives for talons and blade for a beak. He was about to turn away when she called his name and a face flashed over hers; a face surfacing from memory long since remembered but not forgotten.

Eyes as blue as lightning.

Hair of waving grain.

A burning rose.


With a slap of freezing water the reality of the situation crashed down upon him. Beastie bore down on his captain while beauty weaved her web around the pirate. In one heartbeat Hendrik turned back to the siren with a smile splayed across his face. In the next his grip became a vice as he crushed her precious fingers, a cry escaping from her lips. The third was accompanied by her arm being wrenched up behind her while his free limb pressed a blade to her throat. Cold steel kissed the siren’s neck as the elf leaned in to whisper. The words faltered in his throat as as the warrior from the Third Burning winked into existence and lashed out at the monstrosity. Strange magic was afoot in these depths, but there was no room for hesitation.

The scourge licked his lips and spoke again, “Sounds like quite the evening, love. Just call off your beastie and we can all in the fun.”




Kellehendros -> RE: When Heroes Fail (10/9/2016 21:53:23)

Not like this.

The denial was childish, a foolish rejection of an empiric reality. In the end, the fallen Paladin was confronted by the inescapable fact that all her struggles had only served to bring her here, delivering her to the maw of a monstrosity. Since her fall from grace Strasna had learned just how heartless the world could be. But this was too much. A decade of ignominy had been supplanted by a glimmer of hope, a slender candle flame of possibility nurtured by the unexpected acceptance of another. And yet whatever was, whatever might have been, it was all about to be snuffed out beneath uncaring claws in a godsforsaken charnel house.

And as hope turned to ash, the exile felt a familiar flare of rage take its place.

“Not like this!”

This denial was a scream, a primal roar that tore itself from her chest as she lunged away from the ravenous Beast. A cruel beak snapped shut on her cloak, drawing the slender swordswoman to a choking halt as her blade spun away from her grip. Cloth shredded and Strasna tumbled forward through bones and rotting meat, an unexpected cry ringing through the sepulchral vault. The outlaw’s eyes went wide, fury smothered in shock as her cousin rushed the Beast, the club in Jana’s hand slamming down across its neck with a meaty thunk.

The Beast reeled from the impact, crashing to the cavern floor in a spray of tattered surcoats and rusted weapons. It was a solid strike, and Strasna knew just how hard her cousin could hit, but it was not enough to take the aberration out of the fight. Yowling in pain and hate the monstrosity thrashed back to its feet, razor-sharp claws flashing out and raking at its assailant.

Scrabbling to her own feet, the exile cast about for her blade but found no sign of the weapon. Desperate, she snatched up the closest weapon to hand, a battered Roshon axe, and threw herself back into the fray. Questions of where Jana had been and how the woman had come to be here were thrust aside as Strasna screamed a challenge and hacked at the Beast’s hindquarters.



The sharp inhalation of Hendrik’s breath was sweet as music to Beauty’s ears. Her smile was the promise of everything the elven pirate could imagine and more. She knew she had him. Let the woman scream and cry as her pet disemboweled her. This one was hers. All it would take was a kiss. And really, was that so much to ask for?

Rough skin rasped over silk as his hand rose to cover hers, and then it was Beauty’s turn to gasp as that gentle grip turned to iron. Surprised, the woman let out a harsh cry as she was spun about, her arm pulled up behind her back. Cold metal shivered against flushed skin as Hendrik hissed his demand to her.

He made demands of her. Of her, as though she was some common tavern wench he could order about! Holding her as he was, with her back to his chest, arm pried up between them, the pirate missed the flash of Beauty’s eyes. Jilted desire and hate turned those amber orbs to wildfire, but only for an instant. The tables may have been turned, but the regal woman was far from finished.

She moaned, a soft sound of protest, pain, and perhaps even fear, as she leaned away from the knife. Beauty’s body arched up, back, pressing itself hard against Hendrik and trembling. “Don’t…” she stammered, her voice cracking as the knife drew a ruby bead from her milk-white flesh. “D-don’t hurt me. P-p-please… It protects me. I c-can’t control it. I don’t want to die.”




Apocalypse -> RE: When Heroes Fail (10/28/2016 23:36:49)

A burning howl filled the chamber as warrior and captain alike struck at the foul creature. The lion-hawk shrieked back its own challenge as the trio fell into a melee of claw and steel. Hendrik’s resolve remained as iron as he pulled the siren’s arm up higher for encouragement. The dark walls snapped into focus as blood surged through the pirate’s veins. For many years the scourge had been hunted and spurned like a rabid beast. For the crime of his Blight he had been beaten and betrayed. But not broken. And in this godsforsaken tome littered with the decaying bodies of so many before him, it was now Hendrik with the control.

With another wrench the beauty whimpered before beginning to beg. He did not see so much as hear the tears in her voice, pleading with him to let her go. Words painting herself a victim and the beast an unwanted guardian. He could feel her shudder through the arm in his vice of a grip. The blade fell from her throat. His hold slackened. The elf leaned in with a whisper.

“Do you know what my favorite part is?”

The siren turned her neck, straining to capture his gaze. A single, luminous eye caught sight of the cheshire smile blooming on his lips.

“When your hope is snatched away.”

When the cutlass came, it was neither the slash of a butcher nor the cut of a torturer. It was the work of an artisan, skin parting like cloth beneath the steel as the blade crawled across it and dyed her ivory red. That blue eye widened as the pupil dilated. Blood tarnished her words into gurgles. He let go and the body that did not know it was dead yet hit the floor, writhing. Stained hands clutched at her throat as if to stitch the wound back together. Hendrik took a knee and grabbed a fistful of her dress. If the wind could be woven into garb, the elf imagined this was what it would fee like. He almost felt ashamed to dirty the cloth. Almost. But with the same care he had used to slay the beauty, he wiped his sword clean.

The scent of iron filled his nostrils, and Hendrik closed his eyes as he inhaled it deep. She would have made for a fancy lay but there was so much more in the world than carnal desire. A woman could make a man glad he was alive. But only killing could make him feel it.

“All right, beastie, now it’s your turn,” the scourge said as a silver dart fell into his palm. With a flick of the wrist, it hurtled towards the monstrosity.


***


The clatter of metal on stone echoed throughout the cavern as the Saints descended the staircase. Aendi lingered back at the edge of the flickering torchlight where the shadows embraced her. She had learned to stand in line and march in formation with the rest of her class but always felt more comfortable in the darkness. Some habits were more difficult to kick than others.

Every once in a while Ullr would peek back at her, his greying beard illuminated by the torch in his hand. With one hand grazing the wall, the veteran should have been able to rely on his seismic sense alone to assert her location. But he always had had trouble with that. Back in the more wretched circles of the slum, Aendi had once been known as "Lightfot. Some names held more truth than others.

Upon Captain Raelin’s request, Ullr kept the trio updated on the passageway’s structure. Thus far, the passageway had been a staircase and had continued to be a staircase for quite some time. Her comrade and her commander delved into small banter of Ullr’s initial encounter with the catacombs. Little need for talk of strategy: if they encountered the Quisling now, they would use the height advantage and force her down.

The Quisling…Aendi’s thumbs rubbed over the pommels of her twin blades at the thought. The Saints’ voices were drowned out as the image of the fallen Paladin took shape in her mind. A dark figure wreathed in flames with snake-like tendrils lashing out from her arms. A silhouette accented by a slashed smile. A raised blade stained with the blood of those she had sworn to protect. The disgrace of Palora. Aendi had taken many names in the slums and taken some for the Saints as repentance. If she could take the Quisling's...perhaps her debts of blood would be paid.

After all, some names were worth more than others.




Kellehendros -> RE: When Heroes Fail (11/15/2016 23:26:10)

The rapier was an elegant weapon, a slender metal needle forged for war. It was designed for piercing, for seeking the smallest hole in a foe’s defense and punishing that momentary lapse. It was a weapon that demanded dedication and unwavering focus, things Strasna had possessed in abundance. With her blade in hand she was an artist, a maelstrom of flame and light and steel.


An axe was not an elegant weapon; it was a tool turned from labor, a conscript to battle. The axe was designed for chopping, battering an opponent to the ground and hacking him to pieces. It felt heavy in the fallen Paladin’s hand, awkward.


But it did not need to be elegant to be effective. The weapon cleaved into the Beast’s haunch, peeling back a fold of bloody flesh and sending it sliding to one side. Impact shocks reverberated up the exile’s arms from the strike, drawing a wolfish smile to her face. The Beast shrilled its avian cry, spinning and slashing a disemboweling claw at its assailant. Strasna wrenched the axe back and skipped to her left, the air shrilling around the lethal talons of the monster. In her hand the axe rose, casting off scarlet raindrops as she swiped with the weapon to drive back the Beast’s snapping beak.


The Beast fell back, suddenly thrashing and howling, flame gouting from its maw wildly. It crashed to the ground in a storm of shattered bone and sundered metal, screaming in pain. Backing warily, the exile risked a glance in Hendrik’s direction as the thing struggled to rise. Her lupine grin grew at the sight of the pirate cleaning his blade on Beauty’s dress, staining the pristine fabric. The Blighted elf’s hand flickered as he rose and a silver blur flashed across the room, slamming into the Beast’s side and sending it yowling back to the ground.


Strasna almost felt sorry for the monstrosity, twitching feebly as blood seeped through its fur. With its mistress dead there was something pathetic about the Beast, a palpable loss of vitality emphasized by its distressed whimpers. Once mighty paws scratched feebly through the detritus of ancient wars in an attempt to drag the horror to the fallen Beauty. The exile paced the Beast for a moment, still wary that this might be another trap of some kind. Yet it seemed the fearsome creature’s fight had died with its mistress. The fire in its gaze was gone as it peered up at the former Paladin, breath whistling from its lungs.


“Don’t worry, you’ll be with her soon.” The axe rose, glittering in the torchlight before falling with a swift and hissing thunk, an executioner’s strike that parted fur and flesh and bone to sever the Beast’s spine. Strasna hardly flinched as arcs of warm blood splattered across her face from the deathblow. She left the axe embedded in the monster and took a moment to retrieve her own blade, sheathing the weapon before making her way to Hendrik.


For a long moment the slender swordswoman simply stared at the pirate. At length she reached out, putting a hand on her companion’s shoulder and squeezing gently, her voice soft. “You saved my life, Hendrik. I owe you.”




Six steps down, a turn to the left, an interminable ritual of descent as the Saints followed the passage down and down and down, legs aching, eyes stinging from the torch’s fumes in the enclosed space.


Six steps down, a turn to the left, and the passage sprawled open before them. Sprawled might have been generous. The space was perhaps twice the size of Raelin’s quarters, smaller perhaps, but it was so wonderfully open after the narrow and winding stair.


Open, and occupied. Amid the scattered debris of what might have been a store room lounged a figure hooded and cloaked. The fabric of the garment was old and worn, a black long faded to uneven grey. Beneath the hood were eyes, arresting eyes, of a blue so intense it actually glowed. He, for there was something definitively male about the figure, stood between the trio of Palora’s defenders and the door out of the small room. In one hand the hooded man bore a curious golden pendant, two circles hinged together, from which a faint ticking emanated.


As Raelin and her cohorts entered the room the pendant clicked closed with a precise snap, the figure secreting the device away to some inner pocket. “You make good time, Owl.” An unnerving giggle filled the room, the man chuckling as though the captain’s title was some manner of joke. “Better than expected, truly. But you have to ask yourself, who are you really doing this for?”




Apocalypse -> RE: When Heroes Fail (11/29/2016 1:40:00)

The beast, despite its fearsome appearance, proved to be mortal as it lay twitching on the floor. Its own blood pooled around it as Cendra encircled it. For a fleeting moment Hendrik thought the once-paladin would inflict some more punishment upon the creature before it passed on. He was proven wrong as she delivered a decisive blow - as much mercy as one could manage with such a crude weapon. The elf approached the beast as Cendra left to retrieve her weapon. He glanced down at the dart protruding from its side and clicked his tongue. It would be a shame to leave it behind, but while down in these catacombs he could not afford to be weighed done by one of the cursed numbers. Five would have to do for now.

Hendrik was still contemplating the loss of his dart when Cendra returned, gazing at him with those sapphire eyes. One could not deny the fierceness in her appearance, but that was not what she conveyed now. Desire was one part, but there was more hidden in those depths. A sadness from longing...or was it loss? When his captain squeezed his shoulder, the scourge was taken aback as memories of his old love flooded him. Funny how the two were so different in appearance but so similar in other ways. Hendrik opened his mouth to say something sly but only air came out. Her smile lingered in the pirate's mind as sighed and returned the squeeze. "We're in this together, captain. A crew must look out for his own."

With an awkward step, the elf disengaged himself from her grip. His head was still swimming in the rush of emotions that had been buried long ago. He kept his mouth running so as to avoid being asked questions. "So...how much further do you reckon? I'd prefer to not have many more of these run-ins myself."


***

Ullr was getting old.

In his youth he had been half as cautious yet more tuned in to the earth below his feet. The veteran was sure he would have beaten Aendi at her "Lightfoot" game nine times out of ten. But in his current age, he was lucky to best two out of five. His connection to magic, along with his body, was showing the signs of the years.

As it was, it was how the trio was taken unawares of the cloaked figure before them. There was the snap of something metal as Ullr thrust his arm to the side to stop their advance. The figure did not look like much...or that would have been the case had it not been for the azure glow where his eyes should have been. The man spoke in an almost playful way, as if he was a child talking to his toy soldiers. The veteran peered at Raelin from the corner of his eyes. Her face was focused as ever with that steely resolve as she gave her answer. "Upon my oaths, to the people of Palora and the Lady Supplicant herself." Her voice was firm but Ullr noticed an uncomfortable shift in her grip on the halberd. Captain Raelin plowed on and leveled her weapon at the interloper. "And who are you to stand in the way of the duty of Saints?" If the shift had been a sign of weakness, the Owl showed no indication of it.

His hand fell to his side. Just far enough to not be considered an immediate threat but just close enough to be one.




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