46th Trial, Vhalar, 718a
Outskirts of Etzos, Southwood River
23rd break
Outskirts of Etzos, Southwood River
23rd break
Continued from here
He was no poisoner, and this time, he didn't have to be. Just like he didn't have to be an expert with sharpened steel to know that poison or not, Ithecal or not, shoving six inches of the stuff straight into his enemy's eye was... probably going to do the job. The fact it was coated with a toxin that shut down its victims lungs within a couple of bits was just a bonus.
Don't think he'll have the time for that.
Traitor Claw was still gripped tight in his left hand, and so Kasoria experienced the slow death of Jorg with the eerie, disturbing but not unsettling sensation of numbness. In the sense of pain, anyway, and truly he was disturbed from his usual state of being (which was to say, feeling like an ordinary man), but he was not letting the sensation force him to panic. He still had his audience, after all... and besides, judging from the numbness and the wetness and the exhaustion starting to seep into his muscle, it was probably better off to remain senseless for the moment.
"Fate's save us..."
The assassin looked around as Jorg coughed wet into his shoulder. He wasn't chomping down anymore; wasn't doing much of anything, nor ever would do again. He squatted on his knees like a man set to prayer, before an altar painted with the thick red blood pouring from his crotch. A massive scaly hand fell from Kasoria's own arm, releasing it-
-and a breath was sucked into dying lungs, shaking like a man in a blizzard, trying to get one more-
SHUNK
No, I don't think so.
An uppercut smashed into the bottom of Jorg's snout, and underneath it, Traitor Claw punched through the floor of his mouth and now his own blood filled it. Jorg tried to swallow but shuddered again, yellow orbs with black slits in the centers rolling back as agony impossible yet undeniable overwhelmed him. The pain he'd inflicted with his jaws, trying to bite through bone and muscle and the metal covering it, was now all Jorg's to experience... and he started to fall backwards-
-Kasoria twisting his fist as the Ithecal started to fall, karambit tearing a hissing hole into him as he withdrew it. He had to grunt to get the throwing knife out of his eye, though. Then he watched as Jorg grunted and fell back, twitching as the Ghost Mushroom worked its power. The Ithecal stared at the starry sky and the moons and found no watcher in that gallery so much as wincing in sympathy. All he saw was dead, indifferent light. Distant gods from forgotten people, just sitting and watching as the human straddled him, then bent down...
... and reclaimed the gladius that had been so rudely rammed into him. The human flipped it up and over, reversing his grip with a flourish so it looked like an over-sized dagger in his hand. He didn't speak. He didn't mock him, or curse him, or laugh. But he did wait, until Jorg was looking. Until the reptile blinked and found himself looking back at his reflection... and he wasn't just talking about his own tiny face trapped in each eye.
"Guh..." He tried to talk, one last time. But his mouth was filling with blood sooner than he could drink it. "Guh... fi-"
THUNK
Kasoria brought the gladius crashing down and the blade did exactly what it was designed for. Thrusting, stabbing, piercing, impaling... whatever word you want to use. It punched through the bone between Jorg's eyes, not slowing but parting glistening white bones as it went. That was the hardest resistance. After that first, brutal invasion of the body, the rest was just pushing, and pushing, and pushing.
Kaoria didn't stop until he felt the tip of the blade grind into the inside of the back of Jorg's skull. The lizardman's other arm slapped down into the wet mud, and there was silence. No more wheezing or grunting. No more Common regurgitated with equal parts resentment and necessity, bitten off into chunks and then coughed up at everyone he spoke to. There was no grace or finery of movement. No clashing warriors or eager, joyous journeymen, bent on testing skill against skill.
Almost two dozen men surrounded the rough arena that claws and feet had made for themselves. Now they were all silent, not even daring to whisper. The assassin was the loudest noise in that yard for the moment. Panting from exertion, not pain. Looking down at the devastation he'd wrought, and feeling tickling eels of ink-black satisfaction when he did.
He turned to Fozzie without hurrying. Enjoying the silence. Collecting all those stunned, hair, tattooed faces as he did.Their fear of him was almost intoxicating. He didn't stop turning until he had Fozzie Tatum in his sights. The he reached down, yanked the gladius free and-
There was a series of sharp, high sounds. The rest of his audience flinched a couple of times at the sudden noise, but he ignored them. It was hard enough using the curve of the karambit to hold Jorg's chief up and back, so he could get to the neck under it. Squat but broad, sinuous yet powerful, it took many blows. Yet even when he was through the clicking line of vertebrae, and finishing the rest of the amputation would become easy.
Sharp and high was replaced by rotting, tearing, dripping and nauseated. Kasoria swore every man in the yard took a step back, and some outright vanished into the shadows-
-when he held up that massive, triangular head. All the while locking eyes with Fozzie.
"A head. That's what you wanted."
There was a muffled grunt, camouflaged well by the sound of a severed head whirling through the air... and landing at Fozzie's feet.
"There's your head." Kasoria spread his arms like a man about to receive a benediction. Daring any of the assembled to rip him apart, jusrt like Dutch's boys would do, if ever their master was killed at such close range. Bu they did not. Their ranks thinned. Pale floating faces vanished deeper into the shadows, and did not return. Most looked down first-
"Anyone else?"
-at the Ithecal. The monster. The corpse. Then they looked at Fozzie... then at Kasoria... and that's when they left. All but his two cousins, who looked almost as terrified into muteness as his uncle. They weren't running, though. We're skulking away like the liars they were, leaving the old man and his kin to their fates. The larger, broader one was white as a sheet but still unlimbered his cleaver. Stepped in front of his fat cousin and bookworm little brother. This Raggedy Man was wounded, though. Wounded and sluggish and easy prey.
Kasoria turned to face him. He wasn't finding much weakness in those eyes... so Edmond shrieked and threw himself into the fray regardless.
