[Krome] Where Secrets End

[Alistair]

29th of Ashan, Arc 717

"Damien," he whispered. The mage's eyes lit up with excitement, as the man's shadowy figure drew near, a grin lighting up his cheeks - the one place his darkly hood did not conceal.

"Alistair," he replied, the two of them stepping closer, diagonally, circling around one another like a dance. Their eyes met, as each of their cloaks pulled slightly back. It had been such an incredibly long time. So long, without a singular visit to Murdoch an Keene, not a wisp of Damien's voice, save for perhaps through Scrying, or by wishing to hear the echoes of his calls in his own, electric dreams. He loved Damien, so very much. He was his first, greatest friend, and he always would be. And now, they were back together, in Rynmere... in Krome, where it all began.

The two men drew together, and they fell into a long, powerful hug. Alistair nearly cried, feeling the cold body of the Lich against his, counteracted by the warmth he'd felt in his heart. If Damien could still cry, he would've. It'd been a long, tumultuous time. So much had changed. Alistair had grown so much -- to be, now, a mage that rivaled Damien. He had come so far in such a short time. The Lich, his friend, was immensely proud.

"There is nothing left of my life to give you, Alistair," he said. To these words, the mage recoiled back, wondering just what he meant. Nothing left of my life to give?

"What do you mean?" the Venora asked, his brow raising. He pulled away at his hood, and so did the other mage, the two seeing one another fully.

"You told me about... Weyland, do you remember? My... father, who Ellasin tormented, who she stole me away from. Her enemy, once upon a dream, a companion of Effren, since betrayed. Knowing about my dad, a lot changed in me. My rebellion against Ellasin became not one of ideology, but of personal scorn, a desire for exacted vengeance. I can no longer see the things before me in objective form -- I have become blinded by hatred. I feel far too much for a Lich, Alistair. Far too much." He closed his eyes. It was cruel, everything she'd done. That woman. That Witch, Sera ba Randil. She deserved to die for it all.

"I want her to die. My time of challenging her draws near. And I know I won't win. So..."

...

"Can you spend a little amount of time with me? I never had children, but I considered you like my son for the longest time. So many good memories. I..." He paused. Alistair's eyes now really began to well. Was it really going to end soon? Damien had mattered so much to him. He'd been his beam of support for so long. He taught him everything, and most importantly, he'd taught him how to be a man. Not just a noble, but a gentleman -- a person worth respecting. Worth loving. How could he just...

[Alistair]

"I want to do as we used to, so long ago." The Lich's eyes grew with excitement, as a smile curved back onto his lips, a nostalgic expression covering his features. It looked... as if he could smell those smells of before, and feel the air, like it were crossing him now, in this very moment. It was all so vivid, wasn't it? Alistair could see it all. Just how much had he been reminiscing upon those days, long gone?

"Do you remember the horses in the fields of Venora, how we chased them around until we could catch them and make them our own? I want to do the same, again, today -- but not with horses, or anything of the like. I want to play that same game, but with you and I. Predator and prey, to be determined by the greatest among us. I want to see how far you've come. To see if, perhaps, you can really challenge Ellasin Dathlande. I have to know."

Why? he asked himself. Why do you have to know?

Despite his confusion, his objections, and his fear - the mage kept himself contained. He nodded, quietly. He said yes, despite the fact that he wanted to inform Damien of his foolishness in this endeavor. There was nothing to be gained from battling Ellasin and dying. It would only cement her position of power, another loyal subject filling the leadership of Rynmere.

But that didn't matter. How Alistair felt, and what he knew, didn't matter. Damien had made his choice, channeling the man he used to be, before he'd died and became this creature of nightmares. It must've taken him years to summon the resolve to make this choice. How could Alistair fight it, after all of that?

"I'll face you, if that's what you want," he said. Immediately, minions began to surge from the treeline, men and monsters alike - Stitchborn, too - coming out to face their challenge. Damien held a black gem in his hand, casting shadows over his surroundings.

He nodded, and it began. Alistair unsheathed his longsword from his scabbard, before viciously throwing it to his side, lodging the blade's edge into one of the larger minions before blinking to catch the hilt, applying his strength into the blade to rip through the creature he'd cast his sword through, swiping the thrall in half. From the corpse escaped a deathly scent, expanding outward and likely carrying a virulent plague with it. Alistair created replicative folds around the corpse to hold in the air, before kicking the corpse over and letting the virulence loose upon some of his weaker thralls.

A Stitchborn came for him, a hulking mass of bestial appendages tied together by needle and well. Alistair blinked again, swiping through the creature's leg, causing for the thrall to collapse before folds of hardened matter gathered around its other leg, keeping it stable against the ground as a Nail stitched through space, lodging shards into the creature's skull, raining at a high velocity. As this happened, other minions gathered around Alistair, and Damien himself. He blinked away, again, causing for some of the constructs to collapse into each other.

"It's not fair if I don't have any minions of my own," he stated. "You have all of these -- I don't even have Alaric."

"Then obtain them," Damien said. "I'll wait."

"Hm, perhaps you need the handicap," the mage replied, pondering, a cocky grin settling on both of their lips.

[Rafael Warrick]

29th Ashan, 717 - Krome Wilderness

Dew still lingered in the air by the time Rafael left Krome and rode into the wilderness. His horse whinnied upon entering the brooding forest and it was only after some encouragement from his heels that the reluctant mount dared venture forward again with slow, deliberate steps. Rafael was not as frightened. It took more than some old, gnarly trees and distant animal noises to scare a Warrick. Besides, he did not need to travel far into the wild to recover his better clothes, his sword, his shield, and all else that he’d stashed under the roots of an old oak, near a clearing.

Dressed in rough, second-hand clothes and with his hair cut short and messy, Rafael would not soon be mistaken for a noble, and that had been exactly the point the trial before. He’d mingled with the servants attending the engagement between Xander Krome and Celeste Andaris in hopes of gleaning any information regarding the two noble houses, information that he would never have been privy to in his role as a noble. To an extent, it had worked. The only disadvantage to his disguise was that he could not will his hair to grow back over night. He would simply have to endure being treated like a child for the shorter cut made him appear at least an arc younger. Fortunately, he did not plan on seeing any nobles anytime soon who would surely mock him behind his back. On the bright side, he enjoyed the freedom that his new appearance granted him. Without the banner of Warrick accompanying him and without the lion emblazoned on his chest, no commoner made way when he approached, there were no hasty bows, no quiet murmurs behind his back. For these past trials, he’d simply been yet another face in the crowd, and it had been liberating.

His was shaken from his thoughts when the horse stopped and breathed sharply through its nostrils. Rafael put a calming hand on the horse’s neck, but the animal did not ease. It stood frozen in the middle of the road, its breathing sharp and ragged. Something or someone was putting it on edge, yet Rafael saw nothing except the narrow, winding road before them.

“Come on,” he mumbled quietly, “what’s the matter?” His heels dug into the horse’s flank, but it would not move. Rafael puffed his cheeks and was just about to urge the horse forward again when a sharp crack rented the air. Like one the head of the horse and the rider turned to the right, from where the crack had come. Was it some careless wild beast, strutting through the overgrowth? Rafael leaned forward in the saddle and peered into the distance. There! A dark, misshapen form lumbered between the trees. He could not make out whether it was beast, man, or something in-between, but he understood why his horse had been so ill at ease.

Seeing no other solution, Rafael dismounted his horse and took it be the reigns, tying it to the nearest tree. The clearing was not far away from here and he supposed he could cross the distance more stealthily if he walked.

With light footfalls he followed the road, keeping his eye out for the odd creature, but he did not spot it again. He rubbed his eyes as he stalked forward. Had he been imagining things? Just as he was beginning to think that he’d let the moody atmosphere of the forest get to him, he spotted movement between the trees. At once he ducked to a crouch and hid himself behind the thick trunk of a withered old tree. At first he heard only his heartbeat drumming in his ears, but as he calmed his breathing and dared to peek around the edge of the tree, he heard what sounded like moaning.

Yet it was a wholly unnatural sound, guttural, pained, and inhuman. His heart skipped a beat. He’d dismissed the tall tales of the supposed monsters that lingered in the wilderness that Olyfer had told him when he’d been younger but now, he wasn’t so sure anymore. If only he had his sword and shield, then he would not be so concerned. Biting down hard on his lips he tried to decide whether to retreat and come back later, or to keep pushing forward. After a few tense trills he peeked around the edge of the trunk once more.

Nothing.

He took his chances and jumped up, taking little care to mask his footsteps this time. It was but a short sprint to where his belongings where hidden and he was confident that the mysterious creature had wandered off.
He could not have been more wrong.

As he fell to his knees at the root of the old tree underneath which his equipment lay buried, he became aware of not one, but many ghastly voices. Wide-eyed, he glanced past the old tree and witnessed the most terrifying sight. A hooded figure, surrounded by a dark air, cast forth a small army of undead. Being only a few dozen feet removed from the necromancer and its minions, Rafael became aware of a foul scent in the air. The stench of dead old bones and rotten skin, brought back to live to fight…

His eyes fell on the second figure. Armed with a longsword the tall man fought with incredible speed against the hosts of rotten corpses. Yet there was only one of him, and there were many of the foul creatures. For a moment he considered simply grabbing his things and bolting away, but then he considered the fate of the man fighting so valiantly against the dark hosts set upon him.

He grit his teeth. What kind of a Warrick would he be if he fled now?

He lay down flat on the ground and reached deep underneath the trees trunk until his hands found his blade. His courage doubled as soon as he felt the familiar grip in his hand and a grim looked settled on his face. Clutching the longsword with both hands, he pulled the blade out, jumped to his feet and snuck in an arc around the clearing until he was positioned directly behind the necromancer. It wasn’t until he was but a dozen steps removed from the dark mage that he charged forward at full speed, fully intending to shove some cold, Warrick steel through the man’s back and kill the source of the undead.

[Alistair]

So predisposed with the thrill of battle were they, that they did not even notice the creeping of the young boy, nor the valiant charge he'd made - until cold steel had ripped through the Lich's even colder flesh. Damien scarcely reacted, only even fully realizing that he'd been stabbed after a moment of feeling the steel lodged through his body, the hilt pressing irritatingly into his back. "What?" he asked, confused, the Lich attempting to pry the blade from his body, only to find that he couldn't quite easily reach the hilt. His back wasn't flexing so well with a sword plunged through it, and his arms weren't quite what they used to be...

When he finally decided to turn around, he spotted a young, black haired boy. It wasn't a boy he'd ever seen before, but it was certainly a boy that didn't care to see him. 'Necromancer,' he must've judged him, jumping to action without a second thought. He didn't even stop to think about the fact that they were engaged in something important here -- a battle to determine the Witch's great adversary.

The man finally pulled the blade from his back, covered in the sort of grime you'd only see on the inside of a century old corpse. Damien looked fairly presentable on the outside, but inside, he was far from attractive, or well put together. As black pus flowed from his back in the place of blood, Rafael would quickly understand that, and he'd know - or likely grasp at - the fact that he had not just stabbed a human, but something else.

As he turned around and saw his intended assailant, the Lich shook his head, and lunged his arm forward to grab the Warrick by the throat, lifting him off the ground if he'd succeeded. The black liquid began to flow from his mouth, too, with his eyes darkening a shade -- the veil of his meat suit was flickering, and he'd needed to place his arm carefully at his chest, stopping the flow of liquid with pressure and keeping himself together.

With lips covered in the grime, and a tongue even darker, he spoke in a demented voice.

"A little lamb that encroaches upon the wolves," he whispered, drawing nearer. His minions returned to him -- the ones not diced apart by Alistair and his flashes of speed, and violent swipes. "What name does this lamb bear, if I might so ask?"

"Put him down, Damien," Alistair commanded, dragging a Necromantic construct with his left palm as his other held a blade into its throat, slicing it open as a foul bile escaped its torn neck. He pulled the blade from the creature's jugular and pointed it to Damien, his left hand carelessly dropping the skull of the abomination as it fell lifeless against the dirt. With a successive motion with his free hand, Rafael's neck was cushioned from Damien's grasp, folds of air conjoining before pulling the young Warrick away from the Lich he'd so angered with his violent gesture.

Alistair knew who it was -- it didn't take anything more than a singular glance at his raven locks to recognize him. It was his cousin, a boy he'd allied with utterly recently. The Venora was quite a senseless sociopath in some respects, but he couldn't voluntarily allow someone from his family to be harmed. His reaction was immediate, and instinctual. It was so quickly determined that he didn't even allow himself to place his hood back on . . . which meant that Rafael would likely notice just who had come to his rescue.

"Damien, that's..." he didn't want to say it, but -- the cat was out of the bag.

"That's my cousin. You can't hurt him. You know I love you, but if you hurt my family, I'll end your life."

[Rafael Warrick]

29th Ashan, 717 - Krome Wilderness

Like a knife through butter the blade crushed bone, flesh, and emerged on the other side of the necromancer’s body, gleaming with a dark pus. Rafael realized his grave mistake in the trills that followed. No man could take such a forceful stab and remain standing as though nothing had happened. Yet that was precisely what occurred.

Eyes wide with shock, Rafael let go off the blade and took a cautious step backwards, as though hoping he could still sneak away from the evil that he’d stirred. Yet as the lich’s gaze turned on him, he froze. Black pus pooled at the dark mage’s feet, yet the man, or monster, seemed wholly unperturbed by it, as though he’d merely suffered a mosquito bite. For a trill, he merely gawked at the mage who appeared quite human, except for the black, tar-like life-juice that flowed from his innards and the menacing look on his face.

Just when he willed his limbs to flee the scene, a hand shot out towards him. Had he brought his shield, he would’ve perhaps managed to escape the clutches that seized his throat, but he did not. The bony fingers that closed around his throat with unfathomable strength were cold, colder even than his blade. Every hair on his skin stood on end as he was lifted of the ground and forced to look back into those dark, pooling eyes. He grasped and clawed at Damien’s wrist with both his hands, trying to free himself from the chokehold, but the mage’s grip was unrelenting and as the wicked necromancer spoke with an ancient, icy voice, he ceased his struggle to resist.

Yet, there was still defiance in him as he looked upon what had once been a handsome man with neat blonde hair and an impossibly symmetrical face, save for the scar crossing his lip. He flared his nostrils and wheezed in a husky voice, “your undoing, Necromancer”. If this creature was going to end him, he was not going to give it the pleasure of begging for life or mercy.

As the last bits of air were squeezed out of him, he saw the other approach from behind. He wanted to shout, to tell the hooded figure to run while there was a chance, but he’d spent all his breath on insulting the necromancer and the only sounds he could make were feeble wheezes like those of the raised undead. In a last attempt to break free, he resumed his struggle and dug his nails into the fragile skin that held him while his feet tried to kick at the man’s face.

An instant later, he was released. Some invisible force had pushed him free from the necromancer’s grasp and the fresh morning air burned into his lungs as he gasped for air like a fish washed ashore. It hurt. The air scorched his throat, his lungs, even his eyes. He rolled over onto his back as he was let down onto the ground and clutched his throat with both hands as he coughed and gasped.

Though he could not make out what was being said, the sound of the other’s voice was all too familiar and as he looked up to the previously hooded figure with bleary eyes he lost his breath once more.

“Ali- Alistair?” his voice was sore and husky, barely audible between the sharp, ragged breaths. His eyes shot between his cousin and the dark mage. “You love him? You love that…thing?”

While he had made a mistake charging at the necromancer, both mages had also made a mistake, for his sword lay unattended in a pool of dark pus. In one motion, he reached and seized the blade then jumped back onto his feet but struggled to keep his balance, still dizzy from the lack of air. Yet the sword was not solely pointed at Damien. The sharp tip shot to Alistair, then back to Damien, and back and forth, unsure who was friend and who was foe. “You’re one too, aren’t you?” he sneered at Alistair, disgust lacing his voice.

[Alistair]

...Thing?

"Thing?" the Lich asked. "You don't even know what I am," the creature spat, only to produce a vile liquid that landed at Rafael's feet -- like mud and mucus all in one, a secretion befitting the long dead. "So ignorant are you that you call any entity you don't know... a thing. You even attempted to take my life -- without understanding just what I am, or what we're doing, or why we're here. Ignorant abomination. If there is any soulless thing here, it is you... child." The Lich allowed the boy to fall to his side, roll over, suffer in anguish as he attempted to breathe -- whatever. It didn't matter.

He stepped back, and his minions receded into the treeline, scowling angrily at the floor as Alistair stepped to his side. Then, and only then... as the Venora drew nearer, did Rafael seek to threaten them. You're one too, aren't you?

. . .

"You're one what?" he asked. The mage continued to step forward, lacing his hands in a thick kinetic field of energy, gripping the edge of the Warrick's blade without a single scratch scathing his palm. He tugged on the blade, utilizing his strength to attempt to pull it from Rafael's grasp. If he succeeded, he would brandish it teasingly at the younger noble, knowing very well that his silly gesture probably wouldn't be appreciated -- but no matter.

"A Necromancer?" he asked, tossing the blade aside, and drawing exceptionally close to his cousin. They were near enough for one to touch another's breath, the mage kneeling slightly to make eye contact with the Warrick who'd clearly shown his perception towards magic and the dark arts. "Yes," he replied. "I am a Necromancer. And it's good that I am -- as the art allowed me to meet one of the greatest men I will ever know. Damien, the man you just impaled, as if he were worth less than an animal. Damien, who was my father when I had none, who made me everything I am today. Yes. I am one of 'them', and so is he. And yes, I love him. He's a dear friend of mine, and there are things within him that transcend just whether or not he's a Necromancer. Do not judge a man by one, but by all."

Damien stayed silent. Alistair hadn't any idea how to deal with all of this, in truth -- not when everything he'd wanted was drawing so closely. He was to be one of the greatest of Rynmere, soon, a man commanding more than just an opinion - but power behind it. This sort of scandal could not only sink him, but the entirety of Venora, and for that matter Warrick. He acknowledged that.

But he couldn't just kill Rafael. He had to get him to see, somehow. See... something -- whatever it was that Alistair saw in the art. Magic, but more than just magic. Liberation . . . from the Immortals, from the laws of reality, from death itself. How could he make him see? How could he know?

"Damien," the man said, slightly nodding his head in the Lich's direction.

"I know," the elder mage replied, beginning to gather himself and leave the area. He'd allow the two some privacy, so that the Venora could seek to minimize the damage of this encounter. If he could.

With the Lich's leaving, the younger mage sighed. "I'm sorry he hurt you, but he was threatened. Any man would react in such a way. On the bright side, you look well - I can say that much, with my medical expertise. Shock is the only thing that'll harm you now. So try to think on all of this rationally. You're a wise chap. I know you can be wise now, too. It's not worth it. Let it go. Forgive... and forget." He was clearly trying to warn Rafael that he needed not remember this. Damien was powerful, and dangerous - he was one of the most deadly mages on Idalos. And Alistair... Alistair was Rafael's ally. Could he really throw it all away over one unfortunate detail? His ambitions, his cousin, his own life?

[Rafael Warrick]

29th Ashan, 717 - Krome Wilderness

Rafael held his arm outstretched, the sharp point hovering between the two mages. Not even once did he consider that if either of them wanted to be rid of him, a simple sword was not going to stop them. He'd ran through one of them already and the mage looked angered but otherwise unharmed and unfazed. Damien's words were cold and hateful and Rafael replied with a scowl before turning his gaze to Alistair. He swallowed and attempted to steady his footing as he let the reality of the situation sink in. His cousin, by blood, was a necromancer, a mage who desecrated the dead for their own illegitimate purposes, he could hardly think of a more heinous act.

The razor-sharp tip trembled and Rafael steadied his blade-arm with the other, trying to discourage the mages from coming closer, yet Alistair stepped forward, and Rafael mirrored the movement by backing away. Nevertheless, the distance between them was closed and Alistair pushed the cold steel aside like a twig before pulling it effortlessly from his grip. Truth be told, Rafael wasn't really resisting the pull, having no intention to injure his cousin, no matter how wicked his cousin turned out to be.

Disarmed, he could do nothing as Alistair came close and lowered himself to his height. A sickness swelled in his stomach as disgust mingled with fear. Sweat glistened on his forehead and Alistair's hot breath breezed against his skin, so small was the space between them.

Was this really his cousin, or was it some puppet of the Necromancer? He simply could not believe that the Alistair would dabble in such a dark and monstrous art!

While he eased a little as Damien granted them some privacy, concern still marred his face. "How can I forget?" he whispered, his voice shaken. "How can I forgive?" He put his hands against Alistair's chest, half-heartedly pushing the mage away. "You're a monster," he muttered, though his voice lacked any conviction. "What's dead should stay dead."

Even as he backed off he knew he could not simply walk away and leave. Should anyone know that Alistair Venora toyed with the dead the mage would surely hang and he did not wish to see his cousin dangle in front of a baying crowd. Not Alistair. Not the only family that seemed to encourage his ambitions rather than insist on how impossible his dreams were.

A mirthless chuckle escaped him. As if Alistair would even let him walk away. He raised his arms lightly in surrender. "I'm your cousin Alistair," he spoke softly, "more than you know." He retreated more and more until his back pressed against the bark of an old tree and he slumped down onto the ground, breathing heavily. "I can't...I can't just forget! How do you expect me to do that? How was I supposed to know that that thin- the Lich was your friend? How am I supposed to forgive you for raising the dead. The dead Alistair!" A deep sigh escaped him as he buried his hands in his hair and shook his head. "I suppose I don't really have a choice, now do I?"

[Alistair]

The boy's surprise, and his ire, were not so surprising to the mage. It had not been much different when his brother had uncovered his secret, in an equally gruesome manner, nor had it been easily swallowed when anyone else had uncovered the pantomime of Alistair's previous life led. You're a monster, he said, weakly. The mage's brows rose and fell, his expression changing as the boy went on. He was not empathetic, nor was he patronizing. He was... interested. How did Rafael see all of this? Were his beliefs justified?

Did Alistair even forgive himself? There was a great deal of conjecture in regards to Necromancy, but ultimately, the act was cruel and selfish. While most of the dead had the liberty to pass on, Alistair in particular had contained the souls of the dead within their body, utilizing their sentience and intelligence to maintain powerful minions who could justifiably murder several men to their lonesome. He was a powerful mage - a Necromancer was deadly of course, but in him was a Necromancer of bestial proportions. He was one of the best.

No, Rafael wouldn't be able to forget. That was why -- Alistair had to ensure that he remembered him properly, and not as a cold beast. He couldn't ruin this, especially considering... he didn't hold any hatred for Rafael. The boy's position was understandable. Alistair could no longer see men - especially not his family - as mere assets or liabilities.

And that was why, of late, he'd even begun to renounce his own Necromancy - slowly, gradually, but still.

"Rafael, I am not a monster. I was, in the past, objectively speaking - I was emotionless, bereft of empathy, utilizing my thralls only for their purpose as combative assets. At one point my personal guard was a small retinue of corpses, created and molded by myself, concealed by armor and the bitter silence they held. Yet," he began, looking somberly off to the distance, "that's not who I am now. I do not plunder tombstones and crypts for pleasure, or even at all - I have changed. The world I learned growing up was a cruel one, a heartless one, where I was treated with contempt and adapted to the environment around me. But I've changed. Everyone can change, regardless of their past affiliation, or where they've gone. I am no longer that man that I was."

What did that mean to Rafael, who likely wouldn't care about all of that? Who wouldn't see the change?

It meant one thing: that they didn't disagree quite so strongly as they may have imagined.

"Necromancy is vile. I have lost my freakish fascination with the art, and long ago. The corpses I wield are but means to other ends, and they hold no significance or obsession of mine. Damien's Lichdom is an unfortunate part of his character, indeed, though still in my eyes he is a man. It is not so simple as you see it. The realm of the dead and the living are not so far off, and in Necromancy, they become intertwined. The dead do stay dead - their bodies are simply borrowed for a time, and then again laid to rest. Is this inhumane? Possibly. Is it amoral? Indeed. Is it cruel? No. They do not feel a thing. And so I do not in utilizing them. I do what I believe is ethical - that is part of where the change came from. Ethics, indeed, guide my utilization of all of my powers - Necromancy included. Say what you will, Rafael, but a monster I am not."

He spoke almost coldly, in a sheer tone, with little regard for the emotional state of the young man. Alistair cast off the boy's weapon, staring blankly at him, seeing what ethos he'd approach. He wasn't going to imprison him or attempt to hurt him - but he needed to know where Rafael stood. Alistair wouldn't doom his family, his reputation and his barony over this one incident. He would not kill Rafael, but the boy would need to be swayed. He would need to see that his cousin was only doing what he could to maximize his own potential. Did morals matter so much in the realm of the dead, or even in the realm of rule?

[Alistair]

Whether or not Rafael agreed with him, the mage left the scene sure that he would not be exposed further down the line. Damien sat at the ready on the southern tip of Krome, and from that point on the two determined to return to Murdoch an Keene to discuss any problematic results of their encounter with the young nobleman.

It was only later that he realized that Celeste had been viciously assaulted by the same young boy. Rafael was, indeed, not one to judge and Alistair shortly afterwards politically distanced himself from the boy.

- - -

(Shit wrap up post is shit.)

[Varthakh]

Rewards for the two-legs's

Alistair

Points: 15

Knowledge:
Rupturing: Blinking to grab a weapon's hilt for added strength
Rupturing: Using the Nail on a downed opponent
Blades: Longsword - Using rupturing in tandem with the sword
Necromancy: Stitchborn
Necromancy: A Lich's expanded repertoire

Loot: N/A
Injuries: N/A
Fame: N/A
Devotion: N/A
Magic: N/A

Comment: NICE ASS KICKING BAE

Code: Select all

[center][img]/gallery/image.php?album_id=39&image_id=7914[/img][/center]

Please paste my thingy here!