• Graded • II. [Foster's Landing] Execution Break

[Kasoria]

Continued from here

18th Trial, Cylus, Arc 713
Foster's Landing, North Side
Midnight

They showed up early, of course. Very early. They were raiders, pillagers, robbers and renegades by profession: allowing your enemy to get a lay of the land first was as alien and stupid to them as it would be to a professional soldier. Red Hand and his boys hadn't survived that long because they weren't cautious.

"He's late."

Reggie's hand was closing and opening over and over. He was barely aware he was doing it. Just a reflex, a twitch, a hangover from the recovery advice the healer had given him years before. Keep the hand moving, the muscles strong, and the blood pumping. Don't let your heart forget you have a limb there; don't let the fire win and make you a cripple.

"If he's not already here."

Bones rolled his eyes, but was careful to do so behind his master's back. Paranoid. That's what he was. There were four of them, all thorough-going bastards, and there was but one city boy coming to meet them. So what if he was there? He was still late. The toll for midnight had echoed away into memory bits ago and there they still stood, fucking cold and in need of a pint, a whore, a bed, or all three.

Hurry up already...

Reggie could almost hear the grumbling from Bones, and Terry, Winslow, Bark. All four of them acting like stroppy kids pissed off they had to go visit some granny whose place smelled like shit. Like they hadn't all fattened their pockets from his leadership, but wanted to make like it was all their crazy boss, none of their idea, why do we have to be here, too?

He made a point to draw out tonight. Langford's palm had already been well-greased: no-one would be nosing around the stables for the next break or so, interrupting what he had planned. No matter what strange lights or blood-chilling screams issued forth. No, he wanted plenty of time to do this right and show his boys just why he was in charge.

Not just that, either...

His eyes flickered briefly to the roof of the stable. There was a chimney there, though for the life of him he couldn't figure why a stables would need one. Probably left over from back when it had been something else. The shadows were deep there, on the side hidden from the moons, and if he stared long and hard enough... he could almost see the figure dwelling in them. Who had been for the last break or so.

... but because I plan ahead. Unlike those tossers.

"Boss?"

Winslow pointed at the other side of the open ground they were standing on, close to the wall of the stables. The Scabby Donkey was beyond the stables, and to their other side was wasteland stretching into darkness and grass and the formless mass of darkened woods beyond the green. Perfect place for a meeting that you wanted to keep quiet... and if you wanted to see anyone approaching from a good ways off.

"I see him."

The cloaked figure strode through moonlight and shadow with equal ease. Strong, confident steps. At about fifty feet away, he seemed to spy the knot of rough men rousing themselves to attention, three of them arrayed behind the red-bearded bandit glaring his way. The stranger and Reggie locked eyes across the distance. Vorund's man. The emissary. The killer, he'd wager, and he was sizing them up. The cloak came down and he stepped forwards and hands went to swords for-

"Wait... Ron?!"

"... R-Reggie?"

Reggie's jaw clicked open as he saw the sweaty-faced owner of the Happy Trout gawping back at them. Behind him he could hear muffled curses and a"waste of fucking time" from someone not being subtle enough. This... This didn't make sense. The fuck was he doing here? The man had trouble killing rats, let alone men. He was meant to believe that this was who Vorund would send to end him? No, it had to be a trick, or a distraction, but... he was still here. There had to be a reason-

"Oh, fuck it," he said, raising a hand and raised two fingers. "I ain't got time for this shite."

Dez would get the signal. A crossbow bolt through Ron's guts to put him down. Then they'd drag him out into the woods and ask some very pointed questions, find out how to track down this begger cunt who'd sent them on this fool's fucking errand. Ron had to be part of it, somehow. He wouldn't be standing there if said cunt didn't ask him, and why ask him if he didn't know him?

Reggie's hand was twitching impossibly as he smiled, and waited for the twang and wet thunk of flashing steel and bone through soft organs. He'd get a chance to cut loose tonight, no matter what. Ron or the emissary, didn't much matter to him.

He was still smiling when the crossbow bolt ripped through his crotch, and the tiny corner of his mind that wasn't howling in agony realized that wasn't Dez up there.

[Kasoria]

Timing and patience. That's what most of his job came down to. The will and discipline to just stay put, keep your eyes open, and not rush into things. Sometimes you could wait trials for the right handful of trills; sometimes that's all you would get.

And sometimes, it involved sitting on a roof with the stench of horse shit soaking into your breeches.

Kasoria shuffled a little in the shadow cast by the chimney. It was cold, and his arse was going numb. He'd been up there since the twenty-first toll of the bells down in the middle of Foster's Landing, three breaks before the meeting. He thought there might be a chance they'd already be there, but his caution paid off. He'd crept from shadow to shadow, rattling his bowl like the convincing little beggar he was, until he was behind the Donkey, behind the stable... and hauling himself up the limestone wall like a monkey shoved into human clothes.

The wooden roof was cold and damp and didn't creak, so that was a plus, but it made sitting on it a bloody nightmare. He sat up in the darkness and watched, and waited, and forced himself not to fall asleep. The plan. He went over the plan. What he's already plotted and set in motion, paid for and arranged... what he had yet to do and how he would do it, what words he would end his work with... and then the dawn that would come in time if not in sunlight, when he'd leave the Landing on the same barge he'd arrived on.

Plans and possibilities. Bloods and commitments. He thought of them as the wind whistled, as the moons all hung in the sky like three fat sisters, bathing the world in weird, silver light. The crowd at the Donkey caroused anew, a party that broke out every night, drinking away their cups and coffers, only to sweat for it all again, to lose it all again, on and on and on...

He thought back to that place of stone and brick and towers. What he'd left there, so little that it could barely be called a life. The feline curs that prowled the roofs and sewers would miss him more than any man or woman, should he never return. Only one would ask of him, if his childish mind could focus for long enough on that nice man that visited him every other season.

Kasoria snapped his eyes shut. Banished that face from his mind. Now was not the place for him. Now was-

Movement below him. Footsteps. He cocked his head down to the wet wood and listened... to feet moving steadily up the ladder below, leading to a-

Trapdoor.

He started moving as the square door in the roof was flung open and candlelight poured out into the sky. A shadow was already bobbing before it, Kasoria watching it from under his cloak as he slunk around the other side of the chimney. Only enough for half-an-eye to peek out... and see the stern-faced Biqaj from Reggie's table. A crossbow was over his shoulder, and a quiver of bolts swung at his belt. He closed the trap and walked over to-

Of course.

-the chimney. Kasoria lowered his eyes, and trusted the edges of his vision, the nuance of his ears. Tried to guess which side of the narrow chimney the man would come around, and kept his eyes darting from side to side until he saw the shadow looming on the right-

Go left.

-and slid around as Dez got into position, like two children playing some insane game. His feet didn't leave the wood, not trusting the timber to stay quiet. He stood and listened, breath slow and shallow. The crossbow mechanism cranked back, string getting tighter and tauter with each pull. Then the quarrel settled in place, a song in words he had no ken of mumbling out from foreign lips.

The sure sound of a rump hitting the wood. Taking the same position he'd been in moments before. A bowman on the roof, hidden from sight, and with a weapon readied that could punch through plate armor. Clearly Reggie was not planning to chat, as he'd told Rose he wished to do. Kasoria let his lips twist and shudder under his beard for a moment.

Always assume the worst, and you'll never be disappointed.

Everything moved slowly, for only with minute movement did you truly silence yourself. His hand went to the small of his back... and a wickedly-curved blade was pulled from the sheath there... gripped securely with the blade reversed and arcing forward, index finger securely looped through the ring at the bottom of the hilt. A karambit, it was called. An exotic, rare weapon in Etzos, but one he'd come to appreciate. He'd killed the last owner, after all, and there were a trio of ugly red scars on his stomach and arm from where the fucker had nearly gutted him.

Nearly.

Each step took a break. A trial. Longer. He listened to any hitch in the bowman's breathing, any pause that he'd been discovered, like a hunter watching for a buck freezing in warning. But as he drew closer, still that melody murmured from lips born across the ocean. There was something... a smell... fresh bread. The sound of a roll being torn in half and munched carefully. Closer... closer... enough to peer around as high as he could, staying out of the man's vision.

There he sat. Back to the chimney, half a roll in one hand, the other resting on his bow. Killing the time with a snack until-

Noises from below. The Biqaj's head swung to it, and he peered from out his hiding place, further away from Kasoria.

No better time.

Dez squinted over the top of the roof, confident his dark skin and the long shadows would hide him. Fucking hell, they were early. Still another break or two to go and... ah, no. That wasn't them. He squinted and saw not four burly buggers but a couple of those faux Blackjacks the Landing seemed to have, sauntering on their rounds with their spears lazily over their shoulders. Dez scowled and yearned to send a bolt into one of them. Shame they wouldn't be around at midnight when things got nasty. Shanking a couple of half-shift heroes just when they thought they'd finally live out their childhood fantasies would be just the-

Something moved behind him, and as he turned his head to face-

-his hand lifted the crossbow, but his finger never reached the trigger before-

-a blade punched into the front of his throat and killed the war cry before he could yell it, the hand holding it jerking hard and to the side-

Dez felt every muscle and tendon and vein ripped open by the vicious little blade. His eyes nearly popped out of his skull as he saw the fountain gush out of him, rotting red in the queer moonlight of Cylus. He jammed his hand into the wound and fuck, it was so big, so big, and already his hand were soaked and he coughed and couldn't focus and couldn't feel and... and...

Darkness. His eyes were wide open as he slumped to the side, but he saw... just darkness. Darkness that had a shape, squatting over him and wiping his blade on the hem of his cloak. Picking up his beloved bow and turning it over. The last thing he saw was a gleam of the moon against the tip of the bolt. He'd never get to fire it. Wasn't fair.

Then thoughts were gone and Kas saw all the man had been and could be vanish. Blown out like a candle behind his eyes. In a blink, he was looking at dead marbles in a waxen face, still clutching a throat laid open and pumping, gushing... then slowing... blood oozing over the timbers as Dez became a few hundred pound of spent, still meat.

The killer dragged him around to the other side of the chimney, and took his cloak. He wasn't sitting in that for two more breaks, that was for fucking sure. He laid it down over the blood and sat down with his legs crossed, bow over them. Not a big fan of them, really. Not much call for it in the city, full of alleys and passages and tight streets. Besides, he'd never been much good with them. Up close and nasty, that was his style. More... honest, almost.

Kasoria permitted himself a short, sharp snort. Right. Like he was one to talk.

The waiting came again. A flurry of excitement and plotting and death and blood and then it never happened. He was back on his haunches, racing heart now slow again, blade back where it belonged. He saw and the plans came again. The memories. But he did not let them stray beyond the city, and the Landing. Those two places were his world, for they withheld his purpose.

Four men approached. He made out their voices, counted them, and recognized one as Reggie before they even stopped at the wall. They talked among themselves but Kasoria made no move to eavesdrop. There was still plenty of time before-

"Oi? Dez?!" Nothing sounded stupider than a man trying to shout quietly, but that's what Reggie was doing. "You ready?"

Time stopped. He had to answer. If Reggie was even asking, it was because he knew he'd be up there, and if he didn't get an answer...

"... uh-huh."

That was all he dared to respond with. He squatted there, lifting the crossbow as quietly as he could. Anymore and he'd fire down into Reggie's fat mouth and take his chances. His legs flexed, ready to lunge forw-

"Good. Eyes open. Mopey fucking bastard..."

The last part was muttered as he walked away, and insult or no, Kasoria smirked to himself. More waiting followed. He felt twitches and restlessness grab hold of his limps, tapping and shaking and twitching and eager so eager to just get to this. But the break had not yet arrived, and only when the bells crashed in the collection of taller buildings sprouting from the middle of Foster's Landing. Over and over until twelve echoes were pealing off the leaves and timbers and walls and ceilings and a new trial crept onto the stage.

He was due to arrive soon. Or so they thought. And lo! After a few more bits, "he" did.

"Wait... Roy?!"

"... R-Reggie?"

The innkeeper looked fit to shit himself even from where Kasoria was sitting. Not that he had much time for amusement. He was on one knee, settling the butt of the crossbow into his shoulder, getting used to the simple sight. Seemed like he just had to rest the tip of the bolt over what he was looking at and... not jostle it around too much, probably. He wasn't too worried at this distance, though. From where he kneeled to Reggie was...

Twenty feet. Maybe a little more.

"Oh, fuck it. I ain't got time for this shite."

Reggie raised his hand and gave the signal with all the authority of a general on the field. Kasoria could just picture his smug smile as his oh-so-clever little secret was about to be revealed. Never mind it was all wasted on some hapless wanker who wouldn't be able to tell them shit-all useful. Never mind he didn't actually confirm that it was his man up there.

Kasoria squinted down the length of the bolt, resting the bolt in the middle of Reggie's back. Nothing fancy, nice big target, less likely to miss. He breathed shallow and slow. He remembered that much from the cadet course.

And... hold it just before-

TWANG

It went low. Very low. The bolt crashed through clothe and skin and bone and punched out of Reggie's crotch and fucking hells and shit-stars, Kasoria thought he took a bollock with it on the way out. Even he, merciless and murderous he, winced as the mage fell down screeching, voice going hoarse and high in mere trills. His men jumped back in shock, staring like stupid children as their magic-wielding master was felled and feminized in a blink. Then hands moved to swords. Heads started to jerk up to-

He dropped the crossbow and drew his gladius. Then he jumped into the fray.

[Kasoria]

Not just a turn of phrase, either. Winslow found that out the hard way.

"What in the FUCKINGSHIT-!"

He turned to where the bolt had come from and saw a shadow spread over the sky like ink across the sea. Stretching out, billowing at the edges, but it was holding something, a sword, and it was coming-

-straight for him, and he saw it was a man, burning eyes spitting with unholy excitement as he leaped from the low roof of the stables and-

-used him as a landing pad.

"FUCK!"

Reggie's band had passed the point where any response other than curses was appropriate. Swords and hatchets filled their hands, boredom and resentment was replaced in a trill by fear tinged with anger. Loyalty to each other was hardly a priority for them, but if not friends, they were partners, and it wasn't easy to see a useful asset like Winslow-

-go crashing down with a yelp and an audible crack from inside his chest, as this winged fucking monster smashed into him feet first-

-bandit toppling back, clutching his chest and trying to get his lungs to work, while his attacker fell backwards-

Roll, move, don't just lay there!

Kasoria let his momentum carry him back, tucking into an awkward roll and above all, keeping his grip on the gladius in his right hand. Not even twenty trills and they were down two men. Well, technically three, but Dez was already stiff and cold by that point. He scrambled to one knee just as someone very angry and very green came charging in from his left, curved sword swinging for his head. His gladius rocketed up as he roared out, defiant and furious, all the skulduggery and stealth of the last two trials joyously forgotten-

-blocking the swipe with a crash of steel on steel, lunging upward to his feet at the same time-

-impact of the blow knocking Bark's arm up and away along with the sword, leaving his chest open-

Any opening. Sometimes you only get one.

-to Kasoria's backhanded slash, tearing through the strange substance that sufficed for his skin, laying open a diagonal gash that tore through matter and cloth, spilling sickly-looking green blood onto the grass-

But still Bark fought. He'd fought his way from the sands to the sea to the distant shores, spurned and exiled by his kin, betrayed by friends and employers, and whatever peace his people stood for, he was alien to it. Just because he was always the first in their group to advocate talking over violence, didn't mean he had much of a problem with it.

He forced himself not to look down at the gaping wound across his torso. All instinct. All action. Forged and fueled by a hundred skirmishes and ambushes and murders and the sword came swinging back to the little cunt who'd done this to him.

Too slow.

Sheer, thoughtless reaction taught a man to leap away from a hefty chunk of metal swinging at his head. That wasn't a bad idea, certainly, but it surrendered ground, gave the advantage to your enemy. But Kasoria had realized early that coming in closer, under their guard, under the reach of a sword, essentially made it useless. That and people simply didn't expect it. Especially bandits and pillagers who were used to shrieking merchants and easily-frightened caravan guards falling under their blades.

He was neither.

"Mother of SHIT-!"

His left hand shot out as he stepped forward, jerking up and slamming into Bark's forearm, blocking the scimitar before it even came close to him. His gladius snapped back to his side, tight at his hip, and as he stepped closer it burst forward and-

Terry cursed again as he saw the little fucker gut Bark like a big, dumb... vegetable, he guessed. The gladius vanished into his stomach and he heard the tree-man gasp and wheeze in shock. He'd heard it before. That sheer, stupid disbelief that this was happening to you, after arcs of dealing out the pain. He twitched, and Terry knew the killer had twisted the blade, ripping the hole wider as he yanked the blade back out.

Bark fell to his knees, and Terry gagged as he heard things wet and soft and irreplaceable tumble out of the hole Kasoria had made. Then the little man shoved him aside and kept moving, head for him-

"Right then you CUNT!"

He squashed the fear in him. He remembered who he was, and what he'd done. He was thirty arcs in the world and had killed tougher man than this little shit. He swung his hatchet and the little man swayed away from him, coming in from the side-

No you fucking don't!

-but Terry wasn't so easily fooled, sliding back one foot and bringing the hatchet swinging around low and to the side, blocking the thrust aimed at his stomach. No way was he falling for the trick he'd just seen topple Bark-

Winslow was gasping and trying to get up. Reggie was still screaming, hand flicker and flaming, mage-craft interrupted by pain Terry could barely imagine. It was up to him, it had to be.

"Little SHIT!"

This one knows what he's doing.

Kasoria felt the joy, the rush, the fire sweep through his being as it always did when subterfuge was tossed aside. Now there was only this mad, brutal dance, with it's own music and pace. The tree-man was big but slow, and wasn't expecting him. This man with the ax, though... he learned within moments. He avoided his thrust, then countered with a swing that forced him back, not even bothering to blunt his gladius by blocking. The ax went wide and he saw an opening-

No. He didn't. Because Terry's boot came roaring up at him instead, and again he slid back and away, giving up more ground, more time-

Enough.

Terry was tall. Most people were compared to Kasoria, but he was a lanky lad, and Kasoria knew how to handle him. Their weapons crashed together and he backed up, waiting for a sweeping blow at his neck-

-dropped down to one knee and the ax went sailing over his head, weight and momentum keeping the attack going and going. He knew a kick would come in a trill, but for the moment, that very moment, Terry was stymied, still focused on his failed attempt at decapitation and that was when Kasoria could-

-make a sideways slash of his own, screaming out as he did, bloody red roar of battle filling his lungs as his faced twisted like an insane apes-

-joined by read red, real blood, real viscera as Terry's stomach was opened up by the blow, and he staggered back, mumbling and cursing and-

-Kasoria snapped back up to his feet, gladius striking upward as he did-

-catching his ax-holding arm at the elbow, shattering it, killing his grip, nearly severing it but either way robbing him of the weapon.

Those things. Soft and wet and irreplaceable. Terry could see them now, as he tried to keep them inside himself, shoving his hands into a wound that should have been killing him with agony. He knew that would follow. But for now Kasoria simply saw a man sink to the ground in horror, mind not realizing the damage that had been wrought upon the body.

Terry remembered him. Looked up just in time to see the gladius whirl in in the little man's hand. Go from a standard grip to reversed, gladius held like one would a dagger. It rose high, catching the light of all the moons. As if sanctified by it, and Terry saw his eyes in the steel, his face, the blood glittering and winking from it.

Then it thundered down. Punched through his breastbone and into his heart. So deep and hard that the man had to brace his foot on his chest and push him back as he reclaimed his sword. Terry fell flat against the grass and hells, had he never really appreciated how soft it was? How it smelled? He breathed in, dew and frost in his nostrils, savoring it as he closed his eyes, leaving the screaming and sputtering bastards behind.

[Kasoria]

Rage and Agony warred in his mind, and he had to shut them both up. They were stealing precious trills from him, stranding his body in pain and hopelessness while he was bleeding, gushing, pouring, his balls, his cock his-

Stop it, you fucking fool! You know what you have to do.

Reggie let his head fall back into the grass and stopped looking at... it. What had been there and what was mutilated forever. It didn't matter. It was the past. All the mattered was stopping the bleeding. He could faintly here the sounds of battle beyond the pounding in his ears. Swords crashing together. Men screaming. Cursing. Yelling. Bodies dropping. He ignored it, ignored them. They didn't matter. Fucking peons and scum, he could find a dozen more tomorrow. Instead he gripped the bolt-

Ignore it! Focus!

-and screamed out his soul as he pulled it out and out until it was dangling loose from his hand and he dropped it. But that was only half the task.

"N-No! Please, I don't-"

Winslow, by the sound of it. Begging like a cunt and brutally cut off with a sound that sounded like a boot crashing into his face. Reggie focused on his hand. Bloody and scarred, and he focused... peered deep into himself... yanked up that power, grasped his Spark like a diver bringing up a flawless pearl up to the surface. He felt the heat race across his hand. Opened his eyes and saw the bloody burning away into stinking mist.

He knew when he had to do. So he screwed his eyes shut and-

No scream was louder or more agonized than the one he let loose when he jammed the flames into his crotch. He'd be smelling his own burning flesh and pubic hair for seasons, but it had to be done. The wound was closed, at least for now, and he had to time deal with the cunt who'd shot him. Not Dez, couldn't have been Dez... or maybe it was?

Doesn't matter, he thought as he lurched upright, just need to get-

THUNK

Kasoria would have preferred to make it one, clean cut, but sometimes a man had thicker bones than expected. It was such an odd sound, too. Thick and hollow at the same time. The feel of flesh and tendons parting as easily as a roasted ham under your knife, until the blade came to a fat chunk of vertebrae. That stopped the swing dead in it's track, only half-done, half-dead.

Half-decapitated.

No way could Reggie not look at this. Not really any hope of avoiding a foot of sharp steel suddenly protruding from your throat, your own bloody running down it, as the fucker behind you found his sword stopped by your damn spine. He tried to dig deep again. Tried to find his Spark even as his body started to go numb, and the darkness at the edge of his eyes grew louder and stronger.

Kasoria ripped the gladius free, raised it again and gripped with two hands. Twice the strength. In a frozen half-trill, he knew what the bards would demand. A reason. A justification. A why for the audience (or victim, in this case... though he supposed "villain" would work) to understand how they had come to this. Because it wasn't true victory, unless a man knew exactly how he was beaten, and by whom.

"Pluh-"

He let the mage-bandit get that out before he took his fucking head off at the neck.

Not a word he spoke, not a snarl, nothing at all. Just a grunt of effort as the gladius crunched through split flesh and weakened bone. Reggie's hand went dark like someone had dumped manure on a torch. The impact sent his head toppling away even as his body stayed up, twitching, still... breathing, almost, by the movement of his chest. The body was so strange, that way. Wanting to live even without a hope of doing so. Kasoria turned from him, and back to the wheezing man he'd left alive, the only one, in fact.

Roy had bolted the moment Reggie hit the ground, of course. He had nothing to fear. He'd followed his orders, know that them coming from Kasoria was much like coming from Vorund himself. All he had to do was be seen, be a focus, be the bait... and now his job was over. But the man he stalked towards, holding his chest together and panting like a winded dog, nose smashed across half his face... he was there for a different reason.

And he would be spared for that reason alone.

Concluded here

[Zip]

Overview

Missed your violence, Razkar. I really, really have.

@Kas

Points

XP: 10/10

Loot/Injuries/Overstepping

Loot: N/A
Renown: 10 Renown for taking part in a bloody, bloody crime and leaving a survivor to speak of it.

Knowledge

Investigation: Asking Relevant Questions
Tactics: Show Up Early (REALLY Early)
Tactics: Using a Human Distraction
Tactics: Best Way to Kill a Mage? Don't Let Them Use Their Magic
Acrobatics: Tucking and Rolling After a Fall
Blades (Gladius): Disemboweling
Unarmed Combat (Brawling/Silat): Using Forearm to Block a Sword Swing

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