• Mature • Desperate Times [Westguard] (Graded)

[Kasoria]

[Continued directly from here]

I know you'll be okay. You're a clever man, and you know your way around a blade. And if you ever need me, all you have to do is dream.

"Fates, what a load of fuckin' shite."

He was actually rehearsing his lines. Like he was some fucking mummer shitting his britches before going onto the stage. Trying to edit his words as he thought them, rearranging and agonizing over them. He tried to imagine the boy's face, all pale and wide eyes like captured rainbows. He didn't know whether to be struck or irritated by such naivete... no, he definitely did. It irked him, that anyone could remain so annoyingly positive and difficult to deceive.

Not over the last few trials, though.

Kasoria and Zarik and the kids... Fates, what a motley blood crew. During a normal Hot Cycle, they would have been a burden, to his patience and his attentions. Another gaggle of mouths and wandering bodies to watch over, like a shepherd over sheep. But this was nothing close to normal. This was the chaos and anarchy of n Oh'Pee riot, spread over an entire nation. They'd traveled on roads clogged with refugees, or bodies, or both. They'd seen the passing of monsters in tracks no natural beasts could make. They'd stayed up all night, with no fire to give them away, unable to sleep for the sound of... things, out there, in the distant dark.

Every morning, he'd seen one more shred of Zarik shrivel away. Then the girl Hazel got sick, and Kasoria stopped being annoyed. He saw his son in that coughing, confused face. The way she said it hurt, that she just wanted it to stop, and Zarik tried to hard to comfort her. She had her own room in the house, her own bed. Water, warmth, as best they could provide. But she started coughing more, and Kasoria winced the first time he heard that thick, choking, phlegm-filled sound in it.

He'd gone outside to smoke his pipe, and not said a word. He didn't know how to tell Zarik the truth.

Wonderful, now I'm thinking of telling her, too.

The little man huffed as he wound his way through byways and alleys well-known to him. Most were deserted, of course. There was officially a curfew on, but enforcing it was difficult, when the town militia was either marching south, maintaining the mammoth refugee camps, or simply deserted. Kasoria knew that they weren't roving in bands, truly turned against their country, but when chaos like this struck, a man looked to his own. A uniform, an oath, pretty words from his commanding officer... what was any of that nonsense next to the life of a wife, a daughter, a father? Kasoria had ears, and he'd used them. A quarter of the militia had just walked out once word of what was coming reached them. Vanished into the night, and back to their homes. A few trials later, that number had doubled, and only the staunchest true believers were left.

So it was not spear-bearing soldiers he had to avoid that night, which worked out well for him. Instead it was skulking shadows, much like himself. Most seemed to see like forms in him, and didn't approach. Then there were the gaggles, the clutches, the pairs and trios, made brave in their numbers. They leered and jeered at him, so he hurried onward. Once, a pair of men had followed him. Whispering too loudly to themselves, before finally making their move. They'd just wanted his coin, they said. Any food or water he carried, probably.

"Probably" because he hadn't given the designated speaker a chance to demand it. The robbery began, coin was demanded... and then he just moved.

Kasoria had already forgotten the man. Choking on his own vomit with a crushed throat and shattered elbow. His "friend" had bolted with nothing but a shallow whinny of horror in his wake. The man that spoke and touched Kasoria's arm had not been given the chance to flee. The little man had hit him exactly twice, crippling him at best and mayhap killing him at worse... but what mattered it?

Don't be a bad man if you don't want bad things to happen.

How he would tell Zarik was bothering him far more than some trivial scrote puking his guts up a few streets back. He was... familiar with the boy. Friends? That was unlikely. But he'd shown Kasoria so much, and not just knowledge. Thanks to him, he'd been able to fashion his dreams into memories he could walk through, even remember. More than that, he'd whisked the little Etzori away from Yaralon, leagues and oceans and countries away, slap into the hold of a ship traveling back to Etzos.

A journey of a season, in a handful of trills. And he asked nothing from me, save protection. If you'd gone your way, you wouldn't have come back until late Saun, at least. Jessye and Martyn would be gone. Alsome would be gone. This place would have finished eating and emptying itself and maybe the cottage would have been burned and sacked, too. No letter. No clue. No hope.

You owe him your child, and you're leaving him when his own is dying.

Kasoria swore in a stream of creative Ith’esson so vicious it made a passing couple jump back a few feet. He pegged them with a neck-cracking stare that had them shriveling further away. Without another word, he marched on, almost stomping across the stones.

Definitely irritating.

"This is bigger'n what I owe ya," he muttered to himself again, navigating as much by smell as sight. "This is bigger than what I... aye, that's better... bigger than what I owe yeh. An' now I need to protect... no, c'mon... to fight for... eh, that's better, I sup-"

He turned the corner and saw unfamiliar faces. Beefy bodies. Torches held in steady hands illuminating eyes that seemed to veer crazily between animal aggression and pack animal fear. He'd seen these faces a lot over the last few trials. These men weren't even bothering with the gossamer pretense of "protecting the neighborhood" anymore. No, the time for such shameless lies was long gone. These men were looters, and didn't try to hide it anymore. An array of weapons filled their hands, from short swords to farmer's tools. Torches, too. What threats and steel could not take, fire would destroy. They'd rather burn to ash than have anyone else take what they couldn't rightfully steal.

Which wasn't to say they wouldn't burn down the houses they robbed, anyway. Just for the fun of it.

Kasoria had ears, and he'd used them. He stopped on the corner, and used them again.

"Fuck me, fuckin' state a' Andrew."

"Hardly fuckin' recognize him. Shite, lookit that fuckin' eye-"

"Denis, too. Dagger inna neck."

"Stone me, bled out so much his fuckin' shirt changed color!"

"Fuck's sake, will you lot shut yer cuntholes an' just heave?!"

There were half a dozen of them, and four more than would never stir again. Battered, skewered, gut-stabbed and throat-cut. Laid out in a neat row on the cobbles in front of the house Zarik and his flock called home. Blood still wet and red, telling the little man this was recent. His gaze flickered up and there was light in the upstairs windows. Torches. Moving and bobbing, bigger than the scarce, dwarfish candles they had inside. He could smell the shit and the bile that always told him men had died messily, cacking themselves as they'd gone.

But he saw no children. No girl with a copper-skinned face, eyes closed in death. Just men he didn't recognize, who'd apparently died... doing what?

Kasoria blinked. He didn't make a quip in his head. He didn't make a face or even smile. He just put one hand in his pocket, sliding his fingers into what was in there... and started walking across the street.

"Gerry, hurry the hells up and... oi, what're you doin'?"

All eyes turned to the little man walking towards them. Dressed simply, almost ragged. Long beard, long hair. Barely up to Young Marsden's ears, and he was the baby of the bunch. Six rough men who'd done terrible things over this season; gone from laborers and farmers and clerks to... something else. But they'd had to. They didn't choose this. It was kill or be killed, be weak or be strong, and weak meant dead in Etzos this season. The Season Of Ruin.

"You don't live here."

Nesbitt's face darkened as the little man spoke. "City boy, eh? What're you doin' out here?"

They closed in on him with admirable speed, but a little too much laxity. Two in front, one on each side, and two hanging back with the bodies of their friends. But they didn't press him. Didn't get so close that any sudden moves would have been doused by their big bodies, buying them time to pile onto him. They don't think you're any kind of threat, Kasoria thought, and could have smiled, but didn't. He was not of the mood. Not at all.

"S'right," he said, voice eerily calm in a way that made one or two of the looters look nervously about. Hoping they'd make eye contact with a friend. "How many more of yeh are there?"

They didn't answer. Nesbitt looked around and laughed. Like obedient little peons, they echoed him. Kasoria smiled mildly, as if it were all just a great shared jest, and looked beyond him. Down at the dead bodies, mangled and bloody.

"He took four?" He said aloud, snorting softly in surprise. "Fates. Dint know the lad had it in 'im. Well, protectin' the kids an' all-"

"Fuck're you talkin' about, kids? There's no kids in there!"

The little man looked up at Nesbitt. He didn't look afraid. Nesbitt didn't like that. People had to be afraid of them, all the time, or it just wouldn't work. They wouldn't do as they were told and things got messy. This sawed-off fucking runt, barely up to his shoulder, and he was staring at them all like some slack-jawed idiot. Then he had the nerve to point past him.

"Think youse should lemme past, find me friend."

"Who the fuck do you think you're talkin' to, city boy?"

There was a long pause. Long enough for Nesbitt's face to go from ruddy to red with anger. Kasoria blinked a few more times, and finally he sighed. It was not an altogether regretful sound. More... resigned, to a bad bit of business. But it ended lightly. As if there were still some enjoyment to be found even in dirty work. He smiled at Nesbitt, lips together, and made like he was scratching his arse.

"Y'know... you picked the wrong fuckin' trial for this."

Shock. Surprise. Anger. Disbelief. All these things played over their faces. All these things froze them, in some way, in some fashion. Kasoria didn't take the time to enjoy the sight; he'd crafted it so he could get that time, and wouldn't waste it. After a few scratches his right hand moved up, gripped the handle of Traitor's Claw-

-ripped it out of the sheath at the small of his back as Nesbitt started to raise his cleaver, moving with the smooth speed of bloody experience-

-and slashed it sideways as he burst forward, closing the distance between them, carving open a beautifully straight red line across the man's throat-

-that suddenly split, and tore, and gaped, and vomited blood and bubbling red broth. Nesbitt gasped and clutched at the gushing wound, hands turning scarlet-

"F-Fuc-"

Kasoria didn't stop moving. He spun on his heel as he twisted to the side, left hand coming out of his pocket, punching forward with a gleam of dirty gold wrapped around his knuckles that the torches caught briefly.

Young Marsden was too slow to get his precious sword up. The sight of Nesbitt getting his throat cut was... well, he'd seen plenty of the like, the last few trials. The things they'd done, they'd been nasty. Bad. But Nesbitt was a smart man, and tough. Just like he'd been when he was running a tavern, not working with Ma and her bastard sons. Now he was dead, or dying. Laying on his back and crying and coughing up blood and-

Too slow.

The brass knuckles hammered into his nose and broke it like a hammer smashing a twig. Instantly his world was sightless, soundless; he couldn't feel anything but pain, not his limbs or even his face. He staggered back and Kasoria followed it up with a kick between the legs that took him right off his feet and burst something under the steel toecap-

Move!

Kasoria didn't stand his ground. He'd removed two pieces from the board, but he was still almost surrounded, and outnumbered. With Nesbitt down and Marsden senseless, he'd made an opening for himself where the boy had been. He slid across the cobbles, bounding over Marsden as he lay screaming in a fetal position, the turned-

-seeing the other men surging towards him. Not getting a chance to grab him before, but now coming on at him, rage and vengeance in their eyes-

Kasoria spit on the ground between them, and he charged.

Now that, they were not expecting.

Big Anthony swung a blacksmith's hammer at the little man and Kasoria ducked under it with ease. All the infirmities of the past two seasons, from Andaris City, from the voyage, from Yaralon, they were healed now. He was himself again, whole and healthy and death on fucking legs. The hammer hurtled towards his head and struck air instead, Kasoria ducking low-

-karambit slashing across the fat man's stomach, cleaving it open with that even, reversed curve made for such a cut. The baker's apprentice (he'd stolen the hammer) reeled back and started to sob as he saw all the steaming, wriggling things bubbling up from the hole in his stomach. He let go of the hammer and just before he heard it clang to the ground-

CRUNCH

-a straight left from Kasoria fractured his shaven skull and sent him down to a death while dreaming. Still they came on, but more careful now. One man had a scythe, modified more like a spear. The curved blade now straight up, and he stabbed at Kasoria's belly from a distance-

-little man dancing away from it, other two men coming in from the flanks as The Scythe kept him at bay. The four of them exchanged looks for a moment. Still in their eyes and quick, assessing gazes even as Marsden kept screaming and crying. Finally, one of them made a move, stabbing at Kasoria's with a dagger, little man's snapping his arm up to block the blow-

-The Scythe seeing his opening, lunging to skewer Kasoria through the belly while he was "distracted"-

Because that's what it was. Something worthy of quotation marks, because whatever it looked like, it simply was not. Kasoria saw the man's muscles bunch and tense as he started to move, and as that ragged spear thrust towards him, he stepped back sharply-

-dragging Dagger with him by the wrist-

"S-Shit!"

The Scythe cursed as his weapon went straight through the back of his comrade instead of Kasoria's belly. Worse than that, it was stuck on something. As Dagger fell, gasping and cursing breathlessly, his lurching body pulled the weapon away from Scythe's hand-

-and Kasoria vaulted over Dagger as he collapsed before him, one hand steadying himself as he flew across the back of the impaled man, foot lashing up and out as he went-

-steel toes smashing into the unarmed Scythe's stunned jaw. His head snapped around and there was a crack so loud it echoed down the empty street. The final man saw his friends die, saw Willy stabbed through the back out out the gut, and Gerhardt's neck snap and his teeth shower out of his head and scatter across the stones. He turned to run as the little man landed, and Kasoria watched him go.

He shrugged the brass knuckles off his fingers as he did. Flexed his sore hand as he looked at what he'd done. Still bodies, bleeding out. A couple still gargling, writhing, spitting. He ignored Nesbitt, and Dagger. Both were on their way out, and he'd wager Nesbitt was a bitter enough loser not to be forthcoming. Instead, he focused on Young Marsden, who was now able to speak. Almost.

"muh nuz... muh nuz... misuh nezbiut... urrrhh!"

What crouched down in front of Young Marsden was not Mister Nesbitt. It was that little bastard, that fucking monster who'd killed his friends. The weird, curved dagger he'd had in his right hand glinted wickedly... and now another one was in his left. Drawn from his boot, with a long, straight, blade serrated on the back end of it. It was flawless. Pure silver, gleaming and without a mark-

-and Young Marsden pissed himself though it was agony to do so, as Kasoria held it against his neck.

"Y'get one chance t'live, boy," he said, speaking very clearly, almost reasonably. As if he wasn't squatting in a slaughter house he'd helped make. "How many more of yeh are in there?"

"I... I... Uh..."

"Y'don't need to die here," Kasoria said gently, pressing the blade a mite harder. "Jus' tell me... how many are in there?"

"S... s'jus Ma... Ma... annuh buhs... an... an... muhbe Juzzy, inna-"

"So... four?"

"Y-Yehz!"

"Good lad."

The Raggedy Man yanked the dagger sideways and sliced open Marsden's throat. Simple, efficient, like he was killing a lamb at market. He stood up as the boy's eyes popped open wide and looked down with black eyes. Watching him die with that same, cold assurance. The blade had been worth taking, that was for sure. A fine blade, and the handle had a delightful hard around it. Like the unholy child of brass knuckles and a dagger. Kasoria liked the idea, but he did not smile.

He looked up slowly, and saw the bobbing lights had stopped. As if they were watching from upstairs. Had they been, they'd have only seen a face utterly masked by shadows and darkness and a row of lank, black hair. But maybe, just maybe, they'd have seen the glint of wet obsidian, looking back up at them. With dead men at his feet he'd made thus, flicking the blood from his blades. Without another word or gesture, Kasoria walked into the house.

"Zarik?"! He called out, voice dropping deep and growling as he raised it high enough to fill the house. "Stay where y'are 'til it's over! Dun' want youse gettin' inna way."

But he wasn't done. He stepped into the dark doorway, eyes and ears sharpening as he stood there. Listening for any scrape or grind or creak, any hiss of breath or shuffle of fabric. Then he spoke again, and his voice was... different. Like night from day, and wrath from mercy.

"Ma? Juzzy? Boys? Youse can run, an' live... or youse can stay, an' die. But youse leave him be... or I won't send yeh over the river quick, or easy. S'your choice... see yeh soon."

He didn't speak anymore. Just slid into the shadows infesting the old house, to begin the hunt.

[Oceta]

It was within the period of desperate times, confusion, and sadness that Oceta sat along in the room within the silence. The isolation. The loneliness of having no purpose in her slavely body. Why? Because her purpose was destroyed. With an odd biscuit ration in her hand, she focused on it, focused on it because Hazel was no longer among them. The one known as Oceta could only feel great sorrow at the failure of properly caring for her. Her meals could not bolster or cure illness as severe as the one she had. Her comforting whispers and caress were not enough to liberate her of the pain and ailment. Oceta was a failure. When bandits came to the home however, and as her master was not present with her, she was lost. Her icy blue eyes had no meaning, and thus no purpose to act. Briefly did she look to Hazel’s form that was no longer with her. Briefly did she imagine the disgust and disappointment on her master’s face. Her master likely hated her, despised her for letting his one and only beloved daughter die. That was a hole this one couldn't fill.

The odd faces around her were not important right now as threats loomed over her. Gradually, she rose, rose from the hiding space of this simple shelter as she looked around herself for anything of use, anything of use but to find but a simple long stick. She sat there for some time, whittling, sharpening, crafting but the most basic and primitive weapon known to man. The sharp pointy stick that was known as a spear. The footsteps were obvious as unknown figures began making their way, and silently did she lie in wait, only for a man’s voice from below to shout with great anger and impatience. The name of her master in desperation. The child looked on and hoped she could properly wish Hazel to a better next life as she rose. She had her duties as a slave to fulfill. Even now. She would fulfill them devoutly, even if this was the last thing Oceta the slave would ever do. For a kind master...For his kind daughter.

She waited in silence as she hid behind the corner of the door, silently waiting. Waiting, waiting, plotting, waiting for the final barrier between her and monsters to be opened. If one of these odd strangers were to present themselves with weapon in hand, Oceta from her stealth would attempt a sharp thrust with her whole body weight into the back of this cursed bandit’s knee. The powerful and wrenching power of her body looking to knock them to the ground as her back looked to push and slam the door shut, Oceta’s spear twisting with a curl of her palm before pulling backwards with a wrestle of flesh as she used her range to thrust again, this time for the prey’s back of their chest. The piercing of skin and flesh was a new sensation, and with that thrust, she’d move forward to her fallen prey before quite frankly using her right arm with the knife in palm to thrust it into her enemies face, leaving it embedded in their moment of shock, pain, and agony. With her spear in hand, she’d attempt to wait patiently then. She would wait for another prey like an ocelot on the prowl.

Anticipating that door to open any time with another potential invader, perhaps some of these bandits having split to find the mysterious shouted, waited for the door to open for her spear head to be thrust straight into the stomach or chest or face of her next enemy. As blood pooled from wounds and soaked into the floor of the dwelling, Oceta took deep breaths, her glassy eyes wide and shaky as she killed a person. However, she did it for master. She did it for Hazel. She did it because it was her duty. Master. Master. Master. How she wanted someone to hold her right now and tell her things would be okay. However, that would be a lie. Things were never going to be okay again for Oceta because she failed. She failed and let Hazel die. That was a sin this slave would never forgive herself for, or so she would feel at the moment. How could she be redeemed when the one task she was given had been failed? Oceta would find out in the next life maybe.

[Kasoria]

Jizzy didn't like talking about his nickname. Which was difficult, when every mother's son in fucking Creation said it every bloody day. Fates, it had been one time, and he'd been at the cider. Was one foolish mistake meant to follow a man around forever?! He'd been a typical if intense case of resentment, for any healer with a penchant for mental irregularities could have studied him. Every time he heard the name, was reminded of his stupidity, the curse he'd bear his whole life, another sliver of his sanity was pulled away... or just changed.

The world was cruel, and mocked him, even with the tongues of his friends. So Jizzy was more willing to shut them up. Violently. Without remorse. Finally, with joy, because he saw that same humiliation in their crushed faces when his fists had done their work. But he was still, always Jizzy. Because a funny nickname sticks, especially when it's attached to a man who just isn't funny.

Fortunately, Oceta cured Jizzy of his anger, his bitterness, his wordless, petty rage. If one could call impalement such a thing.

He'd screamed when the spear went through his knee, first in pain, then in terror as he looked down and saw a half-foot of metal-tipped wood jutting out of it. A fresh tsunami of agony buffeted him when he crashed down, another when the spear was yanked out, and he screamed, and screamed, and cried out for-

-no-one, because Oceta's thrust through his chest killed the howl before it could be properly born. The aborted sound gurgled out of his mouth. He tried to suck air into lungs that now had too many holes. Air bubbled red and frothy from his front and back. He was in so much pain his mind was starting to drug him against it; flooding him with adrenaline, throwing him into shock, deciding horrified despair was better than overwhelming pain.

It numbed the pain a while longer. Just long enough for one, good last scream... and then the knife went into his brain through his eye socket, and it was over.

Kasoria's tread was far lighter than Jizzy's had been. Heel... toe. Heel... toe. Weighing each step before he put his weight on it. Staying away from candles and light from the windows, lest his roaming shadow betray him. His breathing was slow, and shallow. No hiss of in-drawn breath or distant, throaty rumble of an exhale. There were a hundred tricks he'd learned, across a life lived in shadows and blood. He held his gladius in one hand, cocked back and tight to his side, ready to parry or thrust. In his left was his karambit, primed much the same, only to slash instead of thrust.

The hairy little man stopped when the screaming started. Just blinked at it in the shadows. Agony and horror and begging, bubbling, sobbing fear washed over him and he didn't react. Just cocked his head, closed his eyes... and pinpointed the direction. Then he started drifting again, a wraith in a house soon to be haunted, going by all the bodies made around it recently.

He turned a corner and saw Jizzy laying there on his belly. Knife through his eye. Remaining orb wide in shock.Blood pooling under him as if he'd let out a bucket of the stuff and just decided to take a nap in it. More red on his back... and as he got closer, his leg, too. Kasoria frowned. Judged the way he'd fallen... the direction from the thrusts... and turned his gaze to the space behind the door...

"Girl?" He rasped. "Oceta? Dunt fuck about, s'me."

Slowly, and braced to handle a spear--wielding child terrified out of his mind if needs be, Kasoria appeared in the doorway. The slave was in one corner, still clutching her spear. She was flecked and smeared with more scarlet than Kasoria, but her eyes were still that of an innocent. She turned the weapon shakily towards the Raggedy Man, and the Etzori showed his palms as best he could when both clutched weapons.

"S'right, jus'... stay here. I'm gonna find-" The stairs creaked. Man and girl’s heads snapped over to the spot in the wall where the sound came from. Kasoria looked back to her and the softness vanished from his voice. He pointed with the gladius, voice a whisper that barely carried over the air to the slave. "Don't. Move."

Rafe breathed a prayer of thanks when that fucking moron Jizzy finally died. All that noise was making it impossible to listen. He believed the man, whose threats echoed through the house. He'd been at the window and watched as this shabby little sod took apart their company like he was kicking about kittens. Not even scratched, barely even winded, and five men were dead at his feet. But unlike Little Eric, he hadn't gulped when the shadow man looked up at them. He'd smiled. He saw a challenge.

"Stay here," he told Ma and Eric, tossing his rapier from his off hand and then back again. Flourishing it with ease. "I'm gonna go handle this cunt."

"Are you mad?" Eric had said, clutching his pitchfork tighter. Bloody nitwit was still carrying it around, even indoors. Hardly practical. "You saw what he did! He killed Nesbitt an' the lads like they were fuck all! Ma, we've gotta go-"

"Yer brother'll handle this, Eric," the old lady said with a quick wave of her hand. "Those fools didn't know who they were dealin' with. We do. We've seen him. Yer brother's seen him."

Rafe smiled a little broader. The old girl always did understand him better than Eric. Then again, Eric was hardly a complex puzzle. All muscle and bellowing and haymakers. Made a fine mess and he was a devil to stop once he got some speed up, but still... no subtlety. No desire to learn a real weapon, with finesse and style. Rafe was very much about those two things. The rapier was a perfect fit for him, and he'd not nearly enough chances to use it.

But the man downstairs... he'd be different.

"Finish him off, son," Ma said, tilting her head down in that way she always did when she wanted to add extra weight to her stare. It made her face look like a brick with features glued onto it. "Then we'll finish up in here, wiv' the love birds."

"Aye, Ma."

His beloved Ma waited until her Smart Rafe was out the door. Her smile faded by the time his shadow had gone from the hallways. Stupid boy. "Eric? Get a window open. We're bloody well leaving."

Rafe was halfway down the stairs when he heard it. Movement from the room Jizzy was in... which he knew because he could see the dumb cunt. Or his feet, anyway. Cowhide boots sticking out of the doorway, and a shining, gleaming puddle slowly spreading towards them. Rafe licked his lips and took another few steps. Softly, now. Careful. You don't want to rush. Don't want to-

The problem was, Rafe was under the impression he'd be facing a warrior. He wasn't. He was facing a killer, and a killer would have no problem with-

-reaching up from where he was crouching besides the stairs, between the balusters, karambit like a great silver claw as he slashed it-

-across the back of Rafe's left leg, ripping through flesh and muscle and severing the tendon there like a wet string.

The swordsman went down with a scream, one of his legs suddenly ignoring every frantic order he was telling it. He tried to steady himself on the handrail, but with one hand on his sword he only got a shaky grip and then-

-a fresh flash of burning agony robbed him of his rapier. The little cunt, the evil little bastard, slashed up from his hiding place in the shadows, and opened up his wrist down to the bone with that curved blade of his. Rafe's excitement was shattered in the time it took to realize he was crippled and unarmed. He braced himself on the handrail, started to push himself up and back, still fooling himself he could run back upstairs on a ruined leg-

Kasoria didn't give him the chance. He thrust the gladius between the wooden slats on the edge of the staircase, short sword punching through Rafe's stomach at an angle, and nicking his heart on the way out his back. The aspiring duelist tried to suck in a few quick breaths through teeth grinding so hard they popped. Kasoria saw them shining in the half-light, wet and white and one ember of gold. He blinked. Then he twisted the gladius, ripped it back out, and sidestepped in the same movement.

Guts. Blood. Whatever's in his stomach. You learn not to get drenched by that shit

Which he would have been. The hideous hole he carved in Rafe's stomach vomited up all that and more. The looter, the thug, the swordsman stayed on his feet, though. Kasoria had to give him that. The whole time his torso seemed to empty itself, spewing over the railings, the stairs, dripping down the floor, some unholy will to live kept the man upright. He was still standing by the time Kasoria had walked up next to him. Managed to turn his trembling, twitching head around, just as his body started to get with the program and sink down to the stairs.

Kasoria looked down at him, eyes flickering up and down, side to side... and then he moved on. Rafe reached for him weakly, but couldn't so much as grip the hem of his cloak as he passed. His voice croaked out "Ma... Ma..." a few times, but even that was lost in the killer's relentless steps away from him. Not worth finishing, because he was already finished. Not even the dignity, the nobility, of a quick death.

Dumb fuck.

"Rafe? Rafe, wuzzat-"

"Shut up, boy, and open the window!"

Kasoria stopped in the hallway. Only one room had light within. The bedroom. Where Zarik slept, curled up with Hazel and no-one else. Kasoria had been watching the mage closely, for sign of infection. He didn't want it to spread, hopeless as the thought may have been this season. It seemed every soul in Etzos was destined to wither and die from some sort of sickness. Didn't matter what; just when and which. He paused and pondered his options. Two left. Ma and her last "boy". The assassin knew the fast route was likely the best... but he didn't know what they carried. Why had he not seen any bows yet? They were just farmers and laborers turned to violence, of course, but this trio... they seemed a little harder around the edges. Something niggled at Kasoria as he stood in the shadows, just beyond the halo of white spreading from the doorway.

You step into it, you're a target. For whatever they have. Can't all bit pitchforks, can it?

So the little man sheathed his gladius, drawing his dagger instead. This would be close, bloody work. A sword was... not quite ideal. But that was not all. He stood there, blades at his side... and he focused. With his eyes open but almost glazed, like obsidian smeared with frost, he peered inwards. He found that which had been dormant or dead for so many trials. Denied him through whatever machinations the Fates or fucking Immortals had worked. Now he could feel it again. That wellspring of power. His Spark obeyed his command, rising up like a monster from the depths. His ether flowed down his left arm and he could see it, running in glowing rivulets across his skin from under his cloak. It pooled above his forearm, spreading out at his silent orders. Like a cloud or a fog, only when his eyes flared for just a moment-

-the Shield hardened, and he could barely see the arm and cloth and blade under it. He smiled, for the first time. It felt good to have this back.

"Ma?!" He shouted, breaking the silence so quick and so close that he heard a very definitely feminine gasp from the bedroom. "Yer boy's dead! An' I gave youse the chance t'run!"

If they've got anything, it'll be aimed at the doorway now.

"But you didn't listen! Not you or yer boys!"

He walked closer, voice loud, practically painting a sign on his head saying "come and get me!". His feet pounded on the boards, and as he turned the corner-

"WANKAAAAAA!"

-he raised the shield, and could just make out-

A pitchfork? Inside? Really? Tosser.

"Eric, no!"

But Little Eric was already charging like a knight in some tale, only this time he was defending the dragon. He was roaring like a bull, pitchfork gripped in both hands, aiming to skewer and ram through the fucking wall that little fuck who'd killed his brother. Ma cried out for him not to, to protect her, not waste his life when she could spend it in some more productive way. No, he had to defend his Ma. So he waited for the man to come around the corner, and he was already running-

-not caring for his shiny stupid shield, his pitchfork would go right through that-

Mayhap it might have. If it had been a shield like he was used to. But it wasn't, and Kasoria did not intend to use it that way. He angled the Shield so the prongs of the fork didn't hit it head on, but rather deflected it to the side. The charging thrust glanced off the shield, redirecting the attack into the door frame. But Little Eric was still coming, now pff-balance, face shifting comically from enraged to confused-

Kasoria didn't miss his chance. His right hand shot out in a short, sharp jab. The brass knuckle handle of his dagger broke the big man's nose, but he knew a stout fellow like Eric wouldn't be laid low like that. Which is why he followed it up a second later with a stab into the side of his throat, then braced himself as he-

"NO!"

-yanked the blade back towards him. The serrated rear edge of the dagger tore through the front of Eric's throat. Voice boy, wind pipe, jugular, all were destroyed in one savage pull. One brutal rip, and the shining steel exploded from out of him like a living creature, heralded by an ocean of blood. No getting away from that one, either. Kasoria just grimaced and looked away, trying to keep his mouth closed as a rain of stinking red doused is face and chest. Eric tottered on his feet for a trill or two, then fell forward, clutching his pitchfork-

"You-You evil bastard!" He looked up and saw Ma there, pulling a cleaver from the back of her leather-clad torso. "You're dead! You're fucking dead an' my boys are gonna beat the cunt outta youse in fucking hell!"

She charged, and Kasoria grinned at her. He threw up his Shield and whispered another mental command to the etheric construct. It seemed to shimmer for a moment, augmenting, changing, obeying. Ma didn't notice. She was too busy crying and shrieking and making vows that would make a degenerate daemon wonder who taught her manners. He cleaver came down towards his head and smashed into the Shield-

The two figures in the closet saw the flare of light fill every space around the door they were trapped behind. The Backlash blew Ma off her feet, breaking her arm as the hammering force of her attack was turned back on her. The old woman flew with more grace than she’d ever walked, crashing into the dresser lodged against the closet door. Both of them went falling to the floor, one with a wooden bang, the other with a thin screech of pain.

The Shield vanished, too, but Kasoria was already done with it. He sheathed his karambit as he looked over at the old woman, writhing on the ground. Still cursing, with one arm limp at her side, broken bones hideously obvious under her bruised skin. He flexed his fingers, grimaced for a moment... and nodded.

Still good. Just not as fast as before.

"You... You don't... You don't need to..."

Kasoria quirked an eyebrow as Ma's tone changed quite dramatically. She'd managed to turn over onto her back, good arm held up plaintively. Begging him, putting on the harmless old lady act. He wondered just how stupid she thought he was. The assassin walked across the room, and they in the closet could see his shadow move across the light framing the doorway. They could hear Ma begging, promising things. They heard nothing from him. But they knew the threat was over, and so Llyr reached up-

-and opened the door just a crack. They were free! But she hadn’t opened it more than a few inches before she stopped.

She could see Kasoria knelling down before the granite-skinned woman, now shaking and sweating and crying. She saw the dagger in his right hand, that serrated, decorated monstrosity she'd yet to actually see him use. He didn't notice her yet. His eyes were focused on the woman. Her trembling arm reached out to grab his shoulder, shaking her head.

He smiled at her. Llyr saw him do that. He smiled, almost softly, and reached up with his free hand to the back of her head. Then she saw the dagger move.

"P-Ple-"

"Shhhhh-"

SSHHHUUUCKKKKKK

"-urrghhhhhhhh...!"

Sounds melted together, plea and silencing shush and blade sliding so gently into aged flesh. The Becomer could see through her crack in the door, watch the dagger blade vanish into Ma's throat, under her chin. Kasoria just pushed and pushed, until it was gone up to the hilt. Blood seemed to trickle out slowly, not like the torrents of viscera he'd unleashed before. This was... leisurely. He shushed her, chided her for making such a fuss.

She begged him, even as she died. Without words. Choking on her own blood. Until the blade had done it's work and her hand fell from his shoulder, limp and lifeless. But her eyes weren't gone yet. They shone, like candles in a growing storm. Long enough to see Kasoria's own face turn disgusted, like he'd soiled himself with refuse. He shook his head and a word he'd never expected to say spat from his mouth, just before Ma died.

"Traitor."

Then she was gone, and he was alone with all he'd done. It was not a hardship.

He pulled the dagger free and wiped it clean on her clothes. Then he heard the door creak and turned. Saw his audience, man and woman, in... an odd state of undress. He blinked a few times, red and black from blood new and drying from crown to navel. He shook his head at the strange sight, then shrugged his shoulders.

Probably thought they were about to get slotted. Good a time as any for a shag.

Then the absence of something, of someone, struck the little man. In the time it took him to rise and the closet door to open, Llyr could see his stony, remorseless expression twist into one she recognized. Mayhap she thought it was because she'd grown attached to her adopted daughter; mayhap she realized that it was truly because he knew that terror, that fear, that nameless dread of losing a child.

"Where's Hazel?" Then he looked past Llyr... and saw someone knew. He scowled, and looked Duncan up and down. "An' who the fuck're youse?"

[Llyr Llywelyn]

For a while, it remained relatively quiet beyond the closet. Stuck in the privacy of their close quarters, driven by fatalistic impudence, Llyr got to know Duncan better… a whole lot better, and not by talking much.

By the time Kasoria announced his arrival to the house with a call of the biqaj’s given name, the Becomer had gotten far too involved with her closet-mate to simply halt. She didn’t call back or anything of the like. She’d been given instructions, and she would follow them perfectly – she’d remain exactly where she was, out of the way until it was over…

…and in the meantime, she’d celebrate the momentary thrill that Kasoria had returned. He was back in the house, and with expressed threats to those looters who remained – the very thugs who’d thrown her in the closet after a harrowing trial. She heard noises, muffled, like someone falling down a staircase, and then shouts and screams, and the faint sound that she would've sworn was steel carving through sinew.

Llyr’s thoughts blended into a heady concoction that compelled her lustful ministration with the thinnest veneer of restraint. While she held tight to Duncan, her own noises were easily overridden by the thud of footsteps, scuffling on the floorboards, then angered screeches of Ma.

While stopping their fanciful tryst would’ve been the proper thing to do, Llyr had to respect that the chivalrous mercenary could keep his focus. She aimed to reward him for that red-blooded persistence. Downright commendable, Duncan’s concentration was.

A flare of light soon distracted her, however.

The screech of furniture, then a loud bang outside the door, and even though Duncan tried to hold onto her, Llyr was on the move. She disentangled from the temporarily exhausted man. Past the door, she heard a woman begging… Llyr’s eyes flashed in an unusual combination of vivid colors – violet, gold, and red.

She reached up. The door opened! Llyr smiled through dim light at Duncan, then looked out and recognized Kasoria.

Llyr watched past the crack in the door. Though it was the first time she witnessed him bloody that blade of his, the sight did nothing to sway the conflicted emotions already storming inside the biqaj’s heart. No surprise, no felt grief, instead sentimental nostalgia churned in her at the act of peeking on a murder… combined with vicarious retribution, while Kasoria sunk the dagger through Ma’s neck.

The door creaked open.

Llyr, still on her hands and knees, drifted along with it.

She hurried to her feet. The petite woman pulled up the blouse of her dress, sleeves returned to her shoulders so that her breasts were modestly covered. She rolled her skirt down over her hips. A heavy musk of combined arousal followed her as she left the humid closet. The carnal aroma wrestled with the stench of death in the house.

Her tanned, freckled skin had silver cuts all over, the worst of which on her torn-up knuckles and chipped away fingernails. Splotches of black blood coated her neck and collarbone, smudged from a thick layer of freshly beaded sweat, alongside raw red hickeys. A vibrant ruddy blush colored her battered face. Obvious bruised outlines of large hands had formed in a sheen of purple-gold around her neck, matched with the faint line of bloody silver left behind by the edge of Rafe’s rapier.

Briefly, she fixed her skirt more to cover her legs and bare feet – the crystalline nature of the slender limbs gave away her identity to the Etzori, if he hadn’t already figured it out. Kasoria knew who she was. He well knew of the magic domain after their limited travels together. Even if he'd never seen this exact totem before, he knew.

There were few others – maybe even no one else – who could look at Kasoria in that exact moment with as much tender affection as the biqaj did. No one except for the bizarre dreamwalker with prismatic eyes and a soft smile of happiness in response to his mere presence.

Where’s Hazel?

The yellows and lavenders and other wildflower variances of Llyr’s irises crashed into a dull blue-almost-black shade and stayed there.

“She’s…” The words trailed into grim silence. Her slight smile vanished. She raised her hands in a familiar passive gesture. She started toward the man, hop-limping through her steps with her injured leg.

Though the assassin’s rightful instincts were to block her path, he had enough discipline to restrain himself. It was obvious from any standpoint that her approach wasn’t hostile. It rang familiar to everything he’d come to expect from the young mage.

Llyr set a hand on Kasoria’s shoulder once close enough, then fell against him. She wrapped her arms loosely around his neck. In the petite totem, she was shorter by an inch or so rather than the usual towering frame of the Becomer’s natural-male figure.

She didn’t care about the carnage or muck covering Kasoria. Her own body was filthy. From old blood and dried mud. From sultry sweat mixed with saliva. From the sort of sap that kept the world moving on through generations. She felt as filthy as she was, but what did it matter? She was alive! If the Etzori had rolled in feculent pools of gore, like a pig in mud, it would’ve made no difference to her. She had him to thank for the fact that she breathed in those aversely mixed scents of sex and death.

Tremors of emotion shot through her frayed nerves. Llyr nestled her head in the crook of his neck and buried her face against the older man’s wiry beard. She drew herself closer in the hug, uncaring for pestilence or otherwise.

A whimper choked past her lips. She managed, “Hazel’s gone, Kas. Earlier.”

He had asked, and she wanted him to know.

“The coughs did it wh-while we were outside.”

Her hand drifted across his opposite shoulder, as if brushing dust off the spot. There was only blood there though. She glanced to the mercenary who’d finally gotten himself together and out of the closet. Llyr whispered, “This is Duncan. He’s a… good man.”

She turned her dark-blue gaze to Kasoria again and asked with apprehension obvious in the tone of her voice, “Oceta? The boys?”

[Duncan Oisin]

Duncan scrambled out after Llyr, tugging at his pants hurriedly and slipping his shirt over his head. The hall was a mess; the dresser that had blocked the door was knocked on its side, and the large, thuggish woman's body lay near it, blood covering her front and pooling around her, further along, a second body, face down in his own puddle of blood. Duncan glanced bast the two to the stairs, the railings draped with innards and intestines like some grizzly decor. "Shit." He grunted, brows raising, both impressed, and very thankful that Kasoria seemed to be on their side.

Llyr immediately descended on their short, bloodied saviour, wrapping him in a hug while Duncan lingered by the closet door. The two looked vaguely similar, tan skin, dark hair, both of a similar height. And then, the familiarity between the two as Llyr nestled into the hug, how she clearly took comfort in his presence. Duncan swallowed, as a rather terrifying thought occurred to him. Had he just been caught red handed by her… brother? Father!? He kept his face carefully blank as he pulled his leather armour back on, concentrating on buckling the side once more in an attempt to keep as uninvolved in their reunion as possible. Llyr introduced him to the clearly incredibly lethal man, and Duncan raised a hand and grunted in greeting.

“I’m, uh, gonna go find my stuff." He said, clearing his throat awkwardly as he siddled around Llyr and Kasoria, escaping from the confusing and awkward encounter as he made his way back to the kitchen. To his great relief, his bag and gladius had been dumped on the table, a few other items that the group had managed to gather piled with it, but otherwise mostly untouched. Duncan snatched up his gladius and belt, some of the tension and anxious energy melting out of his shoulders at the familiar weight of the sword.

His eyes strayed to the door as he buckled it back in place, and for the first time that night he was struck with the urge to leave, preferably before he got any further involved. He groaned, rubbing a hand tiredly over his face and scratching at the blood dried into his hairline. Duncan knew he’d never be able to follow through with the urge, as much as he hated to admit it, he was already invested in Llyr, and at the very least he wanted to ensure that she made it safely out of the small shitty village. Leaving his pack by the door, Duncan made his way back to rejoin the others.

[Kasoria]

She wasn't his child. He didn't even know she existed until a dozen trials ago, and really, did it matter so much that he did now? She was one of millions, tens of millions, even more than that. Faceless and voiceless, mere background noise to his own journey across the world. Kasoria wasn't a man who connected to people easily, and was fully aware of that. Fates, it was practically by design. Trials on the road together had not really changed that. The girl spoke to them, they had talked... but she wasn't his friend.

What if it was your daughter? What if it was Martyn?

That single thought changed everything. A blade thin and icy pierced right into the heart of him when Zarik told him she was gone. Gone. Such an bland, insufficient word. Gone to the store? Gone for a walk? No. Gone. Gone and not coming back. Not ever. He closed his eyes as she hugged him and his thoughts didn't immediately redden to throws and counters, his usual response to physical contact. He saw that insipid face, heard those endless questions and then the coughing, the crying, the questions turning to why it was hurting so much, why she was so tired, why it wouldn't stop.

Kasoria saw his son, and he held the woman tight, for just a moment.

"I'm sorry," he said, and he meant it, if only because he could imagine - just barely - how easily this pain would carve his own heart out.

Then the conversation turned to him. Yet another face, and fuck him running, didn't they just seem to collect them these trials? Barely a handful went by without a new mouth to feed being added to their growing caravan of squalling wretches. He looked Duncan over just the once, and didn't need to know anything else about him. He could tell all he needed with a glance, for he'd been looking at the same for decades. The leather armor, the unshaven chin, the gleam in the eyes that would be apropos for a vulture or a rat, the gutter accent that reeked of practically the same neighborhood as him... yes, Kasoria knew well this type. He'd been dealing with them for years.

Bullshit. You see it every time you look in a mirror.

"Hmm..."

That was his sole reply to her appraisal of the man. He stared Duncan down with stony, disapproving silence as he skirted by them both, vanishing out the door. he waited until he heard his footsteps going down the stairs before speaking again.

"Until I say otherwise, you tell 'im I'm her kin. Yer... cousin. Aye, that'll do. Stop him from gettin' ideas," he said after a moment, not wanting to put their fictional family tree too close together. He held up a finger as she opened her mouth to argue. Amazing how much easier it was to browbeat her when she was in the form of a woman. "Dun' fuckin' argue with me on this. There's no good men, not in a bad world. I'm livin' proof a' that. An' you pay me to protect yeh, alla yeh, so lemme do my job."

Didn't protect everyone, did you?

Kasoria swallowed and ignored that mocking, hateful voice. He didn't have time to indulge it. They were in a house filled or surrounded with fresh bodies and eventually, something resembling the law would come around. They wouldn't be happy. Anarchy or not, this much carnage would draw the ire of those determined to impose order, and Kasoria had no wish to get swept up in some Blackguard bollocks. So he focused on the very immediate future, and that was all.

"Oceta's fine, she's downstairs, she's... waitin' for us," he said, not technically lying, and avoiding any mention of the child killing a man bits before. "Get yer stuff together, we're leavin'. Place ain't safe anymore. Nowhere 'round here is. Go on..."

He set her on her way and looked around the room. Just him and the bodies now. The assassin sighed and shook his head. Walked into the closet that now carried a cloying, unusual smell... and reached in the back to claim his traveling pack, with the ax sticking out the top of it.

Time to quit this place.

[Oceta]

Murder. Oceta gazed upon the ground with dull expression as she had followed her order to remain, both from the bodyguard, and her master accordingly. Gazing at the figure that lay slumped on the ground, on it's side with a knife piercing through his brain, she firmly grasped the improvised weapon before pulling it backwards with a dull gaze, knowing very well he was dead. The blood dripping was too copious for any figure other than the most cursed of beings to survive. She let the spear drop, and for a moment, she stood in the center of the room, looking ahead of herself as she felt herself tear up. Slave or no slave, there was one thing still evident about the young girl that most didn't seem to notice. She was still a child. She was far more mature and obedient for a child of her age, but children are born with different values and lifestyles. Yet, as her tears began, her face beginning to twitch, she stopped there. A slave that cried was one that was lashed. She ought to be grateful for the life she was living now. A slave never complains about anything, for it showed they were ungrateful little things. Her tears were not her own, and only her master could be the one who chose if they spilled or if they stayed within herself.

Her body, her mind, the very being of Oceta was something that didn't exist. She was a belonging. Her master's belonging. The very air she breathed from the same room as her master was more than she deserved. Her life was a copper piece and her master was beyond a mountain of obsidian and gold. She rested peacefully in those moments as she swallowed her sorrow in order for herself to grow. In order to be the puppet that master needed her to be. Or perhaps it was mistress now. Regardless, despite the desire to be loved, despite the desire for someone to hold her right now and treat her as if she were special like Hazel? The slave didn't voice such thoughts. The immortals would punish her and condemn her for thinking such horrid things. It was wrong for a slave to want to be caressed so tenderly like a daughter.

The screams were loud, then hateful, then terrorful, and then silent. As she rested there as others left her for other things. Other issues. As she rested there standing, she firmly looked to the corpse lying facedown as she firmly left, weapon in hand, She didn’t know why she was there, why she had to kill for her master, why she had to resolve herself to be this way. All she knew was that the immortals desired it. Perhaps it was the immortal of conquest, or justice, or vengeance, or some other cruel or just being that put her into this position. What little Oceta had learned however was that she was all that was left to serve master Zarik. This one. This pitiful little tool who couldn’t even save the key love of his life, so she would imagine anyways. His daughter. She could never. Never ever forgive herself for that atrocity.

Oceta packed the few belongings left in the room, grasping the dead man’s few belongings and adding it to the pile before she walked out, her eyes glassy and empty as she took step after step downwards, looking upon the corpses with slit throats and mutilated shells that once were their living forms.When stepping down, she would gaze to the others. The guard Kasoria, her master...or mistress rather in this state, would come down to see a kneeling girl, spear in her hand as she bowed her head. “This one is elated to see that you are all right. Mistress….Kasoria-Sir. Duncan-Sir.” However, she had to pause as Duncan arrived in a bit of a frantic hurry, and with it, she averted her eyes as she slowly dropped her spear.

“What is it you would ask of me Mistress?” Her eyes seemed lifeless and lost within this hellish scape, and she had to think about her master in order to maintain her composure. Her master was the one who gave her purpose and being. Without him or her? Oceta was lost. She would not know how to function because she was too ingrained, and she knew not yet the kindness that would liberate her slowly from a lifetime of indoctrination. Or perhaps it was that she didn't want the soft touch and loving she had always dreamed of. Perhaps it was because she was so used to being used and abused that she feared the caress and wrath of the gods for the potential joy. "Anything you ask of me. Anything for your betterment and service? This one lives for, and this one would die for accordingly. I serve you to my dying days. Please guide me."

[Llyr Llywelyn]

Loss ached in Llyr, a familiar sensation no longer denied. The biqaj had never experienced it so compounded before. Within a trial, from the rise of the sun to the settle of night, fate devastated what had kept the young mage’s hope standing. Since the season before when he’d left his son, mourned his father, departed his home - then landed on an unknown continent infested with horrors, disconnected from emea, unable to wield his sparks - there'd been few things he had left. Soul stripped bare, he clung to the imagined light of a future worth living for. A proverbial crutch, one that allowed him to focus on the children during their journey, one which had finally gotten kicked out from under him by a single trial of misfortune. Now, he had fallen.

When Llyr felt Kasoria return the embrace, just for a moment, the totemic woman nestled her face against his neck. Tears lined her eyelashes, wetting blood into pale pink rivulets soon lost in the layers of his clothing. His simple sincerity of an apology reached her, but she gritted her teeth. She grimaced to stop crying. Llyr didn’t want to cry, not anymore. She tried to not think about Hazel, about the girl’s corpse left out on the street, drenched in the rain, alone in death, gone.

Llyr forced herself to ease away from the assassin, and she sought distraction. She introduced Duncan. Not much occurred in the way of words, but even through exhaustion and heartache, Llyr recognized the moment wasn’t set for a warm reception. A blush gradually returned to her face when Duncan practically ran away to find his stuff. It wasn’t surprising. He hadn’t seemed comfortable when she’d struggled earlier and that’d been when they were alone, but the young biqaj still felt a delayed sting of embarrassment.

Especially when the mercenary’s footsteps faded and Kasoria turned to her with immediate instructions.

Blushing, weary, Llyr looked at the man with a slight cower to her petite posture. Not a single fleck of color in the biqaj’s irises, no light within, pitch-black lurked instead. Cousin. She opened her mouth, but his warning finger interrupted any attempts she had to respond. Her bloodied lips quickly came back together. A demure frown showed on her freckled features.

You’re a good man too, the mage wanted to assure him.

She didn’t.

He’d told her not to argue so she wouldn’t. She didn’t have the heart left in her to try, not against Kasoria. The rush of adrenaline evaporated from her body with each breath she took. Llyr nodded and averted her gaze to no longer look at the Etzori.

However, she did have something to ask… and she asked about Oceta and the boys. Llyr nodded again when he told her to get things together to leave. It wouldn’t be difficult. She’d kept things in a prepared state, in the case of necessary swift departure. The biqaj hesitated, however.

“If you could…” she glanced at Kasoria, hands folded in front of her. She fidgeted with her chipped, broken apart nails. “…if he comes with us, please don’t tell Duncan who I am. He doesn’t know this isn’t me. Don’t tell him.”

Llyr waited for his gruff agreement, then required a slight nudge to guide her out the room. She finally limped away to find Oceta.

As soon as she’d collected her own travel pack from a room opposite, and she got out of range, she rested. Her calf felt like it was on fire, even worse than before in the closet. She made it past the gruesome corpses, all blood and guts, and she settled to sit on a stair step. Llyr stared at the corpse of the disemboweled looter for a few trills. The biqaj gathered her skirt. The fissure had splintered worse, shards of quartz stuck out at awkward angles and silver blood trickled down to her heel. Llyr tore the skirt’s hem, gathered the strip of fabric, and tied it around her leg.

She tightened the makeshift bandage, then looked to see Duncan. Llyr managed to her feet and she said, “We’re going to be leaving for Etzos. My… uh… cousin and I would be happy to travel with you. If you still want to, that is. I’m… I didn’t know he’d be coming back or not. If you could help, though, I… I could pay you? I’m next to useless with my leg like this.”

“And please, don’t tell my cousin how you found me,” she requested of the mercenary. “I don’t want him any more worried than he already is.”

Llyr kept a slight distance between them, unable to maintain eye contact for long. Oceta appeared for the first time since she’d handed the girl a ship biscuit and told her to keep quiet. The slave had a spear in hand and yet, looked every much the little girl that Llyr knew her to be. Even with all her training, the biqaj knew she still had a child’s heart kept hidden under formality and forced expressions of polite apathy.

The group of four reunited, each of their respective belongings in hand. Introductions were had, names swapped once more - Duncan, and Kasoria, and Oceta, and Llyr. The biqaj learned of the departure of the two boys through the window. If it weren’t for the tremble of exhaustion in the weak form of her totem, and the raging fires that had started to spread through the residences left behind by the now-dead looters, she might’ve suggested they try and find Mauro and Foyle. But she couldn’t muster the will to even speak it. What if they were already gone?

At the kitchen door, Llyr took a moment to speak with Oceta while the two Etzori men arranged the horses along the alley-side.

She knelt in front of the girl, placed her hands on the slave’s shoulders, and looked her in the eye - though her own eyes were dark and devoid of color - and said, “Oceta. We are to travel again, I want you to speak to no one but us. Anything that Kasoria tells you to do, I want you to obey, no questions about it.”

“Treat Duncan with respect, and consider him a friend of your mas- mistress. Yes, I am mistress until I am not. Duncan does not know of this magic, do not inform him of it.”

“As for what I command of you: Sleep when you are tired, request food when you are hungry, water when you are thirsty. If you need us to stop for any reason, if you hurt or feel sick or need to piss or anything of that nature, ask. Do not wait or keep silent.”

Llyr smoothed Oceta's tangled, bloodied hair down. She opened the door and guided the slave girl outside. “Go on now, see if you can help with the horses.”

She hesitated, then went back into the kitchen. The biqaj collected her tin of cigarettes. She grabbed a portion of the broken chair. Llyr set it in the lingering flames of the hearth, watched as the heat traveled along the length of wood. She moved back to the door with it in hand, then tossed the temporary torch onto the counters. The wooden cupboards gathered the smoke.

Llyr left then with the door slammed behind, and joined the others. The four mortals went quickly on their way, to start across the besieged land, headed to Etzos Prime.

✥

[Nursia]

This entire thread is a story arc in on itself. The sheer passion put into this work is something that I cannot even put into proper words. What do I even complain about?

There are stakes. Buildings and bodies being burned. Characters that matter to the PC actively at risk of being dead or slowly meeting that fate. The crazed populace are only doing what they think is right. The PC's are struggling every step of the way.

Everyone involved has such a flow to their typing that this read like a strangely paced novella due to the post-by-post style, but the length and quality quite nearly puts it at that level of sheer quality.

This made my night of reviewing posts worth it. Godspeed.


Llyr

Rewards

Knowledges:
Detection: Recognizing the smallest out-of-place noise.
Detection: Heightened senses from adrenaline.
Discipline: Stopping the desire to flay.
Etiquette: Accepting a stranger’s good will.
Etiquette: Even the simplest clothes are better than none.
Etiquette: Offering to share a cigarette.
Logistics: Keeping children hidden from guests.
Endurance: A painful limp.
Endurance: Blade against the throat.
Caregiving: Offering to prepare a bath for a dirty guest.
Caregiving: Can provide a distraction from your own troubles.
Psychology: A Woman’s Body
Linguistics: The disadvantage of not knowing the native tongue.
Running: Sprinting through a house.
Running: Hurrying to retrieve an item.
Running: Getting out of an opponent’s reach.
Blades (Gladius): A fortunate parry.
Tactics: Failure occurs if unable to communicate positions.
Deception: Hiding that you tried to flay Duncan.
Deception: Lucretia’s Totem, Llyr.
Torture: Locked in a small, windowless space.
-
Duncan: Etzori sellsword.
Duncan: Doesn’t know I’m not Lucretia’s totem.
Duncan: Knows I killed someone.
Duncan: Is Kind and Good.
Duncan: Thinks “I’m” Kasoria’s cousin.
Kasoria: Rescued us.
Kasoria: Enjoys the art of murder.
Kasoria: Showed sympathy for Hazel’s death.
Oceta: Is acting strong.
Oceta: The only child I have left.
Personal: I survived, but what for?
Personal: No hope anymore.
Personal: No more tears.
Dreamwalking - Brand Transfer: Mathias "Mads" Moreno aka Mister Kiwi (upon death) onto Duncan Oisin.
Dreamwalking - Brand: Duncan Oisin (on lips).
Wealth:
Renown:
+20
EXP:
+15

Feedback

Understand that all criticisms are done in good faith. It would be a greater disrespect to not say anything in the face of problems. Please contact me through this account's inbox if you wish to further communicate on the matter of improvement, or if you feel as though anything is unduly harsh.

Duncan

Rewards

Knowledges:
-Blades (Dagger): Quick jabs in close combat
-Blades (Dagger): Close quarters help against bigger weapons
-Blades (Dagger): Twisting stabs inflict more damage
-Blades (Dagger): Target unprotected areas
-Unarmed (Brawling): Simple disarming of a knife
-Unarmed (Brawling): Striking first buys some time
-Unarmed (Brawling): Using doors to your advantage
-Unarmed (Brawling): Grabbing weapons to immobilise them
-Unarmed (Brawling): Gouge the eye's
-Endurance: Ride the adrenaline wave
-Endurance: Work through blows to continue fighting
-Strength: Bracing against a solid surface to push
-
-Llyr: Lucretia totem
-Llyr: Killed a man in Westguard
-Kasoria: A very skilled killer
-Kasoria: Llyr's cousin!?
-Oceta: Llyr's slavegirl
-Hazel: Llyr's daughter
Wealth:
Renown:
+20
EXP:
+15

Feedback

Understand that all criticisms are done in good faith. It would be a greater disrespect to not say anything in the face of problems. Please contact me through this account's inbox if you wish to further communicate on the matter of improvement, or if you feel as though anything is unduly harsh.

Kasoria

Rewards

Knowledges:
Abrogation - Backlash: Can be Infused into a Shield with a Silent Mental Cast
Acrobatics: Vaulting Over a Crouching Enemy
Blades (Dagger): Stabbing the Neck, Rip out the Throat
Leadership: Snapping Off Orders in the Aftermath of Carnage
Interrogation: Promising Life in Exchange for Answers
Rhetoric: Practicing Your Lines
Tactics: Don't Allow Yourself to be Surrounded
Unarmed Combat (Brass Knuckles): Can Easily Fracture a Skull
-
Westguard, Ymiden 719: Infested by Looters, Under Curfew, Population Fleeing in the Face of Lissira's Onslaught
NPC Hazel: Zarik's Adopted Daughter, Now Deceased
PC Duncan: Sellsword and "Associate" of Zarik
PC Oceta: Slave Girl Belonging to Zarik
PC Zarik: Crushed by Hazel's Death
PC Zarik: Now "Llyr", Thanks to Becoming
Philosophy: Don't be a bad man if you don't want bad things to happen.
Wealth:
Renown:
+20
EXP:
+15, abrogation

Feedback

Understand that all criticisms are done in good faith. It would be a greater disrespect to not say anything in the face of problems. Please contact me through this account's inbox if you wish to further communicate on the matter of improvement, or if you feel as though anything is unduly harsh.

Oceta

Rewards

Knowledges:
Woodwork: How to quickly and efficiently sharpen a stick to make a spear.
Polearms [Spear]: How to stick em with the pointy end.
Polearms [Spear]: How to quickly remove the spear to thrust again.
Polearms [Spear]: Twisting the spear makes it hurt/wound more.
Polearms [Spear] : Take advantage of the range of a spear.
Endurance: Staying calm and collected after a murder.
Endurance: How to subsist and live off of poor food quality/portions.
Stealth: How to take advantage of one's small size to hide.
Wealth:
Renown:
+15
EXP:
+15

Feedback

Understand that all criticisms are done in good faith. It would be a greater disrespect to not say anything in the face of problems. Please contact me through this account's inbox if you wish to further communicate on the matter of improvement, or if you feel as though anything is unduly harsh.