Open Chronicles Dark Offerings in the Light

[VigiloConfido]

All at once it had come. The screams and yells and shouts of the other armored men and woman and of the patrons and the barkeep. The felling of the table and the drinks resting on it and the chair that Anima sat on. Down she went. Landing on her hindside and toppling flat to her back on the floor. Her head hitting the wood. Soft laughter and a slow rolling over to her side as the commotion continued unseen by her.

Anima didn't think that she would do it, the tattooed woman. Bring forth chaos. Act on her stated intent. For she could have done it when the armored woman first approached. Far before that, even. A choosing. A specific denial, and an insistence against the armored woman's question. Therein a revealing, perhaps. That with violence and menace came deception and whimsy in equal measure. That joyous lunacy. Interesting to watch but poor to bask in. For Anima found the emotions of such inauthentic. Flippant. All too fleeting.

And thus the armored woman. Her intensity. Her devotion to cause. Her latent anger at the disturbance at the table. More enticing, her white star. Where Voraak kept the peace by words, the armored woman seemed far more keen on keeping it by force.

All the situation needed was a little push.

And there the unveiling. The discovering.

Yes.

As Anima sat up there on the floor of the tavern and supported herself by the flats of her hands she saw the armored woman deliver a strike with her sword to the neck of the tattooed woman. The flashfire of chaos ended with a collapsing and a pooling of black blood.

A simple delight to behold, and Anima's expression made no secret of it.

Wrongful estimations. For just as she doubted that the tattooed woman would ultimately act on her intent, she also doubted that the armored woman would kill, let alone kill without reservation. And where Anima thought that tattooed woman's lunacy had swung from menace to whimsy, she also thought that the armored woman would subdue instead of slay. Exhilarating surprises all around.

Yes. Wrongful estimations. The armored woman's white star had already burned out long ago, hadn't it? And there a commonality. A shared likeness, drawing them together. At what age did she die, the armored woman? She who had once been a girl who never before had killed another living soul? When did she cross that baleful threshold in eternity? For now in that innocent girl's place lived a woman made darker. That much more consumed. Mother was always right, wasn't she?

A curiosity. What else did she, the armored woman, desire to do that she would not yet admit to herself and to the world so readily?

What other horrors might be made routine in her heart?

"Well done," Anima said.

And she looked then to Voraak. Gauging him. His reaction to it all.

 

[Khyros Amhran]

The odd hound at Khyros's feet picked it's head up a moment before the shadows struck. It leapt to it's feet in a guard position, and the Bard struck two chords at once, breaking the melody of the song while at the same time putting his will into the notes.

A pair of shadow tendrils struck at him, but stopped short of Lira, his hound, in a brief flare of light.

Khyros continued to play, striking two harmonious chords at a time.

Then, as quickly as it happened, it ended. The Lady Knight struck at the tattooed woman, and then silence reined for a moment, he let his own notes fall to silence.

Khyros slipped his feet to the floor and stood. He set his lute back into it's case and strode towards the table where the trouble centered on.

 

[Voraak Tyrethian]

The tension became a hot, sweat-provoking feeling. The dark-haired lady with the crow on her chest routed the assassin, root and stem; informing the Paladin of her true nature. Dangerous, yet bold.

The Paladin inquired further involving their doings.

She wants to know more about us? Damn Paladin

Finishing his drink, Voraak moved his eyes about the tavern, between the three ladies that joined him at the table. So much for getting an expedition ready.

Chuckling at the situation he could only remain silent, which was something he learned to do long ago from his father: Always learn to keep your trap shut unless you have something useful to say.

“Me and a Paladin??? Sort things out? Well….that would be a first for me!” He chuckled innocently.


That’s when the assassin made a fatal error.


As the chairs and other furniture were uprooted from the tavern floor, Voraak was sent backwards by the toppling of the chair. The Paladin was quick to bring the Pale Sorcerer behind her back. This could be his chance to escape.

No….this would be satisfying.

Performing a brief somersault, Voraak would focus his attention and call upon his Frost magic to aid him once more. He brought up an ice wall that was tall enough for him to sink behind and he unsheathed his dagger.

With enough time bought on his end, he would wheel up and face the assassin.

Before he could conjure a barrage of ice spikes, the fight was already over. Disappointing.

The assassin had underestimated an opponent which got her killed. The Paladin not only saved him, but also spared him from having to take another life; so it was a win-win situation. He did not know who sent for her but he would guess the College, or the various cut-throats at Black Bay.

Casually walking over toward the assassin, he knelt down and held her hand.

“Such a waste of skill and talent. Her tongue was too forward and gave her away”

Black blood oozed and dripped through the wooden floor as the life in the assassin’s eyes disappeared. It was not his first death he witnessed and it won’t be the last.

Voraak had killed a few people by this point but only had to in dire circumstances--this would have been one of those circumstances. Seeing the ‘mystery’ lady comment on the Paladin’s prowess, Voraak would do the same.

“Yes, well done lady Paladin. Shame I couldn’t assist, I would have enjoyed it”

Going over to the mystery lady, he offered his hand to help her up from the floor and offered a smile.

“You still haven’t given me your name miss.”

 

[Faerlin]

It was over before Faerlin knew it.

She was actually shocked at how quickly the assassin went down. Granted, most fights were fast, brutal affairs, but after the display of magic and the cockiness of Tattoo, the paladin had been expecting a little more from gauntlet lady. The paladin certainly hadn't been expecting the assassin to be felled in a single blow. But apparently the two of them had not gotten each other's measure. The assassin had underestimated Faerlin, and the paladin had overestimated Tattoo. It had cost the assassin more.

However, as the cries and groans of the injured filled the air, Faerlin knew this wasn't a win in her book.

It took what felt like an eternity to come down from the battle high (though in reality it was only a few moments). The assassin’s blood, which was weirdly dark even in the dim light of the tavern, coated the paladin. The paladin could fell it seeping into her clothes, running down her body, the sensation deeply unpleasant. Once Faerlin regained conscious thought, she kicked the body off of her leg and spun around, taking in the state of the room.

The good news was that Faerlin had taken down the assassin and saved Voraak; the bad news was that it seemed as if every single member of the paladin’s unit was down through some unknown and presumably arcane means. Though she was well used to the viscera and gore of combat, even Faerlin was slightly sickened to see that pretty much every other soldier had their feet severed at their ankles. Few were still conscious, and their blood was everywhere. It was a shocking display of violence for a place that had been, if not peaceful before, at least unmarred by the scars of combat.

Creepy, Voraak, and, the paladin was annoyed to note, the bard, were all close by. Still, Faerlin had damage control to do here before she could assess what to do next and talk to people who might provide her some answers. Maybe something could still be done for her unit. She'd have to move quickly and decisively though. “Everyone stay back from the body,” she barked out. Between the expression on her face, the blood dripping from her body and her sword, and her tone, she figured most of them would obey. If not, she'd make them.

Luckily, the patrons of the bar seemed relatively unscathed, albeit worried and maybe a bit in shock. Still, the men here would’ve had to do some military service, so Faerlin felt it was well within her power to deputize them. Pointing at the bartender, Faerlin poured every ounce of authority she could into her voice. “You. Go fetch the healers and some guards from the closest guard station.” As a fortress, Vel Anir had several guard stations, each with their own dedicated cohort of Guards and support staff, including medics. They were located at most major intersections, and the locals should know where to go. “Tell them there was an incident. Paladin Dercaiya dealt with the threat, but there are soldiers in urgent need of medical care. Then tell them to send word to the Dreadlords.”

It was dangerous invoking the Dreadlords: they were the most powerful mages in Vel Anir, and mostly employed by the noble Houses. Therefore, calling on them was always risky. However, Faerlin wasn’t taking any chances with that unknown magic. The fact that she'd brought them up should indicate to everyone just how serious this situation was.

The bartender blanched, then gulped, but he nodded, saluted, and set off at a run. Turning to everyone else (except the bard, Voraak, and Creepy) Faerlin spoke, her voice still commanding. “You lot. Anyone with medical training help where you can. Anyone who doesn’t have training assist those who do.” There was a general murmur of agreement, and then a few individuals started making their way towards the injured. Seeing as Faerlin had no skills in healing, she wouldn't be useful there. Besides, she had more important matters to deal with.

That done, the paladin turned back to the body. She’d already taken down the assassin, but again, the use of unfamiliar magic had the paladin wary. It was always best to be thorough in these situations. Even though Tattoo’s neck was half sheared through, Faerlin had seen monsters heal from worse. After seeing what the assassin could do in just a few moments, the paladin wasn't taking any more chances or showing any more mercy. Or squeamishness (not that she'd been squeamish around dead bodies for a long time).

So—uncaring of what those in the room might think—Faerlin raised her sword, then chopped down, severing the head completely. She stabbed Tattoo in the heart for good measure. The paladin wiped her sword on the parts of her clothes that weren’t covered in sticky blood. She’d do a proper cleaning later.

First, she wanted some answers.

Whirling, she pointed her sword at Creepy and Voraak in turn. “And you still haven’t given me a proper explanation,” she told the man, voice deadly serious, not at all willing to play whatever game he thought he was playing. “I want to know what the fuck is going on here. So everyone needs to shut up about what a good job or how well I did, since in my mind this was a fucking disaster.” The fallen soldiers didn’t care that the threat had been neutralized; for all Faerlin knew, many of them would die from blood loss. This was not a victory for the paladin.

Still keeping her eyes trained on Voraak, Faerlin’s expression and tone indicated that she would not tolerate an evasive answer. “What did that woman want with you, and are there likely to be more assassins out there?” That seemed to be the most pressing concern.

There were other issues she wanted to address. Namely, who in the world was Creepy and who had warned her about the assassination attempt. Shifting her attention to the other woman, the paladin gave her a once over before speaking, memorizing her features. “Who are you, and how did you know about the attack?”

Finally, because the bard was hovering close, Faerlin shot him a look. “And what in the world do you want?” Her voice became less harsh and more exasperated on that one, but her eyes were hard and she did not want to be trifled with.

Someone better start talking before she totally lost it.

 

[VigiloConfido]

The cries of the wounded. Some in her peripheral vision, most behind or unseen. Remnants of that chaos. The savoring of something sweet. Though a general hollowness, as it often was in these massed battles or massacres, such as the slaughter in Iron Lake. For while there might perhaps be potent emotions on offer, the combined flood served to drown out the individual intimacy. Much like music. The bard would know, wouldn't he? A single instrument playing a beautiful tune was a wonderful experience. A collection of instruments all playing their own beautiful, individual tunes becomes a cacophony.

She would have loved to know them. Those wounded armored men and women. Each and every one of them. To take in their fears and their loves and their hopes and bask in what sorrow and what anger and what joys they had. And there would their present suffering be given meaning, be made more dear. For in it they could have shared in what raw emotions each in their own harbored so strongly now. Does the shadow not also tremble if the person standing before the light quivers in fear?

But it was not so, that sharing. And thus their howls and their screams were plain and flat to her, much like the simple carnal ecstasy purchased at a brothel. That aforementioned hollowness in both. Quickly did the meager enjoyment dissipate.

Then.

The hand offered by Voraak. That invitation of closeness.

Anima smiled. Gently lifted her hand and took hold of his and allowed herself his help back onto her feet. The asking of a name, and she couldn't be more delighted.

She didn't let go of his hand. Not yet. She stood on the tips of her toes and leaned in close to him and their held hands between them now and carefully she rested her other hand on his left shoulder to steady herself. For she leaned in further until her face was beside his own and her lips nearly touched his ear.

And she said, "A voice whispers in your ear: Anima..."

She descended slowly back down to the heels of her boots and her hand slid from his shoulder and then the letting go of his own hand, that last gracing of fingertips. And she stood before him. Smiling up at him. All as the armored woman attempted to restore the order that once had been.

And there had been a revealing, hadn't there? None so definite as the armored woman's or the tattooed woman's, but a revealing in demeanor. Yes. Voraak had been disappointed in the assassin. A manner of respect and kinship offered. The closeness in holding her hand in that bygone moment. His mention of enjoyment lost, for he had not the opportunity to assist in the slaying.

That balance. That delicate balance, thus far revealed. His generosity the hint of a good soul. The willingness to kill the hint otherwise. A lovely commonality. But there was still the witnessing, wasn't there? The difference between words spoken and action taken.

Therein she could see.

See the manifest darkness, or the exciting lack thereof and the potential to witness it blossom, yes, all that lay in Voraak's heart.

Perhaps it would be seen now. As the armored woman directed her attention back to them.

Anima looked at her. A loving gaze. For here at last pretense on the armored woman's part had been dropped. Chaos had unveiled her truer self. A pleasure to finally meet her. "There you are."

Anger became her. Anima felt it herself. The aggressive words. The tone in which they were spoken. Yes. Delightful. The phantom taste of raw, bloody meat now indistinguishable from the real thing.

It was the loss of order, wasn't it? Things arranged, collapsing into disarray. The fury sparked at the perceived unseemliness. The ire directed at those perceived responsible. The desperation to put back together that which was destined to fall apart once and forever more. A futile goodness there, ultimately tragic. For that intent of goodness would be time and time again be subverted to the dark.

Anima held her hands down at her sides. Turned her hands to reveal her open and empty palms. Said to the armored woman, "Shall you make a desert of corpses and call it peace?"

 

[Elise Darkwater]

Things had been going well until she got her head cut off.

Not that it had hurt particularly badly.
Everything kind felt the same. She let herself bleed.
Feeling as the blood of the solders that absolutely covered the place began mixing with her own.

Red being pulled by black into her body through her wounds.

Then she simply held her breath. She didn't need to breath. It was something she chose to do for no other reason than she simply had before.
So there she lay "in defeat." She almost jumped Voraak when he took her hand but under the paladins watchful eye she remained still.

Her "underestimated" line had been ironic.

As soon as she saw the magic she knew she needed to take the fall, take a step back and see what this paladin was packing, and take the fall she did.

Allowing the bolt of energy come so close it seemed to hit her.
Dark energy had clung to the bolt draining a good bit of its punch before it hit her.

She still felt the curse drain her for a moment, and the rest hadnt been planned.

So there she lay ready to strike.
Her blood already spreading wider slowly.

A bridge of thicker blood had snaked from the stump of her arm to the gauntlet. She almost laughed out loud as she was about to move to get up.

That was before that uppity bitch cut her head off,and stabbed her in the heart.

Darkness.

Deep and unending she didnt know how long she was there it seemed this was a limbo of timelesss void... Then she felt everything snap back together all at once.

"I!"

She said standing up as her wounds snapped shut.
her hair was a tangled mess of blood. Her smile was warm and happy, however her eyes held rage that would melt a 12" steel plate.

"CANT BELIEVE" A tenticle shot from her left gauntlet wrapping around her other gauntlet pulling it towards her.

Finding her old bit of arm still inside she ripped it out savagely before jamming her new one inside flexing her fingers.

"YOU MADE ME GROW A NEW HEAD!" She shrieked as her right arm shot out a chain formed from black energy.

It punched into a nearby man and pulled him back to her as she sank her fangs into him without a moments hesitation.
He was a husk in seconds.
Time seem to drag for a moment as a lot happened in the span of a few moments.
Elise tossed him aside with a yawn smacking her lips.
The blood seeming to calm her from her rage. At least outwardly as her eyes still bore the same raging hatred.
Her blood seemed to drain from the floor and suck back into her gauntlets.
Pulling the blood and bits of flesh it had gathered into them as well.
Her eyes glowed for a moment a sickly purple as the energy in her gauntlets seemed to be building.

"To The Void with you."

She muttered through gritted teeth as her energy building seemed to hit its apex.
then she extended her arms and unleashed a small explosion of spikes.

Any not in cover would be thrown back by the force of the explosion. Spikes shot in every direction so closely together they almost seemed like bubble expanding around Elise.
In the aftermath it looked like a legion of porcupines had met their demise.

The 2" long spikes had struck civilian and furniture alike covering the taverns room from ceiling to floor. A few of the patrons were pinned to the walls and one even hung from the ceiling like a grizzly bleeding cactus chandelier.

"Voraak love? Wheeeeeerrreeee are yooouuuu.." Elise sang out with a giggle as her eyes sweeped around the room. She was searching for Vor and the other members of the group should they still be alive, and admiring her handy work.

"And what about you paladin....Got a lot of my blood on you? Want to know what it does?" She said with a similarly light tone like she was addressing a friend. The blood would then seem to latch to her skin like leeches made of tar. Unless something was done the paladin would feel her magic energy begin to wane.

Like it was being used in a spell but no spell was manifesting like a hole in a keg. Ale being poured, but no cup to utilize it.

"You got to cut off my head....Doesnt seem fair..I should at least get an arm right? Tit for tit as they say....Wait....." She stopped for a moment pondering.

"Is that how that expression goes?...Well if it isnt it should be.." She said finally with a shrug.

Though she seemed relaxed every fiber of her body was ready for conflict as her eyes kept bouncing around the carnage waiting..

 

[Voraak Tyrethian]

Voraak examined the tavern which became a damn bloodbath in just a matter of minutes. It was just another vicious sight to behold, no worse than that of a necromantic ritual or any other semblance of gore. It was revealed that this Paladin’s name--or surname was Dercaiya, finally another name.

Seeing the Paladin deputize bystanders and take hold of the situation, she had a quick sword and a quick mind which reminded him of his mercenary father. Witnessing Dercaiya sever the head and stab the heart really illustrated that maybe this Paladin didn’t understand the magic at hand--that’s okay because he didn’t either. Was she scared?

As Voraak held his hand out, the mysterious woman took his offer and came up to meet him, but did not let go of his hand. As she whispered her name in his ear, he smiled and whispered back.

“Anima, pleasure. I do hope you will stick around?”

He felt a kinship or a strong liking to this woman. Voraak has never met someone like her, and he was good with remembering faces, but she seemed to elude him with the barmaid act. Smiling at her slyness, he gave her a playful wink.

The Pale Sorcerer didn’t have much experience with healing but he dare not help as the Paladin was probing him for answers. Answers that require some truth.

“Proper explanation? I thought I gave you a decent explanation but I won’t question the one who saved my life. She told me she was hired to kill me, but proof of that is only my word and hers”
He stated as he pointed to Anima.

“Normally assassins or headhunters have papers or a decree of business on their body. Perhaps checking their body would prove fruitful?”

He noticed that he was going off track and decided to come forward more with Dercaiya.

“She wanted me brought back with her--dead or alive. As far as more assassins go? I am not sure. She more than likely was hired by those who wanted this parchment back”

Voraak pulled a rolled out piece of parchment out of his satchel to show that he did in fact have something on his person that he considered valuable.

Or it could be for so many other reasons, he was not sure but it did instill a feeling of dread. He needed to find the source--but he needed to find the artifact first before focusing on regime assassin dealings.

It was then that a familiar voice boomed back in the tavern….the assassin’s. How?!

Tentacles shot from her body and claimed the life of one man before Voraak could react.
A sudden explosion sent him backwards, with spiked spines hitting him in the gut and grazing his face. Furniture and people went flying in the air. After he landed, he got behind an overturned table and readied his hands.

“That damn bitch.”
His hand emitted a faint blue fog--as does most of the Frost magic he uses. She got him pretty good and he did not like that one bit. His right hand held the gut wound to prevent more blood from trickling out.

 

[Khyros Amhran]

“And what in the world do you want?”

Khyros lifted an eyebrow, but made no move to respond just yet as there was more conversation going on around them. Khyros watched for a minute, his eyes turning to each person that spoke. The only one acting logically was the Lady Knight, Paladin Dercaiya, as the shadow magic or whatever it had been that the more hostile rogue had used was quite unusual.

What did Khyros want?

He wanted to know what was going on, as a night of music and drinking had turned into a night in an abattoir after only a few minutes.

"I!"

Khyros had seen many things rise from the dead, but removing a head tended to end things universally.

"CANT BELIEVE"

Apparently, that wasn't the case as universally as Khyros had thought.

"YOU MADE ME GROW A NEW HEAD!"

"Lira!" He called, crouching as his hound leapt to interpose herself between the mutable assassin and the Bard. The hound glowed an earthy green, growling almost sub-audibly.

"To The Void with you."

The shadow magic exploded with a word, and Lira barked once. Her form shifted, twisting around Khyros and not looking like a hound any more, now there was an earthen mound where Lira and Khyros had been. Nothing moved for long moments.

"Voraak love? Wheeeeeerrreeee are yooouuuu.."

"And what about you paladin....Got a lot of my blood on you? Want to know what it does?"

"You got to cut off my head....Doesnt seem fair..I should at least get an arm right? Tit for tit as they say....Wait....."

"Is that how that expression goes?...Well if it isnt it should be.."

"I'd greatly recommend you not take any further destructive actions, my lady." The Bards voice slid through the earthen dome, which slowly reformed into a hound. Khyros stood up from with in it, his hands held slightly away from his body, fingers poised as if about to snap them.

A quick glance to the side showed him that his lute was no longer such a thing, but now only so much kindling.

"That was a nice lute you ruined. What kind of idiocy is going on here?" Aside fro his hands, he seemed fairly calm. Lira, his hound, stood ready to pounce, but the Bard looked almost relaxed. He knew that within the walls of Vel Anir, one did not make such a ruckus without drawing the gazes of the highborn and their Dreadlord war mages. "I figure someone should tell your story after the Dreadlords of this city are through with the sorcerous disembowling you are more than earning here."

 

[Faerlin]

People really had to learn to stop trying her patience. There was not much of it to begin with, and it depleted quite rapidly. Especially when she had to deal with an assassin, the aftermath of her unit being decimated by said assassin, and then the group of strangers targeted by the assassin’s being obstructive. In fact, it was shocking that only one head had rolled so far, given the anger boiling in her veins.

First things first: Creepy needed to learn who was in charge here, and that the paladin really wasn’t in the mood to be jerked around. She stepped forward in a smooth motion and brought the edge of her sword to the other woman’s throat, holding it there effortlessly. “No, actually, I’ll march you down to the jail, throw you in there to rot, and call that peace.” Faerlin’s voice held a feigned cheer; however, her eyes were sparkling with rage. “Now. Answer. My. Questions.” Her voice lost any hint of cheer, faked or otherwise; by Nykios, she would do what she threatened.

In fact, if it wasn’t for the fact that she had others to take care of, she would’ve done that already.

Thankfully, Creepy was saved from further retribution by Voraak; the assassin’s target started speaking, and the paladin looked over at him, relaxing her sword arm and stepping back from Creepy. Faerlin still kept the other woman in her peripheral vision as she listened carefully to what the frost mage had to say. When he pulled out the parchment, Faerlin’s eyes narrowed. “And just what is on that parchment that’s so valuable?” Although it didn’t sound exactly right to the paladin. If the assassin had just wanted the parchment—or its contents, whatever—then presumably she would’ve tried to kill Voraak and taken the scrap of paper. Then again, Faerlin wasn’t really interested in figuring out Tattoo’s motivations. All the paladin cared about was making sure everyone was safe, and about saving everyone she could.

She turned to the bard, very much interested in what he had to say. However, before she could press him to say something, anything (or something other than a dumb song, at least), a voice screamed out behind her.

Faerlin felt her heart beat a rapid pace as she spun around, sword coming up in a defensive position. Somehow, inextricably, Tattoo had come back from a beheading. That was definitely surprising, and maybe, just maybe a bit worrisome. Very few beings could come back from such a fatal wound. The fact that Tattoo could spoke volumes about her power.

However, the paladin wasn’t going to be cowed by the likes of an assassin who got killed trying to take down her mark—even if it hadn’t taken—and then was dumb enough to announce her presence. It was a suicidal overconfidence, and this time Faerlin was going to make Tattoo pay for it.

Before the paladin could do anything at all, however, a tendril of black blood snatched up the severed gauntlet and another tendril of void energy claimed a nearby victim. Before Faerlin had time to do much more than take a step forward, Tattoo sank fangs into the man, who was drained and turned into a husk in an instant. Okay then. Some sort of vampire, or similar undead. And if the way the blood roiled on the ground and moved towards Tattoo, probably some sort of blood mage.

Faerlin squared off, stepping firmly in front of Voraak. “And I can’t believe you’re dumb enough to want to go another round. It didn't go so well for you the first time,” she retorted, voice mocking. It was clear that this was going to be a longer and harder fight than the paladin had been expecting. That made her happy: indeed, her blood practically sang with delicious anticipation.

This time, when she killed the assassin, the paladin was going to make sure she did it properly.

Still, the glowing light around the assassin gave Faerlin pause. For now, it would probably be best to get the measure of her opponent. The paladin never made the same mistake in a fight twice; time to play defense, at least until she came up with a surefire way to kill Tattoo. Plus, time was on the paladin’s side, not on the assassin’s. While Faerlin knew she could take down the assassin with enough effort, the paladin also knew that the authorities were on their way. No one, not even a dark mage, could take on the full might of the city of Vel Anir. After all, empires had been crushed by it. Tattoo didn’t stand a chance.

Firm in that knowledge—and unwavering in her faith—Faerlin bared a savage smile at Tattoo. This wasn’t going to be fun, but it was going to be oh so satisfying to wipe that smug expression off her face.

However, as the energy crested, the paladin decided not to trust in Nykios’ grace twice. After playing offense, it was time to evaluate her options. She dove behind the bar, planning to let the assassin cast her spell, then play keep away with Voraak. Just in time, too: a veritable forest of spikes exploded out of Tattoo, spearing anyone unfortunate enough to be caught in the open.

Which included the remains of Faerlin’s unit, as well as most of the patrons. Her fury reached its peak as she saw that the few she’d been trying to save were beyond help. It was also worrisome to see Voraak on the ground; he didn’t seem too badly wounded, but gut wounds could be tricky. At least the healers were already on their way.

As the assassin called out for the fallen man, Faerlin gritted her teeth. Time to play her part. As Tattoo called out for the paladin in turn, Faerlin emerged from the bar, standing tall. Before she had a chance to taunt gauntlet lady, however, the assassin began speaking about her blood. Even as she did, the paladin could feel the sticky and slimy black fluid began to seep into her. Indeed, her eyes widened as she felt it leech at her magic. It felt...wrong. Fundamentally wrong, in a way the paladin had never felt before.

Still, it seemed that the assassin’s attention was fixated on her. Faerlin had to do everything in her power to keep it that way; she wasn’t sure any of the others would be of any help. So far, besides not dying, they’d been pretty useless. Of course, even as she thought that—and about how to keep Tattoo’s attention—the bard spoke up. Apparently, he’d finally found his voice, and he’d picked the worst time to do so. Although Faerlin was curious where the hound had come from. And even she was impressed that he was still uninjured. She might as well use the distraction he’d bought her for something.

Since her magic wasn’t going to last much longer if she didn’t do something, she might as well do something useful with what remained. Blood, she thought about blood, and how Tattoo had used it, and how Faerlin might use that against her. The paladin was downright useless when it came to defensive magic.

But she was pretty damn good when it came to offensive spells. And the assassin had been kind enough to provide her a nice, juicy target.

Faerlin began glowing a sullen crimson as she channeled the divine might of her god. “I’d listen to him, if I were you.” She jerked her head at the bard, then grinned at Tattoo. “But if you want me, I'm right here. Come and get me.” The paladin tightened her grip on her sword, and her grin widened. “But first, NYKIOS TAKE YOU.” And with that, the crimson light exploded out of her.

It swept across the room, lingering in patches wherever the black blood and foul magic lingered; first it burned away the blood still left on the paladin, turning it to ash that fell to the ground in a silent rain. Then it began eating away at the pools of blood elsewhere in the tavern. A large chunk of it swept around the gauntlets, swirling around them, pressing ever closer. It had been a severing curse. If cutting off the assassin’s head hadn’t worked, then cutting off the source of her magic would just have to do.

The paladin wouldn’t be much good for another spell, but she kept pouring Nykios’s divine wrath into her curse. No mortal mage could stand against a god for long. And while Faerlin didn’t have much magic left in her, her sword arm worked just fine. Still, she waited for the assassin to make her move, though the paladin emerged out from the bar. She'd seen Voraak crawl behind a table (and heard him speak, which probably alerted Tattoo to his presence, the idiot), so Faerlin wanted to be able to react to whatever gauntlet lady might do next.

Assuming nothing stopped her, though the paladin would cut off Tattoo’s head again. And then she’d keep cutting until the assassin was nothing but pieces. That might finally avenge her fallen allies, and would satisfy the call for retribution burning within her.

 

[VigiloConfido]

There. The sword to Anima's throat. That extension of the armored woman's desire. Her actions belying her words. A fake promise, that of jail. A lie even to herself. A repression of the darkness she had already given permission to manifest. And she loved to shed blood in the pursuit of order, didn't she?

Were they not sisters? That exquisite proof, the mutilation of the tattooed woman's corpse. A sharing of many a dark delight with the armored woman. It was only on account of some manner of willful blindness that the armored woman did not see that shared scarring of the soul.

Time would bring her around. It always did.

Anima closed her eyes. Smiled a smile of loving joy as she tilted her head back just so and pressed her neck slowly into the blade at her throat. A breaking of the skin. A tiny trickle of blood. A finger, traced steadily across her neck and under the blade.

What a solemn delight. To join in that desert. To aid in that sweet blossoming of midnight in the armored woman. To satisfy her rage and the desire which spawned it. That mixing of blood in the proverbial sand. There shall Anima's corpse lay, staring up at that night, watching the last of the white stars in the armored woman's sky fade. Perhaps she would be there, in spirit, when the clutch of darkness unveiled was too tight for the armored woman to deny.

And then she would see, wouldn't she? That she need not fear the dark. For it bound them together in wondrous sisterhood. And they both carried it with them from the very beginning, didn't they?

But Voraak spoke.

And it caused the armored woman to deny herself.

Disappointing. Anima leveled her head and clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. Yes. Disappointing. But such was the world. A play of pretense and self-deception. The smothering of honesty to oneself. And so will it continue to be. For now.

Then it happened.

The tattooed woman rose again. She who had no pretense. She who was honest. She who was manic, yes, but she who reveled in her desire as well. All plainly evident. Three sisters. One astray.

The shockwave. Quickly did it come after the tattooed woman had risen and drained a man for energy. Anima had not moved from her ground. She did not have cover. And neither did Voraak. Both of them were stolen from their feet and thrown back.

Anima's body sailed through the air as the shockwave smacked into her and she hit the wall of the tavern at an angle and there in that moment, before her body could bounce off and soar at a mirrored angle away, the spikes trailing the explosion found her.

A jagged collection of the spikes dancing all the way up her shins and to her thighs, the mortifying rungs of a grotesque ladder, some stopped partially by armor and some having found the sweet spots in the gaps and driven themselves into the soft flesh underneath cloth. Running across her chest and shoulder to shoulder a marching line of the spikes, tearing into the armor and ripping her shawl all over and a terrible bleeding that seeped through despite the protection of the leather, only the brooch of the crow for some strange reason of wild fortune or something other remained untouched in that grisly warpath. And then a single spike that tore into the left side of her mouth and severed it apart as it cut through the cheek and embedded itself into the back of her jaw and there at the back a tiny poking through of the tip of the spike, a horrid half-smile sliced open where her teeth and her tongue could be seen just beyond the embedded spike and the blood and the saliva could not be contained and flowed freely.

All happening in that instant.

And Anima bounced from the wall and fell on her front to the floor, the impact driving in deeper the spikes which had only partially penetrated her armor.

A twitching and a gasping. An odd and wet sucking sound as her breaths were distorted by the damage to her face.

And there she lay.

 

[Elise Darkwater]

She paid the bard no mind. It wasnt that he wasnt formidible the fact he survived her attack with out a scratch atested to his hidden prowess.

He simply wasnt her target. Part of what he had said she did pick up on.. Back up was coming.

Something she couldnt deal with right now.

Killing Voraak was a secondary objective more of an added bounus.
She needed that scroll. She moved to attack where he lay.

His blood called to her as she began to move towards him when she felt the paladin's stolen energy surge into her. It flowed as her magic took it in and made it her own bending it to her will.

His will.

Nykios was her deity it seemed unless she was simply invoking a name to throw her off the scent of the true source of her power.
Elise rarely used the name of her sovereign master. The fact she invoked the name of hers so flippantly was embarrassing.

Her master valued her for her skills and combat prowess and aided her in that way. He was the runes carved into a blade to enchant it.

He aided what was already formidable. The deity she worshiped was a suit of armor.

Underneath she was just as soft and mortal as any other. Her spell burned away the blood cutting of the delicious energy flow Elise had been enjoying with a gluttonous fervor. Between her own gods power and this new god...She had enough power to level half a town block.
....and if they really pushed her...
Then she attacked her gauntlets.

"Ha! Yeah...Im the dumb one.."

She said with a chuckle as her gauntlets seemed to absorb the red around them turning the crimson to a bright purple and finally a tar black as it was sucked into her gauntlets. She laughed her manic giggle as she aimed her gauntlet at her paladin foe with her palm up and facing her.

"You just dont know when your out classed."

She said pointing for the paladin to look behind her as she fired 8 spears of dark energy with enough force to punch through armor. each was aimed for a different part of her body before the assassin....

Dissolved?

She melted into a puddle of black goop not unlike the blood previously seen.

"Vor."

She said dropping in front of him and landing in a crouch before promptly punching him in the gut sinking a few spikes in deeper. They then began to melt and pull themselves out of his wounds. The newly formed liquid then moved to cover his hands up to above his wrists like a second skin stifling his magic and sticking his hands together like it was glue. She ripped off his bag and rifled through it until the scroll was found.

She pulled a green crystal from her side pocket and slid it over the parchment.

The gem blinked once.

Good,not fake.

She then moved for the kill, but the whispers stopped her dead in her tracks.

"They... are coming....Dread.." was all she had to hear before she snarled in frustration.

"I'll be back for that head you got you pale puke.. Run....Hide...I hope you do. Makes it more fun."
She spat before throwing a handful of pellets on the ground.

A cloud of acrid black smoke filled half the room as her voice rang out a final time.

"And I hope your still alive paldin. I hope round 3 will be the tie breaker. Hahahaha (hack, cough,) fuck this shits (cough.) thick."

When it cleared she was gone. Her spikes began melting into black dust. Bodies previously pinned to walls began dropping with sickening thuds.

Silence...

With a sudden final thump of the body hung by the ceiling finally fell.

 

[Voraak Tyrethian]

Voraak’s pain was more of an inconvenience to him. The tendril that stuck him in his gut was a minor obstacle that he would have to overcome. Careful to peek over the cover of the table, he could see the assassin who was hell bent on taking what he has--potentially his life.

Viewing this as an opportunity, he would flex his fingers and let an ice bolt sail through the air and hit the assailant in the foot, not pinning her down but enough to cause some discomfort. An unknown magic was being used by the assassin and it intrigued Voraak greatly. Such power.

Banter and taunts were migrating through the air like a swift winter breeze. Cutting through the morale and provoking the parties to see ‘who would strike first’.

Hunching back down behind the table, he heard his name being called out in an ominous tone.

He didn’t have time to react before the spike tendril was punched further into his wound and soon a mysterious liquid stuck his hands together, preventing his use of magic.

“Well played assassin. I do hope we get to play again very very soon. I won’t be so easy on you next time you wench”

Sure the research he had ‘procured’ was gone but he still had a good memory. He would have to act fast before his opponents did. Time would soon be running out. When the thick black smoke subsided, a sight of bloodshed and carnage was left.

Furniture was splintered everywhere. Bodies were dead, and more were injured. Gaining control of his hands, he slammed tight fists into the floor in brief frustration.

“I’ll hunt that wench down if I have to”

He took attacks like these on a more personal level, no matter how business-affiliated they were. The scroll that had been taken, was Lord Niergoth’s accounts on Necromancy. Research that would indeed benefit those with the aptitude to perform studies. He knew not where Niergoth’s main stronghold was located but a secondary location that was visited was not far off the Cortosi Coast.

Getting up, he looked around….trying to find those involved in the fight to see if they were still alive.

 

[Faerlin]

Something stopped the paladin. Or rather, something about the gauntlets blocked Faerlin’s divine magic. If she’d been prone to worrying—which she wasn’t, much, mostly translating it into anger—that would’ve caused her to freak out. As it was, she stood her ground firmly, though remained in place, out of magic and watching carefully for the assassin’s next move.

“You are the dumb one.” Faerlin sneered, not at all impressed with the assassin’s bravado. “Even if you succeed here, all you’ve done is paint a target on your back. We will never stop hunting you.” The assassin had sealed her fate the moment she took lives here today. It might not be easy to kill her, and it might take more lives before all this was through, the paladin’s included.

But Tattoo was a dead woman walking. Or undead woman ready to be sent to her final rest, whatever the case may be. Faerlin might be outclassed, but gauntlet lady was outclassed by the city of Vel Anir. Its armies had lost battles.

But never a war, which this now was.

As the assassin raised her hand and void energy gathered there, the paladin ducked behind the bar again, not wanting to get spiked. Unfortunately, this time her barrier was insufficient.

The wood splintered as the much more powerful lances of dark magic punched through them and through the paladin. She was speared in multiple spots: one went completely through her right foot, the next took a chunk out of her right thigh, the third took her through her right ribs, another through her left shoulder, and yet another sliced a shallow cut on her right arm. The final one cut a channel through her right cheek.

Pain flared, and though she tried to fight it off, it was a losing battle. Her sword clattered from her fingers as unconsciousness won. Her last thought before darkness claimed her was a fierce satisfaction that even if she fell today, someone would avenge her and her allies. The bitch assassin would die eventually, as all who tested their might against Vel Anir did.

Then Faerlin passed out.

 

[Khyros Amhran]

Khyros wasn't an action hero, and without a true instrument he was a bit limited on what he could do. Snapping a rhythm would have let him protect himself, but as he didn't appear to be a target, he was left flat-footed when the assassin attacked the Paladin.

The spikes hit, and the Lady Knight fell, and Khyros was at her side in a moment, ignoring the assassin as she fled.

Khyros wasn't a citizen of Vel Anir, but he could easily recognize a force for good, and the others had labeled her a Paladin. Khyros's desire to ensure her survival was fairly high.

He placed a hand on her forehead and concentrated. His baritone lifting out of his mouth in a wordless tune, something that mimicked a chorus lifting up praise. He focused his song magic into a healing effect, hoping to counter the wounds as quickly as he could, though this was not an application of his magic he used commonly.

 

[VigiloConfido]

Pain.

Life's herald.

No more certain proof thereof.

Anima lay flat on the floor. Hapless and quivering as the fight continued in the tavern. The air drawn in through the severed skin of her face had a strange coldness to it. A stinging.

And soon the worst happened. The spikes which had been embedded into her body started to melt into black dust and fade from her wounds. Thereby opening them all up. The floodgates of blood. A tiny falling as the spikes in her chest and shoulders disappeared and at last the whole of her body touched the floor proper. The spilling of a dozen and a dozen more wounds onto it.

Already that tinge of weakness brought on by the loss of blood. A single laugh escaped her throat as she carefully rolled over onto her side. The laugh stifled by blood in her throat. A coughing. A splattering of it from her grotesquely widened mouth. Strings hanging from the flaps of skin that once made a unified cheek. In her lungs the awful feeling of liquid seeping into them. Burning and scratching and sloshing. Slowly drowning in her own blood.

A slow trailing of her eyes down to her chest. The punctures in her armor around the brooch. Wet and stained red and many tracks of droplets and streams like a rain made crimson running down a pane of glass. Her vision hazy. Out of focus.

But.

There.

Something in the blur. A poking through from one of the chest wounds. A thing made more clear than all else. A thing which moved and rustled and came from within her body and now here in one of many open wounds it had found an escape. There the beak and the head emerged from the wound, the eyes darting around in that curious and attentive avian way, and a struggling and further struggling and then out came the body and the wings and the slender legs and the feathers of the tail and once wholly freed a shaking off then of blood and viscera. The crow glanced about for a while longer as it stood there newly born from the horrific wound and it glanced and observed and in a moment of no discernible consequence it finally looked straight at Anima.

And it cawed.

Anima had stared at it the whole time. Horror and fascination. Another coughing and expulsion of blood from her ruined mouth as she tried to say it.

The Crow bears witness to the ruin of men. And feasts on their dark hearts.

Anima blinked.

There was no crow. There was never any crow.

Yet she had been seen all the same.

 

[Voraak Tyrethian]

Voraak shambled around the tavern to find that the Paladin was being aided by the bard whom she was terse with. How fitting that the man she snapped at would be the first to aid her and her wounds.

Nodding at the bard he thanked him briefly

“Paladin took a beating. Thank you”

The Pale Sorcerer held his wound in hopes to lose too much blood. The assassin managed to make a mess of the place and bodies were littered everywhere. While the bard tended to Paladin Dercaiya, Voraak would shuffle over and find Anima laying down on the floor. The mysterious woman known as Anima had a look of bewilderment on her face as blood found it’s way out of her mouth and drop to the floor.

“Wha…...what is it?”

She looked like she saw someone….or something as she blinked off and on. Did the assassin say something chilling to her or did the outcome of the fight leave her in a shellshock trance?

Finding a dead man near her, Voraak got his dagger and cut a portion of his shirt and pressed it to his wound.

He was hurting like hell and he was severely pissed that someone bested him and took something from him.

Collapsing on the floor, his body rested against an overturned table as Anima was on the floor in front of him. He was exhausted and light-headed. Blood loss.

Ripping off another section of the shirt, he tossed it to Anima

“Patch yourself up as best as you can until the Bard is done with the Paladin”

This would be one of the times that Voraak wished he had taken some healing classes at the College. He had no potions with him so he was a sitting duck--weak and could be finished off in one fell blow.

Holding the fabric and stuffing it into his wound his eyes start to squint, then open. Finally they closed again.

"I must rest…..I am tired"

With that the Pale Sorcerer muttered words under his breath and a loud caw came from the outside.

“Skul mir durah”

A black raven darted in from the outside and firmly landed on Voraak’s shoulder looking eagerly at the people surrounding him. The raven got situated and perched on his shoulder while staying close to Voraak’s right ear, as if speaking to him or comforting him.