Private Tales For What Do We Bleed?

[Elliot Aldmar]

Elliot shrugged, the gesture one of a live-and-let-live quality. "Not a fan of alliteration. Noted."

It was as he had only just been thinking: he and Lyssia were simply of two different worlds. Such a truth bled through like a weeping wound with her every retort to one of his utterances. But they would soon be parted, and her idealistic dream of a peaceful revolution would wither in some remote graveyard of the world, joining the storied centuries of Dornite history that attested to the inevitable failures of such. And Elliot would continue down his own path.

Yes. They were of two different worlds. So different that the possibility of reasonable discourse fled with greater and greater speed the closer in proximity they were to one another. Lyssia's own anger was a hint to what, in time, could only come next--peaceful ideals or no. Natural law remained unbroken.

Elliot whirled around once he heard an unfamiliar voice at the door. He had thought in the first half-second, distantly, that it was somehow Taros. But it was not. What stood in the doorway, what now closed Merissa's front door, was indeed an unknown man.

Lyssia beat him to asking the question.

I am here to see all three of you dead.

As soon as Sloth said it, Elliot's hands, quick as a whip, were down on the handles of his daggers. They flew in a blur from their sheaths, and Elliot stood in a low fighting stance, feet spaced apart and daggers held in inverted grips before him. His Bow was still out on his horse, and his belt pouches lacked bone dust thanks to Stannis--he was bereft of magic. So only his blades he could rely on.

His nostrils flared slightly. He stared down the mysterious and curiously named man, but he held his ground. Keenly aware, as well, of the window immediately to his right, to the hallway off to his left and behind him. Avenues of escape, if the disadvantage became too great.

Lyssia D'avore Elijah

 

[Elijah]

Elijah returned Lyssia's look with a calm, level one that conveyed every word he had said to her when they last spoke alone. He wouldn't run to her defence anymore. These battles, where her life was not on the line, were no longer his problem, but rather her chance to make a better path for herself. To better herself. Whether she would realise how she came across in that moment was left to be seen, and probably never would be seen, for in that moment the door opened.

The Captain still wore his cloak. The two large twin curved blades he favoured were hidden beneath and the armbraces that granted him a small amount of magic looked nothing more than an old bit of armour any traveller could have picked up along the road. Of course, the man revealed he knew of them. Who they were. Just not what they had done, how interesting.

His eyes didn't betray his movement but he took in the Drow's stance and Lyssia too. How he appeared outwardly, however, was calm. He even took another sip of his drink to calm his nerves. Elijah had been a Captain long enough to have an idea of the boogeyman who stood before them.

"We simply did our jobs, isn't that usually why you are sent?"

 

[Lyssia D'avore]

Sloth looked upon Elliot and his sudden movements with something very much like boredom. He himself made no move to draw his weapons; his hands remained neatly folded in front of his waist. Dark eyes glittered with intelligence, and the fact that he did not immediately do anything spoke of the same.

"No," Sloth replied to Elijah. Calm, collected, as if this conversation and everything he had said before and was about to say was the most prosaic and humdrum affair. "So very many of our...clients, shall we say, would say as much. In this particular case, you have not. You," he said, nodding toward Lyssia, "have no job. Dispossessed noble, gutter-trash as far as those that would see you dead are concerned. Too much pride, too much arrogance. You will not simply lie down and take the beating foisted upon you." He offered her a slim smile, there and gone.

"Storied captain climbing his way through the ranks of a world that barely tolerates his presence. Merit or no, there are many who resent that you upset the balance - you, and so many other men that dare rise above their station." He looked upon Elijah without any trace of the rancor his words would have implied. They were not his words, after all. "You have not done your job, else this never would have come to pass. Ah! But of course, you can not serve the Dynasty in that way; you are to face outward towards threats beyond your kin and ken. You are not trained or designed to deal with the enemy within, are you?"

Lyssia did not like this man. He spoke smooth and soft, like a courtier of old; grace and confidence in every word, but not the kind of confidence that was over done to the point of disbelief. She had never met a man like this before, and she felt cold to her core to think of what he was capable and - more importantly - that he had been set upon her, her and Elijah. She cared little of Elliot, of course - a useful tool, but little more than such

Unlike the other two, she carried no weapon. Hers was in her head, pulsing with light and life but yet untapped. She was not trained for fighting with magic, and thusfar had not availed herself well when put to the proof.

She swallowed. There was no avoiding a fight, here.

"And you, Elliot." The man shook his head slowly, sadly. "We had great hopes for you. Almost did we turn down the offered contract on all three of you just because of you. Such great potential, so much promise." He looked upon the drow-blooded man with just a faint trace of sadness in his eyes. "I will be pleased if somehow you manage to elude us today. I do not personally see much chance of you walking away from this little hamlet alive...but if you do, it pleases me to think that the encounter will only serve to sweeten your potential."

He smiled, but did nothing. "Poking into things that are the subject of your betters," he said slowly towards Elijah and Lyssia. There was no conviction in the words. He merely spoke them as if repeating what anoth had said.

Lyssia cut in. "The affairs of our home is none of yours," she said in a low growl. She felt helpless to do anything then and there. He spread his hands and shrugged.

"Nevertheless. I had hoped to hear from your mouth what it was you had done to rile your enemies, but I suppose I shouldn't be surprised you refuse. It doesn't matter either way; we do not believe your enemies. It is not our place to believe or disbelieve those that pay us. It is, alas, simply business. If you will," he said. "it is only sporting that I give you the first shot."

Arrogance? Complacency? Over confidence? Maybe.

 

[Elliot Aldmar]

As the man Sloth talked, Elliot assessed the totality of the situation:

There was a quiet outside. Neither did he hear the sharp bite of tilling tools striking the dirt nor Merissa calling out to her progeny. Some birds overhead, the shrill calls of gulls who liked the pick at the scraps the fishermen dropped and left behind. Taros's fate was unknown. There'd been no sign of a struggle, no cry of pain nor shout of alarm or clash of steel or crackle of magic. The day outside seemed utterly normal, suffering only a quiet spell, as what might have been perfectly normal under more mundane conditions.

When addressed directly by the man, Elliot heard his talk of hopes, of potential and promise. It wasn't relevant. It wouldn't be if he did not live beyond this day, and so it was filed away efficiently in the back of mind.

What was relevant, however, was the man's odd stated reluctance. How he would be pleased if Elliot eluded him.

That was Elliot's advantage.

And he took it.

By diving out the window adjacent to him, and leaving Lyssia and Elijah on their own inside. Yes. Leave them to occupy Sloth's time. It was cold, but he was not their friend, and they were not his. If it came to it, they would have done the same. Elliot was merely ahead of the curve.

No man of sound mind simply allowed his foe to have the first shot. Caught by surprise as he'd been, even if the man for whatever reason squandered it, Elliot was of no mind to play the rigged hand Sloth had dealt. He held in reserve something Elliot could not counter in a straight fight; magic of a kind, surely, while Elliot lacked his own. The only winning move was to try to reset the game. To get the drop on Sloth at some later instance, or disappear entirely.

So Elliot took his chances outside, where unknown compatriots of Sloth's may or may not be waiting in the wings.

He rolled upon landing back up onto his feet and burst into a dash toward the heart of Tsagaan Ereg.

Lyssia D'avore Elijah

 

[Elijah]

A stunned silence seemed to crowd into the room and fill the empty spot Elliot had left behind.

"Well, that checks out," he muttered and finished off the last of the liquid in his short tumbler.

The shadowy figure of nightmares opposite them dragged his gaze away from the window and back towards Lyssia and himself. Elijah considered whether talking would be able to get them out of this situation but if he was right about who this person was than nothing aside from more money than what had been put on their heads would get them off the hook and he very much doubted either of them had that kind of wealth. What was interesting, however, was the little nugget that they could refuse the jobs. He had always assumed them to be puppets with strings tugged by some invisible player on the board.

"Does that count as our first shot?" he asked sarcastically as he pushed back his cloak and tugged free the twin curved blades from their sheaths.

 

[Lyssia D'avore]

Almost as soon as the words were out of Elijah's mouth, there came a thunderous crack from outside. The ground seemed to leap from some great impact, such that dust rained from overhead and flakes of plaster fell from the walls. Lyssia took an involuntary step back, even as their enemy bowed low.

"No, but the show has already started anyway. Everyone has their part to play," he said.

And then he moved. Almost as quickly, Lyssia found herself holding the fathomless power of the prim, her flesh suffused with light, mind awash in radiant bliss. The assassin did not attempt to close the distance, and even as the power flooded into her, he reached into his coat and withdrew three dull metal objects. Seeming to casually go about his business, the man swiftly unleashed one, then another, and then the last of his darts, even as he faded back.

Lyssia swiftly wove a shield of unaligned magic, and the shield caught and deflected the first blade - shattering into a million shards visible only to her. Elijah was already moving, flipping the table he was behind and dropping down behind it even as the second knife sailed narrowly over his head. Lyssia ducked behind as well, feeling a tug at her dress as the last blade cut through her bodice. Blessedly, it did not touch her flesh. It was a miracle in its own right that he had missed.

She ducked behind the table beside Elijah, and lay a hand on him - sending magic coursing through him like a raging river. She felt it pull at her constitution, but she knew that it would give him a second wind, make it easier to ignore the sleepless nights and the beatings.

For a little bit. They just needed a little bit.

"You but delay the inevitable," Sloth said. He had not moved from where he was, one hand inside his coat again. Waiting, patient.

Outside, another enormous crack, and the ground jumped again.

***

Elliot managed to hit the ground and roll, and only just missed being flattened.

At best.

The heavy two-handed weapon slammed into the ground just in front of the window Elliot had leapt from, and struck with supernatural force; the ground cratered below the weapon, sending a rain of dirt and stone flying out from the impact. Even as Elliot got to his feet and ran, apropos of nothing, the wielder leapt skyward.

Up.

Down.

With another thunderous crash that cracked the stones in the earth below him, Wrath landed with his blade forward. Unlike Sloth, Wrath was dressed more or less like what he was: a barbarian, a muscle-bound hot-head with an uncanny intelligence behind the beady black eyes. The fellow stood over six foot, and despite looking no more muscle-bound than Elliot was, he was evidently far stronger. Shaved bald, face a mass of scars, he wore sturdy woolens instead of armor.

And the blade he carried was easily four feet long, and despite being dull was probably quite capable of cleaving someone in two.

"Going somewhere?" His voice was a gravelly growl, low and menacing. "I think not. Would figure the criminal would be the coward. I can bring a sack full of broken bones back as proof of the dead, or you can simply surrender to fate," Wrath offered, but he smiled. It was not entirely pleasant. "Personally, I hope you spit in my face. I have some anger to work out."

 

[Elliot Aldmar]

Nowhere to go.

But through.

Elliot didn't stop or slow down at all when the big man crashed down in front of him. He didn't even wait for Wrath to finish his speech, entertaining none of it.

Elliot made to jump high and off to the side, as if reconsidering and trying to throw himself out of harm's way, but instead at the last second slid down low, slicing his daggers toward Wrath's hamstring.

Lyssia D'avore Elijah

 

[Elijah]

Elijah grimaced as another knife thudded into the table and silently thanked whatever poor son had been made to make this out of hardy oak. Nothing else would have withstood the throw of such a hefty dagger. He cast a glance to the side at Lyssia who had joined him behind their shield and then glanced up at the dirty bottles that lined the wall. In their reflection he could make out the murky figure of Sloth.

"We need to get out," he murmured quietly to Lyssia whilst watching as Sloth drew another dagger and played with it. The floor kept on shaking but he couldn't spare a minute to think about that problem. Maybe Elliot was being squashed. That would be nice - and save him the job of doing it later on himself.

"Head for the door and go and get help. I'll distract him," he instructed.

 

[Lyssia D'avore]

Wrath did not move. Until he did, and then he moved.

The assassin stepped aside at the last moment, grounding and spinning on the heavy blade he carried and then attempting to deliver a punishing kick to Elliot's ribs as we passed by. The fellow should not have been able to move that quickly and yet he did so. The trade-off was speed for strength; one of his unique abilities but not the only one.

The fellow laughed cruelly as he did.

***

"No."

The word was flat as a planed board. It might not have been the best time to decide to assert herself, but that didn't matter to her. What mattered to her was that Elijah had put himself in harms way time and time again on her behalf, and all she had done by way of thanks was lead him into more trouble.

She could be of more use than that.

"I can protect you," she said with a quavering confidence she did not feel. The magic still surged within her, a tide of power, or potential. The magic she had imparted in him would not last long, but it would even the footing. "I...might not be able to fight in the traditional way, but my talents lie in aiding others." Healing was definitively her primary skill, but magic that enhanced and protected others was not far off. "I can shield you...but you must be quick," she added.

Surging magic. She wanted to try to attacking, but that had almost never worked very well. Shields against projectiles? That she could manage.

 

[Elliot Aldmar]

His dagger missed its mark.

And a heavy boot found its own in exchange. With seemingly the force of an ogre wielding a tree trunk did Wrath's kick slam into Elliot's chest, and out spilled what air his lungs held. Elliot's feet left the ground and he flew and his back hit the corner of Merissa's house, this impact causing spittle to burst from his mouth. He was in a slump down on the ground, legs splayed out and head bowed.

Vaguely, he heard some shouts of alarm off to his left. Townsfolk, perhaps having spied the fight, or perhaps for another reason. Elliot wasn't in a position to figure out what.

He needed to get out of here, but he couldn't do that without disabling the brute before him. It was readily apparent that Wrath could outpace him, and that was a problem which could not be avoided and demanded a solution. Curiosity and concern tugged at the back of his mind--

(such great potential, so much promise)

--but nothing else mattered save survival.

Grunting, Elliot forced himself back to his feet, the quickness of his movements met with painful protests in the bones of his chest, his back. He wiped the spit from his lips and chin and he again squared up with Wrath, assuming a fighter's stance. One thing he knew: he could not parry that sword, and he could not afford to be struck by it.

He kept evasive, fading back from swipes of the sword. He was more mindful of that enormous sword than anything else, and he circled around looking for an opening. If anything, Elliot might have to lean on attrition, disabling through dozens of small cuts when he could get them, rather than one grand stroke.

Lyssia D'avore Elijah

 

[Elijah]

Elijah's mouth opened and a storm gathered in his eyes ready for an argument but then abruptly it died and he shut his mouth. Isn't this what he had told her to do? How could he deny it to her now? With a grimace that betrayed how well he thought this was probably going to go, he nodded and adjusted his grip on his sword. Sloth had slowly slunk around to the left attempting to keep his foot steps quiet in order to sneak round their pitiful defence. If he got much further then the game would be over.

It might still be if he wasn't quick enough.

"Ready?" he asked and when he got her nod he would move. Lunging towards Sloth with both swords raising and praying Lyssa would shield him from the throwing knives that were no doubt about to hit him.

 

[Lyssia D'avore]

She nodded, projecting a confidence that she did not feel. She wanted to run away, to flee and not face this threat...but she would not leave Elijah to fight this battle alone, on her behalf or not. It was her turn to protect him in the only way she knew how.

Power flared in her chest, a raging tide flooding her with a profusion of delight and power. Sorcery was - and always would be - as intoxicating as strong wine. It surged, and she practiced her Art with uncharacteristic ease, weaving together disparate threads of magic in the blink of an eye.

As Elijah surged forward, Sloth slid smoothly to the side, unleashing a flurry of throwing knives. They sailed through the air with a faint whistle; light and small, they couldn't possibly cause much damage unless they struck specific parts of the body. They didn't strike anything, though; four knives, four separate barriers shattering into glistening shards of light, the weapons themselves falling out of the air as if they had struck stone. Sloth did not appear to mind, however; he continued to spin away from the exit to the room, leaving an obvious path out. He made absolutely no attempt to engage with Elijah, preferring to maintain his distance and to strike from afar. The heavy knives at his hips remained where they were.

Lyssia scowled, and tried a different tack. The assassin unleashed another flurry of his little blades - how many of those damned things does he have?! - and slammed together threads of a different nature. She flung a hand up towards him, and something small, bright, and hot flickered, flaring brilliantly before fading to darkness - took form. Frustrated, she through her will into the spell again, and it flared to life again. In a moment, the blazing sphere - a star of molten power - lurched from her hand.

Sloth stepped aside, raising a hand. The magic deflected off of something, and burst through te side of the house, burning a hole through the wall and starting a small fire as it did so.

He grinned at them, drew some more blades, and continued his work.

***

A stand up fight was not what Sloth was known for. The man grinned to himself as he faded away from the door to the outside world. The flames crawling up the wall behind them did not concern him, ether; the girl's magic, the swords of the soldier whom she valiantly defended - none of these things mattered.

He continued to play with his prey. Suffering must be increased in the world; that was the dictate of their divinity. The others chose their own methods to increase suffering in the world - his were poisons, slow, agonizing. These children, they needed to be lucky every time he attacked but he...he needed only scratch their skin to deliver upon them a world of agony such as they could scarcely comprehend.

And so he danced, enlivened by the prospect.

***

Fire streaked through the air, but Wrath did not appear to notice or, come to it, care. The grey-skinned fool squared up to him, and came at him again; the quick, viper-like strikes that the drow managed to deliver were too quick to completely block, but a frightening number of the blows found the wide steel wall that Wrath called a sword. Half a dozen cuts graced his torse and arms and legs within mere moments of engaging with Elliot's blades.

Somehow, though, the wounds did not slow the beast down. He was struck, but the blows seemed to lack weight; the cuts shallow, the blood soon slowing and stopping. He own assaults did not slow in the slightest; Elliot scored a half dozen hits out of two dozen attacks, and then the beast would counter, striking so hard that had Elliot been struck he would have been mashed into pulp by that dull blade.

Within the first minute, the yard outside the home of the smuggler resembled the surface of the moon, pocked with impact craters from the inhuman might of Wrath. Smoke had begun to curl from the roof of said home, the first licking flames of the inferno growing from within becoming evident.

Wrath, lacking any emotion at all now, rushed towards Elliot, dragging his blade behind him and cutting a furrow in the earth before leaping and slamming his blade into the ground - not intending to hit Elliot, but to knock him from his feet by the ridiculous strength of the blow. A dozen wounds glistened on his body, but half of them were already healing.

 

[Elliot Aldmar]

The first beads of sweat born of the warm day, the sun's glare, and the strenuous effort began to show on Elliot's gray skin. They streaked in rivulets down his face and down his arms. He breathed heavily in a spare moment when a small gap separated himself from Wrath, hissing exhalations out through his nose. He turned his head without taking his eyes off of his foe and spat on the ground.

If this was a game of attrition, then Elliot was losing. What wounds he'd been able to score on Wrath either amounted to little more than insignificance, or his opponent was adept at concealing his detriments. The sum of all Wrath's wounds weren't amounting to what Elliot needed--he was still able to leap around with impunity and cut off any route of escape in the open field.

And the more time marched on, the more Elliot's luck would deplete. There would come a strike from that oversized sword which Elliot would not be able to evade in time.

But there was only one thing to do.

Press forward. Press. Forward. Keep fighting. He hadn't let the oppression of Dornoch conquer him, and neither would he allow for this unwitting pawn to the Dynasty's machinations conquer him. If death would come, so be it. He could die soundly, gracefully, in perfect peace knowing with the utmost confidence that he had lived his life well.

Wrath came rushing at him. The leap--like the others before it--telegraphed his attack. Elliot dove and rolled out of the way, simple enough, but as he had sprung back up onto his feet, the tremor of Wrath's impact left him unsteady, and Elliot went stumbling back with his balance lost. His back collided with the outside wall of Merissa's house--this the only thing which saved him from falling.

The strong and acrid scent of smoke emanated from within. And a perilous and dangerous idea struck him.

Elliot turned and jumped and scaled the wall like a thief in the night, standing atop its thin roof with the wisps of smoke leaking out through the small imperfections here and there. Elliot couldn't know where Sloth was inside the home, but, if Wrath leaped without thought and crashed through the roof, fortune just might favor the possibility of Wrath colliding with his own compatriot.

Lyssia D'avore Elijah

 

[Elijah]

It was impossible to fight a foe that didn't want to fight and Sloth did not want to fight. He had every opportunity to draw his blades and strike back but instead he danced and capered his way away from every one of Elijah's purposeful strikes. Instead he was keen to just throw those little knives over and over. And for what purpose? They would not kill him unless he struck a lucky spot. So why did he--

"Poison," he murmured to himself and pulled himself up short just as Lyssia's bolt of magic was sent careening through the side of the humble home of their host. Where was the old bat? No doubt she had cleared off with her family at the first sign of a fight which meant their ship might too be leaving. Elijah cursed again.

"Don't touch the knives!" he called over to Lyssia. "They're poison," his eyes never left Sloth but the look he fixed upon him almost dared him to disagree. Even if Elijah was wrong there was no harm in not picking one of them up. They had to get out of here, quit this game, and get to the river where the boat most likely was. If they lost their way across...

"If you do not care to fight then we shall be on our way," he shrugged and put his weapons down as though giving up all interest in fighting. He nodded to the door. "Come, Lyssia."

 

[Lyssia D'avore]

"Of course they are poisoned," the assassin said mildly to the soldier. He did not care whether or not they knew it or not any more than he cared whether the soldier thought it honorable or not. Such notions did not belong in the head of someone that killed people for money.

Such notions really did not belong inside the head of members of the Cardinals.

Lyssia nodded to the Captain as she scurried over to his side; the hail of knives shattered unseen barriers she erected as she moved, scattering them round her but not allowing any of them to find flesh. When Elijah lowered his weapon, Sloth did not approach. A ghost of a smile crossed his features even as smoke began to thicken in the room, stepping further from the door as if offering an out.

Lyssia did not trust the assassin not to backstab them, but she did trust Elijah to protect her from that. She stuck close to his heels, magic pulsing like a beating heart in her breast.

***

The racket could not be missed. The shuddering blows that rattled plates and raised heads could do no less than attract the souls of the little town towards the ruckus.

Certainly, those who were of Merissa's ilk had a certain degree of capability about them, but on the coast, most of the men were just fisherman.

Casualties to be caught in the crossfire.

***

Wrath did not leap.

There was a certain poetic methodology to the barbarian, and he had made as much noise as possible with the definitive intent of drawing others here. The fog of war, as it were, would make his life a little easier; their marks might think to slip away in the chaos, but this was an old game for him and his kindred souls.

The heat from the fire rose, the smoke thick. The muscled thug slowly walked towards the building, blade in hand and a twisted smile on his face, even as the first of the 'boys' Merissa had spoke of arrived on the scene, armed and ready to fight.

 

[Elliot Aldmar]

Elliot narrowed his brow. His opponent had an admirable awareness of his environs and control of his emotions. Such thoughts were unhelpful to Elliot, this he well knew, but he could not resist their arising. Wrath was trying to kill him and it was imperative that he do everything he could to prevail, but he could not help but to recognize those admirable traits when he saw them.

"What in the hell is going on here??"

Elliot glanced over, seeing townsfolk and militiamen showing up now, coming down the path which led to Merissa's house and stopping and staring with puzzlement, with fear, with anxiousness at them. There were even a couple who, in their obliviousness or naivete, had brought buckets of water for the rising smoke coming out of the house, and they were hurrying along to put out the fires as if no fight was going on at all.

Well. If Wrath didn't want to jump up here, and there were civilians showing up, let them get entangled. It was a cold thought, but a necessary one perhaps. The captain's rogue soldiers had to be coming as well, hearing all the commotion. They'd be compelled, more than like, to defend the townsfolk from Wrath and further entangle him. Elliot had no such compulsion.

Lyssia and Elijah had not come out from the house. They could be dead. If they were, Sloth would be emerging soon too. And with the fire brewing beneath his feet as well, standing as he was on the roof, Elliot couldn't stay here. Taros was gone (who knew where) and so were the horses, spooked perhaps from the fighting. If he could find one though in the town, he had a chance.

So Elliot crossed over the roof of Merissa's house and cleanly dropped down to the other side, effectively putting the house between himself and Wrath. It wouldn't last long, especially with the man's leaping, but Elliot had to take the chance.

He sprinted, trying to reach the obscuring safety of the other homes across the gap of the open field and the path.

Lyssia D'avore Elijah

 

[Elijah]

An offered exit by an enemy was better to be thought of as a doorway to the fire. In this case it was a doorway Elijah and Lyssia were going to have to plough through. He couldn't fight a man who threw blades and evaded his every move and he was still suffering the fatigue of being captive to be moving at his full speed which might have tipped the scales. Of course taking the door meant they might have an enemy at the back as well as in front of them but Lyssia had... she'd come through. If she could focus on protecting their back from daggers then he could focus on dealing with whatever was ahead.

The earth rolled once they were outside as though being shaken by a giant.

Maybe he was a giant. Wrath walked towards them sword in hand and Elijah barely thought as he rushed to meet him, unaware his target had actually been the snake of a Drow now running for cover like the coward his belly would betray him as when Eli cut it open.

Their swords sung as they met.

 

[Lyssia D'avore]

Wrath was inhumanly strong, and that much became readily apparent within moments of cross blades with him. Despite not being much bigger than Elijah, the fellow seemed heavily, more densely constructed. Truly inhuman, in some undefinable fashion.

Wrath smiled. "Finally. No tail between the legs, just a good old fashioned knock down, drag out!" He saw Sloth slip out the door behind the girl, and his grin grew. He simply gestured with his head in the direction the drow had slipped away in, and Sloth nodded and headed off after the recalcitrant scofflaw.

And then he pushed, heaving with all of his not inconsiderable might. So strong, too strong. Impossibly strong; no human was this way.

Lyssia cleared the flames, the heat pulsing against her back as the stones of the walls cracked from the inferno. It was now completely out of control, and even though the bucket-chain had started - some people oblivious to the fighting in their midst - there was no chance to control this fire.

She watched as militiamen, surveying the scene, came up with the conclusion that all of the combatants were troublemakers and needed to be dealt with. One of them stepped forward, and sank his blade into Wrath's torso. The large man grunted - grunted! - and leapt back from Elijah, taking the blade piercing him - a handsbreadth at most - in his hand. He pulled it free, blood weeping from his hand as he did, and then jerked it free. The man holding it stumbled, but didn't have long to realize his mistake before the steel club of a sword in Wraths' hand struck, sending him airborn and flying dozens of feet. At least he didn't feel the ground; his blade had snapped the same as his spine.

She watched, feeling the familiar terror - the mind killer - stir in the back of her head. She was no combatant...but she had no choice here. Elijah! She raised a hand and unleashed a bolt of fire; the threads of magic flickered and did not want to take shape, the fireball flaring and shrinking several times before firming. It sailed through the air, and struck Wrath, knocking the man off of his feet in a flower of fire.

But he got back up almost immediately, scorched flesh still smoking and, impossibly, healing before their eyes.

He charged at Lyssia like a bull elephant, and Lyssia froze in fear.

***

Sloth simply vanished.

There was a world between worlds, a place of shadow. He was not visible to the real world, and beyond the ground beneath his feet, could not interact with it either. It would have been divine could he have struck from the shadows like this, but the natural laws of the world made it impossible.

It was still a useful skill.

The assassin easily located and overtook the fleeing drow, his movement a whisper on the wind. All he had to do was get ahead of the man, slip out of the shadows...

...and, as simple as that, Sloth stepped from the darkness as though stepping from a fogbank. Unlike with the other two, he held both of the long, heavy knives in his hands, their edges darkened with some substance. "Well, well. Going somewhere, Elliot? I really think not."

Sloth charged, and despite his name, he was quick.

 

[Elliot Aldmar]

Elliot wasn't expecting to get far.

But he was also expecting Wrath to land down in front of him. Certainly not Sloth. There was a breath of time in which Elliot really did think Elijah and Lyssia to be dead, given that Sloth was out here now, waiting to bar his path. Vaguely, distantly (more distant than it actually was, but made so by the sharp focus on his own affairs) he heard the fwoosh and boom of a fireball and assumed it to be Lyssia. And if she was alive, Elijah was alive—Elliot couldn't fathom him perishing before her in combat.

The immediacy of the moment fell upon Elliot again as Sloth charged. Like with Wrath, nowhere to go but through.

Elliot met his opponent's blades and they traded a series of parries, a series of near-hits narrowly dodged. When Elliot managed to gain some distance by fading back from a slash, Sloth had a hail of throwing knives to keep him off-balance, keep him from running, as he flung himself out of the way. The knives embedded into the outside wall of a home, one even into a window shutter, slamming it back. Each thunk elicited frightened yelps from the family within.

Elliot sparred further with Sloth. But he couldn't keep up a perfect defense forever.

A cut sliced along Elliot's left arm, a bloody trench in his forearm just beneath the elbow, a rivulet of blood running down and staining the fur of his glove.

Elliot snarled, trying to hold his combat stance and enduring some difficulty in it. Already he could feel the awful tinge of something foreign in that wound.

Lyssia D'avore Elijah

 

[Elijah]

Elijah's sandals skidded as he was pushed back by the pressure against his sword. He would worry about the weapon breaking if it were not of dwarfish make and christened in dragons fire. Only a dragon would be able to shatter it now and for that he was thankful every inch he lost to his foe who stepped in an almost tantalisingly slow way. Left foot. Right foot. Slowly, surely, like he knew he had Elijah and was merely relishing the journey of getting to the moment of his near certain death.

And then, just like that, the pressure was gone. It took a moment for Elijah's mind to comprehend what his eyes had just seen for Wrath lay sprawled on his back, the front of his chest singed from flame. The force Eli had been exerting on his blade to push back against Wrath sent him almost sprawling on top of his enemy but he caught himself at the last moment. Which was just as well for the monster was not prone for long and Elijah would have been able to do nothing if he had been too.

Instead he raised his arms above his head and fed some of his energy into the sleek metal arm guards that never left his person. As he crossed them against one another a sudden boom heralded what appeared to be lightning that suddenly peeled from the sky to strike directly at Wrath.

 

[Lyssia D'avore]

Sloth was no less capable of a perfect defense than was Elliot, but there were two differences between them. Three, if one wanted to get technical: his weapons were poisoned and Elliots were not; he was completely unconcerned about injuries because like Wrath, he was capable of rapid healing even if it was not as quick; and lastly, well...

...time enough for that, later.

The first wounding was a forearm, as was the second and third; it was far better to gouge the flesh of the arms than vitals, although there was an argument to be made that he did not care about that, either. He kept going through the steps of his dance, the ring of steel on steel a staccato sound.

A local stepped round a building with a look of surprise, and died as a knife blossomed in his throat; some ridiculous acrobatics allowed the assassin to release a weapon, flip a knife, and catch it before it hit the ground.

He smiled at Elliot, and pressed in.

***

A clear blue sky, but lightning struck upon the command of the Captain. So much current should have been a fatal blow; Lyssia's hair tried to stand on end as the charge slammed into the charging warrior. The brilliant blue-white flash and thunderous crash that followed were almost disorienting enough to stun her and certainly loud enough to drown out any cry of pain.

Wrath hit the ground, and slid to a halt some dozen paces away from her. One side of his face was a twisted mass of burned flesh, and the oversized blade lie on the dirt, melted along one edge. The arm that had held it lacked some of its flesh.

Lyssia let out a breath she hadn't realized she had been holding, and swayed for a moment on the verge of swooning. That had been far too close; once again, she had proved more of an impediment to the Erdeniin captain than help.

She turned to run to Elijah and then - suddenly and inexplicably - the breath was being driven from her lungs and she found her feet not touching the ground. There was pain - intense, impossible pain - and then she hit the ground and rolled a few times. Lying there, stunned, she could not believe her eyes: the warrior was back on his feet. Despite the blow Elijah had laid him out with, the man was back up, picking himself up from where he had lunged to deliver a singular punch at a complacent opponent. The injuries were already mending themselves...but they were not mending themselves as quickly as the ones from before had.

Wrath stooped to grab the cooling length of steel, now little more than a club, and charged at Elijah this time. He was smiling, as if this was very entertaining and as though he wasn't missing half of an arm and one eye.

***

The crack of thunder so close had another effect: an effective distraction to Elliot's foe. Sloth flinched and looked toward the source - a fatal decision, for it opened his guard for a split second. It might have been an amateur mistake, but even professionals are not infallible.

Elliot managed to slip into his guard, and drive a blade in to the hilt in his chest. Despite the injury, Sloth leapt back, surprise and a touch of anger on his features as she opened his mouth to let a gout of blood burst from his lips.

But the man did not turn to run. He charged in again, looking to ensure his victory before bailing out. The wound, though, slowed him greatly...and that was a mark in favor of Elliot.

 

[Elliot Aldmar]

Elliot instinctively shielded his eyes when the lightning struck, the glaring light briefly painting long shadows of both Sloth and himself on the pathway and the sides of the house. He even had a split second's pondering of how Lyssia (not having seen Elijah cast it) knew both fire and lightning elemental magic and still managed to have her actual combat prowess match with her own estimation of herself.

Perhaps it was something Sloth was not expecting any of them to be capable of, for his surprise surpassed Elliot's own. Elliot took full advantage, slipping into his guard and delivering a puncturing strike that might actually have some significance—as with Wrath, death by a thousand cuts was not a viable option. Had Sloth not created space between them Elliot would've gone for a confirmation of the kill.

Because it did need to end quickly. Sloth's blades had been wet, coated with what Elliot could only assume was some kind of poison. Nothing stood out beyond the pain of the wound and the warmth of his blood trickling free, but that didn't mean the poison was not already working its way into him.

Sloth charged.

And Elliot let him. He stayed on the defensive, not going forward to meet Sloth, deflecting strikes as they came in and allowing the rhythm of battle to back him up.

Back him up closer to the dead Tsagaan Ereg local who'd died to one of Sloth's knives. Elliot had an idea, something he might be able to pull off, if he got close to the corpse.

Lyssia D'avore Elijah

 

[Elijah]

Elijah caught himself before he stumbled as the vanbraces took their pound of flesh in exchange for his use. If this was how it felt for those naturally gifted with magic he did not know how they kept going in the heat of battle. He'd heard of the famed Dreadlords of Vel Anir, some of them able to raze cities at the age of 13. How did their bodies cope? He had quite the respect for Lyssia even if she didn't feel it at times.

The moment of victory did not last long. He should have pushed his advantage and he might have if he was functioning at his usual level. Instead he had been too confident in magic, relied too heavily on something out of his control. Instead his mistake set him back a step for his partner ended up floored and the full might of the luggerheaded bull was charging right at him with barely a flinch to suggest he noticed his missing body parts.

Once more steel clashed against steel though this time Elijah's arm shook far more.

 

[Lyssia D'avore]

Getting back to her feet was difficult. She felt as though she were struggling with some insurmountable weight on her chest - an illusion borne of having the bastard drive all the air from her body in a single, blistering blow. On hands and knees, she had to fight against vomiting.

The clash of steel was overly loud. She looked up through eyes clouded by pain, and they widened at what she saw. The grotesque shape of their assailant should not be standing...but he was, and pressing Elijah with every ounce as much strength as before being struck by a bolt out of the blue. Even one-handed, the brute's strength was fearsome. His fortitude was just as fearsome, though.

Rocking back on her haunches, Lyssia struggled to gain the state of mind that would allow her to tap the prim. It flickered tantalizingly close to the grasp of her mind, but every time she tried to reach out and grab hold of it, it slipped through her fingers like sand.

"No more tricks, my friends," Wrath said, the words twisted by the ruin of his face. The flesh knitted itself as she watched, and she felt the urge to vomit redouble. "We will not be den-"

***

Sloth slowed little by little as the blood drained from his body. Even so, the man seemed to be taking his time, and enjoying himself as he traded blows, managing to inflict another cut here and there - at the expense of his own. And the more the man took wounds, the less he seemed to care about any further wounds.

Elliot's ploy simply couldn't matter less to the Cardinal. Of course, there was a good reason for it - each of the Cardinals had their own unique tricks, things that set them apart from the general populous. Naturally, all were gifted fighters - there was no way to become the elite of the elite without culling the ones in the shoes you wished to occupy - but their prowess with blade, bow, or other weapons was not what made them stand out.

Sloth grinned, and never stopped. Not when blood ran down his face, from his torso, from his arms and legs. Even as Elliot stepped back - stepping down hard on the dead man behind him. Even as the grey-skinned bastard dropped to the ground behind the unfortunate soul. Even as magic, quick as their pulse, washed out, and as the body burst as though left in the sun too long.

The grin never left his face as the Corpse Explosion sprayed him with bloody fragments of bone, tearing his body to ribbons and concussing him back and away from the drow. When he hit the ground, he was still.

When he hit the ground, the bloody mess seemed to immediately begin to evaporate, as though ice sublimating to a gas. Odorless, slow...but sure.

***

The explosion cut off Wrath, and the renewed vigor that Elijah managed to exert threw the man off. Wrath, unlike Sloth, was quick to recover, and rained down a half dozen blows, a hail of attacks that struck sparks and drove Elijah back a step at a time. And then, without warning, the beast of a man released the blade, and slammed his fist into the ground.

His arm broke, the bones shattering such that the limb ceased to have much form. And somehow, the blow transmitted itself into the earth, and the deafening boom of a sonic crack washed over everyone present. The ground cratered, throwing everyone - Wrath included - back from the impact site. Men and women, struggling to put the fire that yet raged - were blown from their feet. The burning building collapsed, and bits of flaming debris lofted skyward, to land in amidst other structures.

Wrath landed hard, but on his feet, with the twice-wounded arm (what was left of it) dangling at his side like some macabre prize. The man grinned, threw up a one-armed salute...and then, shockingly, turned and ran. Despite his wounds, he was quite fleet of foot. Despite what he had done, he did not seem much the worse for wear; the one soul that tried to stop him was battered aside as though little more than an afterthought.

Lyssia gained her feet, unsteady, and tried to hurry to Elijah's side. And once there, she looked him over anxiously, never mind how it looked. Looking for a scratch or a cut - he had said the blades the other used were poisoned. She could deal with such a problem - probably - but only if she got to it quick. The pulsing of a growing headache in the back of her skull only served to make it more uncertain.

Locals hurried to deal with the fire. There would be questions, later, but that was not now.

 

[Elliot Aldmar]

His fortune went differently with Sloth than it did with Wrath.

Elliot had fought with the assassin and faded back as best he could toward the corpse of the civilian. An evasive backward hop brought the heel of his boot against the corpse's leg. Elliot felt it and stepped down hard on the bone and the shock of the cracking shin sent a tremor up his foot and he hoped that within the broken flesh there were shards small enough to be suitable reagents for his magic.

Elliot threw down both of his daggers and they each stuck blade first in the dirt of the path. He jumped behind the corpse and rolled it up before him like a shield. A hand to the mangled leg and a channeling of his magic and, yes, he felt the energy building.

Grotesque and gruesome, the result of his necromancy. The front of the corpse blew out like a fireball composed of searing blood and razor sharp bone shrapnel and concussing force. Organs and gore were sprayed in an expanding fan before the corpse like the product of a sick artist's mind.

Elliot's head, his eyes, peeked up over the mutilated half-remains of the corpse. Saw briefly what had become of Sloth.

And he lulled onto his back, slammed all at once by the exhaustion of hard fought combat. He would rise within a moment, but, for now, he lay and breathed, eyes closed.

Teeth grimaced as the poison was working its way through his veins.

Lyssia D'avore Elijah