Open Chronicles Ink On Paper...

[Tian]

A surge of magic, stalling his fall as he dropped from far up on the roofs to land with effortless ease next to the woman at the heart of this maelstrom.

"Your story strikes a chord within me," the assassin said, sweat dripping from his chin. Such expression as could be made out was neutral, lips a thin line. "The kind of chord that costs money. A lot of money, to be precise. Did you think I would abandon you without getting my money, or cutting your pretty throat?"

The tone was of amusement and maybe a touch of mockery, and perhaps that was what gave his words little weight. "Its been a while since a slip of a girl tried to get me killed." He looked at the others and shook his head. "Go big or go home, I guess."

 

[Aldren Cordale]

Aldren's expression of surprise surfaced as the girl spoke, so naturally and lightly after the bloodbath that had just happened.

"I take it you're a mercenary, then?" He asked, intrigued. 'Out of all the things...', he muttered that to himself, after a quick glance of the girl. She definitely wasn't much of a mercenary. But he was quite taken by her said skills. A conjurer, out here? He would be alarmed to the danger that posed if not by her 'sweet' facade and the fact that the whole of Vel Anir was sure to be after them.

Which was why he was even more surprised as the girl masterfully went on about the state of the city's military forces. As per his own custom, Aldren grasped the hilt of his sword before taking a step forward, getting in the middle of that gathering to confront the girl. "Wait a moment, little one. Now you want to take on the rest of the city guard? What kind of desperate death wish do you have in mind?". The question may have come out as a fun one, but he was deadly serious. He still haven't even cleaned the blood from his armor and there she went, perfectly describing the cities' defenses as if they were about to form a siege, or take on an army.

So lost in the conversation he was, that Aldren barely noticed the rogue next to them, uttering a few words of provocation towards the girl. It seemed he was after some money, as well. Quite frankly, Aldren could swear that the bulk of the world was only after that, these days. Not a inch of sense of justice or honor, only the sight of coin. Of course, he did enjoy coin himself, but never at the cost of a life, and only for his own survival and maintenance. His personal vows were clear on that much.

But what could he hope to achieve, going against that merry bunch of cutthroats, assassins and what else? Hell, he would just follow the waves for the time being, and see where they would land him. It seemed like the most reasonable course of action to take, if there was ever any.

 

[Adonia]

The tumble to the pathway was not too harsh, leaving the halfling with little-to-no injuries. A hand extended into her view, accompanied by an apology as the dove of Fèlen’s eyes rose to take in the group that had befallen her. She blinked momentarily, caught off guard before she accepted the help to her feet.


Wispy and thin, the half-nymph was not imposing or threatening, though her height was more generous than the other females that surrounded her, she seemed softer and more meager.


“Oh, thank you. I am sorry I… was lost in thought.” The soft lilt of her tone was coupled with a sweet smile that slowly faded as her pale brows furrowed, words dragging at the sight of blood on Aldren’s shoulder. “Do you need treatment, sir?” She inquired, concern evident on her features.


She was entirely unaware of the actions that had united this group, or that lead to one of the members becoming injured, but it seemed not to matter to her, as if she were too naive to assume that they were the cause of the trouble, rather than victims of it.

 

[Mischa Ven'rohk]

Mischa did her best to understand. Ynsidia, Conjurer of the Ink, knew vastly more about Vel Anir than Mischa could comprehend in short order. She gathered three key things:

That nobles were like chieftains. Except humans had many of them. How they got anything done was astounding, despite the ridiculousness of having so many chieftains to begin with.

That it was permissible for nobles to kill children, though they were too cowardly to do it with their own hands. She didn't know the context of the killing, whether it was custom or rite or what may be. A similarity to the Dm'rohk, and an unnerving but unsurprising one. If Mischa had been born sickly or malformed, she would have been left as a baby to die in the wilds. Lucky, then, that her weakness would only show many years after her birth.

And third, that she had not heard the word "percent" before. Maybe it was an accent of Ynsidia, Conjurer of the Ink's, and she was saying "persons" in a way Mischa simply had not heard before. But that didn't sound correct either. Only seventy persons serving the one group of nobles, and thirty persons serving the so-called "untouchable" nobles? No. There was something she was missing. And it didn't matter. All she had to expect were more mercenaries or their dogs. So be it.

Ynsidia, Conjurer of the Ink, helped up the...now Mischa was unsure. At first glance the woman looked human, then looking a bit closer she appeared to be elf, but even then it seemed incorrect. She was Unknown. And the Unknown One asked Aldren about his wounds. Good. That might steal way his attention for a few moments more.

And then the worst happened. The Man in Black appeared like a hawk diving down on a rodent from the sky and threatened Ynsidia, Conjurer of the Ink. Said in his way that he wanted coins from her, or he would cut her throat. And to Mischa, no one ever made a threat or a challenge without fully intending to carry it out. The spoken word was regarded highly, even to the point of being sacrosanct, among her tribe; not something to be taken lightly. Another reason why "taunting" simply wasn't done.

A chord of terror, vibrating in her heart. She had seen how the Man in Black fought, and she knew the ease by which he could take her life; her plate armor and shield mere hindrances to his skill, if that. But she didn't dare show her fear. Of all the senses of the Mighty Wolf spirit, its nose was the strongest, and keen to detect fear most of all. And in battle, the Mighty Wolf spirit did not inhabit those whose fear was pungent. And victory followed in the Mighty Wolf's wake.

And maybe, this was a test. Maybe the test. The reason why the Great Holy One desired for Mischa to protect Ynsidia, Conjurer of the Ink. A foe, possessed of a strength surmounting any she'd faced before. And if she were found wanting and unworthy, death would follow at the hands of the Man in Black. And she would finally be crushed underfoot.

As was the way of the world.

So Mischa steeled herself and stepped with determination between Ynsidia, Conjurer of the Ink and the Man in Black, once again backing into the short woman so that she could feel the bump against her armor and know for certain she was close.

Mischa had her shield up, eyes glaring over the rim, the Lightbringer at the ready. The Man in Black had called Ynsidia, Conjurer of the Ink a "slip", and told her to "go big or go home." A taunt. Since he had not taken the opportunity to attack, clearly he intended to be attacked, and to counter. Mischa would not play into his strategy.

"I am Ynsidia, Conjurer of the Ink's shield," Mischa said. "And the blood of the Dm'rohk flows in me."

 

[Ynsidia]

"I take it you're a mercenary, then?"

Ynsidia inwardly cringed at this. She liked to think she wasn't, that she was more akin to a problem solver, but when it came down to the reality of what service she actually rendered, she was very much that, a mercenary; an overly elaborate thug, or enforcer for whatever family paid her handsomely...namely the Viraks.

"Well, you see...I...more or less...yeah, I'm a merc, but I have principles and-"

Aldren cut in.

"Wait a moment, little one. Now you want to take on the rest of the city guard? What kind of desperate death wish do you have in mind?"

She huffed, stamping her foot very much like an angry child, hands balled into fists.

"It was a moment's indiscretion! I wasn't thinking clearly, and acted out of a sense of righteous fury; who knew Maddigan could call in this many brutes, and ruffians?" she exclaimed with scowling eyes and furrowed brow, balled hands drumming the air as she spoke.

"Likely, some of those archers were the local guard reacting to the Dragonkin's arrival, and if we're lucky, the heat's off us long enough for the Viraks to put a leash on Maddigan. By nightfall everything should be sorted out, and I'll only get a slap on the wrist..."

"Your story strikes a chord within me. The kind of chord that costs money. A lot of money, to be precise. Did you think I would abandon you without getting my money, or cutting your pretty throat?"

That was when Ynsidia realized that even on a sunny day, gray clouds still found a way to rain on her life.

"Oh come on!"

"Its been a while since a slip of a girl tried to get me killed."

And the man in black looked at the others, shaking his head.

"Go big or go home, I guess."

Ynsidia was shocked at how fast Mischa was in front of her, sword and shield at the ready, pressing her back. A part of Ynsidia right then wondered if perhaps being a Templar was a better route in life to have taken. The courage, and valor was impressive.

"I am Ynsidia, Conjurer of the Ink's shield," Mischa declared with steely resolve. "And the blood of the Dm'rohk flows in me."

Feeling emboldened by Mischa standing in front of her, Ynsidia peered around the Templar and glowered at the black attired killer.

"So, let me get this straight..."

She started.

"First you wanted to talk, to get whatever information I possessed, but now you want to just shiv me over lost gains you blame me for, because apparently I'm at fault for it?"

And Ynsidia waved an indignant fist at the uncanny assassin.

"What's your price? We all have one! I'd sooner pay your losses if you'll let me, otherwise, there's myself, Mischa here, and Aldren to contend with; sure, we've all been through a pitched battle, but so have you and..."

Ynsidia glanced over her shoulder, seeing Felen tending to Aldren's wound, but staring passed them at the darkened twists and turns they'd left behind. Turning back to the professional she was dressing down verbally, she thumbed back down the various alleys.

"...and furthermore, there's still a bunch a guys possibly in pursuit still; if you do manage to kill us, you still have to contend with them if they happen upon our scene. So, what's it going to be? Get even by killing us, then dying a most undignified death at the hands of bar scum with swords? Or tag along, and let me pay you for what you lost out on?"

Looking back again, eyes wide, and haughty grin dissipating from her lips, Ynsidia shook her head.

"I am hopeful you are as smart as you look and sound, Sir."

 

[Tian]

He looked at Mischa as he answered Ynsidia, a smirk evident below the hood. He gestured calmly to the little orc, neither pacifying nro aggressive gesticulation. "Relax, green one. I neither want her money, nor her life. I would dearly love to put her over my knee and paddle her like the child that she is." A quick glance at Mischa, and then an odd little bow, foot forward, hand to heart.

"No need to be so forward, Tigress," he said to the little orc.

Tian glanced at the...well, he wasn't certain what she was. Elf, probably, but achingly beautiful. And heart-rendingly familiar, too. He averted his eyes, feeling the ache of loss but unwilling to admit it. Unwilling, or perhaps unable? It was difficult to tell, sometimes, with the passage of years stretching on into infinity. The girl probably reminded him of one of his many lost loves over the years, even if she was a bit more delicate than the majority of the ones he fell for.

Tian grinned at the warrior, Aldren. "I mean, why not? She may as well fucking call on the entire military of Vel Anir while she is at it. We can swash-buckle like pirates while we fight them off with our enormous pr-" he began, then cut off abruptly.

 

[Aldren Cordale]

Aldren was surprised as he saw the woman approach, as beautiful and bright as the morning sun. He could even sense the pure magical essence that emanated from her, almost like a sweet breeze hitting his face, taking away some of his tiredness. As she motioned forward to take care of his wound, his primordial Templar instincts came about, and he frowned and took a step back, but the movement led to an acute, piercing pain on his shoulder, prompting for his other hand to reach towards the origin of the pain. Even as stubborn and cautious as he was, he couldn't let that wound fester to the point it would mean his arm getting chopped off. It wouldn't be much wise.

With a small nod, Aldren accepted the care of that mysterious lady, her magic revigorating his skin and ceasing the blood, as well as relieving some of the tension nurtured in his body after all that fighting.

Sidelined, Aldren paid attention to the ruckus that ensued with the rest of the group. The rogue, deadly and threatning the small girl, just before the orcess warrior put herself between them. He was quite taken with that. Aldren never met many orcs, but the few he met were... less than honorable, so to speak. She seemed different, especially with her skills and the strange looks she gave to him.

As the talk of gold, more killings and paybacks became more serious, Aldren dismissed the cares of the woman next to him with a quick smile of gratitude, rushing to the middle of that soon-to-be mess.

"Enough of this, all of you! There's already an army looking for our heads! Your business can come later!", Aldren shouted in a rough and intimidating voice, his hand already grasping the hilt of his blade.

 

[Adonia]

Fèlen paused as Aldren first stepped away from her, not wanting to force where she was rejected. She couldn’t help the small smile that touched her lips as he stubbornly nodded. A tall young man with obvious years of training underneath sturdy steel, doing his best to fill out the armor he adorned. It was to his benefit that he was able to realize when he needed help, as utter obstinacy could be the unmaking of many men.


Still, she approached cautiously, not wanting to startle the freshly-fought man with any moves that were too sudden. Svelte digits rose towards the offended shoulder, gently resting against the cold metal as a flowing sleeve began to wind unnaturally around her wrist. It folded and compressed, hardening into a vine that snaked along her hand and within the small gaps of the armor that allowed Alden to move.


“Pardon the intrusion..” She teased lightly, her magic only able to work with direct contact. He would feel the smooth of the growth winding against his skin, following the trail of blood until it came to its source. Warmth sprouted along the wound, the unseen vine flourishing into a broad leaf that wrapped around his shoulder, heavily weeping with a sap that would heal his wound within less than hour.


Once done she drew away, thankfully just before his outburst towards the quarreling of the others, the sleeve of her dress uncoiling and returning to normal, if not faintly stained with blood. Curiously, the half-nymph peered down the pathway they had come from, seeing nothing of note before turning back to them, waiting for a lull.


“I hope I’m not intruding but.. If you’re being pursued, might I recommend going somewhere… else?” She vaguely gestured down a path other than the one they came down, noting how deserted the path they were currently on seemed.

 

[Kolvar Vayra]

The street was painting in a thick coat of blood. Kolvar nearly gagged at the sight of it. His comrades were beaten into the stone, some missing their arms, others missing their legs. Two of the archers had made it out alive and came down to talk to the group of twelve soldiers sent as reinforcements. Their commander had severely underestimated the abilities of whoever it was who had done this.


Kolvar overheard one of the archers say that they took off down the road and he began to detail the unlikely group of people who had caused the bloodshed in the street. He remembered the screaming mob of civilians running past him when they were sent to investigate. Kolvar began to wish he was one of them.


Then his foot hit the side of a soldier. Kolvar didn't want to look at any of them. He hated the people of Vel Anir and the soldiers happened to be some of the worst, but they were also his companions. He trained and fought by their sides. When he looked down, his eyes met those of one of the few soldiers he liked.


Takarr was the first man he met when he arrived as a newly trained soldier of the Vel Anir military. He was kind and open-minded, a rare trait among the regular folk. Except Takarr wasn't regular folk. He was a foreigner from Alliria, outcast by his family and left with no other choice than the most xenophobic military in the world. Takarr was the only person Kolvar could relate to, the only one he could trust.


The only one who knew he was an elf.


Anger boiled in his veins. He had no energy to shed tears for his fallen friend, but he would reign hell upon the person who had killed him.


"We should keep moving!" Kolvar yelled to his comrades. "They can't be far behind."


And he was right. He had led the soldiers straight into a group of strange people. People too strange to be minding their own business while in Vel Anir. Kolvar drew his sword, the sweet taste of vengeance on the tip of his tongue.

 

[Mischa Ven'rohk]

Ynsidia, Conjurer of the Ink had a way with words. It seemed she convinced the Man in Black to at least listen. And that was a welcome relief. The prospect of having to fight him was one that Mischa wouldn't back down from, but one she didn't enjoy either.

The Man in Black seemed calm now. But. Mischa didn't follow. He didn't want her coins or to cut her throat now? He wanted to do what to her? Bend her over his knee and paddle her? With what? First, Mischa had never heard of such a custom. Had to be a human thing, 'paddling' one's children with what she could only assume was the parent's hand instead of just hitting them across the chest with a firm branch or rod; she could only infer humans didn't like to make eye contact with their children while punishing them. Second, Ynsidia, Conjurer of the Ink was no child anyway. It made no sense for him to want to do that to her. She was an adult. If talk failed, adults handled disputes by beating one another until one yielded. She could be punched just like any other adult. Mischa wouldn't let the Man in Black do it while she was here, but still. It was a point of respect.

Then he greeted her with a bow and a hand over his heart. The Man in Black seemed inscrutable.

And insufferable. She bristled when he called her 'tigress'. She lowered her shield and stood up straighter. Head raised some. Appearing as tall as she could. As proud as she could. "I am not a beast. I am an Orc. And I will be watching you, because I do not trust you."

Maybe it was reckless to state her intention so bluntly. To say her words which could be taken as further provocation, even as the Man in Black--for the time being--seemed non-aggressive. But her words were true, and she meant them.

And, should luck find her, she might not have to fight the Man in Black alone if his words had been lies and he turned against them. Both Aldren and the Unknown One made an effort to calm the situation, reminding the three of them that, yes, they were still in the middle of an enormous city and they were only so far from the site of battle.

And their words were like prophecy.

They were found. More of the armored men. Mercenaries or 'ruffians' or the men called guards, it didn't matter. Their leader drew his sword and started to charge, his men like the wings of a deadly falcon behind him. More than ten altogether, Mischa was sure. Less than before, but surely they were only the tip of a spear. More would come and still more would come if they held their ground. As the Unknown One had said, they needed to be elsewhere.

The wave of men came from one end of the alley. The path gestured to by the Unknown One, opposite to the charging men, now the obvious route to flee.

Mischa stepped past Ynsidia, Conjurer of the Ink and toward the charging men. Raising up her shield arm and letting the straps guide it down as she had done before to free her left hand from holding it. Maybe she could intimidate the charging armored men. Scare them off for a moment. If not, she at least would be in position to protect Ynsidia, Conjurer of the Ink while they made a fighting retreat.

She had to let That Which Makes Pure channel her lifeforce. Not ideal, as she could only use the Holy Fire sparingly, lest she quickly become fatigued and weakened. But it might work.

A spray of Holy Fire rushed out from her outstretched palm. A vicious column of roaring flame, white with brilliant yellow, neither hot nor painful to the touch. Harmless and purely ineffective against solid armor and shields, for it only burned the living. But if it found its way into a visor of a helm, through the threading of roughspun cloth, through the links of chainmail, it would rapidly consume the flesh underneath. And painless yet horrific mangling and disfiguration of the skin, for she couldn't keep the Fire up long enough to completely purge the lives of the men.

One second of Fire toward one end of the charging men's formation.

"Run!" she called over her shoulder to Ynsidia, Conjurer of the Ink.

And another second of Fire toward the other end of the formation.

And that was all she was willing to risk. To give to the Great Holy One so that It could bestow Its costly gift to her. Her armor already felt a bit heavier than before.

Mischa turned then and started to run. Purposefully keeping herself between the men and Ynsidia, Conjurer of the Ink.

 

[Ynsidia]

Being called a child stung. Every time she looked into the polished silver of her full body mirror, she thought she was developing rather nicely. The willowy curvaceousness of her legs and hips was very feminine and well along for her fifteen years, and the swell, as well as firmness of her breasts clearly would be the envy of many girls her age, and…

It occurred to her right then that no one could see her budding desirability beneath all the layers of robes she wore, and that this entire trail of thought was completely frivolous.

She wagged an angry fist at Tian.

“I am not a CHILD!” and she immediately cringed with regret at how high pitched, and childish her complaint sounded. Peeking over at Aldren right then caused her to blush. It felt more embarrassing coming up immature in front of him for some reason.

The fact that Felen was very much a mature, developed woman didn't help either.

A couple more years, and this wouldn't be a problem. A couple more years and she would be able to conquer her overly exaggerated sense of modesty in regards to her conservative, be it loud, finery, and dare to bare. Then they would all see! The best revenge would be her mature vivaciousness and sybaritic figure forcing her to have to beat back the drooling masses of cads and would-be suitors with a quarter staff!

Flustered and humiliated, Ynsidia groaned, tears threatening the corners of her eyes when the new arrivals rounded the corner.

Mischa's reaction time was uncanny. As if a God drover her strength in every action she took. A wall of flames up and warding off the new arrivals, Ynsidia was all for Felen's destination of regroup. They needed a place to truly rest and sort out how they all ended up in the same Vel Anirian salt bath. Ynsidia looked to Felen expectantly.

“Lead the way!” she urged Felen with wide eyed eagerness.

“We can't handle another fight as we are!”

She added, going into full retreat.

 

[Tian]

Tian swept a mocking bow to the orcess, jaw showing an amused smirk. "As you wish....orc. But there is something to be said of the tigress, its grace and its power. Its is a very powerful creature, possessed of depths that you, at least, do not understand."

He turned to Ynsidia, and grinned like a madman. "Being a child is not just about how tall you are or how old you are, girl." He tapped his head with gloved fingers. "Its how much you use this instead of," and then he tapped his heart, "this." He could appreciate the girls appearance, but appearance was the least of his desires when it came to women. And maybe, after a good many years, Ynsidia would come to realize that womanly charms were not the height of womanhood, that there were other traits that were far more desirable.

Before much else could be said or transpire, though, more comrades of the ones they had already slain showed up on the scene, coming into sight in the road behind them. The assassin grimaced, but quickly hid that away with his characteristic grin, just slightly insulting and filled with a certain degree of mirth.

The orcess managed to launch a volley of fire, and then another, while he stood and thought this through. Was it worth making a stand here, in a valiant effort to buy time for people he did not know and whom he owed absolutely no fealty to? A side eye at the warrior with the markings of the Templar, and the delicate looking elfin wench. A glance back at the orcess. At least two of those three had already earned a certain measure of respect from him, if not every member of this party. He decided that it was enough.

"Soldier boy," he said, voice serious for once. He pointed to Aldren, mouth a straight line. "Keep the others safe and moving. I will buy time here, as much as I can. I can make like a ghost when the time comes," he said, finishing it with a probably that was not spoken. Both knives were out of their sheaths and into his hands, heavy blades held in reversed grips. There were many soldiers, but perhaps he could buy them a few minutes to put some distance between them.

Blood still trickling down his flank where a blade had done damage before, the former assassin waited to receive his guests.

 

[Aldren Cordale]

For a moment, Aldren thought that his imposing presence and intimidating shout were of some effect to calm group's fiery mood, but only for a few seconds. After a short break, they were at each other's throats again, with Ynsidia's rather... childish remarks about being called a child, and the rogue provoking her naivety once again. As battered as he was, Aldren feared he wouldn't be enough to stop that mess, but the brave orcess, almost as if vowed to protect the girl, lept to her defense once again, providing a troublesome block for the assassin.

He even noticed the woman that was treating him earlier watching in a bit of a dismay, fearing that they would end up killing themselves before reinforcements arrived to punish them.

And banish the thought, but in that moment, Aldren felt as if he was some kind of fortune teller. Like a stroke of magic, the sound of marching boots became every much closer to their small hiding alley, and they soon saw themselves surrounded once again. At least the soldiers were in small numbers, led by a less threatning figure than Cordale imagined. Even so, he saw the brute look in his eyes before the man signaled their march forward.

In that tight space and harmed as they were, that would be an even worse bloodbath than the one that happened a few moments ago. But they had no other choice. It was pure survival now.

Aldren made the motion to unsheath his sword, but came short when the orcess step forward and blocked the soldiers' advance with another impressive showing of her mysterious magic, gulfs of flames coming out of her hands as the soldiers halted. Cordale smiled, it was a smart move in a tense situation and it could even save them, maybe.

But then he saw the orcess growing increasingly tired and hurt from the use of that magic. Aldren himself knew the toll it took to use his Templar magics in extensive combat, a price that he was paying in that very moment. It was pure luck that his body wasn't shutting down for a much needed rest. Perhaps the adrenaline of having to fight for his life kept him going, and he wouldn't complain about that.

As the wall of flames began to dissipate, the soldiers began their run towards them again. Aldren fought through the pain in his still healing shoulder, taking out his sword and putting himself in combat stance before the rogue put himself in front of everyone.

Determined, he demanded Aldren to retreat and protect the others. In another moment, he would question the man's gall to speak to him in that way, but Cordale saw his serious gaze. The will to stand and fight, to protect a bunch of people that he didn't even know, that he was even going against a few moments ago. Right there, Aldren came to truly respect that assassin, as bad as he could be.

Aldren nodded and screamed the rest of the group into retreating, waiting for everyone to start running to the nearest exit as he stayed behind for a moment, a small pause of time as he and the rogue stood still, looking at each other and comprehending each other's tasks. Without a single word spoken, Aldren made a demand of his own to the man - that he wouldn't die there so that they could meet each other again, and better understand the forces that drove them to battle. The bond that united every warrior, were they soldiers or deadly assassins such as him.

Cordale then started his run to catch up to the group, eventually reaching a timely exit nearby only to be ambushed by a small detachment of soldiers, three of them to be precise. It seemed that they had separated from the rest of the reinforcements when the orcess blocked their path, and they went on to seek another one. Aldren saw when one of them came running towards them, blade in hand and killer intent in his eyes, targetting the lady elf that took care of him.

Ignoring what it could cause to his body later, Aldren tapped in the magical forces deep within his body and rushed like a thunder to meet the attacker, steel to steel. The clash of force was great, pushing the unfortunate soldier back only for him to be cut down by a grand strike from Aldren's sword to his chest.

Almost as if he had been consumed, Aldren fought like he had no wounds whatsoever, dominated by his lust for battle. He didn't even realize that there were people right behind him, watching as he mauled another soldier, enraged. The last one stood his ground, terrified. He threw down his sword in a sign of surrender, but Aldren would have none of it. He lept forward and impaled the man through his belly with great force, raising from the ground for a few inches and growling in the deed.

When the battle was over and blood flowed through the alleyway, Aldren, gasping for air, looked at the rest of group, unaware of the monster that he looked like a moment ago.

 

[Adonia]

Fèlen had walked into something she had not been prepared for. It usually took much longer for trouble to find her in a new place than this. Truly a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. However, this did not seem to deter the elfling. She could have easily fled already, but she was now invested.

Soldiers flooded towards them, the first that Fèlen had seen, her slate gaze barely falling on them before the bright light caused by Mischa’s flames had her wincing faintly. The guards were armed and ready, spiking the half-nymph’s adrenaline as she grasped at one of her sleeves. She did not need to tear the cloth, as it came away freely in her closed palm. A moment later she lifted her arm to the air, soft wispy seeds rising eagerly, carried by the newly warmed air towards the enemies.

Pale lashes blinked as Ynsidia eagerly ushered her to take lead. However, the halfling had only just arrived in the city, unsure of where a safe haven would be for, what she assumed, were a ban of criminals. She did not take time to argue, instead nodding and waving the group towards Anir Square. Trading grounds were always flush with crowds, a feature that would allow the group to integrate with the masses and, she hoped, the guard would not be willing to injure innocent civilians.

It was only after they departed that her pollen finally had purpose, having produced tiny charcoal flowers that began to pump a heavy, smokey gas from their depths and onto the soldiers. This substance caused a haze and mugginess to the senses and, if too deeply inhaled, would put the victim to sleep.

So they ran. The flowing attire that gathered around her slim figure growing thicker as it tightened around her body, allowing her better mobility as they dashed down the alleyways. They were stopped short by a small group, swords drawn. Fèlen was prepared to avoid the assailant that targeted her, but action on her part was unnecessary as Aldren charged from just behind her, meeting the man brutally before he could reach her. Gore painted the stone walls and roads only moments later, but there was no time to either admire or condemn the Templar’s work.

“We should continue.” The half-elf spoke, taking a moment to reach up and wipe a stray droplet of blood from Aldren’s cheek with her thumb. The small smile she offered him was one of gratitude, but it was fleeting, as she was sure they were still being pursued.

 

[Kolvar Vayra]

Kolvar rushed toward the group, targeting the girl with the excessive layers of cloaks. His blade pointed to her chest, he ran until his legs were numb, but a short orcish woman planted herself between him and his target.

Fire came blazing toward either side of the group. Kolvar saw three men on either side drop their weapons and scream a horrid, gut wrenching scream. Their flesh began to peel and their hair began to crisp. They fell to their knees one by one until they were charred. A soldier who was behind them ran through the scene, bumping into the corpse of one of the soldiers and turning him to dust in doing so.

Vel Anir soldiers knew nothing but themselves. Kolvar secretly hoped for that soldier to turn to dust himself.

Then, just as Kolvar thought he had escaped the fiery blaze, a puff of thick smoke filled his lungs. He coughed and fell to his knees momentarily. He saw other soldiers do that same. Kolvar was sure to take shallow breaths if he took any at all. Then he got up again. Like he always did. Some men didn't follow him after that.

There were screams of words similar to "keep going" from the group ahead of him. The smoked was still thick, so he couldn't make out the shape of the people retreating. Desperation taking over, Kolvar pushed past his comrades to escape the smoke. When the bright light of day shone down on him again, he took a deep breath, nearly falling again.

In front of him, Kolvar could make out the shape of a man dressed head to toe in leather. He stood there, ominously, knives in hand. The elf stood there for a fleeting moment. He didn't like this man. Something about him seemed invincible. He could have been the one to kill Takarr.

Kolvar, in the midst of the action around him, the falling bodies, the blood spilling over his boot, sheathed his sword. He would not die today. Not by the knives of the man in leather. His eyes never left the man, but he could sense the smoke curling around his ankles from behind him. Slowly, he backed away into the smoke once again.

If the man had followed him, Kolvar hadn't noticed. He instead searched blindly for some sort of building. His hands eventually met a stone wall. Still not breathing, the elf patted down the wall until his hand met a door. Kolvar toppled inside the building, the figure of the man in black still lurking in his mind. He let out the breath he was holding.

Pushing past people cowering in the corner of the staircase, he fled up it, climbing each step with weak legs. Then, he found the roof. Determined to keep moving, Kolvar ran along the roof and jumped over to the next building, nearly slipping and falling back to the chaos beneath him. In the near distance, however, he could see the group from earlier fleeing down the street.

Not checking behind him, Kolvar drew his knife from the hidden pocket in his sleeve. Aiming for the girl with the cloaks he saw before the fire ate his comrades, he felt the handle of the knife balance between his fingers.

Then, he let it fly.

 

[Mischa Ven'rohk]

The Holy Fire was far more effective than she had thought, than she was used to. A boon of greater strength from the Great Holy One? Maybe. In a way past Mischa's understanding, Ynsidia, Conjurer of the Ink fit into That Which Makes Pure's design. Surely it was so. Even if it were merely as simple as staying close to her such that more foes would come and Mischa could continually affirm her mettle. A font of endless trials. Yes. It did make sense.

Such an opportunity then! To prove herself. And not only to the Great Holy One. She felt as if her father's eyes were upon her. Eager to see his daughter show the strength he always knew she had.

Mischa's path was clear. She would protect Ynsidia, Conjurer of the Ink with all her might until the Great Holy One gave her her next vision. She would not let harm befall her. She would not fail.

The Man in Black spoke to Aldren as Mischa and Ynsidia, Conjurer of the Ink started running and following the Unknown One's lead. Said he would stand his ground behind them as they fled. Good. That was his element. Fighting. Not talking. She hated it when he talked. His words at once infuriating and hard to take the true meaning of. At least this time he seemed to speak plainly and to speak the truth; much like an Orc. And so he would make his stand.

Tigress. She didn't even have stripes. One simple reason among many that his claim was insensible. Why was he so insistent?

But he was behind them now as they ran. The fury from his repeated comments would at least prove a hearty meal for her swordarm. Especially in light of the minor exhaustion from the use of the Holy Fire.

Aldren caught up. He stayed back to say or do something with the Man in Black. Mischa didn't hear or see. But he was with them now as they ran.

And it was good he was. Namely for the Unknown One. Aldren rushed into the sudden group of three more armored men and cut them down with a savagery and fury that made Mischa's heart swell with pride simply for having the pleasure of witnessing it. She met his gaze and grinned and lifted her head in acknowledgement of his formidable rage, his ferocious strikes, his lust for battle. Aldren the Templar was as an Orc imbued with the Mighty Wolf spirit, and yes, victory followed in his wake. She could see now why Ynsidia, Conjurer of the Ink, turned red when she so much as looked at him. His strength was unquestioned. Maybe she dreamed of running side-by-side with him. Charging into a line of feral Blight Orcs. Hacking and slashing and covered in the blood of their foes together, ferocity unquenched until they stood panting atop the bodies of the slain. The smell of death and victory about them, fire and passion in their eyes.

Yes.

Yes. She could see it.

The Unknown One wiped some blood from his face.

Said they should continue.

And she was right.

Mischa didn't see the knife sailing toward Ynsidia. Her back to thrower. Her mind astray.

 

[Ynsidia]

Ynsidia saw the glint of the flying blade and reacted for the first time in her short life selflessly. Tense and primed from the archers, she took the flash of metal in the dying light of the sun as another one knocking an arrow from a perch. Thoughtless, reactionary, Ynsidia dove into Mischa Ven'rohk to push her out of the perceived path of a soon to be released arrow. They'd targeted her and Aldren relentlessly when they weren't shooting at the Dragonkin woman.

The act saved Ynsidia's life, by her altering her own path.

Her first, true, good deed was rewarded by her life being saved perhaps in more ways than one, but given Ynsidia's karma, the good deed couldn't possibly go unpunished. She avoided a lethal blow, but still took the knife between the collar bone, and the shoulder blade. The whole moment happening in a blink, she collided head and shoulders into Mischa's armored chest without budging her, took the sailing knife, and fell backwards on her ass.

"OWW-W-CH-AAAAAAAHHHHHHH!?!"

She screamed upon seeing the blade where it made home in her person.

 

[Tian]

HE stood his ground, motionless as he stared down the enemy. The work of the young orc had disoriented the foes that were approaching, choking smoke filtering through the air. He drew upon mana around him, weaving it about himself in a kind of protective ward against such as that. Simple enough, and he didn't need anything to stack the odds against him any further.

A half dozen men and women approaching, weapons at the ready. With these kind of odds, he would have to strike first. Initiative was the key to this struggle. He took a step forward....and then blurred as she charged them, move as fast as he could. The look of surprise on their faces was comical to him; apparently, they thought he would bolt like a coward.

Not my style, he thought, as he felt the first impact.

He drove a shoulder into the chest of a short woman who was still wide-eyed at the gall to be attacked when the odds were clearly stacked against him. The split second of hesitation was all he needed: breath rushed from her lungs in a sudden rush, and his elbow smashed into her face. He could hear the crunch of her nose breaking, saw blood and a tooth hit the pavement in that weird way that things are noticed in the heat of battle. Her blood, sprayed into his fast, was salty and hot.

Uncaring of propriety, the assassin grabbed the woman by her chest just as her companion tried to thrust a blade into his unprotected flank, and he spun hard into that blade. It sank into the woman's ribs, the momentum of the twisting motion causing it to exit her body harmlessly as she screamed in pain and horror, uncaring of the superficial wounds the assassin had dealt in simply getting his knife burdened hands on her person. He dropped her then, a dead weight as hot blood poured forth, and slashed the assailant across the face. An eye popped, but the defender didn't have time to worry about that as he brought the other knife up, sliding it in the join between the armored sleeve and body, through the armpit and tearing into lungs.

A colossal blow shook the man in black, and for a moment he was down, dazed. And then back up again, practicing tricks of concentration. Hot blood rolled down his arm now, a deep gash in the bicep from a hard swung sword spurting. The attacker was lining up for another strike, blade held in a ready stance to deliver a coup de grace, when an eye suddenly sprouted a knife. Right handed throwing was not Tian's preferred, but his left arm was completely useless now, fingers nerveless.

He ignored the knife he had dropped, feeling a great deal of regret to be leaving it behind. Parried a blow from another swordsman who was far more wary than the previous three had been. Tian concentrated on his wound, a kind of trick of the mind that allowed him to slow the flow of blood, to reroute it a different way so he wouldn't immediately bleed to death. The spurting slowed, and stopped. Nothing more than a trickle now.

Another parry, and Tian stepped forward, and drove his knee firmly into the crotch of his attacker...who gave a feminine grunt of pain but nothing like what he was expecting. Shit, shit, shit, he thought to himself as, despite the blow, the woman socked him square in the face. He heard the crunch of bone loud enough in his own ears, and his vision went grey for a moment, pain nearly overcoming him. He stpped back reflexively, and saw from the corner of an eye one of these soldiers up on the roofs, running. Not a problem for now.

The woman tried to hit him again, to get him back far enough that she could cut him with the sword. He didn't allow that, instead stepping in close. He took another glancing blow, but his knife found the mark, cutting through leather and opening her guts. She gave a mewl of pain and staggered back, hands going to catch the intestines uncoiling like writhing snakes in her handsm and gave a strangled cry.

There was no time for pity. Half a dozen more were approaching, and the former assassin knew it was time to turn and run as hard as he could...and so he did. He did not know how long he would be able to maintain this pace with his wounds, but he certainly hoped he could catch back up to his unknown allies before he bled out.

 

[Aldren Cordale]

It was all a blur. A red, hazy blur that clouded Aldren's vision and thoughts. He didn't even feel the weight of his long sword being held in his right hand, nor the pain that was supposedly echoing throughout his body following that violent and reckless surge. All he could see was the bodies and the sound of the drops of blood reaching the ground.

But like a glass cup falling to the ground and breaking in millions of pieces, Aldren broke out of his trance as the group started moving again. But he stood still, hovering over one of the dead bodies like a vulture. He didn't even notice the elf lady coming near him, thumb cleaning his blood ridden cheeks with no signs of fear on her eyes. Surely she would've feared the monster that was before her. Not a ordinary beast, just a human with a sword, and the will to cut down whoever stood in his way. But there was no inch of fear on her face, only a smile of genuine gratitude towards him.

As lost as he was in that moment, with all the things that were going on, that was one of his biggest surprises. But the would be Templar had no time to dwell upon it, and just remembered the predicament that they were in. He got away from the corpses, still a bit dizzy and started running to catch up to the group that were way ahead of him by that time. Aldren put his sword back on the sheath on his waist and ran as fast as his body allowed him.

But he came short of meeting them as he saw too late the blade soaring through the air and eventually finding its way to Ynsidia's body. His eyes widened and he decided to pick up his pace to try and defend them from further threats, but as he passed one of the small buildings in the area, he was met with a large push to the side of his body, that went flying through the wooden window of the building that he had just passed by. He didn't even see his enemy coming, but it certainly felt like a powerful foe.

He fell with force inside the dark and dirty house, abandoned with broken furniture filled with spider webs and barrels. The place felt strange, as Aldren thought all those buildings housed families that were just going on with their normal lives, but not that one lucky house. Cordale started to recollect his breath, reaching for his blade that fell a bit far from him. It was just in time to see the barricaded door being broken down by a well armored soldier wearing Vel Anir military colors. An elite enforcer, skilled soldiers that stayed away from normal units, acting alone with deadly haste and bringing down terrible justice on whoever was deemed criminal. Dispatched only in dangerous containment situations, to deal with the worst threats to the city.

Aldren never thought he would be called a criminal one day, but that man certainly thought so. The soldier stood no taller than Aldren, his helmet coming off to reveal a well aged human veteran, face carved with many scars. Gifts from the years of service. He looked a lot like Riss. Aldren's head fell a bit, eyes facing the dirty ground as he thought about what would come next. A hard decision to be made.

He took out his blade and pointed towards the kneeling Aldren, eyes filled with killing intent as he carried himself proud and strong, giving out his sentence. Sunlight came through the blasted windows, gleaming upon the sword.

"In the name of the King, you are to be executed where you stand. Do not attempt to fight and i will make your death honoured and quick!"

Aldren smirked shortly, tightly grasping the hilt of his sword. It was up to the orcess to protect them now.

 

[Adonia]

Many were the atrocities that had been seen by those slate eyes. Scars had been healed until removal from the body, though she could not erase the brutal memories that hid within her mind. Those who meant to harm her or allies were given no second thought or hint of remorse; Aldren’s actions were justified.


Their party was being slowly picked apart. One man desperate to regroup, another barreled into an abandoned house, and Ynsidia now injured, her painful cry faltering the half-elf as she looked back towards the youth. She easily shifted to grasp at the girl, assuring that they continued to move whilst she did her best to examine the injury in motion. The knife was swiftly removed, allowing more crimson to flow from the wound, attire torn to allow access whilst another leaf was swiftly produced to cover the lacerated flesh.


“Continue towards the markets.” She ushered them, speaking mostly to Mischa now that Ynsidia was wounded. “Try to blend in with the crowd until you can find somewhere safe to hide.” Though Fèlen did not want to leave the two, she knew Aldren to be alone. His own injuries had not yet healed and he had extended himself to protect her. She made her choice to aid him.


Frantic steps were redirected, hugging the stone walls to do her best to avoid some of the archers that hunted from the rooftops. It was easy to locate him, the patch she had placed upon his shoulder acting as a beacon for her to follow, and he was not far behind. She paused outside the door, a deep breath taken to try and lower the swiftly beating heart that pounded in her chest.


A booming voice sounded from beyond splintered wood, condemning the Templar to execution. An almost sickly sweet smell filled the room as blush-colored blooms stretched upon the doorway, the scent insistent and seductive, encouraging the towering guard to turn towards the revealed nymph, giving Aldren an opening, as she came into view. She entered swiftly, her form hiding from the archers within the room as she reached towards the soldier. Her magic was risky though unique, most not prepared to fight such an illusive attack that focused upon the senses to manipulate the mind.

 

[Kolvar Vayra]

He'd done it. Kolvar watched from the rooftop as his knife found its mark. His favorite blade never failed him.

He laughed. It wasn't that he'd found humor in the situation, but rather that he was tired. He had done it. He'd slowed the enemy and that was his goal. And he was so tired. Kolvar dropped to his knees, the smoke that had entered his lungs a while ago made it hard for him to breath right. He was light headed, so took a moment to re-gather himself before heading back down to the battle.

Just last week he'd met a man that served him the truth he had always known would catch up to him: Kolvar did not want to fight for this army. It was exhausting and he was forced to treat people just like himself as though they were monsters. He didn't know how much longer he could take it. But he got up again. He had to keep going.

Kolvar struggled to his feet and glanced out at the scene below one last time. He climbed down from the roof and let his feet find the windowsill of the next level down. After taking a second to find his balance despite his fatigued state, he slid into the building through the window.

The elf unsheathed his sword and took a deep breath. He must focus on the battle ahead of him. Getting out of this evil city took the least priority in this moment. So he went forward, rushing down the stairs, casting out any distracting thought. The door was within his vision and he swung it open.

Before him stood a tower of a man with a red sword. Red with blood. Below the man stood one of his comrades who trembled with fear and while Kolvar couldn't see the soldier's eyes, he could only imagine the emotion running through them.

He sensed movement from beside him and looked to his left. There stood a pale woman not much shorter than him. Her appearance was somehow calming to him, her silver hair was airy and her skin was pure. But there was something about. She seemed to be elven.

Kolvar didn't want to fight this woman, but he recognized that she must have been part of the group he was pursuing. In his clouded state, he simply stood there. Staring into her silver eyes.

 

[Mischa Ven'rohk]

A moment's lapse.

And she had failed.

An instant and powerful dismay overcame Mischa. Ynsidia, Conjurer of the Ink sought her protection. Bumped into her. And a knife found home in her shoulder. A deep wound. The scratch from the arrow earlier was one thing. Minor. A token of battle. More a source of pride than agony, if nothing else. But not this. Grievous wounds invited only anguish, death.

Mischa whirled around to face the trajectory of the knife, holding her shield up and trying to block Ynsidia, Conjurer of the Ink's body from view as the Unknown One came to her aid. A fleeting glimpse of someone on the rooftop. Dropping to his knees and then slipping inside the building through a window. Gone.

Too late. Too late for this after-battle grandstanding. There were no more knives or arrows for her to defend against, and if not for the Unknown One's magic plant then it would have turned out worse still. She had declared herself Ynsidia, Conjurer of the Ink's shield, acting in accordance with the Great Holy One's desire, but what good was a shield turned the wrong way? Lowered by complacency?

Shame. Embarrassment. A lamenting sadness that brought a rage to shake her knees and her arms. In the eyes of the Great Holy One, in the eyes of her father, she had failed in the task she had taken upon herself to do. She had not the strength to realize even the simplest of deeds.

Mischa swallowed. Marcie wouldn't have failed. She was strong. Kind. What right did Mischa have to deprive the world of her?

A glance back over her shoulder. Back into the past.

"I'm sorry," Mischa said. "I..."

She trailed off. The Unknown One filled the gap. Said they should continue towards the markets. Blend in with the crowd. And Mischa nodded vigorously. Letting the sense of purpose fill her with determination, to push out all the clutching and clouding emotions which could distract her.

She let go of the shield handle and switched the Lightbringer momentarily into her left hand. She reached down and slid her hand under the armpit of Ynsidia, Conjurer of the Ink's uninjured side and pulled her up to her feet. Maybe rougher than she would have liked. Too much force applied; she was a friend, not an enemy.

Up ahead in the alley, Aldren was tackled and driven into a building. Yes. A clear sign that they needed to hurry.

Mischa switched the Lightbringer back to her right hand. Said, "We must leave."

She took the lead. Jogging along at a brisk pace. Passing the building Aldren had been driven into as there was shouting and as the Unknown One approached the door of it.

The alley ended a short distance ahead. A cobblestone street, some small number of humans walking up or down it. Oblivious. Strange to witness. That there had been a pitched battle not too far behind where Mischa and the others had come, and these passersby here were insulated from it by the towering stone and wood and all else that made the city rise up like a cage and a maze about them.

No time for wonder. But it had brought up a pertinent point. Mischa said as she jogged, "I do not know my way around this city. Which way should we go?"

Something moved. From the corner of the building at the very end of the alley. A man. Weapons. A split-second reaction. Mischa spun her shield around and braced against two impacts, one heavier than the other.

The people on the street were aware now. Some gasps and exclamations. Keeping safe distance from the fight but curious eyes looking on.

Mischa got a look at the man. Another split-second. Armored as well as she was, armed with a shortsword and a flanged mace, adorned with the colors of Vel Anir, bearing a special insignia; an elite enforcer, like the one Aldren currently contended with, though she did not know it. She saw another foe, like the armored men from earlier. A chance to redeem herself.

Two wild and savage strikes with her sword. Easily parried by the enforcer. A furious shield bash. Easily sidestepped. Gritting her teeth and growling through them, Mischa spun around to face him again and swung the Lightbringer overhead like an axe. The enforcer brought his sword up to her own and gracefully guided it and with a flourishing twirl disarmed her. The hilt of her blade flying from the grasp of her thumb, out of her hand, sailing past Ynsidia, and clattering back into the alley.

A panic. As the quiet presence of That Which Makes Pure disappeared immediately from her mind once she'd lost the Lightbringer. Little Elf Teeth. Only the strength of her meager and frail body to serve her now.

A frantic thrust of her shield, trying to hit the enforcer with the rim. He simply dodged under it and let his momentum carry him behind her. And he followed with a quick and accurate slash across the unarmored back of Mischa's right knee. She yelped, dropped down to her left knee, twisted her upper body around. Saw the swing of his mace aimed at her head. She brought her right hand up to shield her skull.

A crunch and thump as the mace hit her hand and her head. And Mischa collapsed to the street. Lying still on her left side.

Only seconds for the enforcer's skill to trump her savagery.

And the enforcer turned to face Ynsidia. A drop of blood falling from the mace.

 

[Ynsidia]

Pain made everything blurry. Surreal. Time flowed differently under it, and panic. First the alley, and now on the cusp of the open market. How did she and Mischa get from there to here? Then the man. The man in armor. The colors indicative of Vel Anir's elite guard. He engaged Mischa directly, and Mischa, holding to what she'd been since she met her, protected her by throwing her aside for the fight.

The two seemed to merge into one motion of contention to Ynsidia, as a soft ring of crystal on stone drew her attention away from the lethal conflict to her feet.

A phial.

A phial of ink had come free of a hidden pocket and shattered at her boot tips.

Ynsidia was in a daze, but some part of her acted instinctively, clasping the the gushing wound between collar bone and shoulder. She screamed every bit of grip she applied, Ynsidia had a palm full of scarlet gore in her palm, then cast it into the pool of obsidian writing fluid at her feet. Gasping, she extended her left hand out over it as Mischa and the elite waged on against each other.

"Over thee I cast,
Myself is thine canvas blank.
Possibilities."

And she poured what little focus she could muster into those words and the next...

"My blood is dawn red,
Coaxing you to awake now.
Breath your first morning!"

Mischa went down, and a part of Ynsidia raged within at the sight of it. She didn't know the Orc woman. Her sins. Her suffering. But the Mischa she knew, had experienced briefly, was the most charitable, and giving being she'd met in years, and if this elite had struck her down with a mortal blow, Ynsidia would avenge her against him. As the elite turned towards Ynsidia, his bravado diminished before what took form.

An Ink Basilisk shaped into being, and sprung upon him. He struggled, cried, then gurgled as the construct bound and crushed his armor into his wet, soft flesh.

No mercy.

No quarter.

The man died with a whimper.

Ynsidia went to Mischa's side, and with all her strength, managed to lift her gashed head up from the refuse strewn cobblestone.

"Don't you dare die on me!"

 

[Tian]

Feet pounding. Heart pounding in time with it, a drumbeat that pounded out the rhythm of his life. The mental trance he had placed himself into had put him into a much more deeply connected state with his own flesh, and it was by this mechanism that he managed to flow of blood, prevented his untimely death. It was a state that was required, and had been taught long ago, for the life of an assassin to be truly terrifying. It would permit him to fight for longer, through greater adversity, to assure the destruction of whatever target he was set upon.

His own life hung in the balance, but his life was worth less than that of the job at hand.

He companions had not made it nearly as far as he would have liked. The shape he had seen darting across the rooftops had arrived ahead of him, along with a couple of other soldiers. And there was only one possible end to all of this. The fight could not end here, not when the threat still existed.

A man, standing and staring at the ghostly beauty of the apparent elven maid, and Tian was already locked on to this person, whoever he was, with his one remaining knife and remaining good arm. His eyes were sharp, and will was strong. But was it strong enough to face a fresh foe, and to end the bloodshed that was yet ongoing?

Tian charged Kolvar, still full of apparent vim and vigor despite his wounds.

 

[Aldren Cordale]

As he prepared to engage in a duel for his own life, Aldren was quite surprised by the appearance of the elven lass that so impressed him with her beauty and gentle heart towards him. Without a care for her own life, she came to his rescue once again, now working her mysterious magic to confuse and distract the knight that was close to dashing towards Aldren. As effective as her magic was, that man was of a incredible mental fortitude, no doubt a fruit from his rough training and prior battle experiences. Even though Aldren went charging towards him, sword in hand and looking to seize that opportunity, the enforcer surprised by swinging wildly, trying to shake off the waves of magic that entered his mind. Aldren was just quick enough to lift up his blade and block the attack, sending him a few paces behind. A mighty strike.

Seeing no other way but to engage in the individual combat that they were supposed to be doing, Aldren and the knight started to exchange heavy blows, measuring each other's strengths. Their blades often swung far from any immediate threat to each other, but came to show their deadly intent in seeing the other to a early demise. The clash of steel was immense, thunderly like, sound echoing through the building and sparks igniting the air in a dance only known to the pair of fierce combatants.

As tired as he was, Aldren was more than a match for that knight, whose technique resembled much of Aldren's own from his time in the Edenham army. It was a good thing that he spent a short time in Vel Anir himself when he was a soldier, doing training drills in the very city that he was now taking by storm, with a bunch of misfits that were no doubt fighting for their lives in that very moment. Aldren smiled, revelling in the thrill of battle, he motioned towards a quick side attack but instead threw his body the other way in a dashing move, taking the knight by surprise with a shoulder charge, almost like a battering ram. The man fell behind only for a moment, long enough a window for Aldren to strike clean his left arm as the man moaned in pain, blood flowing from his shiny armor.

"I will not die tonight, good sir. The same cannot be said for you", Aldren said as he pointed his longsword to the man, smirking in confidence after that impressive display. It was in that moment that they were surprised by yet another appearance, the same soldier that came hunting them in the alleyway before. And there he was, face to face with the elven lady that had saved him. His first thought was to forget the knight and rush to her aid, but he came short of that as the knight himself charged Aldren with mighty strength, almost carrying him throughout the building and slamming him against the broken down wall that connected to the outer alleys.

The young Templar struggled to get up from that attack, coughing blood as the enforcer slowly made his way towards him, his whole body feeling like a bruise. The alleyway as large and empty, a perfect fighting place. But his real worry was with the woman still inside the building. The knight appeared like a huge wall before him, making it impossible to just run past and help her, but in the distance that his eyes allowed him to see, he saw the emergence of the rogue, still alive after his grand standing, his own set on the man before the elven lass.

It was time to end that fight and join his companions once again. Aldren closed his eyes as he got up, skilfully swinging his sword around his hand as he and the knight drew a imaginary circle, waiting for the first move. It was then that the knight hastly made his attempt towards Aldren, and the young Templar blocked the attempt with ease, forcing the knight and his sword up and opening his front for a clean cut, a opportunity seized by Aldren to win that battle. The cut was deep, Aldren had swung at him with all the strength left in his arms and legs. The knight dropped to his knees, letting go of his sword as his eyes came to fall upon Aldren, filled with a urging of mercy and the fear of death. Aldren grasped his sword tightly, his head falling down a bit.

"I'm sorry", Cordale said before his blade went through the man's neck, beheading him in a clean swing. Blood flowed immensily and filled the mud filled alley, a final resting place for the honorable knight. Aldren knelt close to his body, sticking his sword in the mud and saying a small prayer to that man.

"Oh Lord, please receive this honorable soul into your arm. May his battles in this life serve as a testament to his salvation in Your Heavens."

A worthy opponent to the very end.