Private Tales Presentiment

[Diaz]

A laugh, bitter and sharp. "Is that where we were?" he said, the cold turned his voice hoarse. "Inside your fucked up head?" His teeth showed sharp, as wisps of breath curled about his mouth.

Why had he seen his brother then?

A howl of the wind pulled him out of his head. He flexed his fingers, and felt the sting of setting numbness there in. Bloodless digits. His wrists bound in a way in which his hands could not clap. He grumbled.

"You should have just given up names," he grunt. "Viego," Smirked.

He shift, his muscle flexed and tried, and the chains rattled cold and iron against the stone. He shut his eyes. Let his mind fall into itself.

The shadow beneath him pooled thicker. Swirled, like molasses stirred by an unseen hand. Fingertips pushed through the sticky pitch. Punched through the membrane that separated the darkness gathered from the room filled with diffused light.

An arm sprout out behind the fingers. Bent so that flat palm could slap against stone, and formless strength willed out more of the being there in.

Viego

 

[Viego]

His upper lip curled, voice hoarse, "I think so." He wasn't quite sure. Giving it a name or destination quelled his fear of the place. He watched as Diaz conjured his shade. The same one he fought but moments ago. Or so he thought. A lump of trepidation settled in his throat. Its presence added an encumbering weight. Fear had become an estranged emotion, until recently. He couldn't fight him again, not in this state. Maybe if I just - He weakly jostled the chains. Fuck. Do I die here? Seems fitting. Cold. Alone. By the hand of another who shares fealty to the craft of killing. He could feel incipient tears begin their descent - "What a pathetic thing you've become." Whisper seeped through the mental cracks of his enfeebled mind. "Suppressing me has spelled out your demise, young assassin. I am the the force behind the dagger. I am the fight when you are weak. I am the one who keeps us alive." His eyes rolled back into his head. "Would you see us dead?" The voice hissed. "Over what? To keep your tenuous grasp on humanity? No. We're no warriors of virtue. We're not human. We cull the meek, slay the bountied, take what we can, and give nothing back." His body tightened, as if rigor mortis set in. "We're divinities hand! Assassins! Murderers! GRIEFMAKERS!" His eyes shot open. A crystal blue glow emanated from them. His extremities warmed as he pulled vitality from his counterpart. "Allow me, little Viego." The intensity he felt washed over him in mere moments. He could breathe again. See again. Blood rushed to his hands, his feet. Clarity. Strength.

A pair of voices could be heard ascending to their holding cell. He looked to Diaz with a melancholic expression, "This is going to cost us, well, me." His countenance slowly donned a sinister smile. "Now lets get the fuck - out of here."

Diaz

 

[Diaz]

Out came his shadow. His twin. Two swords in hand. With quick cuts, the magicked blades sliced through the old iron chains.

Diego fell to the cold stone, and looked wearily to the other assassin before him. Rubbed the hurt out of his wrists, where blood turned to dark sticky scab, and he drew in breath, fresh stings where tortures and punishments had been tolled out. Long lines of whip's lash. Red run of blade's work. Purple blooms of blunt beatings.

Shallow breaths. Controlled as the voices neared, closer.

"You aren't the same anymore," Diaz said to his strange partner in this twisted venture. "You've... changed, haven't you?" A sharp laugh. Almost disgusted.

His shadow offered him a weapon. A blade made of darkness. Its form withered and wavered, like pitch-black flame. Diaz took it, and meld into the darkness on the walls just before the door came open.

The two men came in, and saw Viego, alone. Their eyes widened as the ink-black darkness that was Diaz slipped around them. His eyes opened there, behind the shade of the opened door, protected against the torch's light.

A lone hand came out of the shadow, a finger raised to lips that were not there beneath the blue and black eyes. Shhh.

Viego

 

[Viego]

The shades presence made him uneasy, but he held to his calculated exterior. "We've changed." His voice devoid of inflection. Diaz's freedom inspired him to wrestle the constricting chains. A grimace birthed from pain surfaced as he struggled with the chains locked around his wrists. A shadowy limb reached up from the ground where he hung and offered the shadowmancer a weapon, the very same from the dreamscape. A peculiar thing.

The men reached the top step; the shade, their doom, their end, slipped past and cut them off from escape. The fear in their eyes palpable. His grimace turned to snarl. Adrenaline shot through his core, before spider webbing to his extremities. Chains broken. The frozen links scattered to the floor and crashed against the wall as he fell to the ground. He stood up straight, hand to chin, cracked his neck left, then right. The crepitus echoed through the chamber. "Feed your blade, Diaz" he growled, then lunged towards the cell door.

Diaz

 

[Diaz]

One cut. One life.

The magic shadow ripped through bone and flesh with practiced ease. The umbral blade flickered and snapped, as if a thing made of abyssal flame. The two parts of the man that had stood before him, fell away. torso smacked to the ground, clumsy, legs fell forward. Both halves spasmed in disunited dance as the man's fingers tried to grasp at the ground beneath him.

A turn. With two hands, the dark blade plunged down and severed nerves between columns of spine.

Stillness. From one man.

Diaz began to turn towards the door. His blade turning in hand as the blood from his kill smothered the fire of the torch.

The cell began to grow full of darkness.

Viego

 

[Viego]

The bars to the cell door waned in pain as he pulled them apart. His eyes fixated on the men being masterfully carved by Diaz's blades. With each of Diaz's strikes his thirst for killing heightened. Like an excited war-hound, he gnashed through spittle with elation as blood splattered the ground. He took two celeritous steps towards the guards as they fell to the floor, catching their blades before the bodies clamored against stone.

With a quick flourish he donned the shadow as cloak and swiftly charged down the staircase towards the next set of unsuspecting souls. Three men. Two guarding each side of the staircase, backs turned, the third chatting them up. Two swift cuts to the jugular turned words to babble. The third guard, hands at ease now gripped blade hilt, face stricken with horror, back peddling from his companions choking on their own blood. Blades tauntingly danced in the darkness of the staircase; and before he could squeak out word for help, both blades were thrown into the mans chest.

Mocking coughs were the last thing this man would hear before his eyes closed eternally.

Diaz