Fable - Ask Shattered Promises

[Jast]

The Town of Darren - 30 Miles from Vel Anir

"Shit ain't changed worth dick."​

In the Shambling Willow those words were all to common. A rising sentiment of grievance expressed in spurts of anger and distaste that rose to forefront whenever the peasantry was wronged. Complaints had always been a way of life in small towns like Darren, especially late at night in the taverns when the liquor was flowing and the ale had already settled in the stomach.

Tongues were loose, and it seemed under the Republic looser than they had been before.

"They comes in here, same way they did before, taking what they want for the city and doing dog-shit for us."​

The man complaining spat on the floor, his head shaking as he grabbed his mug of ale. The liquid sloshing out over the table as he brought it up to his lips and took a long swig.

"Fuckin' Guard coming here and taking our grain is bad enough, but having one of those fucking tyrants leading the thing...ain't no need for that! Ain't no need for him to threaten us like that. We're men...not dogs to be beaten."​

Jaster Marr, life-long guardsmen, revolutionary, and now complete and utter drunk wastrel lay hunched over a nearby table as the man nearby continued his tirade of complaints. An empty bottle of rum lay tipped over besides him, his hair a matted mess permuted with the sickly scent of days old ale. His clothes were bare rags, looking as though he'd slept in them for the last two weeks.

"Fuckin' bastards.'​

The man continued to complain, ckicking a chair back and sending it tumbling to the ground where it slid and crashed into Jaster's table. The Guardsmen's head tipped up, sunglasses bent and half cracked on the right. "What the fuck..."

He said in delirium, not quite sure what was going on. The man who had sent the chair flying stood up, giving an apologetic look to the former Guardsmen before picking up the chair he'd kicked.

"Sorry for that friend, didn't mean ta' wake ya', just...just letting off some steam. Things ain't easy around here."​

"Tell me about it." Jaster said, running a hand through his matted hair and shifting ever so slightly in his seat before clearing his throat. "No, seriously."

A smile split his lips. "Tell me about it."

 

[Syele Wilhart]

Syele had never felt so foolish.

After over ten years away from the lands which the woman once called home she had been lured back. Lured back upon the word of change, a word that had, in truth, been exposed as nothing more than a hollow lie. Justice was still rendered blind, and any trace of accountability and retribution was pointedly absent within Vel Anir.

She had seen enough. Turning upon her heel and heading back from whence she came without a second thought, her blood turning to bitter bile as she did so.

Stopping in Darren, the former Guardswoman prepared for the onward journey, buying supplies and preparing the route that would take her to the next bounty board far from this place. Eventually, this took her to the Shambling Willow, where she planned to spend her night in the company of a bitter brew while perusing her map.

But even here the rampant injustice was inescapable, as a raised voice declared another transgression left unanswered.

Wilhart looked up from her map, an oft-worn scowl etched upon her features as she listened into the conversation between the two men with a resentful interest. Unconsciously, her grip tightened upon the cup of acrid liquor and teeth grit under closed lips.

 

[Jast]

"We're a grain town, yeah? Pirians used to own us, and they wasn't so bad most of the time but..." The man frowned, as if he realized that a long explanation didn't really matter at all. A long sigh escaping him as he looked down at the mug on the table in front of him. "Don't matter now."

He said with a shake of his head. "The Guard handles requisitions from us now, our tax ya know? They wasn't so bad at first, fair and only took what was theirs, but...few weeks ago they put this Dreadlord in charge. Theys part of the Dreadlord now you see."

Jast scowled slightly, already knowing that fact but not able to keep the expression from his features.

"The Bastard...we told him we already paid this year, but he insisted." The man's fingers tightened around his mug. "We showed him the marks the Guard gave us, told him we'd report him and he...he fuckin'"

Bitterness entered the mans tone. "I don't know how to describe it, Yarrows boy will never walk again, me leg still aches on rainy days, some of the others are still healing. Bastard took a second tax and more, and then...then he had the fucking gall to take up in the old Mayors house."

Jast raised an eyebrow at that.

"He what?" The former Guardsmen said as he leaned forward, his broken glasses shifting on his nose.

"He's the Garrison Commander here now." The man could barely keep the bile down. "Our 'protector'."

He spat on the ground, earning him a loud 'OI!' from the maid behind the bar. "Ah, sorry Rosie!"

The man called sheepishly.

 

[Syele Wilhart]

As Syele sat and eavesdropped upon the conversation she felt the ever-present resentment in her heart stir into frothing rage anew. Her scowl darkened, deep grooves cutting her brow like glass as she bore witness to yet another in a long litany of cruel testimony.

Change was a fucking lie.

The helplessness of the town to the whims of the Dreadlords cast a grim reflection; it was no different to the helplessness of the Anirian Guard and to the consequence that came when one attempted to stand up. Her fists clenched under the weight of violent resentment, limbs trembling as memories of wanton cruelty burned anew like globs of boiling pitch.

The screams, not content to just live in her sleep clawed at the back of her eyes. Help us! They're dying, we're dying!

Abruptly, Syele stood up, the legs of her chair announcing her presence as they scraped across the wooden floor. The fury was evident upon her face, eyes wild and wide for a moment before the former guardswoman found some semblance of composure. She reached into her bag and retrieved a coin pouch; a tidy sum garnered from the head of a debauched blood sorcerer.

"Here," Wilhart finally spoke, approaching the unfortunate man's table and placing down the pouch with a clink, "take this and share it with those who have suffered."

She would no longer require the crowns for the long road away from this forsaken place.

"Can you tell me what kind of magic he uses?"

 

[Jast]

"I uhhh…" The man was quite clearly dumbfounded, staring up at the stranger as though she was a mixture of some kind of saint, and a sociopath.

It wasn't just the money, of course, though that alone was something he had balked at. The amount could easily pay for the village to eat nearly half the winter, but the clear threat within the woman's question, the implication found within. He was a country-man, there was no doubts about that, but he wasn't a simpleton.

"No, I-" He shook his head. "He made Danner dance like a puppet, but I don't know if that was any sort of magic."

A frown pulled at his lips, glancing down at the bag of coins. It was clear he wanted to take it, didn't want to reject the gift, but he was fighting with himself. "Listen I appreciate this, but you can't get involved, the man's a psyc-"

Before the commoner could continue to speak Jast pulled himself up from the table. He clapped the man on the shoulder, giving him a wide smile as he glanced towards Syele. He seemed to linger for a moment, and then finally spoke as he turned back towards the commoner.

"I ain't gonna put words in our new friends mouth." He said. "But I've a feelin' that she wouldn't have offered if she didn't intend to give."

People rarely did.

Jast smiled, glancing towards the woman. "Miss, fine thing you did here, and if I'm reading your intent right…"

He trailed off, looking over his broken sunglasses. "I think it's best we continue the conversation elsewhere."

 

[Syele Wilhart]

Rage was difficult to temper with sympathy.

Syele knew all too well the feeling of being afraid and helpless, knowing that your life was little more than fodder for those who weighed worth in power alone. To them, they might as well have had numbers in place of names, faceless and numerous, bodies stacked high for their boots to step upon. How could they as mere mortals stop such monsters?

She understood.

But her tears had long since turned to dust and in turn, she had taken her despair and turned it into something better. Rage, by itself, was little better than madness, turning men into beasts without sense but rage tempered by purpose was just as potent as any blade.

The dishevelled man, who seemed far too eccentric to be an average commoner chimed in, offering better sentiment than she herself could muster. His eccentricities were proven, not only in the peculiar manner in which he peered over broken glasses but in his seemingly piqued interest. Syele raised an eyebrow at the stranger, trying to appraise his own intent before offering a curt nod to accept the proposal.

"It is a gift," she confirmed, turning her head back to the villager, "but next time, remember that even beaten dogs can still bite."

Wilhart returned to her table, expecting the other man to follow as she folded up her map and stowed it away in her pack before slinging it over her shoulder. She declined to finish her drink; somehow it was too bitter, even for her.

"To the stables," Syele suggested, already making her way towards the exit, "you can tell me about yourself on the way."

 

[Jast]

Jast perked an eyebrow at the woman. "Yes, Ma'am."

He said with a chuckle, offering a terse and mock salute before he stumbled after Syele away from the table. The two of them headed towards the door, leaving the commoner at the table by himself. He babbled something, half turning before shouting yet another thank you at the former guardswoman.

"Ill-" He called. "I'll remember! I promise!"

The words echoed as the two strangers stepped outside.

Jast seemed to noticeably perk up, taking a deep fresh of breath air. He stood a little taller, though still limped. His clothes still reeked of ale, but the way his smile turned told of something a bit more truthful than a booze soaked fool in a tavern.

"I can tell by your tone, you mean our Dreadlord friend ill-intent." Jast said, proceeding to not say anything about himself. "Dangerous talk in taverns nowadays."

Any days, really. Before the Revolution talking bad about Vel Anirs mages had never been a good idea. They wouldn't outright kill ya now, but word got around, and if it got around to the wrong person? It wasn't hard to guess what some of the consequences might be. "But."

He glanced at Syele as they stepped into the Stable. "Think I know some people you might like to meet."

 

[Syele Wilhart]

Dangerous talk in taverns nowadays.

Well, wasn't that just the perfect testament to how little things had changed?

Who, if not tyrants were incapable of facing scrutiny by the people? Who instead of embracing change, opted for suffering to breed hushed fear. Syele's already harsh expression deepened, her upper lip curling to show a flash of teeth, the mottled flesh of her scarred cheek flexing as her frustrations threatened to boil over right there in the street.

She looked at the stranger, who the woman presumed to be on a similar page although under basic scrutiny, seemed to be an eccentric drunkard. He was certainly different but more importantly, he wasn't afraid.

His words as they entered the stable stopped Wilhart in her tracks for a few seconds of taut silence. Then, with her back to him, she approached her chestnut mare, Agnes. Still, without reply, she moved to the side of the horse and affixed her pack to the saddle.

"Oh?" Syele finally responded, even her curiosity was grim in tone as she rounded Agnes and retrieved a well-worn short spear, the only thing salvaged from her time with the Anirian Guard.

"Tell me about these people," she spoke, holding her weapon downwards at arm's length and looking down the shaft in casual inspection, "and yourself."

That, she insisted.

 

[Jast]

"Lieutenant Jaster Marr." He said, offering his hand by way of introduction with a wide smile.

"Former." He clarified almost immediately, shifting his weight to what appeared to be his good leg. The smile on his face never disappearing as he continued. "And the people I'd like you to meet are too."

For the first time Syele would be able to get a proper look at this strange man.

His clothes and glasses were disheveled, appearing slept in and ill-maintained. Yet with a second glance it was obvious that there was something…practiced about the man. Two satchels sat on each side of his hip, both of good leather and even better workmanship. A short sort hung from the back of his belt, the quality even better than the satchels.

Along with that Syele's careful eye would see the presence of a boot-knife, and oddly enough a bandalorier beneath Jaster's cloak. "I think you'll find we all have a common interest."

He continued.

"Could be mistaken of course." Jast shifted again, this time to his other leg. As if simply standing in place was somehow uncomfortable. "It's easy to find people who hate Dreadlords."

The Lieutenant profferred. "Harder to find the folk who'll do something about em'."

 

[Syele Wilhart]

"Sergeant Syele Wilhart," she returned, swapping the short spear into her opposite hand so she could shake the man's hand, "also former."

So he too had been a distinguished member of the Anirian Guard, and better still, there were more.

Suddenly, in spite of his dishevelled appearance, the woman's view of Jaster Marr changed. Her judgement of him shifting in the knowledge of what he may have, and probably did endure. After all, who spared a thought for the fate of the former guardsmen who survived under the Dreadlords' rampant cruelty? So often forgotten, left for the embrace of the bottle.

Or the noose.

"You are not mistaken. I had returned home on the word of change and instead..."

Agnes snorted, the mare holding her head high as even she seemed to appraise the Lieutenant and his motives. The woman raised a hand, giving her riding companion a small scratch deep into the groove of her chin; her favourite spot for a scritch.

"I'm listening," Syele said with loathsome purpose, still prepared to do the job on Darren's tormentor by herself but very much open to the idea of like-minded individuals who understood what needed to be done, "that is, if you really mean it."

 

[Jast]

”Not so fast there, Sergeant.” Jaster said with a smile, unable to shake the habit of using rank.

Though the Revolution had been nearly two years ago now, Jast himself had only woken up in the hospital a few short months ago. He was angry with the Guard, the Republic, but a lifetime of tradition and training was hard to shake.

”Need to make sure of some things first, eh?” He proffered. ”You could be Vestigare, Vigilite, or one of those damned dreadies yourself.”

Jast pointed out. ”Don’t mind giving you the traitors bolt.”

An old Guard ‘tradition’ that was exactly what it sounded like. A crossbow bolt to the back of the head, reserved for traitors, quislings, and betrayers.

”But I’d rather have a friend than a corpse to deal with.” The Lieutenant said, finally getting to his point. ”So lets you and I kill a Dreadlord.”

A good a test of honesty in this situation as any other. ”Then you meet the others, eh?”

Best of both worlds, really.

 

[Syele Wilhart]

Almost immediately, an irritated eyebrow raised to meet Jaster as he, a stranger who she had just met, attempted to pull rank upon her. For her, it had been over a decade; the last ten years of her life were spent under the command of one person and one person only.

Herself.

Worse still, he levelled accusations at her. The moment that the word 'dreadies' left his lips, a glob of spit left hers, falling on the ground between their feet. That's what she thought of Dreadlords and that's what she thought of the very notion that she was one of them. If it were not for the prospect of his words, Wilhart would have decked him. Traitor's bolt be damned.

"Strange way to make friends," she commented with a scowl, swapping her weapon back to her dominant hand as the former guard turned back to Agnes, retrieving several small satchels that she attached to her belt.

"And I will have the head of a Dreadlord tonight," Syele added with nostrils flared and brow furrowed, "regardless of your approval, Lieutenant."

She stopped, taking a small breath in an attempt to temper her frustration. From experience, it was far preferable to fight mages with a level head.

"But you are more than welcome to join me."

 

[Jast]

A wide grin spread over Jast’s face as Syele offered her rebuke, his hands quickly throwing up in a gesture of innocence. ”Just have to be sure, eh?”

He said, understanding the frustration she felt.

It wasn’t like he didn’t want more people to join the band, but one had to be careful. Even if it now claimed to be a Republic, Vel Anir still held many of the same mechanisms as the previous state. The vestigare were the relentless investigators of the Guard, the Vigilite the careful eyes in the wall, and the Dreadlords?

Kress, those bastards were as slippery as could be. Some of them could even change their faces, and weren’t shy about doin it to fuck you ever.

Jast knew that better than most.

”Oh, I’ll join ya.” There was never any intent to do anything else. A test of loyalty didn’t really do much if you couldn’t get the other halves loyalty at the same time. At that point he’d just be sending Syele to her death.

Without much of another word, the two former Guardsmen set out. Quickly moving out of the barn and using the side-roads of the city to make their way out of town. It wasn’t long before they found their way to the Manor, an audacious thing that was difficult to miss. A low wall surrounded the estate, only a single gate leading inside.

Lanterns hung from tall posts along a walkway leading to the front door. No guards seemed to stand watch, though that never meant much with a Dreadlord.

 

[Syele Wilhart]

Far be it from a Dreadlord to simply stop at abusing power inequality rife within Vel Anir, the manor was also a spit in the face of wealth inequality too. It was an ostentatious wart upon the town of Darren, that brought question upon the need for such ruthless taxation upon its people.

Of course, Syele knew that its deplorable occupant wasn't the original owner but the roots of her hatred had long since overgrown and with it strangled the logic that might have looked towards greater systems of power that had allowed their realm to become such a mockery of humanity. She wasn't here to change the system; she was here to slay a monster.

A distinct lack of guards outside spoke of hubris, and as the pair approached in silence Wilhart was quietly thankful. The hardest part, she found, of hunting mages was having to deal with their mortal thralls.

Syele reached out to grab the polished brass handles of the main door, gently pulling them to check if they were locked, which they weren't. He was obviously comfortable enough to sleep with his doors unlocked, unlike the townspeople, who likely found scant sleep under the burden of taxation and the brutal punishment that came with it.

Pulling one of the doors outwards revealed an entrance hallway that greeted them with rich hardwood flooring and deep crimson walls, only offset by crisp white half-wall panelling. A flicking light cast shadows upon their faces from burning candles set within ornate wall sconces.

Spear in hand, she stepped inside.

 

[Jast]

As they entered through the doors of the manor Jast slowly slipped his crossbow back over his shoulder. Drawing out to slim knives from the small of his back. Both weapons clearly being far beyond what any mere soldier should have been carrying. Each one adorned with the sigil of House Marr, crafted so impeccably that they would have made a Dwarven Blacksmith jealous.

Moving slowly, the two Guardsmen cleared the manor room by room.

Creeping through the richly decorated manor house they glanced through doorways, peered around corners, and searching every large room. They looked for signs of people. Servants, Guards, the fucking Dreadlord himself.

What they found was nothing.

A home that appeared abandoned save for the light and lanterns still burning in nearly every room. "What the fuck."

Jast whispered quietly as they came upon yet another empty room.

"Did he step out?" The Former Guardsmen asked, more speaking to himself than questioning Syele. His lips pressed into a thin line, hand reaching to slip one of the daggers back into it's sheath. Fingers snapping at a small scrap of paper that had been tucked in his belt. "He does live here..."

The Lieutenant said, unfolding the paper. "Bastards su-"

Before he finished speaking the wall to his left suddenly exploded. Wood and brick shattered out in a concussive blast directly towards the two Guardsmen. Flickering like shrapnel and tearing through furniture and everything else in its way.

 

[Syele Wilhart]

Jaster Marr's blades did not evade Syele's watchful eye, the woman filing away the man's ownership of such exquisite weaponry into her brain to bring up at a more appropriate time.

Room after room there was nothing, a relief in terms of any potential innocents that may have interjected upon the Dreadlord's behalf, but frustrating for the hunt. It was odd, however, for there not to be a single soul present. Hubris was a reasonable enough explanation for the lack of security, but the lack of servants was what struck her as peculiar.

In her mind, these monstrosities had a habit of keeping what they saw as lesser beings around. Not for the company, of course, but for superiority's sake.

Internally, Syele began turning her mind to an ambush. If he was not at home, then they could prepare for his return. Stowing away in the master bedroom to catch him with his linens down was her initial idea and one that was interrupted by Jast opening his mouth.

Her head snapped to stare daggers at the man, as he began rambling and fidgeting with pape-

The force of the blast threw Wilhart to the opposite wall, the former guardswoman's disciplined reflexes allowing her to throw her arms up in front of her face and neck. Hardened leather took the brunt of the shrapnel but Syele felt the sharp sting that peppered flesh that was exposed, most notably upon hands, wrists and legs.

Ears ringing and equilibrium disturbed, Syele grunted as she pushed herself off the wall and staggered half-stunned further down the corridor, ensuring that she did not stray too close to the side that had exploded. She needed a moment to regroup, and hopefully, the former Lieutenant would draw focus for her to find an opportunity.

 

[Jast]

"Kress." Jast said to himself, head aching, ears ringing, a sliver of wood stuck in the left side of his favorite thigh.

His glasses had been scattered somewhere, dust and debris decorated his clothes and features. Small specks of blood quietly showed on his face where some of the shrapnel had struck him. He clearly hadn't been expecting the wall to explode, and as he dragged himself up he found his dagger lost along with his glasses

"What have we here?" A voice came through the quiet din of the room, punctuated by the sound of glass breaking under a boot. "Thieves? No, too brazen for that."

A man, his head shaved with strange twisting tattoos upon his scalp, stepped through the debris. He wore heavy leather armor, a cloak over his shoulders, his hand was raised, fingers half curled. Jast stared at him with dour eyes. "Assassin's, I take it."

The Dreadlord mused. "Shame to destroy a piece of my new home, but I've been wanting to redecorate anyway."

It was the only warning Jast received. The air seemed to pulse, and then suddenly strange blue darts sprang from the Dreadlords fingertips. In an instant the former Guardsmen jumped, springing to the ground as the darts flew across the room and slammed Into the desk he'd been standing in front of. A cry of pain escaping him as his already wounded thigh struck against some of the debris.

He scrambled, quickly crawling on the floor to grasp at his remaining dagger. Pulling it from the sheath and it one fluid motion throwing it at the Dreadlord.

 

[Syele Wilhart]

Syele's expression darkened when the voice rang out, smug words unsurprising from a waste of skin with a superiority complex.

The Dreadlord's focus on Jaster Marr allowed Syele to observe his power. Going up against a magic user without knowing their repertoire could be a death sentence on a bad day. It was impossible to always be prepared for any scenario when it came to the arcane. What a blood mage could do to you was far different than a terramancer. As a mage hunter, Wilhart always came prepared but in this situation, driven by a painful rage, she was not.

In witnessing another blast of what seemed to be long-ranged concussive projectiles, Syele surged forward, spear in hand just as Jast's dagger was loosened. Keeping close would likely hamper that line of offence, lest the freak was a masochist too.

The Dreadlord, in a split-second decision, chose to defend against the more immediate threat; the blade flung at him by the wounded man. He twisted into a sidestep, the accurate throw of the dagger grazing against his upper arm.

This gave Syele the opportunity to close the gap and when she was close enough, she lunged with a two-handed grip upon her spear.

 

[Jast]

The Dreadlord crooked a finger as Syele jumped towards him. This time it wasn’t a dart that reached out to strike her, but instead the very air seemed to form together into a thin wall. It launched itself forward in an instant, striking the former sergeant and sending both her and her spear flying across the room.

Jast poked up from his hiding place just long enough to see the other Guardsmen go flying. A curse echoing from his lips. ”Same time!”

He called over to his new companion.

Fighting a Dreadlord was never easy. Even the ones with magic which couldn’t sunder cities were well trained soldiers. Better than most Guardsmen in fact. What they went through growing up was some horrid shit, Jast couldn’t deny that, but it gave the damned bastards no excuse to be as simply awful as they were.

”We go at the same time!” He called to Syele, knowing it would be the only way.

As he shifted himself, Jast glanced to where his blade had fallen.

He knew in that moment what he had to do, taking a breath, the former Lieutenant suddenly darted out from behind cover. The Dreadlord let out a cackling laugh, darts of force striking the ground and furniture behind Jast as he sprinted to move around and behind the madman.

 

[Syele Wilhart]

The sudden impact that sent Syele flying caused the woman to hit the deck with a heavy thud, the back of her skull knocking against the varnished wooden flooring as her weapon clattered and rolled away. Rage-fuelled tunnel vision and her prior experiences with single-schooled mages had left her unprepared for the repelling wall that had struck.

She caught Jast's instruction with a grunt as the former Sergeant returned to her feet.

Wilhart may have doubted the man's character, but his tactic was sound. They had to use their numbers to distract and divert, just for the chance to get close and maybe then overwhelm the bastard.

As the former Lieutenant started running, so did she, leaving her spear on the ground. Jaster's path went behind and so Syele's went for the front of the Dreadlord, who swiftly realised this after releasing another volley of destructive projectiles at the man. His head snapped to her, fingers curling with vicious glee as a slew of darts now sought her.

Syele pivoted, attempting to weave back and forth to dodge his spells, each dart that missed destroying more of the ostentatious house. At the same time, her gloved hand dug deep into one of the satchels she had equipped earlier and when she judged herself close enough, the mage-hunter threw a handful of red grit towards the Dreadlord's face.

The substance was an improvisation she had found a few years prior; it was spice from the far reaches of the southeast continent that held a devastating heat even in small doses. Wilhart enjoyed a pinch to help endure the bland food of her travels, but a heaping quantity in the face of a foe was enough to sting the senses and disrupt concentration.

However, just as Wilhart released the powder from her hand, a dart struck her in the chest in return and once more threw her backwards with a devastating blow.

 

[Jast]

Jast darted across the room as fast as he could. Moving even as the Dreadlord’s darts exploded in the furniture behind him. Tearing apart wood and ripping through the careful stitching of the chairs that remained.

More shards of wood exploded outward, tearing into the ground and casting against the Guardsmen’s shoulders.

No curse or quip expelled from the mans lips. His focus was entirely drawn on the blade laying on the floor. He sprinted, moving with a surprising amount of speed for a man that just a few short months ago had been laying comatose in a hospital bed. Within the span of a few heartbeats he passed the blade, one hand reaching down to scoop up the dagger.

His head turned, the momentum of his body shifting him back towards the Dreadlord just as Syele cast out her weapon.

The spice flew towards the Dreadlords face, his hand coming up to try and block some of the strange grit. “Gah! You fucking wre-”

As the man swore, his eyes filled with the strange sandy substance, Jast launched himself forward. Kicking off from the ground with all the force he could muster the former Guardsmen threw his body at the Dreadlord. His blade flickered in his hand, stabbing into the other man’s hip as the two of them went tumbling to the ground with a loud crash.

Even blinded and with a blade buried in him the Dreadlord did not relent.

This time though it was not magic which came lashing out, but a brutal attack of fists and fury. The dreadlord kicked and hacked at him, striking at Jast’s kidneys and legs to try and shake him off.

 

[Syele Wilhart]

It was like being struck by a battering ram.

Syele writhed upon her back, coughing and spluttering as breathing became a marathon effort following the blow. It was no great wonder given the damage that the Dreadlord's darts had done to the manor and its furniture.

For a moment the sensation took her back; echoes of orders shouted at the wall as debris and arrows loosed around them, turning to screams...

The woman rolled over onto her hands and knees with great effort, her face contorted in pain as great-ragged breaths clawed their way in and out. Looking up she caught side of the melee, Jasper and their foe caught in a flurry upon the ground. The burn of the spice would only intensify from here, forcing eyes to stream and nose to run if left unchecked.

Wilhart forced herself to her feet and staggered towards the fracas, her hatred enough of a driving force to keep her upright despite the cracked protests from her sternum.

Hoping the Marr would remain enough of a hindrance to keep the Dreadlord distracted, Syele came in for the assist with a swinging boot, hoping to punt the wretched monster in the head while he was down.

 

[Jast]

Pain lanced through his side, the Dreadlords fist impacting directly in the side of his abdomen. Crushing his kidney and nearly sending him writhing to the floor besides his foe.

A fury took over Jast, his hands bashing into the Dreadlord again and again. Fists clattering against whatever part of the man he could reach. Already he felt bruises forming, felt his strength fading. The Dreadlord was younger, faster, as the two of them wrestled the Lieutenant could feel it.

Could feel himself losing.

"You stupid little fu-" A loud crack rang out as Syele's boot went slamming into the side of the man's head. The sound of a breaking skull and a cricking neck ringing out within the room. Jast letting out a swear as the felt the Dreadlord slacken beneath him.

"Knife!" He called to Syele quickly, pointing to the blade just out of his reach. "Get the knife!"

Beneath him he could feel the dreadlord shift, the blow to his head stunning him, but not bringing him to an end.

Not yet.

The man's hands turned over, his fingers prickling with pin points of blue as Jast desperately gestured to Syele.

 

[Syele Wilhart]

There wasn't time to think, not even time to take satisfaction in punting a Dreadlord in the head.

Adrenaline and anger was a potent combination in the heat of battle, and while it had been some time since Syele had belonged to a regiment, when Jast shouted, she responded with base instinct.

With her chest still throbbing with suffocating pain the former-Guardsman made a swoop for the blade and in one swift motion dropped to her knees and with it, plunged the dagger into the Dreadlord's chest. The monster writhed with a gasp, his fingers twitching as the azure glow dimmed, halting his next spell.

Yet Wilhart wasn't content with this.

The woman drew the blade out, and plunged it back into the man's chest with a strained grunt. She had to be sure that he was dead.

Once more, with a two-handed grip, Syele pulled the dagger from him. The exertion drawing a considerable struggle from her lungs. But she had to go again. The blood spattered, peppering them both as once more she brought the blade down.

For the innocent.

For her friends.

For Vel Anir.

For justice.

For vengeance.

 

[Jast]

Blood splattered across his face, crimson speckling into his beard and nearly dashing into his eyes as he covered his face. "Alright!"

He called, his hand dropping.

"Alright, Kress." A chuckle rumbled his chest. "I think he's damn well dead, eh?"

The body seemed to spasm beneath him, the Dreadlord shaking as Syele ripped the blade free for what felt like the eleventh or twelfth time. Jast shook his head, feeling somewhat sorry for having ever doubted the woman's determination.

His eyes flickered up. "Ah, whatever, fucker deserved it from what he heard."

Jast somewhat doubted they had heard even half of the mans bastardem.

"Lets have a look around, yeah?" He asked, Syele. "Then we can burn the place down."

Better not to leave too much evidence behind. "Oh and, sorry 'bout the little test. Never should have doubted ya."