Fable - Ask When Fates Align

[Cassandra Galanis]

Cassandra was in agreement about the plan of action. She wasn't much of a planner, normally--more of a swing first and keep swinging person, really--so it was of some comfort for her to have some loose form of action. After all, if any of the men proved to be problematic, then perhaps they wouldn't think less of her if she fed the Shade a little bit. Having grown up a mage's daughter but never undergoing training, she at least understood some generalities about magic in the world, not the least of which being that the Empathic magic Raea possessed was very similar to what she and the Shade used. Perhaps it was even identical. She would have to talk to her later, alone; that conversation itself might prove to be more worthwhile than the rest of the trip. She'd long given up hope that she could expel the Shade, but if there were a way to control it better, then she would be happy with that.

"I think following them is a good plan," Cassandra said, plainly. "They would not suspect a woman like myself following them, I should think. I am happy to split with anyone, should the situation come to it. Perhaps Raea and I together might even serve as bait." As always, her speech was polite and dignified, yet that last sentence carried all the intonations of a hungering spider. It was something about herself she hated to admit, but always told herself it was because she was serving the Shade, not because she herself was violent.

She eyed the men they were targeting, briefly, then looked back to the table, smiling softly at her new companions. The thrill of the chase had already kissed her with a tinge of excitement.

 

[Garrod Arlette]

A nod, sure and pleased on all accounts. It mattered little if the act was an act. Water roiling was easier to manage than water boiling, as old Sinns used to say.

"No," Garrod replied to Raea and her refusal to stay behind and hide. "I didn't take you for one that would," he stretched up his arms, long and high with a yawn. Let one rest on the table, the other behind the chair as he angled his eye onto the drunken dwarf going on about some horrid war.

Garrod raised a brow at Raea's suggestion, "Did you take me for some lowlife?" he asked, a laugh behind his words, but his smile said he knew the answer. It faded quick as he looked back at their marks, the dwarf started to get up off the ground. "I am no stranger to dirty work, but that's not my style," he pushed himself out from under the table, the chair legs screeched against the wood floor briefly. "Now, if you'll excuse me a moment," he said with a nod as he stood up and walked toward the group that had gathered around the recovering Vindi.

From their table they would see but Garrod, offering his help to the stout drunk, concern on his face as he braced him with his gauntleted hand, and laughed the sort of laugh a kind stranger might give when helping an other move past embarrassment.

What they may not see, was the magick Garrod had channeled into his gauntlet. Its pale eye gleamed a ghostly green that shimmered blue-like and wyrd. Its sharp claws pricked Vindi's skin, quick and small and hardly felt through the buzz of booze and the ache that came from the crash. But that was all Garrod needed. All Belephus needed.

That's right, my boy, let me taste this man's iron. Let me eat away at him, ever so. The demon in the jewel laughed, but Garrod said little and nothing more than pleasant banter. His hand waved at the serving girl down. Vindi examined the prick, the bead of blood that welled there, his eyes fogged over by stupor and confusion, but as soon as he had heard, "Another drink for my friend here," and felt the squeeze of Garrod's left hand, he smiled wide and nodded happily. The promise of more ale was enough to have him ignore the sick feeling that spread in his gut and took root in his limbs.

Belephus laughed all the more.

Garrod dismissed himself, and walked off and away, to find some place to relieve his bladder.

 

[Rysorian Kadje]

“Of course not,” Rysorian said to Raea’s refusal to stay behind. He had never considered the chance that she would; women like her, even when their very lives were at risk, demanded to be in the front lines. He could already tell that this woman, his new student of the knife, would learn quicky and well. Again his eyes swept over her in appraisal. Young and fit, with good hands, and more to her scent than the normal human odor.

His training would not be easy on her. She might even regret it soon enough. But he would see to it that she would learn, like it or not. Rysorian didn’t have a problem with commitment. But did she?

His eyes drifted away to focus on Cassandra. The foul smell on her was dtill palpable, and he was sure her unseemly eagerness to be bait was related. Her words, and something else about e way she spoke, made it sound as if this was all a dangerous, yet very entertaining, game. Rysorian held back a scoff, and briefly wondered how well of a player she was. If she was careless in her next following moves, she wouldn’t be winning any trophies.

Garrod, the noxious swordsman, stood and found fit to mess with Vindi, tale cut short by amateur clumsiness. Rysorian’s eyes narrowed as he watched Garrod help the dwarf up. He saw nothing but a man lending a hand to another… but he smelled a suspicious and odious trail grow and swell and transfer over to the dwarf. Something more was going on there, and he hated it. His eyes didn’t leave the swordsman until Garrod was out of sight.

Rysorians’ green stare returned to Raea. “Stay away from that scum,” he growled. He turned to Cassandra. “You’re with me.”

 

[Empyrean]

There were two reasons a man looked at Raea—because she was strange, or because she was a woman. Neither reason was seen in any good light. She preferred it this way, but she’d be remiss in saying that sometimes she felt deeply underestimated. Still, she was quiet, her eyes falling when Rysorian appraised her. It was a nervous reaction—it was a look she had received before—and had to be careful to escape from. She wondered if it was something he had experienced—from his previous life.

A wave of dislike crested over her and she followed his yes—first, to Cassandra. And then to Garrod. She could see he trusted neither of them—and yet somehow she had garnered the most trust—and was perhaps the most deceitful of them all.

She watched Garrod—he had such a way with people. So unassuming, so pleasant. She narrowed her gaze before looking away and coming to stand as well, “Let’s see if I can give a gentle nudge.” Raea stood and made her way to Dearco, who paused to give her what she could only describe as a perfect smile. Raea leaned into the bar, looking around cautiously, a touch of concern in her eye, “I didn’t want to say anything because I didn’t want to make a scene.” She said shyly—as though Dearco might be mad at her if she said the wrong thing. Dearco leaned in closer—ever steady, ever calm, “What is it?”

“I think those two men over there have perhaps had too much to drink. I’m—I, I don’t want to ruin your business but they were looking at me strange, and, well,” Her palms upturned, “Being an Empath I could feel…less than pure intentions. Are they…normally like that here?” She subtly challenged his ethics and his eyes clouded over thoughtfully, brows drawing together while he worked, “Men come and go, but I run a clean, tight ship.” Dearco answered firmly, “They’re not new, but I wouldn’t venture to say they’re a regular I’d extend any protection towards.” He nodded to her newfound companion Garrod, “Folks like him? They’re regulars. They know me and I know them well enough. Folks here should know not to overstep where necessary.”

Dearco set down a dishcloth and looked down at her curiously with eyes too blue to be natural and a timeless glance, “Are you Fae, girl?” He asked warily. He was looking at her properly, now—not the way a human would, but the way a supernatural creature would recognize another.

“I hope not,” Raea said jokingly, “My mother was Nazrani.”
A slender brow rose up quizzically, “Was?”
Raea nodded, “She passed away when I was little. My father was an Allerian noble.”
“Was?” Dearco pursued, and Raea was hesitant to answer, “He passed during the Red Night.”
That bought her silence for a moment, as understanding lingered in the air between them.
Dearco pursed his lips, “You’re very short and pale for a Nazrani girl.” He put it bluntly.
Raea pursed her lips in return and huffed, “I don’t pretend to know the intricacies and designs of what makes us human.” She defended intensely, more than a little offended.

Dearco laughed and raised his hands and stepped back, “Apologies, Mistress. I don’t aim to offend. I’ll take care of the, uh—situation. A friend of Garrod’s is a friend of my own.” He smiled warmly, amusement dancing all around him and it lifted her sour mood, though his directness was off-putting. There was something in the way he looked at her, as if his earlier question was less of a question and more of him asking if she was aware. That, she would think about later. Satisfied, Raea made her way to the table, concerned she may have left Cassandra and Rysorian together too long without Garrod’s watchful eye. As she daintily returned to her seat, she drew her companions’ focus to the new drama that would begin to unfold.

Through the dull roar of the inn’s busy crowds, Raea watched a soundless confrontation when one of the men flagged a server down. An exchange of words—Raea felt a rippled of annoyance and then anger at being denied more drink. Now Dearco was involved, unflinching and unwavering in his decision—a cold anger on his handsome, Elven features.

Without much more resistance, the men got up and left—and with them, their irritation at being cut off from their drink and asked to leave. Raea tapped on the journal with newfound zeal before collecting it and tucking it away in her satchel. She hadn't lied to Dearco, she just hadn't been entirely honest; Yes, they had had a lot to drink. Yes, they had less than pure feelings. Yes, they had looked at her. But all of these events were hardly connected. People, even those who weren't human, had a way with falling for her words, and her, and she often used it to her advantage when she needed to.

For now, she would have Ganzaya's eyes on the men. They would need a decent lead time without feeling followed, and Ganzaya was everywhere and nowhere.

 

[Cassandra Galanis]

As Raea left the table to speak to her... acquaintance?... Cassandra was left alone for a moment with the elven figure, who she knew was growing more suspicious of her by the moment. She wondered what purpose he was bound by, whether he was only wary of her for the sake of self-preservation, or if he had a more altruistic purpose. Regardless, Cassandra was not bound by his whims, nor by anyone's really, so if things didn't go as intended here, she would simply find another way to continue feeding the Shade, as she always had.

“You’re with me.”

"If that is what you wish, then we will make it so." Her voice was, as always, calm and collected. It needed to be. She was mostly disinterested in this Rysorian fellow; she thought little of those she might have to fight and drain of life, as it helped her through those moments when they happened.

She watched with some interest as she spoke to this man--Dearco, his name seemed to be--and some unspoken understanding was passed between the two. Cassandra was torn; she was curious, but knew better than to get attached, especially to those she might end up feeding on. The word Empath came up again, something which made Cassandra increasingly curious about this Raea and her past. Perhaps the two had something in common, and if she could control the Shade long enough, she might even learn something. If they were about to have a fight, then she could sate the spirit and perhaps have a real conversation with Raea.

Finally, Raea returned to the table. Cassandra's tone was again polite and calm, gentle even.

"Is it time to pursue?" she asked, motioning to the door and the men that had left.

 

[Garrod Arlette]

You wish for me to track him, I take it. Belephus cooed inside Garrod's mind. That was why you gave me but a taste of him, is it? Just a drop of his essence, so that I may help you, hmm?

Garrod furrowed his brow, and focused on the dark hole that was his target. Relief mixed with anger as he let out his liquid and did his best to ignore the demon in the jewel. His business done, he re-fit his pants and strapped up his belts once more.

You tease me, as always, oh wearer mine.

He stepped away from the latrine, and all its foulness, and moved to the wash basin. That was one thing he always appreciated about Dearco's, the lavatories were clean and well kept. And the potpourri was always strong enough to mask the piss and shit that hid at the bottom of the hole. He splashed his hands in the water of the wash basin, lathered up some soap, and cleaned off.

Offering me but a taste of a man, but never the whole of them.

"Be glad I use you at all," Garrod grumbled, as he looked at the gauntlet, rested against the bucket as it was, its demonic jewel bright in the candle light.

Beleiphus laughed. Yes, how lucky I am, for all the power you give me. Yes?

Garrod's brow knit close and heavy and angry. Still, he finished his hand wash, and dried himself before he began to work his hand back into the gauntlet, back into the leather lining and strange metal that had become like a second skin to him. Slipped on, and strapped tight, he could sense where Vindi had gone off to.

"On the move already, are we?" He said to himself, and scanned about the room. In the black of his missing eye, Garrod saw a feint trace of pale green, a swirl of curse, manifest in the pit of his absent flesh. "There we are," he said, pleased.

See. Belephus went on. See all I do for you, oh cruel bearer mine.

---

Garrod returned to the table, and looked over his companions three. "Glad to see you are all still in one piece," he said as he sat back in his chair. "I see our marks have flown the coup." He looked at Raea, Cassandra, and Rysorian in turn. "Before we go, we should have some sort of phrase, yes? A code only we know," he looked at Raea. "I know now you aren't one for hiding, but if people are after you, then we should set up some measures to safeguard against malcontents, a prompt which merits a response," he stopped and looked over the other two and propped his chin up as he leaned over the table. "Something specific and simple like, who knocks at the door, and to respond, the other says, tis I, the raven."

 

[Rysorian Kadje]

Seated calmly with hooded eyes, no one would ever know Rysorian’s true feelings. As the marked men were made to leave, his eyes followed them only marginally, sweeping over them before moving on to more interesting sights. Yet he was aware of where they went, and with how much speed, and the flickers of return stares settled on Raea herself. As the door closed behind them, Rysorian felt a surge of tension release throughout his body. A deadly peace flowed in his blood now, the sort of tranquility a predator felt just before a kill that was in every way a sure success.

One set of fingers drummed slightly on the table, and that motion was the only one that suggested Rysorian was, in fact, not immune to the thrill of the hunt and addictive adrenaline of the chase. Not unaware of this himself, Rysorian smiled mirthlessly as he mused silently that perhaps he and his newfound comrades might share more than they thought after all. When Garrod returned and offered his thoughts with an admittedly wise decision of a code phrase, Rysorian nodded.

“Tis I, the Raven,” Garrod offered.

“Never the more,” Rysorian murmured, recalling an old, archaic poem few ever recited then. He stood, slowly and measuredly, stretching as one would after a refreshing meal and long-awaited rest. As if he was one of the humans who wasted away their lives, lives given no meaning or cause. He looked to Cassandra, giving only a single nod to confirm her momentary status as his partner. Carefully, despite how repulsive it was, he breathed in her scent, and then Garrod’s, and finally Raea. Before they left the tavern in pursuit, he would know each of them well by their smell alone.

He looked to the Empath, whose ways of subtle manipulation had already been shown to an impressive degree. A way with words indeed. “By your command,” he said flatly.

 

[Empyrean]

What’s your name?

I’m Raea.

That’s a very bright name for a bright-looking girl. Do you like shadow puppets, Raea?

I’m not very good at them. My hands are too small, the light always shines through and ruins them.

Do you want to know the secret to a good shadow? It’s the absence of light, from where it is blocked.

So the light’s not actually important?

The light is the most important part! Without light, there can hardly be shadow. So, at your darkest moment, when you feel you cannot shine—shine brightest. You’re more important than you realize. You will make magnificent shadows some day.

---​

“Tis I, the Raven. Nevermore.” Raea murmured in echo to Rysorian—only because there was something poetic in the way he answered to Garrod’s suggestion, almost instinctively. She nodded to Garrod, “That’ll do, I think.” Raea carefully pulled one glove, meticulously pulling each finger taught. The glove hand came to rest on Cassandra’s shoulder, “It’s time to pursue.” She nodded. “I’ll be following from the shadows. I came first, I’ll leave first.”

It had been approximately five minutes since their targets left. Raea grudgingly paid for tabs, wishing she hadn’t wasted anymore coin than she already had. She bid a farewell to Dearco, feeling comfortable she had made a new acquaintance at least with the innkeeper. Into the evening she stepped. There was a smattering of people—drunk, jovial or both as they went along the streets. Some for work, some for home, and others for hedonism—whatever poisoned that happened to manifest as.

The air was cold—no. It was colder than usual. She felt her skin crawl from shoulder to hand and knew the unseen adoration of her companion as his fingers traveled down to take her hand. He could not fully manifest—not here, no. There wasn’t enough light for her to cast shadow. Still, he was useful, moving through the shadows cast. He knew where the men went and beckoned her in his own way.

They were moving into the city—and that was well and fine. From the corners of her eye she could see Ganzaya showing her the way. He had been with her from a young age—and for a time she simply thought he wasn’t real. No one else saw him, no one else could speak to him—nor did he speak to anyone. He was a friend. Perhaps her only friend—but more than that, he was both a protector and subservient creature to her. Now that Raea was older and mistrustful, she knew he wasn’t human—couldn’t be. But he would tell her very little—only that she was the only thing that mattered.

She rounded a corner when she realized one of the two men had stopped to take a piss outside the establishment. She felt a moment of panic before cool, dark arm enveloped her—and with that she was cloaked in the shadows and all but disappeared.

Ganzaya himself was a not a dark man. Rather—there was a lightlessness to him. He was somehow pale and grey and yet neither of those things. He had long dark hair bound up in a knot—the same proud, high cheek bones and almond shaped eyes—except his eyes were dark—somehow not grey, not black, not anything—and yet everything. His personality matched his appearance. Strong, quiet—no. Stoic was the better term. At first she adored him. Then she was afraid of him. Fear subsided to acceptance; It was clear he meant her no harm at all, but it was the fear of the unknown that bothered her the most.

He pressed a finger to his lips and nodded to the first man who finished his business. It was the lightness of her steps, infamous among the Nazrani people that kept her from being seen, as well as Ganzaya’s ability to blend in—almost literally—with the shadows.

She briefly wondered if getting them drunk would do the trick. Yet Raea knew that enough liquid courage in a person would make them courageous in earnest and make things worse. They were heading to a shady inn—no. This wouldn’t do. They needed to be redirected somehow—away from prying eyes and ears.

Raea gnawed on her bottom lip, trying to judge the right discourse of action.

 

[Cassandra Galanis]

It wasn't Cassandra's first manhunt, nor was it even the first one she'd done inside a city. It would, however, be the first one she'd done for someone else. It dawned on her that she might not be able to feed on this men once they captured them; her companions might look unfavorably on that action, even if it was an easy meal of energy for the Shade. So, she tagged along on the city streets, keeping close to the man Rysorian--that's what he wanted, right?-- taking turns leading through this alley and that street, looking for sign of their quarry. In time their search grew just long enough for them to grow lax, their attention no longer as sharp or focused. Naturally, this is when disaster struck.

Cassandra was helpless to stop the man from abducting Raea. He was too fast, and Cassandra's vision in the night wasn't good enough to have noticed such a thing before it was far too late. Thinking on her feet, she looked around and noticed there were 3 potential points of entry into the alleys near where she had been taken. She may have thought carefully about which way to go, but the Shade wasn't. It sensed her growing anxiety and anticipation. And as she moved into the alleyway, it took control. Her charateristic red hair turned a soft purple, as did her eyes, and she drew the glowing blue sword, Kastor as she moved with growing speed. Eventually, she reached the end of the alley and quickly turned the corner, spotting a man who had just finished doing his business. Was this the right man? The Shade didn't know. It also didn't care. It spoke with Cassandra's voice, a faint and distorted echo of her voice doubling to create an unsettling pattern of speech as it pointed the sword at the man.

"Looks like you took a bad turn down the alley," it said, Cassandra's body having no intimidation factor whatsoever. She looked like a gaunt young woman with a glowing blue sword. "If you surrender now, I'll make sure this goes quick." The Shade took the sword into both its hands, as the sword resized itself into that of a two-handed longsword. It started approaching, a wicked grin appearing on Cassandra's face.

Then, the man ran. And the Shade hunted.

 

[Garrod Arlette]

It was on.

Bodies left the The Sterling Bulwark (the Inn named after the magic shield Dearco loved so much), and soon after Raea gave chase. Garrod looked at the other two, and got up from the table, took his greatsword in hand, and rest it against his shoulder, blade point down, and moved after his partner for the hunt.

The world outside seemed to swirl with shadows, cold and wet, they clung to the skin and sapped the warmth from flesh. He was glad for his gambison, and the layers of armor there beneath his plate, as he let out hot puffs of breath.

With his mark's blood sampled by the gauntlet, he need not tail them too closely, a pale green trace of the man, like a phantom, walked in the dark of his mind's eye. In that black where his left eye used to be. He could see flashes of the man. Stumbles, steps, the undoing of buttons.

Garrod grimaced, and stood behind the wall of a building, not too far from the man. Not too close either. He trusted Raea to care for herself, this far at least. She seemed the sort who could. So, there was no need for panic, no need to loose cool. Then the young woman vanished into thin air. Melded into the darkness. Strange sight that, to say the least.

Cassandra's hair changed colors, as if by some magic, and her whole demeanor shifted, dark and violent and other-worldly.

Oh, yes, I knew I liked her. Belephus laughed. I like all of these friends of yours, Garrod, a twisted lot, just like us.

It all broke loose as Cassandra went forward, toward the man who still had his pants down by his ankles. "Fuck," Garrod growled. He hadn't tagged the other man, he looked to Rysorian. "The second man, the one not pissing, do you have a trail on him?" He asked the man with the foul temper and long knives. He smirked. "We'll just have to leave the ladies to this one."

 

[Rysorian Kadje]

Strange happenings turned even more so as shadows enveloped Raea. Even Rysorian’s catlike eyes struggled to see her; he squinted, making out her outline as the utter blackness enshrouded her. Was this a part of her magic? Something about it said no, that this was in no way connected to an Empath’s innate power. It was something much more.

There was little time to ponder it, however, as Cassandra’s very character transformed, from a bloodthirsty lady to something akin to sadistic beast. Even her hair and eyes deepened and took on the colors of purple shades, and her sword glowed a vibrant blue. It was an impressive sight, and by the horrified look that passed across the pissing man’s face, also a terrifying one. In an obvious panic, he fled, leaving his partner alone in a desperate bid to survive.

Rysorian knew this sort of situation; the man was thinking, if he ran fast enough, the woman might go for another, easier prey. He did not count on Cassandra’s insatiable hunger for a good hunt.

Garrod spoke to him, and Rysorian scowled. He tilted his head at Cassandra, already intent on pursuing her unfortunate target. “She’s going to kill him. We have to take the other one down without making it a murder. Can you do that, swordsman?”

It looked like Cassandra wasn’t with Rysorian after all. Rysorian inhaled the air, catching the stink of human and urine, alcohol and drugs. Usually he wouldn’t have been able to follow a single man amidst all the mess. So it was a blessing of sorts the second man loved the pricey, bottled scents pampered men and women liked to spray upon themselves. The woody, deep cologne was easy to pick out, and easier to follow.

“This way,” Rysorian said. He glanced at Raea, to catch her eye before he left. He pointed at his knife, then at her, then made the lip movements to combine it all into a brief message. Don’t lose my knife.

He turned to Garrod as they set off after the man. “We have to get him into a solitary area and beat him down to submission. A dead man here does us no good.”

 

[Empyrean]

She would have called—she could feel the bubbling cry in her throat, threatening to give her away. Ganzaya persisted, his eyes narrowed as they watched. It was no small feat to keep Raea from wiggling free. He knew she wanted to stop Cassandra—that they only needed information, not to kill the soul. But then the man ran, with Cassandra after him—sword manifesting into something glowing and large—and murderous. The shadows around them writhed and quivered—drawn to Ganzaya’s existence, awakening from a mundane slumber.

Everyone had split up—it all happened to fast. Raea pulled Ganzaya’s wrist down, “Something’s wrong!” She hissed vehemently, only a little resentful of the way he was treating her. Her grip on Ryosorian’s blade hilt left her knuckles pale and her palms clammy. Ryosorian would go after Cassandra. Knowing what he was, she wondered if it would be enough.

Cassandra was—wrong. That was the only way she could describe it—it was wrong in a way. It was—, “Dangerous.” Ganzaya said firmly, though it was not to finish her thought. When Cassandra chased the pissing man and the other ran, she knew he meant to take her closer to the other man.

They moved quickly among the shadows, like a cool breeze in the evening. It was good, she decided, it was okay. Her heart was thrumming in her chest—she had not expected things to change so quickly. It was all things thrilling and wonderful and daring and—yes, dangerous. She gathered the skirts of her blue frock, boots silent as they skirted from building to building.

The man was in view now, shaking and slowly because he was no runner—nor was he built to last with running. His eyes were frantic and wild now, searching this way and that for any danger. With shaking hands, he slipped into a lesser known bar, one built into a basement. No, no, no! She thought! It was all going wrong—they needed to get him away from others!

Raea looked up at Ganzaya, “I can go?” She asked—feeling more like he was a parent and she was a child than the other way around. Ganzaya was a man of severe gaze and very little to say. It was hard not to feel small under his leering gaze, but he nodded, “I’ll wait.”

She hid Rysorian’s blade in her satchel before stepping out of the shadows. The evening air warmed only a little as she waited until the streets were clearer. She needed to know what these men knew and she had to take the gamble that they both knew something—enough. She hoped that it wasn’t a losing bet—that Cassandra wouldn’t hurt the other man. Raea waited patiently and half obscured by the top of the stairs that led down, taking a moment to smooth out her woolen frock, to tame her braid and any flyaways and exhaled, slowing her excited heartbeat. Whatever happened, she had to lure this man into a sense of security—and away from prying eyes. This might take some finessing.

She made her descent down the stairs.

 

[Cassandra Galanis]

The real horror of Cassandra's waking moments were always like these, where the Shade was in complete control and no amount of protest could change that. Worse yet, the Shade was hungry, which would only make the situation worse. Especially for the man she was now hunting. She knew they weren't supposed to kill him; she remembered faintly the issue of needing to keep them alive, something about information and needing to question... but all the Shade saw was its prey. And as the man ran, so too did the Shade. The luminescence of the shapeshifting sword trailed behind her as she started sprinting after the man, but he was quicker, only spurring the Shade on. They left the world behind them, following the man into the basement bar...

...and found herself suddenly at knifepoint, the man having hidden in the shadows in the entrance and springing a timely ambush, just out of sight of the rest of the patrons. Did the Shade feel fear at the sudden bondage? Perhaps not, even as the knife blade touched her neck and the man held her young, thin body captive. The Shade's strength was magical, but this was a precarious situation, and it liked this body; Cassandra was smart, and very helpful, and while the Shade was aggressive and hostile, it wasn't wasteful...

What the man hadn't counted on though, perhaps, was how the proximity would allow for the working of the entropic Empathic magic to begin its work, and its soul felt suffused as it began leeching that familiar emotional energy--excitement, anxiety, malice--draining just slowly enough that the man might not even notice what was happening, as he made threats, perhaps planning to take Cassandra down to a room for questioning. Still, he was able to take the magical blade, which would be a problem unto itself. For now, the Shade complied, the body of a young girl being the perfect disguise for an ancient spirit as always.

She reminded it, though: Don't kill him. We can't kill him.

It seemed to listen with some degree of confusion and disdain.

There... will be more meals later if we don't...

It was a good promise, it thought. And it listened, draining only enough energy to sustain itself, hoping perhaps that some help might arrive. If not? Well, there are more ways to kill a captor than with a magic sword...

 

[Garrod Arlette]

"It's not my first shit-show, knife-fighter," he said with a smirk. "The man stays alive, at all cost." Then came the direction, the call for the chase.

A nod, short and sharp, and Garrod followed after the other man, some part of him glad that Rysorian was competent enough to keep the trail, though he would never admit to the dark haired man that he would have lost the lead without him.

Footfalls came fast and heavy, and Garrod carried his great-sword upon his back, sheathed and slow to draw. But he could hear the sound of another, their own boots run ahead and their soles echoed off the cobble streets and the stone walls. But there were people about, drunken and set to wander. Obstacles that required attention to dodge, and the occasional stiff shoulder to bull past.

"Hey! Watch where you are bloody goin!" One thick brute called out after Garrod had tried run through him. A glancing crash that barely moved the mountain of muscle which Garrod had bounced off with a grunt.

Dizzied by the collision, Garrod shook his head. "Take to the rooftops!" he cried out to Rysorian, his arms and legs still pumping mad. With his mind he drew in his will, narrowed his focus. From its sheath, his rune sword glowed a pale green and white, and Garrod brought his hand to his center as he uttered. "Winds carry, winds race, fleet footed, gale's trace!" with his last words he gestured sharply toward Rysorian with pointed forefinger and middle.

If the spell worked, the knife-fighter should feel a swell of currents. His steps lighter, his frame weightless. A boon of speed and agility, perfect for bounding and hopping.

 

[Rysorian Kadje]

Although severely focused on the trail of the second man, Rysorian moved with a fluid grace that led him through and around the bodies in his path. He never did more than brush against the sleeves of strangers. Strangers that grew in number and frequency as certain bars closed while other, shadier establishments opened. Even with the man’s distinctive scent, Rysorian knew it was going to become next to impossible to follow him. When Garrod’s pursuit was stalled just right behind him, Rysorian thought it was a lost cause, though he was loathe to stop the chase.

He prepared to call on his own gift when the spell swept through his body. His breath caught in surprise as he felt lighter, almost weightless. He was already agile and quick, but whatever Garrod had done made him feel incredible. Perhaps the swordsman was not so useless after all. With a near effortless lunge that carried him from a low windowsill to an overhanging gutter pipe and above, Rysorian ran across the rooftops of complexes and houses with eerily silent steps.

The drunken man had no idea he was being followed. He did notice his companion had disappeared, but their friendship meant little to him and he cared more for where he was going, which just happened to be a brothel that hosted more men than women. He turned into an alleyway that would eventually open up into a narrow road that would lead the clear and quiet way to the whorehouse.

It was at this opening that Rysorian dropped down in front of the man.

“Ho thurr,” the drunkenman slurred. “Whus yew on ‘bou’, thurr? Outta mah way!" Ho there. What are you on about, there? Out of my way!

Rysorian answered by snap kicking the man back a good five feet, drawing his knife. “I’d like you to meet my friend, Garrod,” Rysorian said icily.

 

[Empyrean]

She thought about it repeatedly; How the conversation would begin. She thought—how do strangers exchange information? For all she knew he was dangerous. But treasure hunters often wanted the treasure—for her, Roen was the prize, not the silly gauntlet he and everyone else was questing for. Anyone could have that. But it had been surprisingly civil—though the glint of distrust in his eye mirrored her own. They had talked for some time, though names were never exchanged, nor intent.

He—that is to say, Roen—was closer than she thought, possibly. Malakath was an interesting place to start, but she could send feelers out that way if she knew the right person—and she did. It was otherwise too far and too long to reach. There was an outcrop of interesting jobs popping up across the continent. It was too difficult to tell if they were all tied to Roen, but one stood out to her in particular towards the south.

The man lied to her often despite the civil discourse and Raea she always dodged around it and found a way to ply the real information out of him. He was not terribly clever, but he was not terribly stupid, either. She almost enjoyed the game—he would say an outright lie and she would counter it. Raea had never lied to anyone in her life—but she was good at not giving all the information needed. It was engrossing and—if she were honest with herself—exciting.

It was a subtle thing, the way the change came—something that, in retrospect Raea wished she had been paying attention to. The way it slithered through the tavern, it would have reached them last. It was not Ganzaya—no, his cold was familiar, attentive but not terribly invasive—it always lingered near her. This cold was slow and cruel and unsettling. She had not noticed it until her target was rubbing his hands together furiously, while others called for the owner to stoke the fires. It was an obvious thing then, she realized. Something stupidly overlooked—too engrossed in silly games.

By then, it had been too late.
By then, a chilling darkness descended upon them.

---​

Trauma was a terrible thing. It was invasive and powerful.

Raea liked to believe it made her strong, somehow, the trauma she had endured. Limping with no clear direction, letting her body move on its own accord, Raea realized she was drenched in blood—most of it not her own. Her breathing was labored, and she was considered that her rib was fractured if not broken. She imagined she was a terrifying sight to see—like some ghost idling through the streets.

She was trying to think about what happened, but a stone mental wall forcibly kept the trauma out. They happened that way—quietly, stealthily. Or abrupt and without warning. Every time she was dazed, confused, alive. Ghostly apparitions danced at the edge of her vision, as if her memories were trying to sneak in. They were tall and beautiful and unfathomably cold and cruel. She did not consider if anyone else was alive. In fact, she was very certain no one was left alive. Rysorian’s blade was clutched so tightly in her hand that she was afraid it might shatter under her grip. It was caked with blood that congealed—it was not natural; the entire encounter had been unnatural.

Raea had been told she was made for monsters, and yet they always tried to kill—no. Murder? No, not even that. They came at her with a fury and a hatred she couldn’t describe. As if killing her was too good. They sought to eradicate her, to wipe her from existence.

There was no telling how much time had passed. There was no telling up from down or left from right. The trauma was seeping into her arms and fingers like ice. Ganzaya tried to appeal to her what happened, but she banished him and walked the road in numbing silence. Her head was spinning the way it did when a patient might be on the verge of hysteria. And though Raea shook uncontrollably—not from the cold that clung to her like the deep-seated hatred of the monster that attacked her—but from shock, she did not cry. There would be no tears—she cried when she was a girl, a young woman—but not now. Not again.

Murdering was not a thing she was good at. She muttered apologies as she brushed past the spare people on the road. A kind mother asking if she was alright—and Raea was fine. A gentleman than asked if she was okay—and Raea was fine. A couple that offered to take her in and clean her up and hear her story—but Raea was fine and kept going. Her body ached something dreadful now, and the heavy weariness was settling on her shoulders like a mantle that might force her to the ground if she wasn’t careful. For every attack, she was forced to murder. It often died wailing a strange and alien sound, like crackling ice, like a dying tree bent and broken from frost. Like the ominous wind of a blizzard on the darkest night.

She thought of her target, and how he died with fear in his eyes—that he was right not to trust her, but she gutted him—gutting him before he could be used. It was like that sometimes—they would feed on the living. Sometimes feed on the dead or use them.

No, no. The trauma wall reinforced itself and, in a daze, Raea blinked rapidly and felt her stomach twist uncomfortably. A man was speaking to her that she hadn’t noticed before. His hands were on her shoulders, and though he was looking intently and worried, she stared dumbly at him, hearing a deafening silence instead. She recoiled and stumbled away.

She was fine.

She was always fine.​

 

[Cassandra Galanis]

One of the curiosities of cohabitating a body with another entity was the variance in reactions to given stimuli; that is, that while the Shade was presently not fearful of the lingering knife at their throat, Cassandra very much was. As the Shade was the prominent ego at the moment, it was now presented with a dilemma that went beyond life and death. He didn't just need Cassandra alive, he needed her competent, capable. His existence for now depended on her survival, and it wasn't guaranteed someone would be foolish enough to take the amulet off her lifeless body, and wear it, and even if that did happen, such a new host might not be nearly as compliant...

Of course, being in the body of a young girl had other disadvantages as well, not the least of which being that this hostage situation had unfortunate implications if it didn't go well for the Shade.

"You have no idea what you've gotten yourself into, girl," the man said, lowly. They seemed to still be out of earshot of the rest of the bar. Was it a bar? It wasn't sure. But it deigned to respond. And like any good predator, it eased the man into sense of security, or at least attempted to.

"P-please, don't hurt me," the Shade said, borrowing Cassandra's regular voice. The man raised his eyebrow at this.

"Just a minute ago you were going to murder me, now you're playing innocent? You must be sick in the head," he said, tightening his grip and reminding her of the knife. Then, he did something that made Cassandra wince even through the possession: he sniffed her hair.

Fear was one of the worst emotions for the Shade to feed on. For fighting, things like malice, anger, confidence--these were what it sought. And if Cassandra was afraid, it made it weaker, too. And it was more than in-tune with what was being felt, by both Cassandra and the man who had taken them hostage. So, it turned the handle on the proverbial faucet of emotional energy, draining him of all feelings both evil and otherwise, causing him to drop the knife and slump back, releasing his grip.

But the Shade wasn't quite done. No, no, no. It turned around, pulling the man by the collar of his shirt with renewed vigor after absorbing his emotions, then took him out and threw him onto the street. The Shade was feeling quite confident.

There, Cassie, I got you out safe and now we can question him. Remember, this is why you need me.

The double-voice of the Shade returned and a more sinister look appeared on Cassandra's face. This was the fate of any who forgot who was the predator, and who was the prey, it thought. Now to get those answers, to get the trust of those other people, and get a long-term source of energy. It picked the man back up, pushing him against the wall of a building by his shirt collar once again.

"Tell me--"

Shit, what should I even ask him? The Shade turned its head to the side for a moment to think as the man, completely devoid of energy, drooled a little bit.

"Uh, tell me who you work for, or I'll skin you alive with your own knife!"

Yeah, that's a good threat. Of course, the man was drained at this point and unable to even form responses. Fine, maybe you just need a little more persuasion before you cooperate. It started shaking the man violently against the wall, baring teeth and trying to be as threatening as a thin 25 year-old girl could appear.

"TELL. ME. WHO. YOU. WORK FOR!"

It shook and shook and shook the man, then let go, watching as he collapsed to the ground, still unresponsive and staring into the distance.

Oh no. I must have really overdone it...

The Shade sighed. This probably wouldn't go over well with the others once it regrouped with the others. Maybe it could take this man and he could be useful once he recovered, perhaps. It bent down and retrieved the glowing blue blade, Kastor, from the man's belt, elated to be reunited with the blade once again. Then, the Shade looked around.

It seemed the commotion had attracted the attention of the rest of the syndicate the man had led them to, or at the very least, just the criminals inside the bar. The Shade sighed internally, as the men brandished weapons, rope, and all sorts of other unsavory tools to use against them.

Yeah, okay, definitely a screw-up.

At least it was in its element now. The sword glowed bright blue as it extended into a slender longsword, and the Shade adopted a defensive stance. Violence seemed to be the only way out...

 

[Garrod Arlette]

One eye tracked the flight of Rysorian as Garrod's legs pumped and his armor clinked and rattled through the chase. His little play had worked, and he was glad for it, glad that now he only need track his fleet-footed accomplice, who's form bound atop the buildings, high above the crowd and din of the streets. Garrod's eye flitted, up to follow the shape, and down to the street to keep from crashing into another body.

Rysorian dropped down, and in his mind's eye, Garrod measured how far the knife-fighter had been, how it related to his own position and the wind of the street. Faster he ran, to the alarm of those around him, his great-sword flashing as he passed by lamplight and candles still burning their late-night flames, orange and oily and yellows and red.

As he grew nearer, he slowed his pace, listened intently, heard the drunken slur and alarm of a man who felt his rope shorten up, the noose around his neck grow tighter. A blow, and a grunt that told of all the wind being knocked out of lungs after the compression of bone and a slam and a clatter that told of a painful crash.

Garrod rounded the corner of an alleyway and he happened upon the scene, Rysorian, devilish bastard that he was not withstanding, had caught their quarry. Without wasting a breath, Garrod strode over to the thick set drunk, clutched him up by the tabbard with a rake of his gauntlet' claws and with a grunt, hefted him up against the wall with a stiff slam. Garrod's great-sword was still in the other hand, rested against his shoulder and its long blade gleamed with menace beneath what little moon-glow pierced the darkness of the alleyway.

The spell-sword flashed a hungry smile, and his green eye glittered with menace. "Now, you're going to tell us all you know about the Dread Margrave, or my friend over there is going to take his knife and peel you like an apple," he re-adjusted his grip, pulled the man forward and slammed him back against the stone wall. "Bit by bloody bit, you hear me?"

The man coughed, as he tried to find his breath, and then he began to laugh, low and to himself. "Dread Margrave, is ih, Thas wha ya wan a know?"

Garrod slammed his heel down on the man's foot, heavy and full.

The man howled and winced, and Garrod dropped his forearm against his chest to stifle the sound and pressed the boney-cold metal of his gauntlet up against the man's windpipe. "Did I stutter, pig-shit?"

The man coughed and wheezed as his breaths were made shorter.

 

[Rysorian Kadje]

Standing behind the swordsman, Rysorian’s face wrinkled with a grimace. It was true that the luckless, drunken man smelled atrocious. His smell was thick with the odorous perfume he preferred, exacerbated by alcohol, sex, and now fear. But it was not he that increased the hostility in Rysorian’s green eyes but Garrod himself. Yes, he hadn’t liked the swordsman to begin with, but watching the swordsman work his cruelty on the drunk confirmed Rysorian’s general opinion that all humans were scum.

All.

Still, a job was a job, and Rysorian was not about to fail in the task he’d been given. Stepping forward, he reached out a hand to place on Garrod’s shoulder, easing off the pressure that threatened to suffocate their stinking victim. The drunken man rolled over, coughing as he sucked in the noxious air. Several vile curses rolled from the mouth of the “pig-shit”. Rysorian rolled his eyes as he leaned down and brandished his knife and rolled the man over again.

Pig Shit didn’t have any time to gawk at the blade before Rysorian smacked him hard with the flat. The blade came around again into another smack. A pair of thin red lines on both the man’s cheeks formed and wept blood. In the next instant, Rysorian’s knife tip pressed against the man’s throat.

“I’ll do more than skin you,” Rysorian stated flatly. “Now choose your next words wisely. If I think you’re lying…” he leaned down and hissed into the mans’ terrified face. “… you will be very. Very. Sorry. Tell me what you know of the Dread Margrave.”

“I… I dunno nuthin’, I-“

“Lies!” Rysorian yelled. His knife carved a small, painful cut into the man’s throat, and slid downward, less than a millimeter, forming a small flap of skin. Pig Shit screamed.

“I’m going to enjoy this,” Rysorian smiled pleasantly.

“No! Nooo! Please, I…. South! South! He in th’ South! Buddy of mine, said he was huntin’ with ‘im in the South! Near… near… th’ s-swamp?”

Rysorian straightened and gestured to Garrod. “Your turn.”

 

[Empyrean]

She had come, only just in time, if one could call it that. It might have been by chance, but she wasn't sure and her head was splitting from the night's absurd events. She would not release Rysorian's blade, probably even if he asked her to. It was her armor at the moment, despite how alarming she looked.

South. Roen was south. She looked at Garrod as if she might have a better idea of what that meant while Rysorian interrogated the man. Her brows furrowed, and her mind suddenly felt like a jumbled puzzle that needed solving, "I lost Cassandra..." She said absently. Did she kill her? Was she there? She couldn't remember...she couldn't recall what all happened...

Raea opened her mouth to speak, but there weren't words, so she closed her mouth again and tried to sort through the last half hour. She wished she hadn't stayed hidden. She wished she had more to offer than just a healing hand. Something terrible had happened and it turned her world upside down. Then it occurred to her, and she regarded the man Garrod and Rysorian were forcing to talk. "Your friend is dead." She said to him robotically, surprised by how detached she sounded even in that moment. Her grip on Rysorian's blade tightened, as if she expected some other monstrosity to crawl out of the shadows and eat her. She wasn't sorry--not really. But she felt he should know, strange as that were.

It felt as if large chunks of the night's events were suddenly missing. Had she hurt Cassandra? Everyone was suddenly scattered. Why? Why had she insisted they split up and find these men? What had possessed her to go through with this? Her blue frock was stiff and stained and she was suddenly self conscious.

Raea was no fighter. No seasoned warrior, she did not possess the resolve and grit that people like Garrod, Cassandra and Rysorian did. She recalled the bar. She recalled--something. And then cold terror...biting frost and disorientation. Unbridled fury. A fear of dying. A terrifying attempt to live.

She desperately wanted the night to be over with. Alliria was a cage, and their fates aligned like a key that unlocked the door to the rest of the world--to something terrifyingly big, bigger than them all, perhaps. Raea felt the confines of Alliria her whole life, and she wondered if she had the strength to leave; that the answers she wanted might not be what she hoped for or wanted. If it allowed her to make sense--if it allowed a strange, golden-eyed girl like her to make sense and to belong and to fit...

...she could walk through that gilded cage, couldn't she?

"We should look for her."

 

[Cassandra Galanis]

It wasn't the first time the Shade had been surrounded on all sides. However, those other times were usually with monsters, or professional soldiers. These were only street thugs, it mused to itself, but the potential energy to be earned here was great indeed, and how much of a fight could they really put up. It let out a toothy grin with Cassandra's face, goading the men into attacking her.

"Come on, I'm just a girl, you can take me!" it said. It seemed to work as one of the men sprung forward with a large club in hand, swinging viciously, which the Shade easily dodged, then impaled the man with the sword's tip, killing him instantly as it drank his energy through the blade.

Yeah, Yeah, come on, I'm just getting started, it thought, as another man moved in from behind, with a large, jagged dagger. The Shade could sense his footsteps in the earth itself, and effortlessly spun from back to front with the two-handed blade, cleaving the man with a large gash across his chest which only suffused the Shade's spirit more. Cassandra herself was hiding somewhere in the recesses of her own mind, as always trying to turn a blind eye to the violence the spirit within her was capable of.

Not that anyone would miss these creeps, though. After cutting down the one man, and sensing the sudden intimidation from the others, it took the opportunity to go on the offensive, leaping into the air towards one of the assailants and shifting the sword into a new form, a large and thick dagger, which it used to plunge into the neck of the hapless thug who was still too stunned to see this thin, almost skeleton of a woman tearing their group to shreds before their very eyes. By this point Cassandra was almost bathed in the blood of the men, as the energy continued to fuel the Shade, which by now had attained its full regular combat strength again, complete with inhuman strength and reflexes, fueled by the dark magic which kept its very spirit intact...

Where are the others? Cassandra thought.

 

[Garrod Arlette]

Garrod looked on, eye narrowed and his lips pursed with a mild confusion. Not sure if what he had seen was but an act, or Rysorian's true blood lust. "Right, gladly," he said, making a mental note that the knife fighter was very likely a serial killer. Or an assassin. Or any number of violent professions that lended themselves more easily actual torture.

He grabbed the man up, like one did a sack of potatoes handed off, and shook him once more. "Look here, pig shit-"

But then came the sound of footsteps behind him. It was enough to have Garrod stop the interrogation and crane his head to find Raea standing at the mouth of the alleyway. Something about how she looked, empty and confused, froze the monster hunter in place. She spoke of the other man being dead, and the fat man quivered in Garrod's grasp. Squirmed.

"No, please, please don't kill me! I swear, that's all I know, Rumor has him down south, down in the bogs!"

Garrod's eye snapped back to the man, he huffed, and he let him go.

Raea spoke of finding her... "Cassandra?" Garrod asked as the pigshit ran away.

Screams, loud in the night, came from the distance. The night only grew madder and madder. Garrod looked to Rysorian, then back at Raea, who looked to be in no condition for more of...whatever was going on. He regripped his sword, rolled his shoulder and cleared his throat. "Well, I guess I'll lead the way," he said.

It wasn't long before they found people running away from something. A whir of light in the distance, blue and magical. It shifted, and another figure crumpled to the ground.

"Fuck," Garrod cursed, and raised his sword in guard. Whoever or whatever it was, it was drenched in blood, and bodies were littered around it.

My, what curious company you have chosen for the night, oh bearer mine. The demon in his gauntlet cooed. You might need me to best this foe.

"Any idea what the hell that is?" he asked the other two with him.

---

Empyrean Rysorian Kadje Cassandra Galanis

 

[Rysorian Kadje]

Despite the noxious air, Rysorian picked up Raea’s distinctive scent even before she found them. A single glance at her revealed something had happened – something wrong – but what that was Rysorian could not tell.

He was about to ask her, for sake of remaining informed, when screams erupted in the distance. He spun around, all his mental alarms ringing in his head. He’d heard screams like that before. He didn’t argue with Garrod as the swordsman set off towards the sounds, but merely chose to follow. There was no time for petty disputes.

There were bodies, the smell of fresh blood, strewn over the streets near the brothel. Like the lights that sometimes shrouded the night sky in mysterious beauty, the demonic light pulsed, wavered, and glowed, hungry and malicious. Despite its formless shape, it seemed to turn towards them, expectant.

Eyes narrowing to slits, Rysorian regarded the light with all the hatred the natural had for the unnatural. The smell of death and evil soured the air, and for Rysorian it was a smell all too familiar. Instinctively her crouched close to the ground, shoulders slightly hunched as a nearly animalistic growl issued from his throat. His hand gripped the handle of his knife so hard the knuckles were sharp and white.

Garrod asked a rather stupid question.

“No,” Rysorian meant to say.

“Kill….” He snarled instead.

 

[Empyrean]

"Wha--kill? We can't kill anyone!" Raea protested suddenly with a heavy sigh, despite herself. What she meant to say is that they shouldn't kill anyone.

Moral obligation was a fickle, arbitrary thing. It always suited the questioner. Raea had no right to say others had no right to kill when she was just as much a murderess if not more; That she wore the blood of others--quite literally--was a testament to that. But it was okay, was it not? It was in the name of surviving.

Morality was a grey, ever-changing cloud. You could lie and cheat and murder when it suited you--but only you, and no one else. Raea felt disgusted with herself and regretted the words as soon as they came out of her mouth. Was she no different than Garrod or Rysorian? Than the men they were prowling around prying information from? One of them was dead and it was her fault. If Cassandra was a threat, she should be taken out like any other threat. So why did Raea feel so strongly about this particular time of all times?! They had just met the woman and were already trying to kill her.

Raea had been hunted, and forced to defend herself--that's what she wanted to reason. Looking helplessly at Rysorian, she almost reached to touch him--almost. "If it's Cassandra we need to find her before others get hurt. Rysorian can you at least track her?" Behind this was a silent, useless plea not to kill anyone.

She was bone tired, weary to her soul and in dire need of the hottest bath that the earth had to offer from the deepest pits of its belly. Her hand were starting to tingle from clutching Rysorian's blade too tightly. She glanced from Garrod to the man they had interrogated.

"I can't stop you from saying anything, but if our target knows we're coming," In an angry stride she crossed over to him and grabbed him firmly by his wrist. He hissed in pain and she barely pushed his emotions off of her when they threatened to drape over her like a weighted blanket. It was enough--enough to glean his Absolute Truths; That if she needed to find him, she'd have a solid enough lead, "I will find you and gut you personally." It was a strangely dark threat from a young, tiny woman, but Arethil's streets had been unkind to her and she had developed--when the occasion called for it--the need to be unpleasant in return.

Raea released him and he ran, instantly lost in the crowd that was fleeing. One of them nearly knocked her over--and who would have the thought to apologize when fleeing for their life?

"Let's go, we have to make sure she's alright!" She called out as throngs of people screamed and fled past them.

 

[Cassandra Galanis]

There was a good reason the Shade stayed away from cities, despite the preponderance of potential prey. By the time the group had arrived again, it was covered in the blood of the many thugs who had tried to attack it. It was uncommon for the Shade to be the one on the defensive, although in this circumstance it had proven to be a way for it to become fully sated, Cassandra's body emanating a soft teal glow against the darkness of the dimly lit street. If this was the reward, then the Shade was certainly interested in working more with these new companions, as it could be a great source of energy. It mused on how wolves hunted in packs, rather than alone, and perhaps the Shade could use such teamwork.

Except, the people it had worked with hours before seemed to be pointing weapons and words at it. Within the recesses of her own mind, Cassandra recoiled in fear at the sight. To normal eyes, it looked like Cassandra, except her hair and eyes had grown a pale shade of purple rather than their typical respective red and green, with a gaunt, hungry appearance almost ghoulish in nature, although still unmistakably human. To those with sight of what lay beneath, though, the Shade would have appeared as a warrior, clad in gray armor and whose visage was only half-visible. The visible part was clearly that of a skeleton, with a single red eye visible in the eye socket.

"You're back," it said, its voice overlapping with Cassandra's as it spoke. "I... they tried to take the girl, and weren't happy when I resisted..."

Still, it lifted the sword, readying against the two who seemed to be itching for a fight. It nodded its head towards the unconscious man against the wall. "That one's only unconscious. I got a little too rough with him. But, he may have answers. Not so good with the interrogation, hehe..."