Fracticide

Caz · 11-13-2009, 09:02 AM

This forum looks lonely... so...

FRACTICIDE
By Ghouleh

Chapter I

"All is prepared." said Masquerade, bowing his head in respect.
"The salves? The chemicals?" asked the man beside him, who sat in a high chair.
"They are ready for use." answered Masquerade patiently.
"Splendid. Then let us waste no more time here. There are deeds to be done."
As if on cue, someone knocked hard against the door.
"Ah... our guest has arrived. Open it." said the man.
Masquerade went and opened the door.
The man who stepped in was of average height, but his dull, grey-black tunic and pants did little do hide his broad muscles. He wore a hat of same colour, big enough to cast shadow to his eyes, and carried a rather huge axe with a curved blade normally used by executioners.
His most distinct feature, however, was a pair of ivory-white boots, masterfully crafted in bones, probably human, but it was difficult to verify.
The man walked past Masquerade as if he was a coat-hanger, and stepped to the man sitting on the high chair, who stood still and silent.
"I'm here, as you asked. That means you have a job for me. Don't waste my time, for it is worth money, and I do not take kindly on those who make me waste any of both." said him without hesitation. "So, Isador of the Shades... what would you have me do?"
Isador laughed, and leapt from his chair. He was a rather short man, having to look up to talk to the newcomer. He wore a suit of finely sewed leather armor that was dyed in a dark gray hue. His long, red hair was locked in a ponytail which snaked down his back.
"That is why I called you, Skullboot. I knew you were the straight-to-the-point mercenary I needed. Put it simple, the bulk of the Shades will soon be embarking in an expedition. Only me and a few others will remain behind. I intend to wipe out a... threat. A canker within the Shades, but it must be done with as little witnesses as possible. Not all Shades are going to be away when I do so, and some will try to flee, and warn the others. That is why I called you. I will need you stationed at the outskirts of the Vesper woods, to ensure that no one - no one - gets away." Said Isador, with a bitter grin.
Skullboot looked in the eyes of the short man. He saw nothing but malice.
"Fine. As long as I get paid."
"Of course. I expect nothing less than an extraordinary job from one of the Buccaneers, and rest assured, you will be rewarded accordingly." said Isador, producing a fat pouch which tingled with gold coins, handing it over to Skullboot. "Your work shift starts as of now."
The mercenary opened the pouch, took one of the coins and bit it to be sure, departing afterwards, without saying a word.
I do not trust him, Isador! To lend such a task to such an unpredictable mercenary..." said Masquerade.
"My dear friend Erastus, mercenaries are not unpredictable! On the contrary, you can rely on them for the most hideous tasks, for as long as you keep them well with their pockets full, they will kill and die for you." answered Isador, still smiling.
"Which brings us to the last component of the preparations" said Masquerade, his voice suddenly growing serious.
Isador raised an eyebrow.
"Oh? Didn't you say everything was prepared, Erastus?"
"Everything I had to do, aye. Don't play your games with me, Isador, you know what I mean. I held up my side of the bargain so far, and it is time to take out that last obstacle from our way!"
The smile still stood.
"Ah... but of course. Turandot. He will be dealt with, in time."
"In time!? What are you talking about?"
Masquerade was growing nervous. Isador didn't say a thing, and his disturbing smile just wouldn't let him calm down. Then he heard his voice, not coming from his mouth, but hammering in his own mind.
"Erastus, my brother isn't daft. I know for sure, he can hear every part of this conversation, for I can smell his damned witchery all around this place, but he cannot hear your thoughts, nor mine. He knows our plan, every step of the way, and will try to stop me. When he does, I will be ready for him. We will act as if unknowing of his scrying, and everything will go... just... as... planned." He heard Isador say with finality.
A single drop of sweat tricked down Masquerade's featureless mask, and he started to laugh.

***

Far away, in a distant swamp, near the desert which held the shrine of Compassion, a single, lone stone tower stood high in the middle of the fetid water and its denziens. In its roof stood a tall man, dressed in white robes, with long, red hair flowing around his head, looked at a stone basin filled with water, but instead of seeing the bottom of the basin, he saw the interior of a hut, hidden in the forests of Vesper. It was a poorly-built hut, but only a façade. The true building stood deep underground, and in a dark room, he could see his brother, Isador, and the master chemist of the Shades, who was known as Masquerade.
"What are you plotting this time? Another petty revenge? Another fruitless plan, born of your anguish? You never learn, little brother." said him to the basin below, and, with a gesture from his left hand, he dismissed the scrying spell, making the image disappear.
He reached out to a chest, squeezed between the many artifacts held in the tower, and opening it, he pulled out a short sword. Iron Eater was it's name, and it was enchanted with the powers of ruin which could rust and break just about any metal armor or weapon with a single swing. He then took of his robes, and revealed a suit of leather amor, much like the set Isador wore, and with a single movement from his index finger, a thick book was sent sprawling to his feet. It's pages shifted madly as if some strong wind blew, but the hot, moist environment wasn't blessed with a single breeze.
Suddenly, the page shifting stopped, and the man found himself looking at a series of arcane formulas.
"Destination, Vesper!" said Turandot, loud and clear, and reciting the magical hymns of transport, he disappeared into the air, vanishing as if never there.

Caz · 11-13-2009, 09:18 AM

Chapter II

Joharran shifted in his sleep. It wasn’t often that he had rather strange dreams. Sometimes they depicted a distorted and biased version of past events. Sometimes, they retold present happenings over and over. And sometimes, they gave him brief glimpses of events that would still come to pass.
He was standing in the midst of a thick forest. It was dark, and he couldn’t recognize the trees with such a dim light, such as the one given by the moon. He could be anywhere, but he had a feeling that he wasn’t far from the Shades’ territory, for it was the only place in the woods where he spent most of his time.
The darkness quickly gave way to a ghostly shine, as the moon was revealed from behind thick, oppressive, black clouds. He followed what he thought to be a trail, and only then did he become aware that he wasn’t stepping on grass, but in some muddy swamp ground. He was in some kind of marsh, and was lost, or so he thought, until he realized the moonlight actually described a path between the swamp trees, one that couldn’t be wrought by the natural embrace of light and shadow.
Following the trail, he noticed that the path only guided him ahead, not necessarily through the ideal terrain, when he noticed the mud was becoming softer, wetter and engulfed his boots like quicksand. Still, he pressed on, until he found where the eerie trail stopped.
He was standing at the foot of a tower, a rather small tower, but one that strangely rose out straight from the uneven marsh. How could such a structure have solid foundations in such a place, he didn’t know. The tower was of a very common design, only spoiled by the mould that gathered between the tight space between each stone block. A large, iron double-door stood before him, imposing, as if taunting him to open it. It didn’t look welcoming, but he knew he was dreaming of that for a reason, and whatever it was, it would happen inside that tower.

In the thick woods just at the outskirts of the main road leading in and out of the town of Vesper, Turandot negotiated his way through the treacherous trees that could often get most travelers lost. What a perfect place for a hideout for bandits and outcasts, he thought, and such was the place he sought.
Before long he realized his efforts were all but useless. He was lost, and he knew it. He never quite got how to get to the headquarters of the Shades, not that he was a frequent visitor. Studying murky arcane formulas was one thing, one he could brag about, but finding his way in such a place was another matter altogether. Fortunately, he knew this was coming, and so he reached for one of his pouches and pulled off a feather.
This feather was probably one of the first objects he had ever enchanted. A simple enchantment, one that was vital in directing him to the Shades, at least most of the time. It was plain and simple: When spoken to with the proper trigger word, the feather would point to the direction where his brother Isador was. And Isador was just the person he was looking for.
Before he could use it, however, he felt, more than heard, something approaching his way, and fast. Whatever it was, it wasn’t making any effort on concealing its approach.
He reached for his sword, Iron Eater, and braced himself for whatever was coming.
For all his expectations, he couldn’t have predicted a man coming out of the woods right before him, favoring one leg, panting like he wanted to spit his lungs off.
“You…” Said Turandot, sheathing his sword. “You are… Joharran, right? The mediator.”
The man nodded frantically, and gave himself a moment to recover his breath.
“And what do you want from me, Joharran of the Shades?” asked Turandot
“I…” said him, “..know what you’re up to.”
Turandot’s hand slowly reached for his sword’s grip handle.
“No need… for this, my lord.” warned Joharran, finally catching his breath. “I mean you no harm. In truth, I came here to try and dissuade you from doing what you’re so intent on doing.”
The mage’s hand did not budge an inch.
“And what would you know?” asked him, suspicious.
“Please, my lord. Listen to what I have to say. I… dreamt of you and your brother. I know it sounds absurd, but I sometimes dream of the future.”
Turandot’s brows rose.
“Indeed… I might have heard something about it from your mistress, Carbon.”
“Yes, and last night, I had a dream. Tell me, do you live in a tower in the middle of a marsh?”
The mage was surprised, and nodded.
“Then I must warn you: Do not try to stop your brother! At least, not alone! We could help, I am sure lady Carbon could...”
“Lady Carbon, for all her sweet talk, cannot make a madman give up on his deepest ambitions. I know my brother. He will not heed to any advice, and will spare no innocent lives to see his distorted wishes come true.” spat back Turandot, with a hint of annoyance in his voice.
Joharran sighed. Turandot wasn’t half as hot-headed as his brother, and as a mediator, he had already sustained much of Isador’s anger. This conversation wasn’t doing any good, however, he thought.
“You must not try to stop your brother alone! What I saw in my dream was… was…”
“Did you see my death by his hands?” asked Turandot, playing with the possibility.
“Yes.” said the mediator without hesitation.
Turandot was perfectly still for a moment.
“Tell me, do all your dreams depict absolute reality? Did all your… predictions, so far come true?”
“Well, no, but most of my dreams aren’t clear. Some are just glimpses, blurs. But this was completely clear, and real!”
Turandot grinned. A yellow, wide-spread grin.
“Then I will take my chances. Besides, if what you saw in your dreams actually depicts the future, I cannot deviate my path from it, can I?”
Joharran gasped, Turandot’s cold logic biting down on him.
“I believe we have nothing more to say to each other. Farewell, Joharran of the Shades.” Said Turandot, putting his feather on the palm of his hand, and, chanting a short phrase, the feather pointed to a particular direction, which he followed, leaving Joharran alone in the woods.
He thought deeply. For all the horrific scenes in his dreams, he didn’t know the reason of all this. What did Turandot mean with Isador’s “distorted wishes” and “deepest ambitions”? He never actually seemed to him as a person with a lot of depth, but now the mystery teased him, just out of reach. He could have asked Turandot, but that would only make things worse. And maybe it was better not to know, thought him. Let the two brothers slit each other’s throats, it wasn’t his business anyway, and Lady Carbon shouldn’t be bothered with this, he said to himself.
With a deep sigh, Joharran began making his way to the headquarters of the Shades, when he felt something wasn’t right. He looked up and saw the sun had just passed over their heads, which meant the afternoon had just begun. In his life as a Shade, Joharran had made the way through those woods a thousand times before, and over time he even learned the exact position of the shadow of each tree at most times of the day. But in that afternoon, something was different. An alien, darker shadow loomed just out of his sight.
Heavy steps came out of nowhere, and he saw the figure projecting the shadow. He couldn’t see much, for the man, if it was a man, had thick layers of clothing, and a rather large hat bathing his entire face in shadow. The only distinct features in him were the boots which made such an unusual, heavy sound. They weren’t made of leather, nor metal. In what sunlight that perforated the dense foliage of the trees above, all that Joharran could make out of that figure were those white, gleaming boots made of bone.

Caz · 11-13-2009, 09:42 AM

Chapter III

Turandot walked up to the center of the territory of the Shades. Several buildings, masterfully camouflaged in the midst of the woods made them very hard to stop, save ones who already knew of their existence, such as the mage himself. He found it extremely weird, however, that none of the Shade’s scouts and lookouts had come to stop him, only to recognize him and turn back. This time, the place looked genuinely deserted.
He put the feather on his hand once more, and it pointed towards a building to the northeast. Turandot looked at what he presumed to be the training pit of the Shades, for he had never entered there himself. He walked up straight to it, and found the door to be open. Was it carelessness, or welcoming?
The training pit looked like a large square building, with a rather low roof. Inside, however, one could see that the structure was worthy of its name, as a circular pit of some depth reached down into the dark earth. Stairs were sculpted all around it, forming a rather crude, yet functional coliseum.
Turandot didn’t have to look around, as the feather pointed straight ahead, where, sitting on the opposite edge of the pit, spread and relaxed like a king on his throne, a red-headed man, clad in dull, grey leather armor, eyed his brother with eyes full of malice and anticipation. Isador rose, and performed a mocking reverence.
“My dear brother, I bid you welcome. What brings you to the doorstep of the Shades of Sosaria?”
“Speaking of which” replied Turandot “Your fellow Shades seem to have… vanished. And indeed, I am surprised for not finding you drinking to exhaustion with Lady Carbon.”
“I sent the Shades away for this afternoon and evening.” said him, calmly walking around the pit “I don’t want them to interfere with what I intend to do. I have grand plans for this evening, big brother. Don’t you want to join me?”
Memories flashed as Turandot remember what he saw inside his bowl of scrying.
“You are an arrogant fool, Isador. You would confront the incarnation of the shadow lord of Hatred, by yourself, out of hatred? Can’t you see you fell right into his trap? Can’t you see this demon has you right where he wants you, and will drag you and your Shades to oblivion, should you insist on doing the same?” spat back Turandot.
Isador stopped, not far from his brother. His calm attitude was washed away, as veins started to throb in his forehead.
“Enough of this. I tried to play the good host, but I see you can only be indulged with a bloody feast.” His voice was scornful and dangerously toned as he brought his weapons to bear. He wielded a rather common and mass-produced short sword in one hand, and a masterfully crafted kryss in the other.
Not wasting a single second, Turandot unsheathed Iron Eater and braced himself for the attack that was sure to come. He knew Isador wanted to be the first one to attack.
And so it happened. Isador charged him, and right before reaching him, he crouched low and let his feet slide on the wooden floor, hoping to pierce his brother’s inner thigh, one of the three places, along with the neck and heart, where the Shades were taught at the same pit they were to strike, for great veins that ran there ensured death if hit.
Turandot, however, knew his brother’s tactics, and promptly parried his kryss with his own sword. For a moment, it seemed like the two blades were locked on each other, and then, suddenly, the curved kryss sundered in two, and fell to the ground, and Iron Eater passed just over Isador’s head, who know rolled forward, to the back of his adversary, and managed to get back up, as Turandot turned around to meet his next attack.
The next attack, however, never came, for Isador dropped his sword and cackled.
“What… have you finally snapped out of your senses?”
Isador merely shook his head.
“This is just perfect. You brought your enchanted sword with you, just as I thought you would. It is exactly the final piece of the jigsaw, the last thing I needed to defeat Astaroth. Now hand it over, big brother… and you may live to see my success.”
Turandot raised his brow.
“Do you think Iron Eater is going to win your fight? You are truly mad. If you want it, you will have to pry it from my cold, dead fingers.” said the mage.
“Well, in that case… Taste this.” said the rogue as he opened his hand and pointed it towards his brother. He muttered something quietly, and suddenly, Turandot was on his knees, his skin deeply marked by his veins which had turned fiery red and were blistering his skin. The mage gasped, his body wracking in immense pain, but his mind was concentrated, and he whispered the right words, and the pain faded. He rose to his feet.
“Do you really think you can take me down with a simple poison spell? I will show you true power.” He did the same gesture that was directed to him, and uttered quite the words ‘Corp Por!’ quite loudly.
A whip of white lightning protruded from his palm, and snaked its way to his brother in great speed, hitting him squarely in the chest.
Isador was pushed back, but then the whip simply bounced off him, and struck its own caster, causing a small explosion, throwing Turandot violently against the wall.
“Smitten by your own lightning! How poetic is that?” laughed Isador, watching as his brother got back on his feet, a great scorch on his chest and a hole where the central piece of his armor once was.
“Bastard. You already had a deflection spell cast on yourself?” Asked Turandot, coughing a bit of blood.
“Eye for eye! Did you honestly think I would face the arcane with nothing but sticks, stones and harsh language?” cut back Isador.
“You will pay for your arrogance with blood. That, I promise you.” said Turandot.

The man with bone greaves walked steadily towards Joharran, who seriously did not think he could outrun him, not with a wounded leg. He could now see a great axe hanging on the mercenary’s back. It was an axe used by executioners, for it was slightly angled at the middle, making the blow connect in a single point, maximizing the strength.
“You have just run out of luck, mate.” Said Skullboot in a rather crude accent.
Joharran said nothing. Sweat trickled down the back of his head.
“I’m sorry, it’s nothing personal, you see. But I was paid top coin by Lord Isador to let nobody in or out this place. Aye, I can tell you it was him all right, for you aren’t living much longer anyway.” said him, taking his axe and arching it back, as if he wanted to cut Joharran in two even halves
The mediator, however, stood still.
The axe described a perfect arch, but did not hit the mark, for a thick, metal walking staff had parried the blow and just barely held his would-be executioner at bay.
“Oh now, you’re only making this worse.” sighed Skullboot.
Up to now, the mediator despised violence and did all he could to avoid confrontations, but he was by no means defenseless. Swinging his staff to take the axe away from him, he fell on his good knee, and, pressing a secret orifice within the staff, he made a series of small blades unsheathe from various, extremely small holes, and then swung his staff again, hitting Skullboot’s shoulder in a glancing blow, but enough so as the blades would make their work, delivering a numbing poison into his bloodstream.
Seeing that something had gone wrong, the mercenary struck again in anger, only to struggle with his own arms to respond, but he found the response slow and sluggish.
As Joharran backed away as fast as he could, Skullboot let a shout of pure anger and tried to pursue his would-be victim, the numbness not allowing him to run, but still, he pressed on, knowing he couldn’t go any faster than him and that at some point, he would tire.
And when he did, Skullboot would have his axe waiting for him.

Turandot put his hand on his shoulder, only to regret it at the sudden spike of pain that made him shiver.
Damn, he thought, Isador shouldn’t be winning! Even with a clear disadvantage on direct combat due to his enchanted sword, and with obvious inferiority in arcane knowledge, he had the upper hand. The bastard was slick, slick and slippery like a viper.
“Are you tired yet, big brother? You sure don’t look in your best shape.” Isador mocked. Whereas Turandot had several wounds by now, Isador was unscathed and healthy.
“You haven’t killed me yet. You know I will not give up!”
“You call me a fool, while you only had to look at a mirror to find the greatest fool. You were great once! Before you consorted with demons, before you spread their taint all around you! The same taint I now try to expunge from this place, even if I have to kill you to do it. How does it feel, brother? How does it feel to have slain hundreds? How does it feel to have put your own town, your own family to the torch? How does it feel to have their blood on your hands?” said Isador, tears of hatred rolling down his cheeks.
And it was like all the discipline and self-control Turandot had developed during his years of self-exile had been blown away with the wind. Isador had opened the floodgates of his guilt, and now he would pay for it.
Crawling to the bottom of the pit, Turandot grabbed Iron Eater and made deep cuts in both his hands, letting the blood kiss the dark earth beneath his feet.
Isador’s smile disappeared. “What are you doing?”
“I must be given a wide berth, of course. You want to know how it feels? Oh, you will know how it feels, little brother!” whispered Turandot, his voice now saturated with madness. Muttering words he forbade himself from speaking so long ago under his breath, he caused the blood on the ground to snake around him and describe a circle filled with unholy symbols and writings.
Isador was completely abashed. “You wouldn’t dare!”
As if on cue, the dark blood shone like fire, and the portal between the material world and the outer planes was opened. Inhumane screams echoed around the pit, and Turandot called deep into the void.
And from the void, came an answer.
A pair of giant, clawed hands, dark red just like the blood they were called from, emerged from the portal, followed by just as grotesque arms, and on it went, until the full might of the summoned aberration had been unleashed into the world.
It grinned, a horrendous grin straight from the depths of madness.
And somewhere in the woods, Astaroth sniffed the air like a wolf. It reeked of the most unpleasant of smells. It reeked of his own kind.

Caz · 11-13-2009, 09:53 AM

Chapter IV

Turandot wavered slightly. The blood that gushed from his hands dripped into the training pit, only to be hungrily licked by the monstrosity that now threatened to break through the ceiling with its bulk. It’s great, leathery wings flapped in anticipation or in the pleasure of its feast.
Isador stood frozen, his face a mask of mixed feelings; overwhelming fear and burning anger crashed down upon him. He knew he had no hopes of beating that demon. He could easily reach out for him and rip him apart like a grizzly bear ravages a pup’s flesh, and a huge abyss denounced the discrepancy of their arcane abilities.
His brother was beyond sanity now; all his hard-earned calm and inner peace shattered like glass. The being before him, looking down to his own blood that coated the floor, was no longer his brother. Of that, he was certain.

“Where are you, you little worm? Come here so I can cut you in half, let us see if your halves grow into two!” shouted Skullboot to the winds.
Joharran tried to maintain a fast pace, but his bad leg was sending jolts of pain up to his thighs. His glancing blow with his bladed staff had deposited a very small amount of poison into his pursuer, and if he couldn’t get away before the poison passed through his system, he would be as doomed as Turandot in his dream.
“You cannot run forever and you know that!” stated another shout. They were getting louder now, which meant his pursuer couldn’t be far.
For all his momentum, Joharran paid no heed to where he was actually heading to. At first he hoped to be near the headquarters, but then he remembered he was probably the only Shade in those woods, save Lord Isador, and he decided he would be better off as far away from him as possible.
He still could not believe his own Lord had the gall to hire a mercenary to silence any witnesses, even if they were his own comrades. To think of him as a trustworthy and skilled leader!
In his reflection, the mediator tripped over a rock. He cursed, and used his walking staff to push himself straight. There had to be something he could to do escape, but what?

Isador took a step back, then another, then another. His brother didn’t seem to be really aware of his surroundings, and his abhorrent pet seemed too busy licking the pit’s floor.
“Leaving so soon, brother?” asked Turandot, suddenly pulling his head up and looking straight at him. His eyes were completely white, as if he was blind, but Isador could feel his murderous glance over him. He had little time to act.
Quickly, he ran for the door as fast as he could. A vicious shout in a language he didn’t understand made the demon leap from the pit in his direction. He just barely dodged a shower of what he thought were fireballs, although thin like arrows, and in one leap he kicked the door open and crossed it.
Turandot yelled again, his voice distorted and guttural. The demon flapped his wings, and sent itself against the ceiling, breaking through it with utmost ease, while the mage disrupted his summoning pose, running for the door in order to pursue his doomed brother.
Then something he didn’t expect happen; running with total speed for the door, he didn’t understand when he saw his brother standing still right outside, uncaring for the abomination that was probably diving to rip him in pieces.
Right before the two brothers met in charge, Isador muttered a quick spell, and pointed towards Turandot, who didn’t care. Whatever it was, it couldn’t save him from his demise.
Or so he thought, when he saw the very space distort between them, and it was like somebody ripped a gash in reality itself, for the next he knew, Turandot was standing in a completely different landscape.
He was now standing in a place he thought was very familiar. The air was very humid, and his feet sunk an inch or two in the muddy marsh, and right before him, stood his own home, the stone tower.
Isador was there, smiling back at him, the portal he just created swirling between them and showing the woods east of Vesper.
Turandot laughed.
“Do you really think changing the setting actually affects the outcome? You are a sorry fool, little brother.” He said, his white eyes firming upon the portal.
Suddenly, a pair of huge hands burst through the portal, and held its extremities, as if trying to widen it. And widen it did, as the demon opened the gap in reality even more with his sheer power.
Isador did not move, and Turandot merely waited for his servant to cross the portal and rain death upon his adversary.
The portal widened even more, and the demon started pulling itself through it.
Isador uttered a single word, and the portal ceased to be in an instant.
Enormous, severed limbs fell to the ground, and continued to move in a grotesque fashion before dissolving into pure blood, tainting the ground.
Turandot could not believe his eyes, but did not falter with his anger.
“It seems I will have to finish you off myself!” said he, unsheathing Iron Eater once again, and with his free hand he reached for the blood splattered on the mud. The blood seemed to boil, and it started to flow, entering the still fresh wound in his palm. As soon as it entered, the wound clotted and healed. The mage unceremoniously threw off what remained of his leather armor, as his muscles thickened and his face distorted almost beyond recognition.
Once again, Isador was out of words.
“What madness is this?!”
Turandot merely laughed, and took heavy, purposeful steps towards the rogue.
“I will put you out of your misery here and now, monster! You are worst than Astaroth. He is a victim to his own nature, but you chose such a sorry fate of your own accord. I will make you regret ever being born!” said Isador as he felt anger burn into him once more.
The thing no longer seemed to understand his words, focused only on the slaughter at hand.

Joharran was growing desperate. It was the first time he ever felt lost in these once so familiar woods. He hid behind a tree, for he couldn’t go on without taking a breather.
He heard steel cutting the wind, and his instinct urged him to duck.
The mediator did so in the last moment. At first he didn’t see anything, and then he saw the very tree behind which he had been hiding had been all but cut in half by the axe of his pursuer. The upper part crashed down next to him, and he saw as a great shadow was cast upon him. His doom was looking down on him, completely shadowed by whatever sunlight got through the treetops.
Joharran raised his staff, and it was thrown away from him when the axe collided with it in a sweeping motion. The blade was then raised high up in the air, and the mediator saw there would be no escaping from it this time.
It was as if time flowed slowly as a maggot creeping up a bird’s corpse.
He could see the blade shining as the sunlight made his eyes hurt.
The blade was pushed farther back, and began its motion, gaining momentum…
It seemed as if the environment around him got brighter and brighter the more the axe descended, then he noticed all that light was actually coming from his executioner’s left side.
His grip faltering at the last second, Skullboot turned his head in time to see a great sphere of fire hitting him square in the left flank. The mercenary was thrown, but did not get far as the collided with a tree nearby.
Joharran looked abruptly to whence such providence had come from. He could make two figures heading towards him. One seemed to be very tall and broad, and the other was shorter and slender.
“See, Thoth, ‘song-words’ can be useful sometimes,” said Carbon as she approached the chaotic scene.

Caz · 11-13-2009, 11:18 AM

Chapter V - Haa-haa-haa! Aqui está, sua escocesa maluca!

Isador dodged yet another sweeping strike from something that looked more like a bladed claw than a hand.
Whatever was that thing, he was sure it wasn't his brother, not any more. Turandot's grotesque, tainted form seemed to have lost all sense of self, and struck relentlessly in blind rage. In fact, Isador had no problem at all evading the creature's claws; for all it's monstrous strength that had already torn several trees apart, it didn't seem to have any finesse, and Isador knew it was only a matter of time until he had the upper hand. His hand clutched Iron Eater with a sickening grip; Turandot had discarded it just as he had discarded his humanity, and for that, he would pay.
Or so he hoped.
Suddenly, he was pinned to a hard, cold surface. Isador looked back and saw that he was before Turandot's own tower.
The creature struck once again.
The rogue ducked in the very last moment; he felt the rush of air that was followed by the deafening clang of the great iron doors being ripped from their hinges. At the same time, he realised he was in a textbook position to deliver a killing blow.
Isador grinned, and buried Iron Eater deep into the heart of that which had once been his brother.

***

"Joharran, are you hurt?" said Carbon, helping the mediator up.
"Nay, my Lady, I am fine. Just a little tired." replied Joharran, panting.
"And who would be this rather crude fellow right here?" mused Thoth, his dagger held up at the fallen mercenary's neck.
"He's a hitman, but that's not important. He was hired by... by..."
"By who?" asked Carbon, genuinely curious.
"I... I am sorry, my Lady, things have turned upside down, I should have told you before, and.."
"Spit it out!" barked Thoth, turning to face the mediator.
The assassin's moment of distraction was more than enough. Thoth was hurled backwards when the heel of a thick bone greave smashed against his forehead.
Joharran gasped. His nemesis had rather ugly scorch marks all over the left side of his body, but he didn't seem any less threatening.
"I've got a job to do, and no rats are going to stand in my way!" he threatened with finality.
Carbon held up a hand and started to whisper an arcane phrase. The Lady of the Shades was silenced by the infamous buccaneer's massive fist, which knocked her out.
Skullboot stared at the mediator, but then spun backwards to parry Thoth's now-drawn sword, the assassin's quick recovery obviously surprising to the hitman.
"Mediator! Take the Lady away from here. I will take care of this one personally."
Joharran nodded, and with a painful grunt, started to drag Carbon's unconscious body away from the dance of blades that begun to take place.

***

The redhead rogue couldn't believe his own eyes. Iron Eater didn't have any problem in piercing through the tainted flesh and into Turandot's heart, but as soon as it was removed, the otherwise fatal wound started to clot until it was but a brown stain in the beast's warped body, which seemed to redouble its efforts on wreaking havoc on the inside of the tower. Bookcases containing priceless knowledge, furniture made by the best artisans, works of art, all was being shredded into pieces, and the very stone pillars that sustained the tower threatened to crumble and bury both combatants alive.
Isador always bragged about being agile, but in the cramped close quarters of the structure, he could only do so much to avoid the mighty blows that could rip him in two.
He doubted that even Astaroth had so much brute strength, and for all the wounds that the enchanted blade had already caused, Turandot didn't seem to flinch in the slightest, shrugging off injuries that could have killed a man ten times over.
Isador begun to tire. He lost the track of time, but the evening was already falling upon them, and his hideous adversary did not show any sign of fatigue or weakness.
All of a sudden, however, the beast stopped dead in its tracks. The attacks ceased, and Turandot merely looked at his brother, with as much murderous intent as before, yet seemingly with no interest of striking at him any further.
"What are you plotting now, you filthy worm..? Do you even have anything left but blotted flesh inside this pitiful head of yours?" asked Isador, provoking it.
They looked at each other for what seemed to be a long time, and suddenly, Turandot struck again.
Isador dodged rather easily, but the blow wasn't directed at him.
The main supporting pillar protested at it was hammered with enormous violence. Fist-sized chunks of stone began to fall from the ceiling.
"No!" Shouted Isador, leaping at his enemy and cutting bloody swathes through the spine.
The creature didn't seem to mind the gaping wounds as they begun to clot as soon as Iron Eater was pulled out of them.
"No, no, no..." Said Isador, as the tower shook in protest, and, in a silent second that seemed to contain all time, it crashed down on them.

***

Skullboot was on his knees. Several red trails marked his clothes where the skilled blade of the assassin had punctured important veins. He had no more strength to hold his axe, as he coughed blood on the ground before him.
"Now that formalities are over with, my friend..." said Thoth, wearing a sadistic toothed grin, "You will tell me who are you working for."
The mercenary spat blood, which smeared Thoth's boots.
"Why bother with me... your cripple friend already knows as much."
Thoth grabbed him by his hair and made him look up.
"Because I would rather get my information straight from the source. I want to know who was the dead man who threatened the territory of the Shades."
Skullboot laughed weakly.
"Ye won't get a word from me. I failed in my task, but that doesn't mean I'll betray my employer."
Thoth tightened his grip on the man's hair and pulled it up higher.
"You would die like a dog for a mere sack of gold?"
"It's not the gold, but something you thieves would never understand."
The assassin raised his brow.
"Honour." finished Skullboot.
Thoth gave him a disgusted look, and slit his throat with a single swipe of his kryss. The mercenary fell dead on the ground, eyes rolling back into his head, and Thoth unceremoniously looted the corpse, finding a bulging sack of tingling gold coins. Putting it in his pocket, he turned around and followed Joharran's footprints, making his way back to where he should have dragged his Lady.
He would get to the bottom of this, he swore, and when he did, whoever had hired that lowly thug would pay dearly.

***

A deafening sound was heard all over the marsh, as a stone tower collapsed under it's own weight.
Soon, nothing was left but a pitiful ruin, nothing more than a pile of disorganized stones, surrounded by whatever was left of the walls.
A portal opened nearby, a gash in reality, cut in the exact same place where, earlier, Isador had boldly lured Turandot through and into that place, and, from the portal, Isador indeed stepped out. His face was blank, devoid of all fear, anger and hatred which had rushed through him in the heat of the battle.
Following him, Masquerade stepped out, and the gash in reality closed like it was never there.
"Thank you, Erastus." said Isador.
"Do not thank me. It was only by chance that your life was saved. I thought that you would be done with him by now, and so I decided to come to see you finish him off. Instead, I found you stabbing at his back like a maniac. You should not be so hasty in losing your mind."
"Sorry, Erastus. It was just too much for me."
"I told you I had come to see you finish him off. I'm waiting" said Masquerade, pointing to a certain place within the ruins.
Isador looked, and saw what he thought was impossible; there was Turandot, or at least, his upper torso, the rest being crushed beneath tonnes of stone. He was bleeding severely, his demonic regeneration failing to heal the massive damage that the tower's destruction had caused. His white eyes were still open, staring at the emptiness.
Isador walked up to him, and Turandot didn't move. His face was no more a mask of bloothirst, and as the taint left him as the blood did, he began to shrink, returning to his former self.
The mage Turandot muttered something under his breath.
Isador brought Iron Eater to bear and, with a sigh, buried the blade deep into the pitiful man's skull.

***

The night was already set in Sosaria. The full moon gave the great body of water around Cove an eerie light.
Carbon woke up. She was sitting in a bed, apparently in a cheap tavern. Standing up beside her were Joharran and Thoth, two of her most trusted associates.
"What... what happened?" asked Carbon, rubbing a sore spot on her forehead.
"You shouldn't worry about it now, my Lady. The wretch who dared to hurt you is now being nibbled at by rats and worms somewhere in the woods, but you should make yourself comfortable, because Joharran has quite the story to tell."
"What is it?" she asked again, still a bit dizzy.
Joharran began, "You will not like this, my Lady..."

***

Deep into the territory of the Shades, a single building stood out; the communal house, a tall, three-story wooden structure known by it's members merely as the tavern, where most members spent their free time, and where they returned to after a successful pillaging raid.
That night, however, it was ominously empty and dark. The winds howled about the open windows, and for all one could see, it was deserted.
That is, until a mad laughter was heard inside.
"Perfect." Said Astaroth. "The troupe is ready and the stage is set. The taint has been expunged, and so the pawn moves in in hopes of taking out the king. Let the spectacle begin, let the fires rise and the blood flow! Let the cold hatred blossom into beautiful, inexorable anger. Tonight, it comes down to nothing."

THE END