Freedom's Delusion (Crimson Edge)

[Wrenmae]

Winter 5, 511 AV

Freedom. Tastes of honeysuckle, no, carrion. No, the dew on rooftops after spring dawns. No. Impossibilities bred more questions and even metaphor could not define the feeling of movement. Wrenmae, no, Weaver now? He discarded his bloody clothes in an alley, using the garments he'd taken off his former captor. CAPTOR, antagonist, no...minor character, setback, the rise and fall of story arcs...he was not so eager as to assign such importance to a minor character.

Wrenmae took time to tame his look once more. Darkness had cast a shadow on his skin and about his eyes, night and day had lost meaning and now so newly introduced, they only vexed him. His hair he tended first, running his fingers along the oily locks till they all laid one direction. His stubble, impossible, he took up his dagger and dragged it across his chin. It sounded like grating wind, short sticks and hard metal. Sheathing it as his waist, Weaver stretched. Important, always important to be limber. He was not a fighter, HAD not been a fighter. Days ago, weeks ago, forever ago...once. But it was different now. He could see the lines of meta-narrative, the twists and turns of personal plots and the grand arching design of the story.

Plague bearer, Blighter, Shrouded, Vayt's chosen. These were the titles he had eschewed, forgotten, even escape to an extent. But no villain was ever hero for long without consequences.

Consequences, scars, ember-hot, dead-settled, ripe like maggots on his skin. Pale lines of latitude and longitude defining his body in a language of bondage. No, the old man had been right. Vantha, Vantha, they had called him the Vantha. Pyris, the tale weaver, the traveler. Well...he had taken up a name before and wore it like a badge.

Now he spread it across his skin, bronze-heavy, cold-dark, the guise of madness and villainy thrice crossed with purpose.

He was immortal.

Not so much so as to deny the track of storyline. He could not kill and not be killed and a blade would cleave his life as easily as it would any other. But he was greater than the sum total of his parts, now. If he followed the line of logic he had adopted, his storyling, his rising and falling, he would reach the pinacle of villainy.

Give rise to heroes? yes. Save Mizahar? No...can one save the damned? The broken? Who protected shards? HA! He laughed, chuckled than guffawed. An uproarious, choking sound...it crowded the alley and drew gazes to him. He grinned, all of them. Such minor thugs, the thing of bawdy tavern tales perhaps. Would they ascend to the heights of narrative importance? Never! Their lives were lived in such simple placid static...how could the stagnant pool drown the village if it never moved an inch?

Ludicrous, Poppycock, Petch, Shyke.

He stumbled, two feet now, no hanging. He moved and drifted more than walked, a sort of gait of ends and jumbled limbs. Weaver, Weaver, he was the teller now and antagonist of some unknown hero. Who would be his antithesis hmm? Who would take the blade to his throat?

Perhaps he might have avoided the thug if he had been paying attention. Right foot, left foot, heavy, heavy, heavy. But he did not look, almost walked with eyes half closed, feeling his route. The world was so much more open now, so much wider than before. He wanted to take it and compress, it, force the minds and bodies together to create one mouth and two eyes....one person of ALL. He could speak then, find his purpose then.

Villain without a hero. What a sad and broken story.

He would have to make one.

Tumble all a-clatter, he was sent sideways from the brute who glared at him with sudden importance. Wrenmae had not been watching. (Weaver now, Weaver!) And such is the fate of the clumsy to crash into the most irate of men. Capable hands, sides of sausage and callous scarred fingers wrapped around his stolen shirt and hoisted him from the ground.

"Watch your step, boy," the monster spat, an ogre with fire from his eyes, horns from his teeth...then sallow skinned dock man again, and ogre again. is vision swam. Hypnotism, Hypnotism, where was his mind? "I dropped by drink, gonna pay for a new one?"

Wrenmae stared at him, wide eyed, suddenly afraid. He was lost again, caught again, bound by ropes of flesh this time. It was ludicrous. He had just escaped, and no villain would be thrust into the dark again. This man...this thing. Such minor inconveniences.

He laughed.

Spraying spittle into the brute's face, Wrenmae howled with sudden spasms of mirth, shaking his frail body like a leaf as he dangled from his captor's hands. "Oh but Shyke," Wrenmae gasped through laughter, "How big they make the fools these days."

The monster (man, ogre, wolf) howled at him, fury propelling muscles propelling motion, propelling him. Wrenmae crashed through the front doors of a bar and into the semi-crowded room. Chairs scuffed, tables moved, the smell of hops and body odor thick and familiar. Wrenmae was still laughing, blood freed from his forehead where a gash had been awarded, now it fell across one eye.

Wrenmae laughed and the brute came charging in, fists swinging.


The storyteller stared at him, so small against his brutish shadow. He would not die here. Fate or some god or even the story he lived in would not allow such progress to go unrewarded.

So he did not move as the monster grabbed him by his collar and lifted him from the ground, only channeled Djed into his hands. They twisted, weaving flesh and bone into sharp black claws, the color of Symenestra, pale on the fingers. Wrenmae smiled at his aggressor, a fist cascading down to knock his vision sideways. Stars. Moons. Cosmos, it was all so clear. Clear in pain, heavy hands, steel-fist, flesh-branded...he wobbled.

The monster brought his fist back again and the Weaver laughed.

He brought his hands up in sudden motion, separating his index and middle fingers, using the moment between momentum back and forward to bury both claws into the eyes of his attacker. He did not poke them, Wrenmae skewered them.

Pain is measured in cries sometimes, a language of sudden agony and the convulsions of shock shook Wrenmae from his hands and back to the tavern floor. Whirling in mid air, a monster in all senses of the words, the blinded beast raged.

Wrename scuttled across the ground like a rat, his fingers warping back to fingers with painful speed before he found himself a corner to set his back against. Another chuckle shook his frame as he watched his victim bring both hands down on another man rage-drunk in his fury.

"Chapter one," the Weaver muttered, half to himself and half to anyone else, "Chapter one, the Jamoura without his eyes...best luck to catch the reader's interest. Shyke, shyke, but aren't you the fool for getting in my way."

[Mok]

oocSorry for lagging, my internet went down over the weekend, and the company just fixed it this morning. Hope this didn't inconvience you.

The myrian was sleeping, his face buried in the table. He had been sipping on a single glass of ale when his heavy head got the better of him. Who could blame him though? The last few days have been nothing less than tenacious on Mok's body. He could not truly sleep though. It was safer not to. Laying your head to rest in this city was never a good idea. Every few seconds his eyes would bobble up to see what was going on around him. Nothing. Then he would return to his slumber.

Darkness consumed Mok. The hatred in his heart bleed true. He used this hatred to survive. He used it to kill. Above all, he called upon this darkness when fighting for his life. When engaged in mortal combat, one needs to ascend above the enemy to win. Some use the gods, while other use justice as their backup. These forms of motivation never stood up to pure aphotic fury. Those who learned how to harness the deadly energy could control their own destinies. Compose the aggression. Always push forward. Unleash your will through the blade. If you can do that you’re golden. People, who didn't understand that, were doomed to die.

Boom.

Mok's head suddenly shot up. Nothing. But this time he was really truly awake. Maybe it was a sixth sense or something. He tapped the shoulder of a blurry-eyed drunkard who was next to him. How long had he been sleeping? Apparently a whole hour. Talk about a damn good way to risk your life. His throat could have been slit at any moment. Best not think about it though.

"I need a drink," Mok grunted, "Someone give me a drink." There was no answer to his question so the myrian stood up. Immediately he could feel the blood rush to his head. Black spots began to appear everywhere. The front of his brain began to sting as if he'd been zapped. The light flashed. Slowly he made his way over to the bar in a daze. Ordering some more ale, Mok blinked trying to get his vision back.

Snap! Crash! Something busted through the door. Still dazed, Mok turned around only to see a large figure of a man looming under the arched doorway. The myrian figured that it must be just another random fight, not his problem. The big ogre picked up the man and smashed his head with a heavy hand. Blood dripped to floor.

Mok watched on silently. The small guy was done for, he wasn't even fighting back.

A painful howl broke out from the aggressor. Blood squirted from his eyes like two beautiful paint strokes. Mok had spoken too soon. This fight was far from over. The big brute clawed for his eyes and the other man scrambled to the corner. This was just great. Mok had not expected such a counter. He loved it. Gouging the eyes were the best. Shivers ran down his spine as he pictured the feeling of delight of poking at the soft tissue of the eye. A great move.

Mok knew nothing of the man who just crawled into the corner, but he was already on the myrians good side.

The raging brute then proceeded to swing wildly at another mistaken for his opponent. Mok was bored with it now. Turning around he proceed to taste his ale. The sounds of fighting continued behind his back. Suddenly to the warrior's great surprise, something wet and slimy hit the back of his head. It quickly dripped down his hair, slid down his back, and got his whole body wet. Touching the liquid with his fingers, Mok knew exactly what it was: spit. Someone spilled the cuspir on him. Turning around slowly, the myrian's eyes went red. A simpleton kid who cleaned up the tavern was staring right back at him. Mok only stared at the scene as the disease dripped down his back side. It was obvious that the simpleton was pushed by the raging ogre. The idiot would never throw the cuspir at Mok.

Rage brewed in his chest as he watched the brute continue to fight. The regulars at the tavern who knew what was about to happen edged off and remained quiet. Everyone but the big monster knew what was about to occur. An aura of darkness built around Mok as he decided his next action. His mind was going to explode! His whole body was shaking.

"Oi..." Mok said as he stood to his feet, "Oi..." The ogre continued to punch away, ignoring the myrian. Darkness seemed to envelop the room. The whole tavern backed away from the scene. The barkeep draws his sword.

Then he finally loses it, his voicing booming through the tavern, "Oi! Look at me when I talk to you!"

The ogre dropped his victim and turned around towards Mok's voice. Blood still trickles from his eyes, "W'the hell you want cunt?"

"Lick my boots clean."

"Petch you cunt!"

That was Mok's queue. The building rage was finally released. Grabbing his glass of ale, he flung it as hard as he possibly could at the man's face. It bulleted threw the air and shattered on the man's head. The myrian would waste no time though. The warrior was much smaller than the muscle bound brute, but he knew the perfect technique to drop him. Sprinting forward he raised both his hands under his chin. Once in striking range, the myrian punched the man as hard as he possibly could under the armpits. After contact he squeezed his claws and pushed the brute with all his might. Mok had control of the man's inside leverage; there was no way he would recover. The ogre falls on his back, glass shards in his face.

"You petching piece of human trash! You want to petch me? You want to petch me huh? Don't do it! Don't you petching do it!" Mok spitted at the dazed brute. His face, neck, and eyes, were red with fury. The myrian then proceeded to drag the brute out of the room.

Leaving a dark trail of blood behind, Mok would never kill in his beloved tavern. From inside, only the crunching of bones could be heard. Outside, one would see the myrian curb stomp the man to death. Blood and brains were the only things left of his head.

Red = Myrian
Bold = Common

[Wrenmae]

Pain, Pain, cancer-hungry pain. It nestled like a beetle beneath his skin and pulsed, pressed the skin and made its too-tight, too-small burrow. Scuttle, scuttle, scuttle, what palsy in the languid action of the bar. Ponderous stones throws, giant swinging hammer-fists and wood not fighting back. Shock painted complacency, and Weaver was not pleased with the result. All attention diverted, painted, SLATHERED on the rampager. Brute, ogre, he danced in pain but moved so mechanically it was almost painful. Bones against bones oh the pain of rigor mortis waiting! Ah but he'd make the dead quake with jealousy to see him sway so.

so

So, he was a dead man. It was written on the situation, the scene, more a slight aside but someone was bound to do it. He begged for death, pleaded, his bellowing roar the strangling gasp of an animal in pain, rabies thick in blood and eyes.

He all but foamed.

All
But
Foamed

A hand, ginger, held limply against the bump (beetle), bruise. Pain was the familiar language of certainties. He was here, this was now, happening moved onward and the play ever did call for the hero. But who would stand to take out such a leviathan? No mere task and when the man volunteered, thickly standing, muscles.

Grit.

He had the cut of a character, that one, not like the others that sunk into obscurity by virtue of their posture. Weaver snapped his fingers back, bobbing his head to each crack and pop. Life was worth living again and in the moments of combat, the giant was down and the smaller man pulled him out.

Wrenmae clapped excitedly, his fingers dancing together discordantly, triumphantly, jaggedly. Scuttling to his feet he followed the man to the door, pushing among the others to watch teeth against pavement, a downward motion.

Viscera! Creschendo!

Fin!

To an observer, Wrenmae's face changed. His left eye twitched, his jaw jutting sideways suddenly and his back popping into a straight posture. His once vibrant green eyes, holding the excessive brains and gore steaming from the remains of the mans skull, shifted dark, almost black. It was a change all in a few moments, but when it was completed, Shroud straightened his clothes, dusted off his shoulders, and strode out toward Mok with all the prepared footwork of a man thrice as important as he was.

Despite the angry bruise growing on the right side of his face, Shroud strode with confidence, born on the air of sophistication and perfectly measured malice.

Pausing near the remnants, Shroud knelt and retrieved a shard of skull, holding it up as though appraising. He frowned at it, measured the length of the jagged edges and then, shrugging, tossed it over his shoulder.

A slow applause began, two pale hands swiftly and stiffly resounding. "Well done, well done indeed. I've much respect for a man who can pulverize another's skull like a pumpkin. Marvelous strength, simply marvelous." His tone was different, every mannerism punctuated with poise. He was less the erratic fire and more the quiet acid bubbling away at foundations.

"Pardon my presumptive guesswork, but you wouldn't be Mok...would you?" Bob had described such a fantastic brute on their journey to Sunberth...so long ago now. The details were foggy, but black of hair, strong of arm, and swift of temper seemed to be the prevailing notions. Shroud clasped his hands together, swiftly turning to the bartender in the door and snatching his dishtowel off his shoulder. The bartender turned, his face a livid purple, but Shroud held up a hand and spoke, his voice thick with Hypnotism.

"I daresay our friend has more than earned the right to clean the blood off his person. The damages to your establishment would have been worse if not for our savior...certainly he and I are entitled to a drink or two...don't you think?"

Piercing his bubble was easy, inserting Djed into his natural resevoir, implanting the idea, much like a seed. He watched it grow, the flow of power relaxing barriers and promoting complacency. The fire melted from his face, a nodding understanding replacing it. Taking the towel, Shroud tossed it at Mok and gave a short bow. "Wipe that oaf's blood off and join me for a drink or two. After your performance, I think a bit of spirits are the least I can provide."

Shroud turned on his heel, striding, almost wraith-like, through the crowded onlookers and to a seat in the bar. He found the selection fine, given most of the gawkers no longer in their seats, and slid a mug to another table. He had chosen a central table, a prime location for dicussion. This Bob Barton character seemed to indicate Mok might be able to point out work or at least something to do in this pit of a city...and Shroud certainly wouldn't turn down such tempting ends from such an interesting character.

Catching the bartender's eye, he waved the man over, already anticipating the crisp taste of ale on his tongue and lips. Shroud would have preferred wine, but the circumstances were poor for it.

No...no

Every drink was like a situation. There was a time and a place, and the setting was, as always...

Key.

[Mok]

oocSorry my internet is dead on my laptop and I have been trying to post for hours. I am posting from my buddies computer now as not to hold you up. I hope I didn't bore you in this post, I just wanted to move things along.

A spray of wet blood covered his trousers and his cloak. Droplets of purple fluid stained his face. The cool air calmed the myrian down as he stood over his victim. Out of breath still, Mok took a moment to gather his thoughts. He could feel blood coursing through his arms. He had just taken out one of goliath of a man. Granted the ogre was blind and dazed, it was still an accomplishment.

All those observing milled back into the bar except for one: the kid that was took the brute's eyes out. Frankly, he looked like shit to Mok. Perhaps this man had been to the bottom of the bay and back. The kid’s uncanny nature caught his curiosity. His black and blue face didn't seem to be bothering either. Guess he was tougher than he looked.

Strangely the guy started to applaud. Raising an eyebrow, the myrian crossed his arms and grinned. Great. Now he had a fan club. Mok nodded when he congratulated him in a cold, slightly insane voice. Remaining silent, Mok waited to see if the man would say anything else. The warrior remained at ready. Maybe he was crazy enough to challenge him out in the open. This was not the case though. In fact, he mentioned Mok's name.

"How do you know me and who are you?" the myrian said flatly and abnormally calm for some reason. Before Mok received a reply his new 'friend' mentioned some drinks to the barkeep was nearby. Remarkably the tavern keep obliged and walked back into the bar to serve the drinks. Strange. How did he get the old bastard to listen happily after such a display?

Tossing a towel to Mok, the guy seemed to promise answers to all of Mok's questions by inviting him inside for a drink. "Very well," the half-blood obliged. Nothing wrong with a few drinks with a stranger. At any rate he needed to figure out how this guy knew him. A stranger he had never seen called him by name. It was certainly weird and Mok would get to the bottom of it.

Walking over to the latrine Mok wiped his face and neck. The dripping spit on his back was the worst. At first he tried to clean it without taking his armor and shirt off, but it was too hard. Untying his straps, Mok struggled to pull off his chainmail. After a minute he was shirtless and wiping the blood and spit off his body. Nearly done, the myrian tossed the rag into the latrine trench and brought his ass back inside.

The tavern was now basically empty. A handful people remained, but the water hole would be quiet for at least half a bell. Sitting at the middle of the bar was the man from outside. Tossing his bundle of chain and cotton on the floor, Mok took his seat facing the entrance. Before a word was uttered Mok unsheathed his blade and set it flat on the table.

"Now. Who are you and how do you know me?" the myrian asked. Listening intently, Mok stared the man straight in the eyes. The kid had talked about respect earlier and so the warrior decided to give him respect. Also the eyes were the mirrors of deception. One could see a liar through the eyes.

Sitting quietly Mok listened to the explanation. Apparently, Wrenmae heard stories of the myrian through Bob Barton. The myrian almost exploded laughing! The damn little weasel was spreading rumors was he? No matter, at least Mok was at ease now. This guy couldn't be that bad if he was friends with Bob Barton.

Mok couldn't help but grin now thinking of his old friend the gambler, "I see Bob has been running his mouth as usual then. Good. I haven't seen him in a while though. You know Bob is the guy who actually taught me to gamble. He is quiet the little scammer he is."

The myrian finally sipped on the glass. Alcohol was refreshing after a scrap. Putting down the glass the myrian introduced himself formally, offering to clasp forearms with the kid, "I am Mok of the Jagged blades. May your mind never dull."

"Wrenmae it is?" Mok continued, "Tell me: What is good in life?"

The myrian then took another swig from his cup of ale. This guy seemed interesting. Had he found his companion for the night. He needed to take Wrenmae out. He was one hundred percent down to start some shenanigans. He needed to feel him out more though.

Red = Myrian
Bold = Common

[Wrenmae]

The bartender, charmed, delivered another round to the table. Hypnotism wasn't about commanding, certainly nothing so vulgar. Instead, Hypnotism was the art of subtlety. The Bartender likely did not want trouble in his bar. Trouble meant lesser patrons worrying about the drink, trouble meant broken furniture out of his pockets, trouble meant bloodstains to darken the varnish of the bar and tabletops. Mok seemed a man to make trouble, had, in fact, proven his penchant for making trouble just outside. The Bartender likely knew this and wanted to avoid a repeat offense, especially something so ostensible as the death of the brute nearer to his doors.

So all it took was some coaxing that free drinks might ease the violent tenancies of the half-Myrian and the bartender had obliged as he'd been suggested. Why bother to rule over mankind with a foot on their head when you could do it quietly, from beside them? A king makes his throat visible, a manipulator is never so foolish.

Shroud grinned to himself, taking a sip of the heavy mead and swirling it in his mouth, appreciating the heavy taste. Unlike some of the other places in Sunberth, or at least as he heard, this place existed as a stark difference. The alcohol was richer here, not watered down. It gave the patrons no reason to complain and thus the atmosphere was usually, as it seemed, quieter. A little extra expense pays in the long run...fair business venture indeed.

Shroud placed the mug down after a moment, pushing it aside to answer Mok's question. He took in the half blood, the strong bones in his face, fierce eyes, the flecks of blood on his left cheek, dark unruly hair...the man was a warrior, simple enough. The Weaver pushed the barriers of the tenuous hold Shroud had of the body, seeking a greater story there.

Shroud held him back.

"An interesting question, Mok, and certainly a question answered differently by different lips." He sat back, leaning the chair back almost precariously. He thought of what he wanted, what he could achieve...what the world could achieve.

"Conquest, my friend, ambition. I seek accomplishment as none have accomplished before. Nothing so...cliche, as control...no, I want to influence the age to shift, a paradigm to loose itself, and the very minds of Mizahar to quake with the knowledge that nothing stays stagnant for long."

His dark eyes were wide, almost manically so, and a grin pushed into almost a skeletal grimace. His pale hands set sharply on the table, and the chair clacked to the floor, rocking with its own beat.

"And of you...Mok? What is 'good' in life for you? What is it you seek to achieve with your hands...what kind of changes do you think to shape into the world around you?"

[Mok]

Mok never sipped on mead, especially not when he was so recently bloodied. Guzzling the liquid, he intently listened to Wrenmae. He noted every move that Wrenmae made; the use of his hands, the movement in his eyes, and even the way he pronounced words. It was important to take into account everything. Mok usually never gave his time to people, but this guy was different. His choice of words was precise. His eyes widened on certain ques. He wore a constant facial expression of manic disbelief. His hands remained still. This guy was special. He was the type of man who could toy with someone's mind. Mok knew nothing of hypnosis, but he could see when a man had the power of words. The myrian envisioned it now: give this guy a few weeks in Sunberth to learn how things operated and he would talk his way into anywhere. The myrian was bent to see what this man was capable of.

What is good in life? Wrenmae's answer surprised Mok. He wanted fame. He wanted to be a legend. He wanted people to remember him. He wanted to petch with people's minds far after his body returned into the ashes from which they came. Only minutes into the conversation and the myrian was already intrigued with the man. The bar fight with the ogre, his forwardness after the murder, and his response to such a broad question: it was absolutely great. This was no simple man. The myrian could petch with this type of guy.

Mok took a moment to think of a response. What would he tell this man? This was no peasant. The warrior couldn't just say something so simple like food and drink. No he needed to say something deeper and more significant. Ah he got it.

"No one. Not even YOU will remember if we were good men or bad; why we fought or why we died; why we loved or why we hated; No. None of that matters, Wrenmae. In the end, we all must stand before Lhex... What is good in life you ask? I say the blade. I say to fight with your enemies to the bitter end. Why? Because there is only one sure thing in life and that is death. Those who stand on the edge of the blade understand what life is really about. Those who live by the blade have souls forged in steel. You can change the world all you want. You can move mountains, built magnificent cities, challenge the petching gods, but in the end everything falls to one thing..."

The myrian paused and slowly unsheathed his gladius and placed it on the table. The sharp blade glinted in the candle light. The simple sword was a beautiful piece of art. The knotted grip was well worn. The notched steel a testament of its use.

"...death... Tell me Wrenmae... Do you want to live forever?" His last words were solemn and serious. He meant everything he said to the last breath. Mok wanted to show Wrenmae what it meant to live by the blade. He wanted to show him the conversation of two men fighting to the death. He wanted to show him the rewards of living this life. He wanted to prove his words.

Red = Myrian
Bold = Common

[Wrenmae]

Mok spoke and Shroud listened, there was no other way. The tumult of voices around them sang songs or wove tales of nothing and the most important conversation was the one being spoken now. Here. Words, oh the delightful things, they had the properties of any immutable metal and yet were as fragile as leaf husks. Each man measured worth by how they moved their muscles, swung their sword, or belched their words. Merit was given in the transient sort of sense, that each soul would accrue only what they had pretended to earn in the course of their life. Wining, losing, all temporary modifiers to a running commentary. Life was its own simple parody, a play on words...or at least of sorts. As Mok put his blade onto the table, metal clanging against wood with a satisfying clunk, Shroud imagined that blade in the gut of the men who had hurt him. He imagined it held aloft over a pile of bodies, a grotesque painting of conquest. On the other hand, he could also see it discarded in a pool of blood, raised only fast enough to reflect a murderer's eyes, the cold glint of triumph.

How marvelous, a barbarian that lived by the code.

Taking his mug up, Wrenmae masked his grin with a drink, his dark eyes bright against the lampglare within the bar, heavy with the expectation of progress, the raw hunger of power. When he placed the tankard down, he reached to his belt and drew his long dagger, placing it on the table as well.

The blades clanged together, a note of steel that drew concerned eyes.

Wrenmae closed his eyes a moment, felt the auras of those around him, the shifting uncertainties of their fears. At his level, he could suffuse an instructional calm over them all, a suggestion that there was nothing to worry about, that the warriors did not look to be in a marauding mood. Slowly the faces turned back to drinks, slowly they grew less concerned with the hypnotist and his friend. The strain was enough to cause a brief moment of pain, a headache blossoming along a faultline in his mind. Weaver almost took the opportunity to leap free of his imprisonment, but Shroud kept himself in control by a fraction, a small twitch in his face the only give of the inner struggle.

"If a warrior's soul is forged of steel, a man who lives by words must be forged in something more malleable...quicksilver perhaps, or iron. I lived a life before that necessitated the need for a great many faces, a great many selves. By word and word alone I brought myself here from the maw of shredded sails and sea beasts, from a city of illusion, and past a slaver caravan's ire. Steel is too unyielding for change, it leaves no means to curl into another point if blocked."

He raised his mug and set it down again, pushing it aside. One hand gripped the handle of his dagger and he held it up so it glittered by the lamp light. "Evil and good are the words of cowards, Mok, people who need to justify their actions by a preexisting moral code. Do you know who laid down those codes? Mankind. We leave ourselves subject to those who came before us...not by virtue of their strength or example, but by their age and that alone. Evil and good are simply perspectives, a means by which the lessers can divide the righteous and the damned by gods...or souls if you like, and define them by their actions."

He leaned back in the chair, hands collapsing together in a rain of fingers, "Tell me, Myrian, the man who slaughters a king...some may call him assassin, monster, rebellious...but in a kingdom of oppression he is called savior. One man can be a tyrant and a paragon at once, a villain and a hero...these roles we give ourselves, or allow others to lay upon our backs like wreaths...they only limit us, Mok, only deny us our true abilities."

He grinned.

"The power of immortality, the power of change. The Valterrian tore asunder the world at one point and that was the wrath of a single god. What could human hands do, given enough leverage in the world? Only the foolish are mortal, Mok, and the immortal are the heroes and monsters that are alive in legend...never forgotten even in the wake of a collapsed civilization."

He took his dagger, drove it down above the table and paused, his grip shaking, before returning it to its sheathe on his belt.

"True immortality is when your name is remembered, spoken on the lips of a thousand souls. Life may always end, warrior, but in memory we can be eternal...and I will build something with my hands and time, I will build something great."

He paused, eyes closed, mouth ajar in a euphoric smile.

"What will you build with your steel soul, your unyielding blade? What sort of legend will you leave for yourself?"

[Mok]

Mok sipped on his tankard calmly as Wrenmae spoke. As usual he would show respect to the man and listen to every word that was spoken. His new friend was an intelligent guy and had the capability to far out-talk the savage. This would be much unfortunate, but tonight Mok understood every word that was being spoken. The message, at least in the myrian's eyes, couldn't be much clearer. This guy had ambitions. He sought power. He was seeking something that the gods sought. Wrenmae was a risk taker: one who would defile the gods to achieve his goals. This man was a different type of beast. He was the type that sulked in the dark corner only to grow stronger and stronger with each passing minute. Saving its energy, building its strength. Until one day, the monster escapes its prison...

The myrian couldn't predict what would happen that night for the man's aura was a deadly one. This man had seen some nasty things in his day. Just the mention of escaping a slaver's hold brought a smile to his face. He hated talking to phonies. He could tell that Wrenmae was a real petching man who spoke the truth from his own experience. Mok's grin widened some more. He was really starting to like this guy. There were very few people in the word that were on the same level as Mok. His stomach started to turn. Wrenmae would be able to see eye to eye with him. It was settled. Tonight, they would do everything in the book. They would live life for the moment and be risk takers, gamblers. As Wrenmae pointed out...tonight they would seek immortality.

Once Wrenmae said his piece, the myrian responded in open laughter. Manic laughter even. Any peasant man would think the warrior to be insane, but he knew that his new friend understood differently.

"YES! Petching yes! Immortality you say? I say yes! Immortal under the sun? I say yes! Unforgettable? Yes! A legend to fill the mouth of millions? I say yes again. I admire you, Wrenmae, I truly do," Mok eyes were red and intense with passion. The darkness in his heart was now engulfed in flames. The passion of serious conversation stirred his soul. This man sought immortality. Well Mok would teach him a small part of that.

"I cannot rightfully speak for you, so correct me if I am wrong: You seek immortality. You are on the most dangerous quest of them all. You want YOUR name to be uttered on the lips of men for years to come. You want to be great. You are seeking a story worth telling. This truly ambition. But we must put these thoughts on hold for a moment."

The myrian paused and took a second to drink a good portion of ale. He choose his next words carefully, "Wrenmae, I will tell you this friend, I am a man of simple words. You ask me: What will I build with steel... I myself cannot explain what legend I want to leave this world with. I can only show you. I can only let you experience THIS life," Mok took his blade and clashed it against Wrenmae's, "I said before none will remember you in the bitter end? This is still true. From ash to ash we will return. Eventually words will disappear given enough time. Your name will eventually fade from existence. Your immortality only lasts as long as your name is uttered in the streets."

Mok stood up, pounded the rest of his drink, and threw the cup on the table. "We can continue our discussion later. Right now you must have the greatest conversation of them all: the conversation of the blade. Only when clashing blades can one really 'talk' to a man, feel his inner desires and fears. Trust only steel tonight my friend. Let her cold embrace whisk you away to the halls of legend. You will understand what I am saying before the sun rises tomorrow. As for now, we must learn an important lesson about Sunberth. Come with me."

Walking out of the tavern, Mok's adrenaline was already beginning to start. He was excited. He hadn't felt this great in a long time. He made no effort to wait for Wrenmae. If the man choose to stick to his words and legends, than to hell with him. For tonight Mok was going to live by the blade and nothing else. Outside the night are was brisk and pleasantly cool. A group of men were huddled around the corpse of the man who Mok most certainly killed half a bell earlier.

"Wrenmae," Mok said over his shoulder, "We will pay the price, but we will not count the cost!" The myrian was of course referring to the men huddled over the body. They numbered three and they were pissed. Word had gotten out that their buddy was killed and they were seeking revenge. Mok wouldn't keep them waiting though.

"Oi! Oi!" the myrian instigated, "Your big cunt of a friend was a petching softie. Do you know that? Hey motherpetchers! Look at me when I am talking to you! Do you think your chumpy can walk into my bar and petch with my guests and not pay the price. Petch you, you bow-legged piece of human trash! I'll cut you first!"

The group of hooligans flashed their blades and spat back insults as well. Trouble was brewing, but Mok wouldn't let the kettle sing any longer. Taking a stride forward, the tension was broken and the powder keg was lit.

Red = Myrian
Bold = Common

[Wrenmae]

Shroud closed his eyes for a moment, hearing only the motions around him. Huff, the breath of Mok across the table, the scrape of the chair as it groaned from its place. Murmurs and snippets of conversation, pointless garbling, the swish of liquid in thick mugs, the uneven patter of nervous feet, the groan of wood. His own screech followed, the chair sliding out from the table as he stood, holding out both arms and stretching. He held his breathing for a moment, just listenend, and then the whoosh of air and the movement of his chest as it thrust against the inside of his shirt. here, here was life...the kind that Vayt always sought to test. Lord Vayt, god of the Plague, king of the strong, and bringer of pestilence...each moment breathing was a prayer in testament of him. The Blight rolled off of Wrenmae across the bar, bits of poison suffusing liquid and skin, poisoning the air and piercing their lungs. Soon, soon they too would face the tests of such a mighty God.

Let the strong live.

The weak will become their food.

He was a pace or two behind Mok, stepping out into the cold with dark eyes and murder in his heart. The warrior was approaching others, men of equal standing...perhaps greater. Their backs were clad in armor and fierce conviction, their stares were knives that shattered the night. Shroud drew in his Djed, pushing it out of his eyes like invisible spears, cutting into the spheres of those before him.

Mok stepped forward, insults breaking across his skin and flying out behind him, spinning into nothing and beyond. Likewise did the brutes step with equal ferocity, no movement wasted on their brazen challenge. I was unsaid and said, insults and bragging, nothing ventured or lost between muscles and anger.

They were all marked for death, each one of them. The moment the magic fell through the mage's hands, he could not let them leave here.

"How unfortunate," he began, his voice thick with Djed that poured through the air like thick syrup, "How can you fight like that when you're covered with spiders?" Gesturing out to them, Mok already ahead of him, he watched their eyes grow suddenly wide. Yes...Hypnotism was about the subtlety...usually. Terror though, yes terror was a potent drug and to use it so overtly, well.

They didn't know it yet, but it meant they had breathed their last.

Oh but the air felt petching good.

The men stepped back, a blade clattering from one of their grips as the third gripped at his shirt and screamed, his hands clawing phantom creatures away with insane tenacity. Wrenmae pulled his blade from its sheathe, never breaking in his stride toward them. The first, a man of stronger integrity, spit to the side and growled, taking his blade and rushing Wrenmae, even as the second gripped the blade he had dropped to swing in at Mok. The third was incapacitated, gibbering as his imagination did the rest of Wrenmae's work.

But the mage was no longer focused on him, but on his opponent, a stronger man far larger than the lanky mage. It was him who earned the hatred Shroud directed to nearly all living things...weak ones anyways, and lunged forward.

In the brute's eyes, Wrenmae pivoted on a foot and stabbed left and up, aiming for his throat. Grinning, the brute brought his blade down where the boy was before, confident he'd full the sensation of flesh separating and warm blood greeting his skin. Mages, petching mages.

Petching mages indeed.

Wrenmae drove his long dagger into the mans armpit, even as the blade struck nothing and brought the brute to a crash on the stone ground. Wrenmae was already drawing his second blade, bringing it down into his attacker's back and driving it in against the grate of bones.

The hooligan howled, surprised and dying before he'd known what had happened.

Wrenmae stabbed him again, and again, uneven wild stabs, but effective nonetheless.

Mok was behind him, dealing with his own opponent and Shroud had confidence he'd do well this eve.

After all...he had chosen HIM to drink with.

And Shroud didn't waste his time on dead men.

[Mok]

Mok was in battle mode now. Blood lusted in a shiny repose in his eyes. His whole mind was bent on destroying the enemy in front of him. Darkness poured into his heart and the myrian was transformed into a killing machine. Of the three thugs, the one wielding the longsword came after Mok first. From his peripheral vision, he noticed that one of the hooligans was screaming and fighting an unseen foe that seemed to be swarming his body. The other one was charging Wrenmae. The half-blood had no time to worry about his new friend though. He should be able to hand himself just fine.

Readying his gladius in the over-head viper position, the two began to dance. Staring down his opponent, Mok realized that he had chosen the best swordsman to duel in the bunch. Hopefully, he would pose some sort of challenge for the warrior.

Mok was the first to attack; he would not let his opponent be the aggressor. Coming in was a downward stab towards his neck, Mok's aim was to test this man before committing with a deathblow. His attack was skillfully dodged though and then the man proceeded to bring his blade down. Mok ducked to the left, out of the strike's way. The hooligan wasn't finished. Using the momentum of his first slash, he brought the longsword back overhead for a follow up strike.

The myrian warrior took this opportunity to try to get into the thug's frame. Bringing his gladius up, Mok parried the blow with the flat of his blade and continued to follow the longsword. With their swords locked, the half-blood was able to throw a fierce right hook at the man's eye.

Whack! His opponent staggered back for only a moment, then regained his composure. The battle continued.

Mok came in with another stab towards the man's sword arm, but this time he increased his range of motion by stepping into the strike. He used the coiled energy in his hips and legs to increase the power of the attack. The hooligan parried his strike and once again they were locked. Now it was the myrian's chance to finish him off. Counter-attacking, Mok slide his gladius down his longsword, forcing the blade towards the floor. Shooting his free hand out, he grabbed the man's wrist and squeezed as hard as he possibly could. He was not letting him go.

Next, Mok pulled the man towards him with a sudden jerk and smashed the man with a vicious head-butt straight to the nose. The half-blood then violently hacked at the man's forearm.

Three bloody hacks and Mok was able to sever his limb.

Clankity clank. The longsword fell to the floor as the man screamed in pain. But Mok wasn't done yet. Using both hands, Mok pried opened the addled man's mouth. In a fit of bloodlust, Mok leaned over and bit the man's tongue off.

He had no idea why he did it. Maybe he was just pissed at the man's childish scream. Or maybe he was just insane. None of that mattered though. It was time to move one.

More blood. A spray of blood in fact. His opponent, now on his knees, leaned backwards and fell down. Mok spat out a mouthful on the man's eyes, and then proceeded to give him a heel to the chin.

"Petching piece of a trash," Mok muttered under his breath.

The myrian then turned to see that Wrenmae was just finishing up the last hooligan. The first one he had brutally stabbed in the armpit. It was a solid wound indeed.

After Wrenmae had finished, Mok chortled in delight, "Good deal. If we stick around any longer more will come and I am not trying to just play with carrion feast all night. Let's roll."

Wiping his sword clean on the floor, the warrior looted the bodies for any gold. The myrian had no use for the longsword, but he took it with him either way. Sliding in his belt, it might be useful later. Mok then proceeded down an ally close to the tavern assuming Wrenmae would follow. If they were lucky, they would not meet any foes on the way to their next destination.

Mok was so nonchalant about the whole affair, it would be quite starling for the normal onlooker. A man with no moral boundaries or codes. A man of steel. The only thing that binded him to this world was blood and steel.

“With our chores out of the way, now our night can begin.” Mok smiled in delight as he lead his new friend through the streets.

Red = Myrian
Bold = Common