Tiko

Draconic Administrator/Mentor
Administrator
Mentor
Nexus GM
Swirling through the ether, Taima had no real sense of self or being anymore. She knew only peace, it enveloped her in a warm blanket of safety and contentment. Days, months, years... time had ceased to hold meaning to her anymore. There were others all around her, drifting blissfully and content as they awaited their time to be reborn. They were the souls of the dead, heroes and servants of the divine. Their sacrifices afforded them the highest honor, a place of seemingly eternal bliss until the world might have need of their strength and light once again. It was how it had always been, the souls of heroes being reborn to the world when its need was greatest.

The world was an intricate tapestry of pure artistry, beyond the scope of mortal imagination or comprehension. Each soul needed to be carefully nurtured and incubated before being reborn to the world. Each one required generations of planning to ensure they would grow into their destinies at the proper time. It took years for a child to grow to adult hood, years to learn life's lessons and to discover what makes a mortal's heart beat strong in the face of adversity.

The gods were artists and the world their canvas, but like all artists, not all of the their tapestries can become master pieces. Tampering with the weave of creation and the rebirth of souls wasn't an exact science. Free will reigned supreme in the realm of the mortals. Miscalculations were prevalent all across history. Carefully laid threads could become severed, heroes could fall before their time, others still could fall from grace and turn to darker paths. Such was the way of the world and such was the story of Taima.

A fallen hero from generations past, Taima was to be reborn to the Shedinn brotherhood in the lands of Caldonia. The elders of their order had already foreseen the rebirth of the legendary draconian. They would shelter and rear the child, see that it grew into all that would be needed. With the strings of destiny carefully lain, Taima was drawn from the ether of souls.

However as carefully lain plans so rarely do, things were not to go as intended. Where before only peace and serenity had existed, darkness was now introduced to the mixture. Like a wildfire burning through the threads of destiny, Taima's soul was enveloped in a shadow of chaos. There was no fear or questioning in her, for such thoughts were beyond the capacity of a soul; there was only a vague sense of awareness before that too was gone.


_____

The loud cries of a woman filled the bed chamber as did the deafening thunderclap that split the sky outside. The pounding of rain upon the roof dulled the distant sounds of battle, but they were drawing closer with each hour. Biri had been in labor since before the siege had begun, and she seemed no closer to delivery for the effort. Two midwives tended to her, but there was a weight of unease in the air.

With a loud bang the door to the chamber burst open and a tall draconian stormed in. Rhomash was a dominating figure with the distinguished features of his highborn lines prevalent in the highly developed bony ridges along his brows and spinal ridge, as well as the scaly wings that he sported from his back. His scale mail armor, once polished to a glistening sheen was dulled by mud and spatters of darker fluids. Though he was getting along in his years, Rhomash was a blacksmith by trade and his work had kept his form muscled and toned for battle.

Thava, the elder of the midwives lay a reassuring hand on Biri's shoulder before she approached to speak to Rhomash.

"How is she?" Rhomash asked.

"She's weak, if we move her she could lose the baby."

"If we don't, we will lose them both."

Rhomash stepped past Thava to approach his wife. Standing by her bedside he took Biri's hand in his own, worry lining his eyes. They had made their home here in the Terran village of Darsia nearly five years ago, and though the villagers were initially wary of the draconians Rhomash had quickly won over the apprehensive locals. With his strong work ethic and talent for keeping the village free of bandits, he and Biri had made a place for themselves among the peaceful villagers.

"Biri, the village is lost, we must go," Rhomash told her.

"But the baby?" Biri asked. Her voice shook with the fear of losing the child.

"There is no time, the strakken will overrun the village soon. We need to get to the caves. Sora and Thava will take you. I will stay behind to help man the barricades. Once the village is evacuated I will join you and the others."

A powerful contraction drew a loud cry from Biri as she gripped Rhomash's hand in her own. "Promise me you will return," she gasped.

"You have my word, now go quickly."

With the midwives to help her to her feet, Biri was led from the room.

---​

"Taima."

"Taima? It is a good strong name," Rhomash said approvingly. "Should fortune smile upon her, her great-great grandmother will watch over her - if she doesn't already. If not for this weather, we would never have lost the strakken."

Born in the heat of a tempest storm, it seemed only fitting that the child would be named after its great-great grandmother. It is said that her namesake could wield the power of the storm, the symbol of Ahuma, patron father of the draconians.

Taking the child in his arms, Rhomash lifted her up to get a good look at her. Though newborn, the child had an inquisitive sense of awareness to her and she blinked back at Rhomash without fear.

"You have the blood of legends in you, Taima. If your name is of any bearing, great things lie ahead for you. Great things." There was a strength and pride in Rhomash's words, but also the warmth of a father.

"Don't let your father's dreams of grandeur go to your head," Biri warned lightly as Rhomash returned the infant to her arms. "Glory can wait. For now you are just Taima, my dear Taima." Pressing the infant to her chest, Biri held the child tightly in her arms and silently thanked the spirits of her ancestors for the gift of her firstborn daughter.
 
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as written by NotAFlyingToy

In the dimming light of twilight, the circle of hooded figures began to chant.

The constant outpour of words, a black language long since dead to the world, were dark and forbidding, escalating high into the stars just peeking from their hiding place during the day. As they winked and twinkled, the chanting grew fervent, the circle widening to let a lone figure, donned completely in red, into their midst.

The figure was tall; towering over the smaller men who surrounded him, their pitches rising so that they were screaming out the ancient tongue, letting it flow from their throats until it was ragged and bruised, ripping into the air rather than merely floating along it. While they continued their curdling cries, the red cloaked man walked in a slow circle, his eyes, bright and feverish in the rapidly dartkening day, met each of the black robed men’s, gazes kissing for a moment. It was this process that the men both feared and anticipated with an unabashed hunger.

The Choosing.

Round and round the red cloak went, the tails flaring from behind him, whipping through the still air. Higher and higher the voices spun, until the dark fabrics of their cowls were thrown back with their heads and they were crying to the darkening night, the ancient language promising despair, promising blood, promising a night that would never recede, darkness that never lessened.

They promised the moon would black, the stars would die, the earth would grow still.

They promised death.

Finally, amidst the howling and roaring, amidst this strange and convicted war-cry, the red cloak raised both of his hands; a red book held aloft in one, a black dagger held in another. He had stopped mere feet from a young man; seventeen at most, his cropped red hair swept from his face, eyes meeting the taller figure’s in a quiet challenge.

“Are you ready for the choosing?” the red cloak whispered, a reedy rasp that cut through the night like a knife through hot butter.

The boy nodded eagerly, and the rest of the black hoods screamed their assent, stomping feet and whistling through cracked lips and torn throats.

Taking one of the boy’s hands, the red cloak moved him into the center of the circling, where one of the black cloaks grabbed his clothing and pulled at it, revealing freckled skin, pale and nearly glowing in the moonlight. With quick and practiced hands, the boy was positioned; his arms crossed over his still maturing chest, sprouts of copper hair showing in the center of his rib cage. His scrawny, too-long legs widened, revealing and exposing him to the world. And his stubbled chin tilted back, to glint off of the weakened moonlight, eyes wide, mouth open.

Before him stood the red, the blood-crimson book spread open, its pages worn and stained from many, many nights like this. “Is the boy, now a man, ready to bleed black to his Lord? Is the boy, now a man, ready to give his soul to his Lord? Is the boy, now a man, ready to suffer and bow to his Lord?”

Trembling, partly because of the chill, partly due to fear, the boy nodded his head, his fiery red locks bouncing slightly in the midst of the circle, with every eye upon him. “The boy, now a man, is.”

The voice was still going through the trials of puberty; cracking and rolling like an old, wooden mine cart. Still, he stood, defiant, brave, in the face of it all. The red nodded in satisfaction, opened the book, and began to read in his thin, raspy voice.

“For the shepherds of black did not lead the flock; they left it where it stood. For eighty days they left it, exposed to the winds and the rains, the storms and the fires. And on the eighty-first day, the shepherds returned to the flock, and they beheld their God, standing on his tower of steel. And they saw that he was the true master.”

When the last word finished, one of the men stepped forwards with a thick wooden club, which he swung, viciously, at the boy’s right leg. The sickening crunch of bone and wood sounded in the clearing, and the boy fell to a knee, a mere whimper escaping him as his kneecap caved in. A second sudden strike on his left leg had him falling to the ground with a keening cry. The same treatment was done to each of his elbows, until his limbs all hung useless, dangling from his torso, shards of white marring the pale, smooth, freckled skin.

The boy was sobbing openly; his entire world becoming a fiery inferno of pain, suffering, and delusions.

“Go now,” the red figure said.

“Wait,” croaked the boy. “I am not-“

The black dagger plunged into the hollow of the boy’s throat, opening up a torrent of blood that seemed all to eager to leave the form that once imprisoned it. As the flow of red reached his chest, however, it seemed to thicken, becoming black as the night around him.

As it became black, it spread across his body, hardening into a shell that looked to be made of tar. The boy tried to scream, but the ooze slammed into his mouth, choking him beneath it’s weight. As the boy fell backwards, truly screaming now, the ooze overcame him, eating at his flesh until there was nothing but a pile of soot-covered bones, in the shape of a teenager.

It had taken mere moments.

Silence reigned in the circle as the figure in red bent to gaze at the former boy’s rib cage, reading small inscriptions there. Nodding and muttering to himself, he turned from his faithful followers, beginning to walk back to his dwelling. Obediently, the people in black followed.

“The Lord is displeased,” he said, quietly. “The babe lives.”
 
17 years later...

Clang, Clang, Clang. The sound of metal striking metal resounded through the stifling blacksmith shop.

“Alright Jacob, heat it back up,” Taima instructed.

The human lad was scrawny with gangly limbs and a mop of straw hair atop his head, but what her father's apprentice lacked in size he made up for in enthusiasm. Grabbing onto the bellows, the young boy began to pump air into the burning embers until they glowed a fiery red.

Wiping a dirty rag across her face, Taima cleared the grit and dirt from her scaly hide and pulled the glowing blade free of the hot coals. Laying it across the anvil she began her work in earnest once more. Each clang of her hammer served to further shape the steel blade. At six foot eight, Taima hadn't the stature of her father, but she was an imposing figure none the less. Toned and well muscled, Taima had both the strength of a blacksmith and the litheness of her mother all in one.

It was nearly midday by the time Taima was at last finished. Lifting the blade up to get a look at it, she seemed satisfied with her work as she dropped it into a basin of cold water. With a sizzle of steam the hot metal swiftly cooled. For two weeks she had been working on the sword between other odds and ends about the shop.

“Go on, once that's cooled get it fitted with a hilt and take it out back to sharpen it,” Taima told the lad.

“Is this one mine?” Jacob asked.

Taima chuckled and clapped a hand against the boys shoulder. “It is, and you don't want to be running off to the academy with a dull blade do you? But be quick about it, we still need to shoe your father's horse.”

---​

By the time evening had stolen over the place, Taima was thoroughly spent. Working her fathers blacksmith shop while he was out of town and also helping at the farrier's while the man's son was sick with fever left Taima little time for recreational activity. She never complained though, after all it was a good days hard work that made an honest person honest. Besides, she thought to herself, her father would be back in another week and the farrier's son was on the mend; there would be plenty of time for hunting soon enough. Maybe she would head up to cedar reach for a few days. Rumors had been circulating of Strakken sightings up that way, and she was keen to have a look herself for signs of the creatures.

Most of the other businesses had already closed down for the night and only a few remnants of light still lingered in the sky outside, but as Taima went about closing up her father's shop she caught ear of someone at the front door.

“We're closing up for the night,” Taima called out.”We'll be open again at first light if you want to come back tomorrow.”
 
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In times past, a Gunslinger making his way through the country was an image of icon, an event to be celebrated. Gunslingers held up a moral code, kept the law in check, and hunted dangerous criminals down, for mere pieces of information on valuable artifacts. It used to be that the Gunslingers were given free room and board, merely for advertising their presence in a town. It kept the evils away.

Legends often lit the Gunslingers in wonderful lights; held them on pedestals of the purest marble. The men and women with their powerful guns that spouted magic and fire, the impossible reflexes that had them able to shoot any projectile out of mid air, the indomitable spirit and mystery behind the trench coat and hat they wore.

These days, the legend of the Gunslingers was as dusty as the man who walked the trail.

Anzo Tinzdale’s boots kicked up small tufts of dirt as he walked along the road, twin gleaming revolvers sitting at his hips in dark leather holsters. Widely regarded to be the most dangerous slinger alive – and one of the youngest, as it happened – he often had to rely on his own presence, rather than that of the legend, to see him through each township.

It was a method he disliked, immensely.

Glancing down at a scrap of paper, retrieved from a trench coat pocket, Anzo read the address quietly, his mouth moving slowly, carefully, as he sounded out the words upon it. Once the yellowed page had served it’s purpose, he crumpled it and put it in his trouser pocket, letting out a deep sigh.

Smithy. Aecris = family heirloom. Two generations.

Taima

"You sure you got the right adress?" From behind him, another similarily dressed man walked, his hands resting on his own deep red revolvers. A piece of straw was sticking out of his teeth, and it bobbed with his footsteps. Anzo's gloved fingers stilled around the piece of paper, his eyes closing slightly. For a man so used to travelling alone, the company wasn't exactly welcomed, but tolerated. Dusk was a younger Gunslinger, brought in in the wake of the Civil war, and largely untested. But he had a good heart, and for that reason alone, Anzo walked with him.

"Reckon we'll find out right quick if I don't," Anzo's reply came. Dusk's piece of straw moved from one side to the other, a bead of sweat rolling down his neck to pool at his throat. He absently scratched at his elbow, squinting into the sun.

"I don't like the draconian, much. Their eyes are creepy. Could we wrap this up, quickly?"

"It'll take as long as it needs to. Show respect, bow as you're taught, and you'll do fine."

"Yeah, but a head for time wouldn't go amiss-"

"As long as it takes." Anzo gave a patient gaze to his pupil, a look as stern as the older man was likely to give. The look said stop talking, now. Wisely, Dusk heeded the silent advice.

Side by side, the Slingers moved towards their destination. Their path led them true; into the waiting doorway of the smithy his contact had identified. Bidding the younger man to wait outside while he conducted the necessary gestures, Anzo stepped into the dim light. Before he could say a word to announce his presence, however, a voice greeted him.

As the woman spoke, the gunslinger hesitated, a gloved hand resting gently on the brim of his wide hat, his brown and grey hair curling wildly away from his face. The two dark blue revolvers gleamed in the low light, the gunmetal barely visible through the thick leather of the twin holsters.

"Beg Pardon, ma'am." He said, in his hoarse, too-loud voice. "Came across this 'stablishment's name in my travels. Heard you could tell me about what I'm lookin' for. Won't take five minutes."

Hesitating, the human looked around the shop, taking in its occupants. "If this ain' a great time, I can always come back."

Taima gave the man an appraising glance before nodding. “Well come on, get inside then. How can I help you?”

"Thank you, ma'am." The man said, bowing. "Folks call me Anzo. Anzo Tinzdale. I'm a Gunslinger, ma'am, lookin' for a sword of some value."

He paused, then, giving a deep inhale through his nostrils once he was over the threshold. "Always loved the smell of metalwork. Business good?"

“I can't complain. I'm Taima, but if it's a sword you're looking for, it's Rhogar, my father, that you want to see," the draconian woman explained. "He won't be back in for a week, but he is indisputably the best weapon smith that you will find this side of Terra.”

Taima nodded towards a weapons rack on the opposite wall. “Those are some of his works." The rack held a wide assortments of weapons ranging from small daggers and swords to bulkier assortments of polearms and axes. Each one had been carefully laid out on display for potential customers.

Letting out a low, impressed whistle, the man walked towards the rack, examining each work with the eye of one experienced with such weapons. Carefuly, his gaze traveled up and down the rack, taking in the reflections of the weapons as the light danced off of them.

"Fine craft. I believe that claim." He said, smiling at the draconian. "But, unfortunately, this ain' the kind o' sword ya craft. It's the kind o' sword ya find."

He withdrew a small scrap of paper from his pocket, laying it carefully out on a nearby table. "Legends tell 'bout this sword, with a conscience, that binds to its weilder. Last person to weild this sword was a draconian named Balasar, something of a legend himself."

He pointed a finger at the paper, detailing the design of the sword and some background information about the female who once was the weilder. "I hear tell that his descendants live in this village, and came searchin' for 'em."

He gave her a slight smile. "You wouldn't know where to find them, ma'am?"

Taima reached out and slid the paper over to get a look at it. The drawing of the sword it contained was exquisitely done with each intricate detail painstakingly etched into it. There was no mistaking what sword it was that Anzo was looking for.

“If it's his ancestors that you're looking for, you're speaking to one, but you won't find any answers here. The sword has been lost for generations.” Taima slid the paper back towards Anzo.

Anzo collected the scrap, putting it back into the pocket from which it initially emerged. Giving her a slight smile, he hooked his thumbs in his belt, rocking backwards on his boot heels.

"Ah, y'see ma'am, I ain' lookin' fer th' sword's location. Got the trail on that, or somethin' mighty close to it. What I'm looking for is permission or accompanyment to retrieve it. In cases like these, my organization and I like to get the permission of the true owners of artifacts before retrieving them. But since the artifact in question is a bit higher value than my standard findings, reckoned I'd make sure first."

He swept the hat off of his shoulders, revealing chestnut brown hair that fell to nearly his shoulders in a mangy, tangled mess. "By your leave or accompanyment, I'd seek the sword, ma'am."

Even Taima's draconic visage couldn't mask her surprise. “But how? There hasn't been more than rumors into its whereabouts for generations.”

The gunslinger smiled slightly at the tone of voice, bringing the hat down to rest near his waist, gripping it with both gloved hands. "Ma'am, the gunslingers thrive on rumour. S'our business ta know where any artifacts o' that type are. In this case, we got lucky."

He tapped the pocket that the scrap was in. "Someone tol' us, a while back, tha' they knew where ta find th' trail fer th' sword, but the contact got shuffled aroun' some when th' war came about. I managed ta track him down, bu' he's proving a might bit difficult to talk to."

His smile widened more. "Figured you might be interested in tryin', though. Folks say that he knew your great-great grandfather. If nothin' else, journey might be worth it for a bit of a reunion."

“He knew Balasar?" The thought that someone was still alive that knew her great-great grandfather was amazing all in its own right. Anzo had her curiosity piqued but youthful idealism and adventurous dreams quickly gave way to reality and responsibility. She sighed heavily. “I would come, but my father won't be back for another week and someone has to watch the shop until then.”

Anzo nodded, placing the hat back atop his mangled head holding a hand up. "Say no more. I ain't expectin' you to uproot your life to come along."

Gloved fingers adjusted the hat further, until it settled in a manner that hid the messy hair from view. "Me and my partner have to go; it's a trek back to where we need go. I'll be stayin' in town tonight, down in the old barn, if things change."

He tapped the brim of the hat, bowing slightly. "Thanks for showin' me the shop, ma'am. Mighty fine weapons y'all are craftin' here." With that, the gunslinger turned on his heel, walking out of the smithy.
 
It was the following morning and the sun had only begun to creep over the horizon to fill the morning skies with its red glow. Taima as usual had risen at the crack of dawn and made her way to the smithy to begin the days preparations, but today she found herself distracted from the morning's chores, her mind wandering to the man she had met the night before. The gunslinger had come out of nowhere, weaving words of fantastical legends and tales from an age past. She had spoken practically when she declined to accompany him, but the draconian fervor burned hot within her breast and she couldn't help but entertain the thoughts of adventure and renown. The thought of recovering the ancient relic of the draconian people, to fight in wars and battles like her ancestors, to bring honor to her family, it was the passion of every young draconian. With dreams of grandeur to fill her head, Taima meandered through the morning hours cleaning up the front shop before the days customers began to arrive.

Meanwhile a figure approached the small structure on silent feet, the early morning providing the cover of an empty area in which to work. Quietly, he pointed a hand to the front of the door, tugging off one of his gloves as he did so. Letting himself breathe outwards, relaxing his spirit, the figure manipulated the metal in his opposite hand, forming six long bars that fastened themselves along the door, keeping it from opening outward.

His work done, the figure moved around to the side of the shop, reaching back into the sack that held the metal, he placed three bottles at the side of the house, leaning against the wood. He took four cautious steps backwards, examining his handiwork. Then, he grinned.

With a whirl, he drew a single long-nosed revolver, a small rubber cap enclosed around the tip. When he pulled the trigger, the revolver made nothing more than a short whiffing sound, the bullet smashing into the three bottles, one at a time. The bullet scraping against the scrap of flint inside each ignited the liquid inside, and the flames hungrily latched onto the wooden shop, quickly beginning to eat away at it. Strolling around to the back, the figure drew his second pistol, and waited for his prey.

As the first wafts of smoke began to fill the room, Taima set her broom down. She hadn't noticed it at first, but the temperature of the room was on the rise. Her instincts had her on edge as she made for the front door. Giving it a push, the wooden frame didn't budge. Frowning she threw her shoulder into it to try and unjam it, but still it didn't budge. She could hear the crackling of flames now, and though she couldn't see them, the room was growing stiflingly hot.

Suddenly, a loud boom came from the forgery area, flying over her head and to her left. Another shot sunk into the wood, closer to her skull. A third shot rang out, slamming into the emergency lantern that was kept near the door, sending flaming drops of oil over the draconian's head. She threw her arm up to shielding her face from the burning oil, but she was swiftly driven back from the door by the rain of fire. Taking shelter behind the edge of counter she patted out the flames upon her clothes. The smell of oil was thick upon her and her hide had been scorched. Meanwhile the spilled oil was rapidly beginning to burn, sending trails of fire licking across the floor as it followed the rivets of flammable liquid.

Grabbing a cleaning rag from atop the counter, Taima swung it for the flames upon the floor to try and put them out before they could spread further, but another shot rang out missing her hand by a hairsbreadth. Swiftly jerking back behind her rudimentary cover, Taima abandoned her attempts to stem the flames. The earlier fire was spreading rapidly now having reached the thatched roof outside, and smoke was beginning to choke out the room as the burning oil lit up the dried wood paneling of the floor boards. Covering her snout with her arm, Taima stifled a cough.

"Come on out, now." A voice growled in the distance.

The draconian was trapped. If she stayed she would be burned alive, but if she made for the back, her assailant lay in wait. Her eyes burned and watered from the sting of smoke and another cough wracked her form. Overhead she could see the red glow of embers through the burning thatch.

"Ain't no use hidin'. You either die in there, or die out here, friend. May as well be here; quicker, and I'll make it painless." Another shot was fired into the smoke. "Don't be shy!"

As the smoke grew thicker, visibility grew poorer and Taima was wracked with wheezing coughs. Squinting through the haze of smoke, she made out the shadowy shape of the weapons rack across the shop. There wasn't any cover save for the smoke, but it would have to be enough. Abandoning the counter, Taima quickly made for the weapons rack, grabbing up a hefty axe. She could barely make out the red embers through the smoke, but she had known this shop since she could crawl. With a grunt, Taima sent the axe hurtling end over end where it struck the support beam near the back entrance. With an audible crack, the blade bit deep. At first, nothing further seemed to happen before a loud creek filled the air and the support beam gave under a rain of fiery embers and burning thatch to block the doorway.

With her assailant's line of sight marred, Taima turned her attention to the front door. In a reckless and brazen disregard for the flames, Taima hurtled herself forward, slamming the full brunt of her draconian form into the door shoulder first. In a splinter of wood, she landed outside, her clothes smoldering. Villagers were already beginning to take note of the fire as shouts rang up through town, and several townspeople rushed forward to help her to her feet.

“I'm fine,” she growled gruffly between the rasping coughs.

A gloved hand raised to tug down a wide brimmed cap. Two hands twirled a pair of guns, slipping them into leather holsters. A small smile was visible on the figure's face as the man turned, slinking into the shadows of early morning, making his way away from the scene of the crime.


Anzo came walking up the path, his gait hurried, eyes wide, to see the charred-out remains of Taima's shop, being fought and tempered down by the villagers. Among them he spotted Taima, fighting the fire with the others. Quickly, he closed on the Draconian, his holsters popped of their safeties, hands at strategic positions along his belt.

"Taima!" He called. "What in the River happened here?"

“Here, take over for me,” Taima told a townsman as a bucket was passed into her hands. Hurling the water at the dying flames, she quickly passed it back. The townspeople had mobilized quickly and for all the urgency and chaos of the situation, there was an organized efficiency to things. The flames had died down to a dim glow of embers, though the damage to the structure was extensive and the building was little more than a charred husk.

“Someone attacked me and burned the shop down,” Taima growled lowly as she approached Anzo. That the incident had happened the morning after Anzo had arrived in town was grounds for suspicion. “You wouldn't know anything about that?” she asked.

Anzo raised his eyebrows. "I wouldn't, no. Reckon I could help, though. How did the attack happen?"

“He used magecraft, I didn't see much,” Taima admitted.

Nodding, the gunslinger's eyes roved the charred skeleton of the shop, resting on two broken bottles that were tossed off to the side, blackened by smoke.

He pointed a gloved finger. "What're those?"

Taima turned her own gaze to the indicated bottles and made her way over. Squatting down next to them, she picked up a piece of broken glass, running her finger along the inner surface. There was a thick oily sheen on it that she rubbed between her fingers. Giving it a sniff she frowned. “It smells like oil, but there's something else that I can't place.”

The gunslinger followed her, crouching on the other side of the broken glass. Shifting one of the bottles to reveal a small insignia in the shape of a shattered heart, Anzo tapped his chin.

"Apothecary oil, used as a firestarter on the road. Popular with guerilla warfare." He raised his eyes to Taima, a worried expression in his gaze. "Way I figure, someone overheard our conversation yesterday, figured you were better off charred meat than with the sword."

He wiped his glove off on his pants and surveyed the crowd, silently. "Made any enemies of late, ma'am?"

“Of course not, this is a peaceful village. There have been a few rumors that the Strakken are encroaching into cedar reach, but that's about it.” Taima scowled as she stood up, wiping the oil off her fingers.

Anzo shook his head slowly. "This weren't Strakken, that's for sure."

He turned towards her, his expression grave. "To be blunt, ma'am, I believe you're in danger if you stay here. Whoever burned the shop down came a long way to do it, and I reckon they ain't done yet. I think it's now in both our best interests for you to come with me."

“And leave just like that? Someone could have been hurt, or killed. And what of my father? If there's danger here and I leave, he could be walking right into it. Whoever it was needs to be found,” Taima replied.

Anzo nodded. "I agree with ya, a hundred percent. But think abou' it. They didn't burn down any of the surrounding businesses, which to me meant that this was a specific attack. The faster you leave, the faster everyone here is safe. Though, if I'm truthful, I don' know 'bout your father's safety. All I reckon is that this is personal."

The gunslinger rubbed at his lower lip in thought. "I'll send a message to your father, let him know what happened here, so at th' least he'll be prepared for a possible encounter."

“But how? Even I don't know where to find him,” Taima replied with a touch of apprehension.

The young draconian was torn. The part of her that was driven by duty and responsibility urged her to remain here in Darsia, but the fervent fire that drove the draconian people to greatness urged her to leave. It whispered softly to her that her father would understand, that the path offered to her was greater and more important than anything she would be leaving behind.

Anzo smiled, before putting two gloved fingers to his lips and emitting nothing but a short blast of breath. Suddenly, a shape swooped down towards them, getting larger and larger as it closed the distance. A small bird, its beak hooked and sinister and its eyes black, shot towards the two, before pulling up at the last moment, landing smoothly on Anzo's outstretched forearm.

"This," he said, with affection, "is Moriarty. He's a messenger hawk; the Gunslinger's best friend. All he needs is a trinket o' yer father's, and the intent to find him by you, and he'll deliver the message straight and true. He hasn't failed yet; have you boy?"

The hawk spread its wings and screeched its assent at Taima, before beginning a complex looking preening ritual.

It all seemed so simple to Taima, Anzo had an answer for everything. Youthful inexperience, or just reckless disregard left her overlooking the seeming convenience of everything at hand. Even the coincidental timing of Anzo's arrival the night before a mysterious man attacked her was pushed to the back of her mind. With a glance towards the smoldering wreckage of her father's smithy, Taima made her decision.
 
The silence of the place was overwhelming, even as the warmth of glowing candles battled against the night, giving the impression of cold seeping into warm, choking and slashing at it, surrounding it until it sputtered and reeked of death. The candles each sat around a squat, ugly looking log cabin, situated atop a large hill. Each candle burned brightly, encased in a solid iron lantern, the glow from the light doing little to pierce the inky blackness. Those inside had been called there by a force who lived in the shadows, and so the shadows they’d respect.

Inside, five figures were situated; a man at a large oak desk, resplendent in the finery and regality of noble heritage. Fat, ringed hands slowly ran around a fat, rolling neck, sweat visible amidst the warm glow of the inner cabin. He eyed his companions nervously, fidgeting with his fingers, awaiting someone to speak.

The second figure was softer, clad in simple robes, and held himself still in a corner of the room, his gaze glazed over in meditation. If one looked closely, they could see that he was rocking back and forth, to a rhythm none but him could ascertain.

A third was a woman, a scowl set upon her face as she flipped a dagger end over end, her gaze brooding and fierce. A cap of short black hair was sliced severely around her ears, and her leather tunic creaked and groaned with each breath.

The fourth was a man who permeated confidence and self-assuredness. He was adorned in clothes befitting nobility, black and gold embroidered finery, and held himself with an almost cat-like grace. Long locks of raven hair framed a chiseled face of angular, and almost hawk like features. Only the suave and charismatic smile upon his lips softened the sharpness of his eyes that gave a glimpse into something more sinister.

The final figure was a monstrous creature, towering over those present with his hulking form and gangly limbs. His bony skeletal structure jutted out from beneath lean and wiry muscles, and thick patches of fur grew haphazardly along his body. He kept to the shadows, the ember glow of his eyes filled with malice as he observed those present with a scornful glare.

The silence in the room dragged on for immeasurable moments, each occupied with their own thoughts. Suddenly, it was broken by a snarl from the woman as she turned and threw the dagger - straight and true, sinking into the oak desk that the regal man sat at, making him yelp in fear.

“He is late,” she snarled.

"Show some respect," growled the Strakken, his wolfish visage curling into a sneering snarl. "Lest I make you." The fire in his eyes held something that went well beyond predatory. The Strakken Lord had a lust for carnage matched by few, and the glint in his eyes spoke volumes where words did not. Do it again. I want you to.

The woman shrank back, a second of fear slipping through her tough-guy exterior, as the robed man blinked to alertness, regarding the exchange with an almost boredom. He flicked a hand, mildly.

“Do try to contain yourself, Serene,” he said, mildly. “It doesn’t place the same social definition on time as yourself, and it isn’t like you need to be anywhere important.”

The regal man wiped at his sweat with his sleeve, chuckling in short, whinnying breaths. “Quite right, quite right. If I can sacrifice time, dear girl, we most certainly can afford to.”

He beamed at the raven-haired man, who had yet to speak. “Would you fancy a roll of grass, friend? I do not believe we have ever been formally introduced,”

"Lord Alaric Tyren, your grace," the nobleman replied, smoothly veiling the mockery within his words. His family had long been in the service of King Gantion's father, and in turn King Gantion himself, but there was no love of the weasel of a man that now presided over the Kingdom of Tiria "While it would seem that your generosity is as deep as your pockets, perhaps we might better discuss more important matters while we await his arrival."

The king nodded furiously, eagerly attempting to get on the Baron’s good side. “Quite right, quite right,”

“Where he?” Serene interjected, her face dangerously close to a pout. “He said that he’d-”

As one, the lights in the cabin were abruptly snuffed out in a hiss of smoke, each candle disappearing within instants of another until the entire room was plunged into darkness. Abruptly, the smell of rotting fish and salt filled the log cabin, and a breeze - impossible indoors - kicked up at the occupants’ heels, making each of their garbs flow gently. One by one, the candles relit, each with a pulsing, shivering green flame, unnatural in the quiet din and casting the room with heavy shadows.

There, in the front door, stood a man. On his head was a featherless, wide brimmed cap that threw his facial features into obscurity. He was surrounded by a thick, unnatural coat that hung to his knees, and every time if flowed open, the smell of rotten seafare intensified, as if the stench itself emanated and was contained within the folds. When the figure lifted his head, there was no face to focus upon; just a smattering of grey.

“It has travelled many miles to see these assembled,” came the voice, floating like a harsh whisper, stinging the eardrums as nails on a chalkboard, “and it finds itself amidst whining. This one is... displeased.”

He turned to the Strakken, bowing his head in a respectful gesture, before the eyeless, featureless face turned towards the other four.

“The Master would like for the king, the priest, the thief and the baron to explain to this one what the progression has been. It is to hear their reports, and it is to assign new duties to them, in accordance to the grand plan. They may begin.”

The priest stepped forwards, nodding solemnly. “As per your instructions, Lord, we’ve managed to work through the list. Vane the Impaler, Marth and Lea, the Shadow, and Lore DeKrios were all slain this past fortnight. Our agents have been injected into the Party of Four and the draconian’s stead - she is travelling with another Gunslinger, and our latest reports indicate that they are headed east, because of her annoying character trait of surviving burning buildings.”

The Strakken Lord sneered at the priest. "Twice now the draconian has slipped your grasp," he growled. "Perhaps we should put someone more competent to the task."

The priest leveled his gaze towards the fearsome creature, cocked his head, and responded in a sweet voice. “Perhaps if she had died as a defenseless infant, someone more competent
be saddled with the task.”

“The draconian is no concern of theirs,” Lamp said, waving a hand to those assembled. “Continue.”

“The woman you directed us towards - Serethiel - has not provided ample opportunity to fall into our hands - she is evidently the leader of some noise, on Tyren’s land.”

"I have plans for Serethiel," Alaric interrupted with a raise of his hand to stay the Priest's report a moment. "Leave that one to me." He smiled knowingly. "I know her heart, it yearns to shed the chains of destiny, of preordained expectations. She will join the fold yet, she is just awaiting the right nudge."

“Nudge?” the woman spoke up, her scowl apparent. “There are plenty of women to get your pole licked, baron-boy. Just let the boys in black do her in. The last thing we need is a potential thorn in our side growing larger because your ego is too big.”

"And you my dear, Serene, lack imagination," Alaric replied smoothly. "And this is why I am a Baron, and you're just another common rat in a den of thieves."

She chuckled at that, unfolding and refolding her legs as she perched on the barrel, her hands finding another dagger to twirl. “I’m not the one ‘nudging’ with the enemy, Tyren.”

The Lamp sliced a hand through the air, the candles flickering alongside the motion. “This one did not cross the plane to hear them prattle,” he said, his tone still emotionless, monotone. “If the baron is confident in the baron’s abilities, it will give the baron an opportunity. One opportunity.”

The Lamp turned towards Alaric. “Failing it is failing the Master. The baron understands this?”

Alaric inclined his head in acknowledgement. "Of course, my Lord."

The Priest nodded as well. “That’s it for me, my Lord.”

The Lamp’s gaze moved to the king, quiet. The fat man coughed, tugging at his collar.

“W-well, yes. Yes, about your - ah - instructions. I seem to have run into the amount of trouble with those ambassadors you - that is to say, your master - has set out for me. They’re all in rather high places of esteem, you see. It’ll take several more days-”

“The king did not have days in the Master’s plan.”

“Well,” the king murmured, sweating even harder now, “well, no, but-”

“The king has the king’s position because of the Master’s generosity. It told the king the Master’s plan, and the king had the time that the baron, the thief, and the priest had to accomplish the king’s goals. Has the king failed it?”

“No!” he suddenly blurted. “Look, I have spies - well, terrorists, really - in with the high churches of the capital. But with the rumours of a Gunslinger in the area, I can’t justify-”

“Does the king feel the Gunslingers are more powerful than the Master?”

“N-no, my Lord.”

“Does the king feel it has been unfair in it’s time limit?”

“No. No, my Lord.”

A silence hung in the room, and the Lamp watched the man squirm and shake, moisture pouring from his every pore. After a time, the Lamp nodded to itself.

“If it returns and this task is not accomplished, the king will see the king’s old position restored, and a new will take the king’s place. Tasks must be complete.”

The king slumped in his chair, struggling to remove his handkerchief and mop at his brow and neck. Lamp moved on to Alaric. “It has already felt the effects of the baron’s task. The Master’s will is that the baron continue with them.”

"As the Master commands, my Lord," Alaric replied.

Finally, Lamp gazed upon the thief, and she hopped from her barrel, fingers dipping into her pocket to pull out a small golden trinket. She placed it down upon the barrel, smiling somewhat smugly.

“That’s our share so far; one of the last relics of Ahuma’s reign. I’ve located the other two; it’ll take about a week to track them down ahead of any other gunslingers we may run into.”

The Lamp nodded. “Destroy it; you know the method.”

His eyeless, faceless gaze moved around the room once more. “They will gather to report on progress in two weeks time, and it will have more of the Master’s plan to share with them.”

In a flash, the candles sizzled to their golden hue once more, and the smell of dead fish and salt disappeared. The five were alone in the well lit room, their orders confirmed.

Somewhere, above the realm of the mortals and far beyond what the eye could see, a crooked god smiled.
 
The three companions’ journey ended at the end of a winding, dusty path, overgrown with vegetation and tramped down by a wide variety of animals. Ahead of the abrupt end in the last marks of civilization stood a cabin, rising above them on thick, old pillars that were slowly swallowed by vines and foliage that utilized them as aids in their growth.

The browns and greens of the structure were an oddity in the darker, velvety green and grey of the surrounding swamp, the only thing connecting the odd house with the path below a single, rickety looking staircase, the wood rotten and frayed in spots.

Anzo, having had been pleasant enough during the journey, suddenly grew still with reverence and quiet with the mood of the place, removing his hat slowly from his long, dark hair. A few strands clung to the material stubbornly as he pressed his hat flat to his chest, eyes roving the woodwork, analyzing and considering.

After a long pause, Dusk, who had been surly and unfriendly during the walk, spat out the side of his mouth. “This it, or no?”

A curt nod answered the younger man. “Didn’ lead us into th’swamp t’build character, Dusk,”

Taima drew up next to Anzo as she surveyed the building with a mixture of skepticism and intrigue as she rubbed at the back of her scaly neck.

"You really think that this person will talk to me instead of you?" she asked.

Anzo smiled, tilting his head sideways as he gave her his full attention. “I really do,” he intoned, placing his battered hat back atop his head. “Go on, now. We’ll wait here.”

Taima approached the steps with a hint of apprehension at their rotted state. Even the smallest of Draconians were tall of stature and heavy of girth, and Taima was no different.

Creeeak...

The boards groaned under her foot as she moved to climb the steps. Grunting she adjusted her longbow that hung from her shoulder so she could take hold of the weather worn railing. Truth be told it didn't much look like it would hold her weight either as she skirted the weak spots in the boards.

Fortune it would seem had the small deck in slightly more stable shape, though she didn't much trust it as the boards creaked and bowed beneath her weight when she crossed it to reach the door. Only the faint glow of light that peaked beneath the crack of the door and lit up the gaps in the shuttered window betrayed the fact that someone might actually reside in this shanty of a shack.

She glanced back to Anzo briefly before knocking on the door. In answer, the door was suddenly kicked outwards, and a spindly old man wielding a metal pan lurched out, swinging it towards Taima’s head.
Taima stepped back with a start as she threw an arm up. The pan struck her forearm with force enough to bruise the hide that lay beneath her scales just as the floorboards of the deck let out an alarming crack. Her eyes went wide as her leg plunged down through the wood, leaving her with her arm raised to ward against the old man's wild pan flailing while she struggled to dislodge her leg from hole in the deck.

The stick-thin old man nodded with satisfaction at the damage he caused, folded his wiry arms over his chest, and nodded again. His head was shaved completely bald, his face bare but for a scraggle of whiskers outlining the ridges of his mouth, which was currently fixed into a smug smile as he stared at Taima with nearly white eyes.

“Never liked ‘em with scales,” he muttered to himself, beginning to circle Taima, “though this one’s a little sleeker than most. Not quite ugly, but not quite unattractive. Hmm, reminds me of the good old days. Ah, but she’s with gunslingers! Don’t like the look of the darker one, and the other one’s all scarred up. Don’t like travelling with gunslingers, so she couldn’t be good. Unless we’re bad?”

He paused, once again in front of Taima, scratching at his bald dome. “Never could figure that out. You gonna stand there with your foot in my front porch, lady, or are you coming in?”

Taima stared up at the man in dismay, but it would seem for the moment anyways he didn't intend to continue assaulting her with his frying pan.

It took her a minute to dislodge herself from the hole and she dusted the rotted splinters of wood from herself as she regained her footing. At his invitation to enter she threw one more apprehensive glance back to Anzo before she headed inside.

"I'm a blacksmith by trade, but I'm not half bad with a hammer and nails if you need that hole fixed," she offered.

“Well, you did break it,” he responded, his voice muffled as he moved into a tiny kitchen, stacked high with nothing but ceramic bowls, “so it would be awfully rude to leave it there, wouldn’t it?”

He lifted the lid on a small box in the corner of the kitchenette, pulling out a soft bag of beans. Reaching a hand into the already open bag, the man snatched a few and tossed them into his mouth, offering the next handful to his guest.

“Wha-hoo wan’?” he mumbled, through red lentils.

"Uh.. no thanks," Taima replied with a raised hand at the offer. She glanced around for some lace in the shack to sit but didn't find anything apart from some dusty boxes and crates. "May I?" she asked with a gesture towards one of the sturdier looking crates.

The man’s gaze slid to the crate, then back towards his fistful of lentils.

“You can’t eat my storage,” he responded.

Taima rubbed at the back of her neck awkwardly. "Never mind," she replied. "I'm here because I was told you knew Balasar, my great grandfather."

With a sudden clatter, the beans spilled forth from the bag, rolling across the floor in a torrent of red clattering. The old man let the bag drop from lax fingers, his hands curling and uncurling, eyes narrowing.

“Dear girl,” he said, his voice suddenly full, clear, as he lifted himself to his full height and straightened his spine. In front of Taima’s very eyes, he seemed to grow from an ancient bag of bones to a human being, with vigilance and wariness filling his eyes.

“I haven’t heard that name in a long, long time.”

Silence reigned between the two for a moment, before the man gestured for Taima to take a seat on the crate.

“How much do you know of your grandfather?” he said, watching her closely, studying for resemblance.
Taima eased herself down onto one of the crates.

"Not a lot," Taima admitted. "He was killed when my grandfather was just a boy, so my father never knew him. It's just a few stories passed down really. My name's Taima."

Though Taima took more after her mother’s looks than her father’s, the name was one that the old man would know well. It was a name shared with Balasar's mother - a legend in her own right before her passing.

The man nodded, cocking his head as the sudden clarity bled out with alarming rapidity. Reaching forwards, he held his two gnarled hands on either side of Taima’s head, curious.

With a quick motion, he clapped them together, slapping her on both ears. He leapt back after he did so, peering at her, looking for emotions.

"Ow," Taima answered with a wave of her arm as she swatted the old man's hands away. "What the heck was that for?!" she asked as she rubbed at her ringing ears. "You know, never mind. I was hoping you could help me find something. It was a family relic of sorts until it was lost." She patted down her clothes a moment before she found what she was looking for. "Here, this," she explained as she produced a rumpled scrap of paper. She smoothed it out as best she could before offering it to the old man. It was the very same one that Anzo had shown to her back in Darsia.

He held the paper up to his nose, then promptly turned it over so that the blank side was the side he was scrutinizing. Sniffing, he nodded seriously.

“Eight pound stock, probably from… Darsia? Or further east. It smells of sulphur. You got this piece of paper from a gunslinger?”

"Yes, a man named Anzo Tinzdale," Taima answered. "He said you might know something about it."

“About paper? Not much more than anyone else,” he said, wadding it up and tossing it back at her, “but I used to know a great deal about parchment. Travelled with a man who used it a lot. You should go now.”

He waved at her, waiting for her to move along. With a sigh as she got up.

"Sorry for the trouble then," she told him as she headed out.

“Oh yes, you should be,” he nodded, and followed this with a holler. “Come back tomorrow! I’ll remember more about whatever it is we spoke about. And fix that hole!”
 
WING CITY​

The prison was dark and it was after hours, yet there was no sign of the guards that should have been on duty. An unnerving silence had stolen over the building, as Red picked her way along the long row of empty cells.


In one hand she held a knife, slick with fresh blood, that she tapped against the bars as she went. Tap, tap, tap. The ring of metal drew closer and closer to Tycho's location until at last Red came to stop outside of his cell.


With her knife still in hand, Red rested her hands upon the bars and peered inside.


“Tycho Darsin, you really are on a mission to make sure you're life is a living hell, aren't you?” she observed. The voice was that of Jessica, and yet it was alien to him as the voice of a stranger.


Tycho had been lying on his cot, staring at the ceiling, his thoughts far away from his current location and how he got here. However, the very moment she opened her mouth, he was off his feet and striding towards the bars, his hands clenched at his sides as he watched her. It all came flooding back; her lies, the way she smiled and stabbed him in the back, her skin in the moonlight.


All a fabrication. All a sick game that she had played.


“Why’d y’do it?” He asked, his hands itching to get around her throat. The throat of his once great love...


Now shattered. Destroyed. Spit upon by the monster outside his cell.


“Why did I do it?” Red asked with a thoughtful tilt of her head. “I wished to live again, and you wanted your wife back. Did I not deliver as promised? Were you not happy in your ignorance?” she asked with an arch of her brow. “If you had just left well enough alone, you could have gone right on being happy.”


He shook his head, slowly. “Y’made a shitty wife, lady. Y’coulda asked. Y’coulda asked fer me t’getcha a body, an’ I would’a done it.”


Suddenly, he slammed his fist - heavily bandaged - against the bars, making them rattle. “Y’like seeing people squirm? Y’like sufferin’? S’that it?”


Red's eyes darkened at Tycho's outburst and she turned her head to one side and gently ran the cool flat of the blade across her cheek, drawing his attention to the stitches that had been sewn into the split skin. “Tell me Tycho,” she began, her voice taking on a venomous tone. “How did it feel, striking me and all the while staring into the face of your beloved wife?”


Tycho’s own visage darkened considerably, walking forwards to grip the bars as he watched her drag the steel against her skin.


“You tell me, lady,” he said, his voice thick and quiet. “You were th’ one I was hittin’.”


Seemingly humored, Red's lips gave an amused twitch at his retort. “I like it rough, remember?” she replied before her tone turned serious. “People use people, Tycho, you would have been no different. You should remember this lesson.”


Reversing the grip on her knife, Red offered the hilt of it through the bars to Tycho.


Tycho watched her suspiciously, taking a full step back from the offered handle, his eyes glued to the weapon. Unconsciously, his hand curled around an imaginary knife, thought of the push, the resistance of a warm body.


“Th’fuck are y’doin’.” He said, quietly.


Still, instinct ruled him as his hand shot out and grabbed the knife, pulling it from her hand.


“I'm sure we'll be seeing each other again,” Red offered as her only explanation before she simply turned and walked away.


Tycho stepped forwards, gripping both hands on the bars as she walked away. “Lady,” he called, down the darkened corridor. “When I see y’again, I’m gonna kill ya. I’m gonna take tha’ necklace, an’ I’m gonna bury it.”


Tycho stepped away from the bars, casting himself in shadow as he continued to listen to her retreating footsteps. “I’m gonna bury it deep.”
 
as written by Alara and Rorshach's Journal

What did a man bring to a murder?

No, not a murder. Murder wasn’t the correct word for what his hands itched to do to the woman who was taking residence in his wife’s body. Murder wasn’t heavy enough, violent enough. The question wasn’t what to bring to a murder.

It was what to bring to an evisceration.

Over Tycho’s chest - the same shirt that he had worn all throughout his time in prison, a solitary sixteen days of tranquil fury and dark scheming - was a bulletproof vest, the kevlar strapped around his chest with an efficiency that he had amazed himself slightly with. The knife she had given him slid quietly into a sheath that his contact had given him - strapped securely to his thigh. The man had offered to even send a few men with Tycho, to help even the score. But this was personal.

He’d beat the shit out of her once. He could do it again.

He ascended the stairs to his apartment, stopping just outside the door. He recalled Mylor, pulling herself over a fire escape, shrieking as flames lapped at her, struggling to stay attached.

Without a further word, Tycho walked to the middle of the hallway, grabbed the red fire extinguisher from the wall, and opened the door.

Jessica was lounged languidly upon the couch, riffling through a book she had found in Tycho's duffel bag - the contents of which were now strewn across the floor of the apartment. Turning a page, she didn't spare Tycho even a glance. "You know, I'll have to admit that I'm surprised you can read such large words," she offered casually. “I’m also surprised that it took you so long to get here.”

Tycho glowered, holding the fire extinguisher to his left side, watching her with sharpened, intense eyes. “Takes a’while t’get out o’jail. Fancy new locks. Face looks better, though - d’ja rub lotion on ‘er?”

He closed the door behind him, flipping the lock.

Jessica sat up, discarding the book to the floor. She crossed one leg over the other, and folded her arms behind her head with the arch of a brow. "Is this really what you want Tycho?" she asked. "Though I suppose that's a silly question. A better question would be to ask if you really have it in you. Can you really bring yourself to act upon all of those delightful thoughts in your head, all while looking into the face of your beloved wife?"

“Ain’t her face anymore, lady,” Tycho said, a low growl deep in the back of his throat. “Ain’t nobody’s face but the bitch who killed ‘er.”

His fingers unhooked the hose of the fire extinguisher, his free hand pointing it at her. “Ever been hit with one o’ these, lady? Burns ya.”

"To be fair, she was already dead," Jessica retorted before eying Tycho's wielding of a fire extinguisher. "Now, there's no need for that. I even dressed up nice for you. Wouldn't want to look anything but my best for this after all. It's a special occasion."

“Tough shit.” Tycho smiled, then thumbed the mechanism to fire the coolant.

The extinguisher let out a spackled, wheezing cough, and a puff of warm air ejected from the black hose. Tycho blinked, shaking it, and triggered it again, to no response.

“Huh.” He muttered.

Jessica cocked her head to one side, peering at him with a light smirk of amusement. “I know, that doesn’t usually happen, right?” she asked.

His response? The fire extinguisher was up and hefted towards her in a quick flash of movement, the knife clearing its sheath as he charged towards her, memories of Jessica pervading his mind - old, new, everything in between - that made his hands shake and his anger boil.

Jessica threw her arm up to shield her head from the fire extinguisher, but by the time she lowered it again, Tycho had closed the gap between them with impressive speed.

He made a sound - something between a growl and a yell, and moved to strike at her with his free hand.

Jessica threw her arm up to shield her head from the fire extinguisher, but by the time she lowerd it again, Tycho had closed the gap between them with impressive speed.

His knuckles struck her cheekbone, knocking Jessica to the side before he was on her again. The pair grappled roughly, Tycho with the clear upper hand in physique had her down on her back on the couch, but before he could bring his knife to bear, Jessica drove a knee up into his groin, and slammed her head forward into the bridge of his nose. Shoving him off her onto the floor, she twisted to grab the nearest object of use - a telephone from the end table which she brought down towards his head.

The cradle collided with a muffled ding, sending him jerking backwards, seeing stars as his hands slipped from their grip on her. As he started to fall backwards, his foot lashed out, high and quick, the knife dropping and bouncing from his grip as the limb slammed into her shoulder. He scrambled backwards on his hands and knees, looking desperately for another weapon.

Jesicca rolled from the couch to the floor, grabbing up the fallen knife as she landed. Coming back to her feet, she reversed her grip on the knife and took up a defensive stance. With the back of her free hand she wiped at the thin trickle of blood from split skin of her cheek. "Feels good doesn't it," she remarked.

Tycho jumped to his feet, in his hand a spare shoe that had been lying on its side near the doorway, kicked over in the fray. He glanced at it, then threw it at her face.

"More’n you know,” he snarled, backing away warily, his eyes following the knife.

Jessica ducked the shoe and narrowed her eyes. "Come on, don't go soft on me now," she bit out, a hint of anger touching her voice.

He glowered, lowering his stance slowly to a crouch, eyes on the knife, watching it, waiting.

Then, he moved, his arm firing forwards to grip at her wrist, forcing it upwards and out of harm’s way, his body jerking close to grip at her throat with his free hand as he slammed her against the wall, the force of it making the cheap spackling on the ceiling rain on top of them, white dust hanging onto the strands of his hair. His nostrils flared wide, his eyes darkening as he sensed the end of the conflict, his breath shuddering out.

“Gotcha, bitch,”

"That so?" she purred.

Her free hand closed around the gold pendant within her pocket. The small object bore the likeness of a scorpion as she withdrew it and slapped her hand down over the one at her throat. Writhing to life, the small object stung Tycho's hand, scuttling its way up his arm. As he jerked his hand back, the scorpion fell to the floor, metallic and inanimate once more.

Tycho felt a wave of heat wash through him as he took a staggered few steps backwards, his hand clenching uncontrollably as red welts burst forth from the site of the sting. He stared at her, blinking through the pain - so oddly close, so familiar - before the pain and heat of his body dropped him to his knees in front of her, his head leaning forwards against her stomach as he retched.

"Wha-" he managed, swallowing harshly.

Jessica reached down to place her hands on either side of Tycho’s face, turning it up to look at her as she knelt down in front of him.

"It'll all be over soon," she whispered, kissing him on the forehead and pushing him backwards to the floor.

Shrugging off her jacket, she tossed it to the side, crawling after Tycho to straddle him, her hands sliding up beneath his shirt as the venom coursed its way through his bloodstream. Her fingertips danced across his chest before she dug her nails in and leaned down to whisper softly in his ear.

"But first, scream for me," she purred.

She sat up, keeping her neck well clear of his grasping hands as angry red veins began to spread from her touch, heating up as they worked their way beneath Tycho's skin in a spider web of tendrils that left his skin smoldering.

Tycho's jaw tightened, his neck arching as his body writhed upwards, taught as a bow drawn back to full length, a sound of pain forcing itself from his throat unbidden. His hands twitched and curled, but he couldn't force them to obey. His body ached to throw her off, but it didn't heed his call. He willed himself in those moments to throw her off, to gain relief, and, finally, he willed death to come swiftly, ruthlessly.

Instead, there was heat, beyond hellfire, beyond imagination. Instead, there were her eyes, vindictive and mercilessly enjoying this.

Instead of dying, Tycho screamed.
 
There was a re-weaving, a sudden twisting of strands, fluttering of fabric. A section of the tapestry, slightly frayed, damaged, began to pull free, attached to thread. Colours that were separated became entwined, portions drawn together.

The Tapestry held, but now it was forever changed.

____________________



Sam Worthcrow was a generally average gnome. He had a decent job as a travelling fabrics salesman, a loving wife, three beautiful children, and a two bedroom cottage that had a view facing a rolling hillside. It was slightly cramped in there, but the Worthcrow clan didn’t complain. He enjoyed his work and the satisfaction it brought him, and had been doing this job for nearly forty years.


Today was a special day for the otherwise normal, average, and boring man. In his travelling pack lay the deed to a brand new cottage - one where his family wouldn’t feel so squished together and lacking for privacy. It had been the goal when he first started travelling and selling silks, cottons, and dyes to the lords and ladies of the land, and today - with much excitement - he finally made good on his wish.


Sam had raced home after delivering a fine set of spider silk to the Lady of Worhampton Manor, a large property that traded in lumber and gemstones. He had been haggled down expertly from three gold pieces to two and a half, but that had been all he had needed. Those last jingles in his coinpurse had lit alight a sense of satisfaction borne of hard work and diligence, and he couldn’t contain his effusive joy when he skipped over to the property manager of the new cottage, slapped the money on the table, and gleefully exclaimed those three words he’d yearned to speak for years.


I’ll take it!


In his haste, Sam cut across a large field that led to the Worthcrow trail, winding and weaving into the woods where the little cottage was nestled. He walked with a spring in his step, his eyes alight with pleasure, his heart thumping with anticipation. Finally, after all his work, he was getting-


Suddenly, as Sam stepped onto the path to lead him home, a man and a woman appeared in his path, arriving such that he would’ve slammed into their bent over forms had he not been quick on his feet. The man was pinned underneath the woman, his back arched upwards, a whine coming from his throat as the woman did something over him, her hands pressed to his chest.


The smell of smoldering hit his nostrils, and he scrambled backwards.


“I say!” he spluttered, standing upright, “what in the devil is the meaning of all this?”


They were the last words he would utter.


The woman's concentration was drawn from Tycho and there was a fervent fire reflected in them as the scorching heat of her hands snaked beneath his skin in angry red blistering lines. It was intoxicating.


The gnome had drawn her attention to their changed surroundings though and her eyes narrowed sharply to something akin to anger. The fire was reigned in and redirected as she withdraw one hand and outstretched it towards Sam.


His short scream was abruptly silenced as the flames snaked their way down his throat, burning him inside and out until there was little left but charred remains. She closed her hand into a fist and snuffed out the torrent of flames with some reluctance that brought a snarl to her lips as she looked back to Tycho.


"What did you do," she demanded.


Tycho could only wheeze, his eyes on hers, belying nothing but pain and some relief after her hands were no longer on him.


Then, his lips curved upwards, teeth showing through a cough, then another, his eyes becoming sadistically amused.


“Ruin… ruin yer fu-hun?”


"Believe me, there's a lot more fun where that came from," she snarled. Her nails found scorched flesh once more as she dug them in deep. "What did you do."


A moan of pain came from the man, followed by a throaty, hoarse laugh.


“Magi- magician never reveals,” he grunted, “do yer worst.”


She wouldn't need to. The paralytic toxin coursing through his blood stream was fast seeing to that. His words were beginning to slur and soon communication would be beyond him entirely. He would be trapped in his own body - his blood on fire within his veins.


That would do little to help get answers out of him though.


She stood up with a snarl of disgust as she took in their surroundings. The field was too open, and within plain view of the nearby road. Both Tycho, and the charred remains of the gnome would draw unwanted attention should anyone happen by.


Another throaty laugh came from the man underneath her. “‘Stuh’ heer w’me, bidj.”


His efforts to speak were rewarded with a sharp kick to his ribs.


With a scowl the woman ran a hand through her hair and looked around once more. The gnome was easily taken care of and she kicked the remains behind a row of plants that were clear of the charred patch. With that seen too, she went about collecting Tycho's wrists to begin the arduous task of dragging him to the nearby forest edge. Unfortunately Tycho wasn't exactly a small man, nor was she a particularly large woman and each inch was grueling.


By the time they reached the forest edge her brow was thick with sweat and she was panting heavily. She all but threw herself down on the ground to lean against a tree and catch her breath. It wasn't much, but it would provide some measure of cover until the toxin ran its course - provided no one came looking for the gnome. The deep furrows in the field where she had dragged Tycho would make no secret of their location.
 
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