Chronicles of The Omniverse Archived Lutetia City: Cascastel

Kol made a not-so-subtle ogling of the druid's ample chest before clearing his throat and averting his eyes.

"Calos. Ah. He crashed. Probably still kicking, so we should get..." He took a peek as Aoife wrapped her chest in the cloth. "...moving..."

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

The scoundrel rolled his eyes. "Demoiselle, if you don't know why I'm staring at you, then I must wonder if you've ever met a man before me." He offered her his hand. "Come on. Let's get out of here."
 
The druid noticed him watching, but paid it no real attention. After all, she'd dealt with far more overt displays of interest before, some more recently than others.

"Actually, and you'll not like the idea Oi'm sure, but this is starting to get through whatever adrenaline is pumping through my body right now," she said as she gestured to the gash running from near her shoulder to nearly her wrist. The wound wasn't deep enough to be lethal, but it wasn't bleeding as much as it should have been and the smoke, faint as it was, that rose from it was acrid.

"Oi've never been hurt like this before, so getting his sword might help me figure out how to heal it. As it is right now, my regenerative magics are at their limit just keeping things as they are." She winced slightly, showing that despite her words, the wound was slowly becoming worse.
 
Kol inspected the wound. "Hm. I think he doused his sword in a monastic potion called 'sunray'. A pretty little number which superheats whatever metal it comes in contact with and melts through organic tissue like butter." He winced. "My guess is the leftover juice from the cut is still melting through your arm... but it should wear off soon. He didn't get that much on you."

He looked over his shoulder at the sound of scuffling from the alleyway Calos crashed into. "But believe me, we don't want to keep tussling with Calos. I know someone who can help - who can give you a vial of exactly what he just used on you. We have to move." He ripped off a piece of his jacket and dug into one of his pockets for a silver flask. Unscrewing the top, he doused the rag in a clear liquid which smelled an awful lot like vodka.

"Come on, we have to hurry. Wrap this around the cut," he tried to help her onto the bike.
 
"Aye. Give me a moment." She placed her right hand on the ground and mumbled something, the only audible words being 'forgive me'. The bitter scent of mint suddenly infused the air, overpowering all but the scent of gasoline and motorcycle exhaust. Aoife's left arm shimmered in a haze of green energy, and when the light faded, her cut had become a pure white scar about a quarter inch wide and just barely raised above the skin. When the druid faced Kol, her eyes were leaking tears freely.

Without saying a word, she took the soaked rag and wrapped her arm, though it would serve only to disinfect her skin. She figured there was no need to let her enemies, such as they were, in on her capabilities. She accepted his help, still off balance from her defenses being effectively demolished by her own spellcasting, and held to him tightly, both for comfort and for safety.

"Lets go, Kol. I've killed too much here."
 
Kol frowned, awash with guilt the moment he saw Aoife start to cry. This was his fault. Her pain, her suffering, his fault. He wasn't sure what she meant in regard to the lives she'd "killed", but he supposed it wouldn't do any good to argue the point.

"Come on. We're gonna be fine," Kol tried to comfort her, "the worst is behind you."

Revving the bike, a scoundrel and a druid sped down the street, leaving Cascastel behind them.
 
“Son of a crud-muffin’ biscuit eater… this is horse-puckey.” Alysa grumbled, it obvious she was still pissed as hell that Jason was overseeing what she was supposed to be doing. Her fingers ran through her hair as she went to yet another store to kick out the squatters, wondering whether or not this was a pointless endeavor just to keep her busy. She loathed bitch-work and this screamed of bitch-work.

Her knuckles were blood stained and while that made her feel a little better, it wasn’t enough to wash the bad taste out of her mouth. How was she supposed to move up in the ranks if she was treated like a child? Then again, maybe if she stopped screwing up, she wouldn’t have so many issues. That was her number one goal… to stop making stupid mistakes and to stop pissing off Rowan. She could give two shits about Jason or Gabriel. Grunting softly to herself as she squared off with a dealer that wasn’t one of theirs, the Scion ran her tongue against her teeth, tisking a bit.

“Sorry, bud, you’re not wanted around here anymore. This is Scion territory and you have exactly two seconds to get your shitty drugs collected and anything you own before I make you regret traipsing where you’re not welcome.” After the warning, she counted out loud for the two seconds given before her head cocked to the side at the lack of movement from the dealer.

“Okay then.” Without warning, she moved forward towards the male, her body stepping gracefully around the pile of boxes and furniture that was between the two of them. He attempted to swing on her, but Alysa dodged it with ease and brought her own left hand around towards his face, fist clenched tightly in the process. Ramming her fist against his jaw, she sent his head snapping backwards and even as he stumbled backwards thanks to the force behind the punch, she was bringing her other hand around, slamming it into his stomach. His cries for mercy and promises of leaving fell on deaf ears as she swept his legs out from beneath his body, sending his bony body to the ground. Lunging onto him, she narrowed her eyes, pummeling his face with both of her fists, knees pinning his arms to the ground while her butt pressed hard against his chest to keep him still.

“This works.” Alysa muttered, still wailing on the dealer, deciding to take her frustration out on him since she couldn’t fight Jason, Rowan, or Gabriel.
 
Two Months Before the Caer Attacks

Rain spattered the nighttime streets of Lutetia City, glossing the cracked cobblestone roads and misting the ghost-green gaslamps in a shroud of water. Thunder cracked overhead, the lightning hidden somewhere in the storm clouds. It was cold. Not cold enough for snow, but just cold enough to make every drop of rain feel like a liquid icicle. It was not a night to be outdoors, not even in a crime-glutted district like Cascastel. The whores were absent from their posts at the stoplights, the dealers huddled low in their alleyways. Not a night for-

Gunfire in the streets. Sirens. Four black vans sped down a nearly vacant freeway, followed closely by three police cruisers, lights strobing. A gunman leaned out of the backseat of one of the vans and unloaded a clip from his semi-automatic at the nearest flashes of red and blue.

"Fuckin'," he swore as he came back into the van, "can't see shit in this rain..." He lifted a radio to his lips, patching into the lead van. "Boss, they're gaining on us and our shots aren't scaring them away. What do we do?"

He steadied against the gurney in the center of the van, eyeing the tarp-covered body placed therein. If only he had the skill to reanimate this bastard... that'd take care of those pigs. He wondered why they cared so much - cops usually wouldn’t chase people into neighborhoods like this late at night. It was supposed to be pack territory.
 
The static noise from the radio sounded gruff and horrendous compared to the hard rain beating down on the window of the van. The news that came with it just soured the mood of the man listening even more. Standing up from his incredibly uncomfortable sitting position, the well-dressed man stretched his arms out from underneath his cloak and walked towards the stretcher which held a body covered by a thin sheet. Arms stuck out and hung at the edge, laying limply on either side of the stretcher; the stench of blood permeated the air, thickening it. Placing a hand on the corpse, the man's hand hovered over the sheet as the man looked towards the henchmen accompanying him in the back of the van. What an inconvenience. This would have been a smooth business transaction if not for the strange burst of compassion the cops decided to have on this small-scale... case. Although he had been prepared for if cops would notice them, he wasn't prepared to be chased down by police cruisers. After all, this was the more quiet side of town.

"Move to the edges, we're going to have to improvise for now."

His tone was calm and steady, but the inside of his mind burnt with annoyance. The van he was in slowed down slightly and allowed two of the other black vans to overtake them as the cops started to gain on the gang. More gunshots rang, although none had touched the surface of the van he was in and was directed more towards the other three vans trying to get away as quickly as possible.

Staring at the corpse on the stretcher, he sighed. "I was really looking forward to having more time with you." he addressed the male, before ripping the sheet off hastily and pressing his palm against the deceased man's bare skin. A steady flow of energy pumped through his body, only ending in an abrupt burst of energy before the necromancer grabbed the handle to the door of the van. Motioning to his henchmen, the cloaked figure pushed the backdoor open and saluted the police officers. "Got a present for you, hope you like it!" A body flew past him and it served as a distraction to slow down the other cars greatly. Closing one door of the van, the man hid behind it to avoid the shots thrown at them by the officers, the chaos only stopped when a police officer could be heard yelling into his walkie-talkie in a panicked voice. A moment passed as everyone laid their eyes on the body in the streets.

The corpse twitched.
 
“Stay on em,” one of the cops growled into his walkie. Two of the cruisers had to tail off due to the weather, but five had kept the chase and were gaining steady ground on the black vans. Gunfire rattled the hood of their car, cracking the windshield. His partner unbuckled his seat belt, leaned out the window and returned fire with his pistol.

“Wick and Wyrm!” he growled, “where the fuck did these bastards get semi-automatic weaponry?”

“How the hell should I know? We put out a dispatch to the Order ten minutes ago. Maybe we’ll get some back up.”

A snort. “Fat fucking chance. No way a palapig is gonna bail us out of this one.” He loaded a fresh magazine. “Just get me close enough to blow their tires out.”

His squinted. “Wait, are they... slowing down? What are they doing?”

“They’re opening the back. Oh my god, is that- Pull off, pull off!”

Too late. Sharp talons tore into the hood of the vehicle, lifting it, tossing it aside like a piece of paper. It tumbled through the air and crashed into a space of highway across the intersection.
Lifting his maw to the night sky, the undead werewolf let loose a bloodcurdling howl.

The remaining police cruisers swerved to avoid the abomination. Two of them skidded to a stop fifty feet away. The officers used their car doors as cover and unleashed a volley of bullets against the wolf.

“Kill it! Kill it now!”

The necromancer’s ploy had worked. There was no way the cops would be able to pursue him while fighting this beast.
 
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