Zaehran dodged, an impossible dodge mid-air, narrowly evading the claws of death swiped at him. The reptilian sloads, flicked their long split tongues, bleakly licking their long claws, moving at a pace that betrayed their bulk. The Monk deftly landed on his toes, narrowly missing the acidic ground where tendrils of black smoke rose from the spilled bile. The vitriol burning, tainting, melting solid stone. With not a moment to spare, Zaehran spun, the flat of his open palm extended, throwing the reptilian foe like a stone from a slingshot. His psionic powers are every bit as lethal as his physical self.
A heavy rock, lifted from the ground, flew past with the speed of a bolt from a masterwork crossbow, before missing its target and embedding itself on the wall harmlessly. A tremor ran past the solitary wall upon its impact. Of course, the chaos sloads have their special abilities. Zaehran would not have opponents who move their frame with sinews and won their fights wielding swords. It has to be those who defy the laws of reality with their mind-bending powers. This time, it was telekinesis.
Would it hurt the monk, for once, to have adversaries swinging cold steel or lobbing fireballs from the distance?
Pebbles and small rock, the size of a closed fist, plucked by mental energy, levitated above the ground. If Zaehran, noticed the display of power, or even if he realized their intended target, he did not let the revelation stop his martial dance. Flying into a squat, reaching out both hands against the structure's wall, the monk spun picking impact to change his direction, he avoided the pebbles and debris-infused cyclone flung at him. The maelstrom of stone and gravel threatened to lacerate the monk's flesh, or worse, to strip away skin and muscle. The ascetic monk took little heed to any discomfort, only when one stone struck just, his body stiffened, muscles taut, and then he continued rolling. The stone snapped forth at the pelting impact. For the ascetic, truly honed in mind and body, none of the effects of the impact had truly registered.
He rolled clear of the ground and sprang straight up, attacking with his psychic form flaring up like a predator -- the foe beyond fleshy forms. It was something akin to a stalking falcon stretching wings. As lethal as it is graceful. Beyond the display of aerial acrobatics, pure speed, instinct and barely contained killing intent flowing through him -- Zaehran had a style entirely unto himself. Ethereal claws, not of the material plane, extended from his hand towards the scaled beasts, two of them wrenched themselves back and away in terror. Their ophidian eyes held him in awe and disgust.
And then Zaehran cut loose -- with an upward flick of forearms, his psychic claws tore through their thick scales. Shocked by the unexpected onslaught, the sloads staggered, sending the vitriolic bile of stew flowing in their veins, boiling. For the few remaining moments, they endured their existence as unimaginable raw power ripped the blood vessel inside them, devouring the entire formation of cell, flesh, and bone; lifting sinew and disposing them away into nothingness.
Nothing more than a pile of flesh waste littering the beast graveyard remained. At his ephemeral display of potential psychic abilities, the sloads growled. Reeling, they made haste to regroup. Their second attempt at launching another surge in counterattack was met with more aerial skill. Sensing their combined telekinetic powers, failing to meet the rising fervour of the monk, the sloads leapt, closing distance quickly between them, aiming to sink their claws into the barely armoured ascetic.
With a sustained deep breath flowing through his lungs, renewing vigour to every part of his body, Zaehran evaded a flurry of deadly rending talons. From overhead came showering stones and rubble, but with a flick of feet, the monk cleared away the enemy’s boulders. They weren't fast enough -- for the teleporting monk.
Zaehran flowed past all attacks and kept moving -- approaching them dangerously close at impossible angles. His fist, harder than rock, carved a path of carnage. Skeletons and limbs flew off as the bone joints severed, baring naked ribs and vertebrae. Veins, lungs and tissues ruptured, leading to torrential bleeding, collapsing under the weight of the crushing skull. Unhinged jaws, empty stomachs, ripped and exposed organs -- anything close within reach fell to the destruction of his advance.
The sloads sensed no advantage in leaping again -- as their efforts yielded mere tatters of themselves left behind. They directed their telekinesis differently now, using it merely as a deterrent as well as a tool. As they encased Zaehran in a cocoon of sheer psychic force, leaping towards him in a predatory lunge, the sloads, claws dripping with vitriolic bile, became immobile. Not from pain, only fear, beaten until they yielded, beaten until the will receded. The ascetic monk channelled the power from beyond the realm but; within him and twisted his will towards the psychic charge. At his outburst, pillars crumbled, tremors ran along walls; sand and dust migrated, lulled by a force competing with gravity.
The monk vanished completely, only to appear beside the fallen sloads, their carcasses wasted as skeletons broke into fragments. The reek of corpses soured the air, their boiling bile of stew eroding all life, even stones perforated where they spilled. Hands of pale distorted light shimmered in the space around him -- if that was what those things could be called -- ghostly after images blurring in the falling rain. Remaining undaunted, the monk gestured up into the night sky. Spectral darkness obscured by an unnatural mist lay ahead, as more heavy steps echoed behind the monk. More of those sloads, converging on his position.
Beneath his fingers, glistened the vitriolic blood of his fallen foe, eroding his skin and burning his flesh, yet the ascetic remained unflinching. He gathered his strength, launching into a vigorous flare, illuminating the harsh grounds with his bright effulgence, he rushed to meet the oncoming second wave.
Covering distances in a great leap, I kicked the motionless halfling. He laid still, perfectly in alignment with the role he played.
"Sneak in and find a secure path to the sarcophagus. When we enter, hell will be yapping on our heels," I uttered in a voice that was barely a whisper. Therrin still remained remarkably still -- listening attentively. Between the time it took for my glance to dart from the rushing monk to the howling werewolf and back to the halfling, he disappeared.
The rogue reappeared briefly behind a half-crumbled pillar, dropping like deadwood. Utilizing his small form, adroitness filling his very form, knowing how to twist, dodge and fly unnoticed under relentless titanic forces, he lithely reached the steps to the dilapidated villa. Unseen, he worked the padlocks and in a fleeting moment, he vanished inside.
A bone-chilling howl was all that Rodo issued as a challenge for being poked and stabbed with spears. His thick lustrous fur, exquisite and awe-inspiring, now soaked in the dull blood of his foe. The six reptilian forms, slowly encircled him, unheeded by the blood and viscera of their fellow mercenaries, sprayed underneath their scaly webbed feet. With practised stance, unshackled by fear or trepidation, glowing ophidian eyes trained on the emissary of brutality growling before them, they patiently bid their time.
Never bothering to use shields and prepared to stand and fight, till their prey succumbs; a clever tactic of the reptilian mercenaries. It would have worked flawlessly, had it not been for their current opponent -- A werewolf!
Venom dripping, razing, annihilating fangs, poison spewing maw, cloven clawed hands that held obsidian tipped spears, waiting for their prey to err for them to capitalise on. A typical cold-blood strategy. Rodo or the beast that took over him, aided by an endless pool of stamina, relished on pursuing its prey relentlessly till the latter succumbed. Infinite patience pitted against unending endurance was all this fight was about.
Rodo's hind legs stiffened, like a coil pulsating with stored energy, ready to spring his muscle-honed body and lash out -- powerful swipes more destructive than any steel can inflict. Upright, the behemoth beast snarled, arms snapping forward, and then pounce followed. Speeding forward, driving his nose deep into the hauberk of one enemy, causing them to thrust their obsidian tipped spear aside while twisting his whole toned torso, at the same time mauling the other with his stone-crunching jaw. Neither the metal rings of the armour nor the thick scales beneath offered any resistance against the raw, crushing power of the werewolf's ravenous maw.
In and out and across, Rodo tore through, teeth through throat, fangs slipped in heart cavity with sudden bone-crunching force. Each piece of hard scales fractured, tissues severed, flesh rend out to filets. Blood splashed everywhere as his maniac claws gouged deep, oozing foul streams of crimson from mangled gashes, while Rodo claws carved lucent arcs of carnage. Even the tremors from his earth-shattering howl knocked down lurching foes to unsteady and dizzy feet. The lucky ones laid flat on the ground, those who attempted to rise were gifted a sublime death from his rending claws.
"Werewolf," screamed a grating yet sibilant, and loud hiss, "Bring the Silver."
Out of the darkness, one moist scale mercenary lunged forward like a striking serpent, presenting a lambent oblong sabre stretched from the handle. Light danced viciously on the bright silver edge of the blade. In a gesture of instinctive arrogance, the newcomer assailant boasted of the one weapon to mortally wound the ravaging foe. The newcomer's chest exposed, bereft of any armour protecting their row of lacquered tiled scales, heaved as they called upon strength drawn from the weapon they held. The beast in Rodo cared little for its adversary's courage or the weapon it wielded. Both sought to resolve the conflict of attrition with swift action. Bloodlust, a sweet siren song, called them to action. Without the least regard for whoever blocked his approach, Rodo twisted round to slam down upon them. Thrusting forward with sheer determination, the werewolf exploded across his opponent, crushing their exposed ribcage like a kite flung in a storm wind.
Rodo's skin burned, the effect of the silver weapon held by his assailant as it sliced across his shoulders, flaring through a burning flame charring his skin. Bathed in crippling agony, the ululations of a thousand slaughtered, echoed from Rodo's throat. Fouled cries submerged his deep guttural groans. From the laceration on his shoulders, flowed a putrid, lethal and fetid puss. A vile stew of festering rotten tissue, darkened flesh and poisoned black blood. The horrid stench, infused with acrid smells and tainted fever seeped into every fibre of his being. From his wide-open jaw, dribble spattered everywhere around, revealing his face drenched, red as death. Muscles shook, swaying his joints and veins all the way down to terrifying vibrations raking his skeletal core. Immense shock coursed through his entire body like lightning rods liked to his ferocious form. Only then did the putrid wound rupture! Rodo fought and bit, burying his mouth in the folds of his arms, twisting in a fetal position as agonizing pain rippled through him.
"The famed bloodlust of a werewolf!" whispered a callous voice, the form of the owner unseen, yet the voice very much familiar. Merrick!
Undeterred, unaware and never affected by the carnage before his eyes, wielding a grin as putrid as the rotten sting of a venomous scorpion, he crossed the blood-soaked ground. His expensive mercenaries scattered before his resolute approach, carving a clear path to the werewolf. His smile carved gaunt shapes upon his lips, distorting his otherwise amicable features. With a menacing walk, keeping a slight bend in knees so that his body weight fell low, he marched forward. As Merrick neared the crumbling form of Rodo, releasing a silver chain, twice as long as the man himself, a swinging ferocity slashed through the air. The chain spun creating bright circles of silver disc glistening in the pale light. Merrick halted his progress and stood still giving the beast before him time to recuperate and gather strength. Every part of him stood silent and still, save for his wrist that controlled the chain, with fluid motions like a musician's hands flowing over a harp; lethal and elegant.
Rodo slowly raised himself from his fetal position, with neither complaint nor weakening tone escaping his jaws. Watching the dark bloodied eyes of the beast whose fate and end roamed lethally close, spoke volumes of its primal instincts. Twisting side to side like a struggling newborn foal, he eventually stood on firm legs. Then his tormented eyes began to focus. He cast a steely glance at the man swinging the silver chain in a signatory manner. After a protracted pause, the full apprehension of the death instilled in him, and in inevitable defiance, Rodo leaned forth, onto all four. Ground his teeth, pawed the earth, snarling. Pale white spittle of saliva spat every time he roared. Refusing to be cowed, the beastly form of Rodo violently swung, denying the curled end of the chain swung by Merrick. Rodo effortlessly evaded each swing -- slamming onto all fours, shifting form into a creature of sheer guile and ferocity. His intense savagery gave birth to something new; a heightened reflex allowing him to evade the flying silver chain with deadly finesse.
Merrick studied the shifting trajectories before his eyes, tracking Rodo's fast moments carefully until he saw the slightest sliver of a rip appear on Rodo's torso which wasn't there earlier, dangling there all putrid and burned. Though not consumed with a personal creed against Rodo, the surrounding moist scale mercenaries could only laugh and gloat -- the mockery worth of the moment, just before the all brutal destruction manifested.
With no warning though, Rodo charged, petrifying all by his behemoth form throwing itself at Merrick. Slashing away with lethal sharpness in an attempt to maim and cripple him. Furious haste prevented his foolish attack from working in his favour. Garbing more injury to avoid a lethal cut -- Merrick parried the rush with the graceful agility of a pouncing panther, only doing so easily using movements made more economical due to a combination of innate grace and preternatural foresightedness.
Without missing a beat, Merrick pinned Rodo, forcing his bulk on the back of the Rodo to help hold him off while his thunderous kicks delivered a series of strikes over his victim's spine, nape of neck and ribs. Extensive tears opened up along Rodo's right shoulders till his torso; painting a crimson bleach on his thick fur. Ferocious swift kicks caused small spurts of blood to spatter on the ground. However, these fresh wounds did not cause ululation in Rodo. The silver chain wrapped around his neck, tightening ever so slowly, causing an excruciating agony, pushed Rodo dangerously close to his mortality. The powerful forearms of Merrick wrapped around both the ends of the chain pulled with precisely controlled force, in a lethal demonstration of his prowess.
It all happened within a narrow fleeting moment before I could close the distance. A combination of burning and decaying smell as silver dug into the Rodo's werewolf form, eliciting sharp tears from my eyes. Quickly holding back bile rising inside my stomach -- nauseated by the sight of Rodo failing consciousness, I doubled my pace. Vermillion colour painted the ground where Rodo struggled revealing life slowly ebbing out.
Donning an aura, dark as a sinister shroud, I shot headlong towards Merrick -- My secret voice of lust roared inside, coaxing me, nurturing the urge to sink my teeth into the enemy. Vivid promises of immeasurable power to reduce the man before me to cinders with something as simple as a flick of my wrist. But the fear within me surpassed the tempting promises. Great heartache at having to lose a family drew out my baser emotions. Rodo's life was vibrant, far too vibrant to be extinguished as collateral in wringing revenge. Indespicable terror of failure clawed my heart.
My lower body began to move with dreadful agility, completely disregarding the gruesome consequences if I failed to reach Merrick in time. At my lunging, the hands of Merrick loosened that terrible deathly grip that had clutched Rodo's throat. Freed from the shackles of silver poisoning, Rodo shifted weakly. His defiant demeanour quenched, muzzle slackened into insignificant quivers, sickly green pool of acidic bile poured forth from his jaws. Bones exposed, flesh torn open and festering with poisoned tumours, Rodo was just a discarded pile of flesh and bones covered in fur.
With dexterity born of expertise from countless sieges, I slid to a stop and leaned closer over Rodo's shoulders. His slowly heaving chest and warm struggling breath gave me little hope.
Slowly running my hand over his thick fur, ignoring the soaking wetness of the crimson fluid drenching them, I said, "Go inside to Zaehran. I am the one he seeks."
Merrick, clutching the leather belt around his waist, eyed me hungrily without fear, but with naked fury instead -- arcing a venomous glare with an equally vulgar burning intensity. Each nostril flared wide as he breathed in and breathed out with equal ferocity.
Merrick finally bellowed, "That one walks away but you will receive no such mercy."
Casting a quick cursory glance for shattered bone, I urged the uncooperative Rodo to leave. Holding his warm paws in my hand, delivering an assuring squeeze, a fake twinkle hiding the real pain behind, I whispered, "He is far too young to pose a threat."
Merrick narrowed his steely gaze giving all forms of darkness to settle inside his soul. Rodo shifted briefly and halted short, cocking a perky eye towards Merrick and finally limped away with reluctance.
I eyed Rodo for a bit, till he reached the threshold of the building. I knew Merrick would show no mercy -- it was how Merrick was made. And suddenly, killing someone seemed wrong, especially when it came to somebody who I cared about. For underneath my intractable gaze and stoic exterior was the crucial truth; I simply could not look past when it came to my own. Not when the lives of my people hung in balance.
I cast my glance at Merrick and his bloody hellish form stiffened, still striking a careful balance between tense readiness and ravenous hunger for revenge.
Beneath his masked demeanour, Merrick felt only darkness that occupied the space inside him. It perplexed me, not that the simple minds of Ottomar and Merowyn would fail to see Merrick for who he was, but even the wise Zaehran became so gullible by his chivalrous act.
Slowly easing into my stance, my ebony longsword rang out, daring to meet the readily held dual wield scimitar of Merrick. No shield between me and my nemesis, just a plain sharp edge of the blade to decide the outcome. I gazed into Merrick's mind, trying to remind myself of the reason for our inevitable conflict. Under the guise of resurrecting the honour of his dead brother Merrick aims to bury the last evidence of his crime. The man before me is enduring, a patient stalker and a consummate warrior on his own. Now, in the company of the moist scale mercenaries, the best blades for hire that money could buy, Merrick is a walking fortress of doom. Steel and skill alone will be insufficient. One needs to erode the cunningly erected mental fortitude to pierce his defences.
"Does Grand Paladin Champion Lord Ellandor provide his blessing for your current action?" I shouted, taking a step back, luring him.
Merrick held a taut expression, his menacing eyes piercing from his iron face -- offering no deference to authority. Instead, a twisted smile appeared as he stared daggers, searching for any advantage. With a flick of his wrist, he twisted the handle of his scimitar, making it spin a full circle, resentment slowly etched on his face, pushed to the surface by brash arrogance. Refusing to relent, stubbornness strengthened his inner flare.
"Fort Halcyon will stand, regardless of your efforts," he allowed himself to reply finally, "I am here to deliver my retribution. Slaying you will save the lives of those who trust you. Those who you would sacrifice to claim your sin-trenched piece of land."
So he fancies himself a liberator! A hero!
Shaking my head and lowering my blade I called out, "Saving The Aberrant Irregulars, is it?"
With contempt rife to fill the air, I scoffed. For a narrow moment, I flirted with the possibility of revealing what I knew about Jarryd's death, unmasking his carefully constructed facade. Without a shred of firm evidence to support my accusations, the reckless move would only help Merrick to consolidate his own lies.
"You want to save people, just like how you saved your brother, is it, Merrick?", I baited, "Or did you secretly rejoice? A hurdle to your claim removed so conveniently."
Before I could finish speaking, Merrick channelled his boiling rage and with surprising speed and strength, swinging his heavy scimitars down, attacked -- resounding heavy impact violently slammed against the ground where I stood a fleeting moment before. The shock from his strike, rattled loose soil and rocks, while smaller critters scurried away at the unpleasant impact. Donning a controlled mocking smile, I paused my motion to watch Merrick twist with an instantaneous reversal of grip, swinging his blades with ophidian celerity. With a surprising level of coordination, Merrick shifted rapidly, matching my footwork in a startling spectacle of bold acrobatic manoeuvres.
Relying on the length of my longsword, to keep his shorter scimitars away, I continued to deftly evade each of his fruitless assaults.
Now fully under control, after a very clumsily executed blow, I settled to initiate my counterattack. Never even twitching a muscle, I advanced towards him.....into range, or so it seemed to the enraged Merrick. After an odd tensed pause, summoning my innate ability to blend with the darkness, I leapt forward. His blade came down hard to find a ringing silence, almost vacuum filling the space where I stood a moment ago. I wasted no time to establish dominance, quickly delivering my heel to his face.
Surprisingly, considering the force of the impact that rippled through my leg, there was hardly any sound. Merrick himself seemed more annoyed at the implication of the kick than the physical pain; the humiliation lodged itself in the farthest corner of his brain. He reeled backwards as I continued closing in, the toes of my boot kicking dirt into Merrick's direction. Merrick's footsteps staggered, leaving an assortment of footprints -- destroying his well-established rhythm of swordsmanship.
His eyes glittered with untamed fury.
Meeting his scornful stare -- I relished in every bitter element manifested in his expression. My hope fire burning bright; every negative emotion visibly portrayed on his face spoke of another loosened hold on his self-control. An old knowledge coursed its way through my veins and filled the space between my eardrums.
Even the most disciplined of warriors would fail when indignation sweeps their sense of self.
"You see yourself as an avenger for your brother's murder, don't you?" I sneered mockingly, "Weren't you the one who failed to protect Jarryd from falling with the wrong company? You had the power to stop him from leaving that fateful day and yet you stepped aside like a damned vulture patiently waiting."
As Merrick stood stunned by my words, their hidden revelations festering through his mind, I mentally readied myself, delivering a staggering kick to his right side -- the full impact of the obliterating kick immediately caused him to fall to his knees. His once valourous form, radiant and impressive, now fell low to the point of wallowing in misery, crippled and humiliated.
Blind with the extreme pain of my fierce kick, he slowly rose, his steps, stumbling and unsteady as he swung his scimitars. They clashed across the ebony blade. Only the feeble din of metal communicating with metal announced the meeting of our blades. Gone was his ferocious strikes, his controlled gladiatorial prowess replaced by a weak heart held by thorny brambles of trepidation. A few more strikes followed. Merrick had the same fervour of a well-fattened lapdog chasing wild games.
My ebony blade cut through the darkness and with a flick of my wrist, Merrick's twin scimitars flew in the dark to shatter harmlessly on the ground.
"Your brother knew the path he was treading, the flint-edged cliff that he danced along. You know the twisting corridors of skull and bones that he wandered through and you allowed him. Behind the scene, you were an enabler and share every bit of responsibility to his death," I uttered matter-of-factly, my tone almost akin to a scorned lover, dripping with slowly seeping venom, ".....even your inactivity, especially your inactivity, aided his demise,"
For a brief moment, as I watched despair and disappointment sink deeper in Merrick's face, time slowed. Some kind of small satisfaction settled inside my chest. Always knew I would need concise proof of his accountability in Jarryd's death, to clear Arlene's name. Bereft of his weapons, Merrick gesticulated to one of his mercenaries around him, urging for a means, for the feel of cold hard steel in his grip. His urgency, every bit forced by his failing control on his own carefully erected superficial personality.
Using overwhelming momentum with a determined charge, I brought my full weight to bear on him. In a state of hazy dementia, Merrick shifted his stance for the first time ever during his fight. He rolled and attempted to grapple. Finding myself unable to liberate from the powerful arms of Merrick, coiling around me, reversing my grip on the ebony longsword with a simple flick of a wrist, I drove the pommel into his throbbing veined temple. I expected the unpleasant sound of skull cracking, the tremor of a fracturing bone and the limpness of my opponent's lifeless body to follow. The mauled forehead of Merrick defined by an adamantine sturdiness, with astounding resilience, held against my blow. Time practically paused for an instant and every movement was seemingly lost. Pure and unabated concentration exerted itself, spreading through every fibre of my being, as Merrick slowly crumbled. His senses deserted him from the resounding reverberation of the pound ravaging through his body.
Lifting my dark as the night blade, pointing them menacingly at the moist scale mercenary and in a voice filled with cold icy gales, I uttered, "My quest is a special assignment from Lord Ellandor, Grand Paladin Champion and His Grace, Duke Lothmar himself," I continue, suppressing the bile of disgust churning my stomach at those two grandiose names, "hinder my steps and you will find yourselves without a contract and a pay."
Glowing scowl filled Merrick's jaw, his despair born of hatred washed him in waves as he clenched his knuckles pale, refusing to accept the eventuality that I stood before him with my ebony longsword, posed to sever his head from his neck. None of his mercenaries dared to come between my resolute stance and his inevitable death. Only the dark shadow of Zaehran loomed over us, dwarfing us but both, enveloping us like a shroud from behind.
A sudden wave of petrification enthralled my limbs, even my eyelids refused to blink. My heartbeat slowly raced and like a caged beast seeking freedom, crashed against my ribcage pumping warm blood through my veins, urging my uncooperative limbs to heed my demands. Only stubborn refusal issued from my limbs, almost as if the very atmosphere solidified to encase me, arresting my motion. My eyes darted like swallows inside their socket till the amorphous form of Zaehran strode into my vision. His, hardened like encased-in-diamond forearms, shattering rocks and skulls alike, now with the palm open slowly withdrew from my back.
The famed open-palmed calming strike of the monk. Even the muscles of my face refused to cooperate. Had I been able to move them, Zaehran would have glanced at my sneering face.
"Misguided words and actions in haste cannot be undone," admonished the monk disapprovingly.
The ascetic scooped me in his arms and walked toward the structure, while I watched paralysed as the moist scale mercenaries slowly dragged Merrick away from the grounds.
