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He Who Fights with Monsters [Closed] - Printable Version

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He Who Fights with Monsters [Closed] - Melkire - 07-24-2015

He’d wanted to spend some time familiarizing himself with the city. That’s what he’d told his companions earlier that very morning, when he’d left Kanaria and the little one back at Cloud Nine and set Painted Moon to watch over them. He’d not missed the looks that the large Roegadyn woman had thrown Spriggan’s way. He wasn’t sure whether he cared for anything to come out of that – ruffians were forever ruffians, after all - but for now, this far from home in a strange new place, he thought it best that his wife and child were looked after.

Osric shivered and clutched at his arms as he walked the worst of the streets. The Brume wasn’t, truth be told, all that different from Pearl Lane back in Ul’dah. The squabble was arguably worse in some regards, but what came as a shock was that such poverty even existed here at all. For as long as he could remember, Ishgard had always been discussed in hushed tones and reverential whispers that spoke to a standard of living such as would color any noble of the thalassocracy red with envy. Those rumors, it seemed to him now, were exaggerated. Quality, he was beginning to learn, was not by any means the norm here. The Brume was far removed from the Four Great Houses from which all wealth in Ishgard was said to flow. All things considered, at least here he could appreciate how the well-off could ignore the plight of the commoners. Within Ul’dah, it had made no sense at all, what with Pearl jutting up right against the very palace itself.

Just’ one more reason t’ascribe madness to the Jewel.

The downtrodden were everywhere, here. Cold, starving, and miserable, they slept on the stones, took shelter beneath the scaffoldings… one rotten lad even chucked a snowball at him. He spent a good few moments trading insults with the little pissant, then scowled as he dusted off his shoulder. Clearly, the “rags” he’d borrowed from the goodly establishment known as the Forgotten Knight were not, in fact, sufficient enough to allow him to blend in. He made a mental note to rip some new tears into the fabric upon his return to their rooms, then turned a corner.

At first, he thought he must still have been asleep in his bed. Man-shaped clouds of black smoke don’t make a habit of lingering at ground level just around the corner, particularly not in the absence of a smithy.

He was slow to process, to respond, to react, and for that he blamed the time of sun. Too early. Too early to be up and about after last night’s long journey. He ought to have known better… but that didn’t change the fact that he was caught completely unprepared for the sight, and so when the cloud shifted and changed and resolved into the dirtiest, mangiest, ugliest Keeper he’d ever seen, he was caught completely unprepared for the boot that took him hard and fast in the gut. His breath left him as he staggered back into the waiting arms of two brutes. They seized him by the wrists and the shoulders and took him barreling into an alcove that must have once housed market stalls and through a large iron-studded door before he could so much as cry out.

The door slammed as they passed into a large chamber and slammed him up against the far wall. He grunted, and there was a struggle, and soon enough he had his right arm free. He pulled it back and bellowed as he struck out with his elbow and put his shoulder, his full weight, and his fear into it; the first of his assailants went skidding back across the cobblestones, thrown by the force of the blow. The midlander sucked in a deep breath - he could hear the rasp of drawn steel from a far corner and a deep voice commanding ”No steel! - and reached deep for the first chakra, the seat of his strength, as he turned and threw a vicious hook at the other brute…

…only for the hulking highlander that awaited him to catch his fist in one large, meaty glove of a hand and clamp down hard.

Oh, shite.



When he came to - headbutt, must have thrown a headbutt - someone had wrapped their arms over and around his before locking their grip behind his back. His feet were off the floor and similarly pinned by some bastard’s legs… his captor must’ve been seated, then, and by the size likely Sea Wolf, Hellsguard perhaps… and the highlander thug was looming over him. Past the Ala Mhigan and off to the right stood a blond Elezen dressed in a templar’s uniform, with one hand on the pommel of the man’s sword. The Wildwood’s eyes scanned the ceiling, and from one of those organs billowed wisps of smoke.

“Best not tarry, captain,” spoke the Elezen. “Too many of these blasted adventurers here. At least a handful of conjurers, to be sure.”

“Thank you, Pierre,” came that deep voice. Rich, melodic, with an indisputable air of authority… and utterly foreign to Osric’s ears. From off to his left. He frowned and tried to look, only for his head to be seized by the hair and wrenched painfully backward.

What he saw was a demon.

Horned, dark skin, darker hair with a touch of color… black, his old man had said… had said black meant Xaela… not like Seitsuda at all, more like the other one… the eyes were mismatched, one green and one white, both far too small. Unsettling, that’s what it was. The beast favored him with a wicked grin full of teeth, and then spoke once more.

“Sergeant, sergeant, sergeant. Tsk, tsk, tsk. How dreadful of you, to give such a poor showing. I expected better of the man who once bested me… but then, I had the advantage of foresight and planning. Forgehands here is one of my best. I recruited him specifically to handle you. Ortolf? How does he fare?”

“Nocht but a bairn, ser, a nickum playin’ with fire. Power he dinna ken.”

The Auri male pouted, clearly disappointed. “Unfortunate, truly. You must improve, Sergeant. We cannot make use of you in such a state.”

Osric squinted. “Who in the seven hells are…?”

And then it clicked. The dark cloud that had resolved into a foe, the exceptional resilience of the men who’d taken him by surprise, the wisps that had drifted from the Elezen’s eye, this demon’s familiarity with him…

“Crows,” he muttered, and he slipped every onze of loathing he could into that one word.

“Ah! At least your perceptions and your reason are in good, working order. Excellent. That shall make a wonderful foundation on which to build, will it not, Pierre?” The Xaela glanced over his shoulder, and the Elezen nodded.

“Wonderful, captain.”

“Which one are you,” hissed their captive. “Carrion? Oubliette?”

“You are not this stupid!” barked the demon, and that was when he knew.

“Adonis. Adin piss-in-m’soup-‘n’-shite-in-m’stew Adonis.”

The demon turned his white eye on him, and Osric could feel the heat of the soul that had once looked at him through a baleful red orb. The hatred had not faded; if anything, it had intensified with time.

“Sergeant Melkire. Once, I tasked you to settle a debt, and you turned in my hand, a most treacherous tool. I know better now than to threaten and coerce without proper incentive. We must share a common foe if I am ever to expect results from you, and Fortune has delivered us one.”

Up came the knave’s free hand. Grasped between two fingers were strands of white and blond hair. Long. Effeminate. Osric’s breath hitched and caught.

“Jin’li Epinoch yet walks the earth,” hissed the demon, eyes wide and intent, “and I mean to wield you as the instrument of his demise.”

RE: He Who Fights with Monsters [Closed] - Melkire - 07-25-2015

The possibilities were endless. Move after move could be met with counter after counter, and there were too many pieces waiting in the wings, unknowns all, shrouded by a fog of war too thick and dense to cut through. Such was always the trouble when playing against more than one opponent. That said, the board promised potential... deadly potential. There were no safe plays, only daring ones. Yet at the very least, he supposed, he could count on some measure of civil behavior.

"I'd like to stand."

Rotunda Crow released his grasp on Osric's hair and stood back as he nodded. "Gnasher."

The mountain below the midlander shifted, and his legs were suddenly free as he was lifted by the arms and dumped unceremoniously onto his feet before the demon. The Hyur glanced back over his shoulder in time to catch the Roegadyn's furious glare as the beast took up position opposite the highlander, flanking Rotunda's left even as Forgehands flanked his right. Osric took a deep breath and met Rotunda's eyes. Tall. The bastard was so tall now... and young.

"I don't understand how I can help."

"You don't have to. Suffice to say that your cooperation is all that is required."

The sergeant swallowed and his gaze wandered. Even if he could reasonably expect to outmaneuver these... "men"... in such a confined space, there was the one named Pierre to consider. The Elezen with the sword stood very near to the only exit, and even as Osric's eyes swept over him, there came the sound of shuffling sand, and from beneath the door rolled in a pile of ash covered by a thin layer of smoke. The ghastly stuff gathered and rose, expanded, and resolved into the Keeper of the Moon from earlier. The git winked at him and leaned back against the door.

The sergeant gaped.

"Do not mind Khuja'ya. He is always late," chortled Rotunda, and the other Crows followed suit. Their laughter was disturbing, to say the least. Ortolf chuckled, Khuja'ya tittered, Gnasher guffawed, and Pierre remained silent and vigilant.

"But... Filiangeri's reports... once... once dispatched... not corporeal for at least a bell...."

"Practice makes perfect, Sergeant, and we've had much time with which to practice, to exceed our limits. There remains only the matter of your limits. They must needs be overcome, if I am to have my way."

"I... what?"

"Ortolf will meet you here, in this chamber, once a fortnight. The first meeting... shall we say seven suns hence?"

Osric frowned down at the scattered grains that covered the floor. This must have been storage, once.

"Friends and family," he muttered as he glanced back up. Rotunda merely raised an eyebrow.

"What of them?"

"As y'said, we had an understanding once. You betrayed the spirit 'n' letter of our agreement."

"As did you. I ask again, what of it?"

"How do I know you won't do so again?"

The demon rolled his eyes, and that serpentine tail swished back and forth in obvious amusement.

"You don't, Sergeant. But is that truly the price at which you may be bought?"

"For Jin'li?" He hesitated for a moment. "...aye, aye, it is."

Rotunda looked pensive. "I will not lie to you by claiming that I am not prone to the occasional fit of vengeance, Melkire. That said, consider that you and I are rational men who value life, and that our adversary values no such thing. Whereas my brush with death has strengthened my resolve, for Epinoch the experience served merely as the final push that pitched him over the brink of madness and past insanity into the chaos that is irrational thought."

"Moreso than y'know," interjected Osric. "He came to Kanaria last moon, spoutin' dark prophecy, ill omens, bad portents...."

"Truly?!" The demon surged forward, and his hands came down hard upon the midlander's shoulders. "Ha! The gambit has paid off, after all!"

The Hyur jumped, startled. "What are you about, Adin? Eh?"

The Au Ra coughed into a fist as he withdrew. "Sergeant. Consider that I have nothing to gain from visiting pain, suffering, and death upon you and yours, and that I might have everything to gain by directing you towards a mutual foe and aiding you in the vanquishing thereof. Now. Do we have an accord?"

There was no help for it. He was, quite literally, cornered with his back up against the wall.

"Aye."

"Excellent! Seven suns hence it is, then." The demon's eyes gleamed, and he abruptly spun on one heel and made for the door. "Gentlemen."

Khuja'ya stepped aside to allow Rotunda out the door, and with one last flick of the tail, the Auri abomination disappeared into the light. The Crows held Osric pinned in place by their stares, and then they, too, vanished. A sudden howling gale swept noxious fumes out of the chamber, and the air pressure slammed the door shut behind them.

Osric Melkire collapsed onto his hands and knees.

Gods help me.

Deep down inside, he knew better. The gods could have had no hand nor part in this madness.

RE: He Who Fights with Monsters [Closed] - Melkire - 08-03-2015

Nothing had prepared him for the gut-wrenching terror of hurtling through the skies before plummeting hundreds of fulms through the air, down towards the merciless white expanse of snow and ice where the stone upon which he would inevitably dash his life’s blood awaited him. Cold pricked at his skin, wind bit at his eyes and ears, and the smoke which coiled vigorously about him and held him as he struggled and kicked and screamed surged onward, dragging him along in its wake. The few glimpses he was afforded of the ground in those last few precious moments showed him only a dark patch amidst the snow which steadily grew larger and larger.

Something twisted, and his stomach fell away as the attitude of their flight changed. Before he knew what was happening, he tumbled free into a large snow drift. His impact was magnificently painful; when he came to, he found himself embedded at least several fulms deep. He gasped for breath, but before he could so much as set about righting himself, a meaty fist seized him by the jackcoat and pulled. Osric Melkire found himself hurtling through the air again, though this flight was thankfully brief and painlessly as he skidded across the powder-coated ice to an uneventful halt.

He gulped down several deep breaths of air, rolled onto his back, and screamed at the dragon that seemed intent upon devouring him whole.

Though his initial cry echoed throughout the chamber, he quieted soon enough as his mind finally registered what his eyes were seeing. The majestic wyrm had long since frozen over, and the manner by which the beast had been chained to the walls of this cavern was awe-inspiring for more than one reason. Praiseworthy though such a feat must have been, he couldn’t help but wonder why he felt… revolted.

Cruel, that’s what this is. Ain’t ever heard it said, dragoons bein’ sick bastards, but….

His gaze snapped away from the spectacle above him as his ears picked up on the heavy footfalls to his left. Ortolf Forgehands, undead highlander, loomed over him, a scowl on the ancient monk’s face. Though the man must have counted himself Ala Mhigan in life, there were an astonishing number of differences, to Osric’s eyes, between this giant of a man and those he’d known down south in Thanalan. The hard set to this one’s face, for one, was the starkest difference from those of Armstrong and Castille. There was no kindness in it, no sympathy nor empathy, and no sign of interest in anything other than whatever grim task the hulk set his mind to at any given moment. Which, now, it seemed, was--

“Doan fecht, bairn. Trachle ‘nough fir me to ca ye here.”

“Seven hells, then warn me next time! Ruttin’ jumpin’ me in that pissin’ alley ‘n’ haulin’ me off without so much as a gods-damned word!”

Forgehands only scowled deeper as he leaned down and wrenched Melkire’s pack from him and tossed it aside onto the drift. He motioned for Osric to follow, then made for the far end of the cavern, where the light that peeked inside seemed to do so from farther down a small tunnel, rather than from up above through the gaping hole that opened to the cloud-covered sky. The midlander sighed and pushed himself wearily to his feet, then went after the highlander.




What he found waiting outside was not quite what he’d expected.

First and foremost to be noticed were the four silhouettes against the blinding white. Forgehands was a given, but the other three demanded his attention by their poise alone. Large, tall, short; axe, sword, spear; Hellsguard, Wildwood, Keeper. These, then, were Rotunda’s Crows. He cast back through his memories and came up with the names that went with the faces: Gnasher, Pierre, and Khuja’ya. They stood on a precipice, arranged before him, Forgehands joining Gnasher to his left, Pierre and Khuja’ya to his right. By their body language, it was obvious that they’d left the space in the middle open for him, an invitation to stand with them… for whatever reason. He swallowed, eyes roaming over the four assembled, and strolled forward. That was when the scene before him at last resolved into a sight that left him breathless.

An enormous cauldron lay before him, vast and tiered. From what he could gather, they stood near to the edge - the lip - of the bowl, but a single level down from whatever plateau the cauldron was set in. Far below, he could make out the movements of wild beasts. Many were small and common, but the largest blended with the snow, white and muscular and furred, with tusks and… and.... he chuckled nervously as he turned to Forgehands.

“What… what am I doin’ here, and what’s this got t’do with Jin’li?”

The old highlander frowned as he looked up and across Gnasher towards Pierre. A grunt bought him the Elezen’s attention as the large Hyur crossed his arms.

“Spik.”

Pierre smiled as he rested on hand on a hip and the other on the pommel of his rapier. He glanced over and down at Osric, and there was a notable gleam in his rotting eyes.

“We are here for your instruction. Three suns a fortnight. Ortolf will fetch you, regardless of where you might be or what activities you might find yourself engaged in, and bring you here, where you will be taught.”

“Taught what?”

Pierre’s smile grew even wider. “We are here to teach you the reality.”

“The reality of what?”

“Futility,” chimed in Khuja’ya.

“Power,” intoned Gnasher.

“Rax,” barked Forgehands.

Pierre pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. His tone took on the air of a long-suffering housewife. “He means ‘reach’ by that last, I warrant. Though I wish,” he needled as he glared across the men to meet Ortolf’s gaze, “that he’d drop that archaic mode. He favors it, but it grows tiresome.”

Forgehands gave Pierre a tooth-filled grin worthy of the most feral of wolves. The midlander, though, was deep in thought. Moments passed before he at last surfaced.

“So I’m t’receive instruction. Aight, but what’s the point? The runt ain’t normal, he ain’t even aetherial. He’s… somethin’ else.”

Gnasher snorted. “Cannot even fell beasts,” he rumbled, “yet the fool aspires to slay monsters.”

Pierre turned to fully face the midlander, and his left hand fell to his scabbard, and the right crossed his torso to seize the hilt. “We will not be through with you until you can descend below and drive the yeti from this place, send him scurrying back to his caves. You will fight them, you will slay them, you will terrorize them and they shall fear you even as you take an arm from each as trophy and proof of prowess. When at last you stand before us, bloodied and triumphant, then perhaps our captain will deem you ready.”

Osric blinked. He took a slow breath. As slowly and quietly as he could, given the damnable snow, he shifted his feet and eased his shoulders, relaxed his joints.

“Ready for what? I don’t understand.”

Six long cycles of wetwork and a further six cycles of soldiering had long since sharpened his awareness of his surroundings to the point where few could take him by surprise; his training under Rosethorne and Armstrong had further served to widen that divide. Not that it mattered; though he fully expected and was fully prepared for the assault from behind, the speed at which Gnasher drew his axe from over his shoulder - the weapon a sizable affair of stone which had been smelted and chained to a massive haft - and the force with which the brute swung it at him trumped his readiness. He spun on his feet and even got his arms up in a cross block, daggers suddenly in hand, only for the flat of the axe head to slam into him, knocking his arms up and driving into his torso to send him sprawling and rolling across the stone. He coughed and wheezed as he struggled to get his hands and feet under him.

Shite, ribs… hopin’ one didn’t give. Piss. Fuck.

“We are all but immortal, Melkire,” came Forgehand’s now strangely unaccented voice, each word clipped short, as though the man was overcompensating in his efforts to speak with precision. “In the absence of our natural weakness, we may be cut, injured, wounded, maimed, even run through without fatal consequence. As such, you need not hold back. Unleash your power and your fury. Strike hard and strike well, survive.”

Osric at last managed a knee, and looking up was dismayed to find that Pierre, Khuja’ya, and Gnasher had taken up guard around and about him. They stood at equal distances from each other, a triangle with the midlander as the central point. with Gnasher off to his left, Pierre off to his right, and Khuja’ya behind. Forgehands circled them all as he walked, watching and looking on from outside the formation. The Wildwood drew his sword; the Keeper reached for his lance.

“Escape or triumph, bairn--”

Cheat, run, or die.

“--but do not fall, for neither shall we withhold our strength. We will cut, we will injure, we will wound and maim and mayhap run you through. This is trial by fire, for the old ways are the best ways. You will learn futility, and you will learn what we mean when we speak of reach.”

The sergeant lumbered upright, then set himself again. Left foot forward, right foot back, he stood with his left hand forward and low, ready to catch or redirect oncoming blows, and his right hand back and up high, ready to descend in a single fluid motion to strike out. His breathing slowed, and he could feel that pulse again as he reached deep for his chakra.

Covet the blood, will to live, desire my survival. Endure.

Ortolf Forgehands squinted at him, then nodded, satisfied, and barked.

“BEGIN!”




Osric spun on one heel, fell into a runner’s crouch, and pushed off, hurtling across the intervening distance between him and the Keeper. One parried thrust and he would be through, past the lancer. He brought his blades up, prepared for the strike… and faltered as the spearhead came slashing through the air at him from the side as Khuja’ya swing the pole at him. One dagger caught against the wood as the other clashed against steel; with his advance brought to a sudden halt, he abandoned his grip on the former and reached out to seize the haft only for the wily bastard to withdraw; the slide of the spearhead against his hand stung as the retreating steel sliced through the inside of his glove. He recoiled with a hiss… only to catch the butt of the spear across the back of his head.

He staggered, momentarily dazed, only now realizing that the Keeper must have shifted his grip up the length of the haft. He bit down on his tongue, which brought the world into blinding focus just in time for him to sweep the dagger in his left hand across his torso and deflect the thrust at his heart. The spear withdrew again, then flicked forward and thrust into his left shoulder. He cried out and fell back, the spearhead sliding back out as Khuja’ya drew back for another telling blow. Osric feinted right; the Keeper followed suit. The midlander feinted left, and the bastard kept with him, the male’s footwork flawless as he did so.

No good.

He fell back further, then turned and dashed at Pierre.

He watched this time, left his assumptions behind him. He expected nothing, but anticipated the possibility of a sweeping strike. In the end, it didn’t matter; the Elezen dropped his blade from his guard and thrust out, drawing the Hyur in with a simple feint. Then the blade danced and twisted, serpentine, in a short flick that slashed at Osric’s left hand; the sharp sting was not as painful as it might have been, even given the shallowness of the cut. The midlander breathed in and out on a cadence as he held the Root tight, allowing the flow within him to strengthen his skin and the flesh beneath while dulling the pain of his wounds. Pierre sneered as he sidestepped to intercept him and kicked out; the blow nearly caught Osric in the chest, but he pivoted and wrapped one arm around the offending leg. His follow-up was cut short as the Wildwood’s next thrust took him in the right arm as his fist descended; he bellowed and released the Elezen’s leg as the blade withdrew… and dropped into a roll as a mountain descended on them and rent the stone beneath the snow asunder.

Gnasher, it seemed, had grown impatient. His hold on his bloodlust had slipped, and now he twisted and used all his strength with the twist of his hips to wrench his axe free of the ground and into a slash; as Osric regained his feet, he ducked again, then spun away as the axe dropped on the vertical again, kicking up more snow and ice and stone. The sergeant slipped inside the bastard’s guard, drew everything he could from the Sacral and struck out at a point just below and behind the man’s sternum, driving his fist deep into the Hellsguard’s chest. The aetherically enhanced blow impacted with enough force to cave the Roegadyn’s chest in; the behemoth slid back and toppled over.

Osric went with him; belatedly, he realized that the axe head had been position to trip him as Gnasher’s ferocious grip on the haft pulled the axe out from under the midlander, who now toppled and fell. He pushed himself off the ground as a kick caught him across the jaw and a long shaft of steel sliced into his back. He scrambled away and regained his feet only to catch the butt of the Keeper’s spear in the chest; the pole spun and the point pierced his foot and pinned him to the stone. His scream was cut off as a gigantic hand wrapped around his neck from behind and another descended onto his head; they both clamped down and squeezed for a moment, and he went still, silenced and mollified by the threat, save for his labored breathing.

“A pity,” came Forgehand’s voice again as Khuja’ya carefully withdrew the spearhead. “You are strong, but you draw only from half your strength.”

“Ortolf,” Pierre snapped with an air of warning. “That goes beyond our scope.”

“The instruction might help speed his recovery. We have the means, true, but each moment he spends wounded is a moment wasted, lost. Gnasher, my friend.”

The pressure receded, and Osric found himself held up by the Hellsguard’s steady hands upon his shoulders. Forgehands stepped close and looked the sergeant in the eyes.

“Do you understand reach?”

“...n-n...m-maybe… I….”

“Idiot,” chided the Keeper.

“A demonstration, perhaps, is in order,” suggested the Elezen.

“Gnasher, set him by the wall,” grumbled Ortolf. “Then give him the first of the potions. I want him to see this.”




Empty bottle in hand, warmth running through his chest and his limbs, Osric sat back against the cliffside and watched in awe.

Ortolf Forgehands did not charge any one of the three Crows that surrounded him. Rather, he waited, turned about constantly, until such time as they stepped forth to meet him in the center. Each exchange was quick and brutal, savage almost, and the highlander’s focus was almost entirely on defense.

No, that ain’t right. On… on….

Self-preservation, he realized. Forgehands took the blows and cuts that did not matter in exchange for deflecting, evading, or otherwise thwarting those that did. He eluded Pierre, out-thought Khuja’ya, and battered aside the heavy swings of Gnasher. Never once did Forgehands stray too far from the center. He faced them one at a time, then two at a time, and at last when all three converged upon him, he took advantage of the chaos and seized the opportunity to slip between them and out of the formation. The Ala Mhigan snorted, then strode to the precipice and looked down into the cauldron. Pierre smiled and walked on over to where the sergeant sat astonished.

“Thus he escapes, and thus he survives. Yet he has failed. Do you understand why?”

The midlander frowned as he considered the results… and recalled the original challenge.

“He could escape… or triumph, he said.”

“Aye, aye, that he did, heh heh, true-true,” rambled Khuja’ya as he sauntered their way. “That’s the lesson of reach, Os, that’s the lesson of reach. Can’t win as he is. You couldn’t win as you are.”

Osric raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”

“He does not understand what he saw.” The midlander looked up to see that Forgehands had rejoined them. “You forget that we number among the dead. For one who was once of the Fist of Rhalgr, bairn…?”

“Dead inside,” growled Gnasher as the giant simple fell onto his ass nearby.

“Well done, Bone,” muttered Pierre as he rolled his eyes. “Give the game away.”

“...aether.” The sergeant blinked. “You have no aether.”

“None upon which to draw. What we have holds us together, we Crows. Little more. With chakra, I might have felled one foe. Two, with luck. Outnumbered, against foes of equal skill, surrounded, even I would fall should I have striven to strike down all three.”

“I… still don’t understand.”

Ortolf hunched before him. “While our Order lived, we of the Fist practiced our Art. Think, bairn. We practiced, we of Gyr Abania. Think.”

Osric groaned and rested his head back against the stone, eyes falling shut… but he thought about it. Thought about Ala Mhigo, the city-state, a nation that had fallen when he’d been but a young lad in Limsa. He thought about mounted troops, and legends of griffins, and of the Fist of Rhalgr. He thought about monks, and their order, their teachings and their ways.

“We’re weapons. Mind and body. I am a weapon.”

“This is truth,” answered Forgehands as Melkire opened his eyes. “The danger, the real threat, is the man. Man is a weapon unto himself. There are times when man is not enough. There are times when man benefits from tools.”

The highlander reached over into the snow beside the midlander. Osric gaped as Ortolf drew a hilt from beneath the white powder, and what followed could only have been rightly called a long slab of stone. Forgehands drew a claymore from the drift and held it aloft, hilt grasped firmly in both hands.

“Think, bairn. Think of futility, and of reach. A tool is a benefit.” The undead warrior shifted, drew the blade horizontal, and thrust the steel forward into the stone above Osric’s head, drove it into the mountain by sheer force.

“Think of armed men with our power behind them. Soldiers, warriors, men and women of battle, with cold hard steel driven with speed and strength and skill.”

Gnasher rumbled with laughter. Khuja’ya sniffled. Pierre knelt beside the startled sergeant.

“This is the lesson of reach. Tonight you will rest in the chamber, and recover. We shall start anew on the morrow. You will be tested for proficiencies, and when we have found the tool that best suits, we shall know which of us is to instruct you, and training will begin.”

The Hellsguard rose and approached. One massive foot stomped down on Osric’s wounded leg, and he shrieked in pain.

“I am Bone Gnasher. In life, I went to war against men and women and babes and beasts. I felled them all, clove their skulls asunder, ripped their guts and ate their entrails, feasted on their hearts. In death, I will gnaw you to the bone until you are raw and desperate and primal.”

The Keeper leaned down and seized the midlander by the hair, yanked his head back and spat in his face.

“I am Khuja’ya Zhwan. In life, I hunted that from which all others fled and fled and fled. Sneaked and snuck, rolled in mud and leaves, set my spear and wait wait I waited for chances. Took them, took them! In death, I’ll nip at your heels, yip, force you to run and hide and pounce, make predator out of prey.”

The Elezen stepped to one side and laid the tip of his rapier against the Hyur’s throat.

“I am Pierre of the White Needle, once of House Durendaire. In life, I schooled all who desired tutelage, duelled those who thought themselves my betters, won renown through skill and ascended to a pinnacle which few have known yet all acknowledge. In death, I shall whet you, test you, train you, and have you dance for my pleasure and for the sake of your appointment.”

The highlander drew the claymore from the stone and this time drove it down between Melkire’s legs, mere ilms from his manhood.

“Ortolf Forgehands, Fist of Rhalgr, sect o' shadow. In life, had me more'n one grand fecht wit fine chiels. Full geet, ye are, 'n' thon means trachle. In death, seein's how I’m the heid-bummer and this be an affa orra time we'll all thole…"

The old man leaned down and snarled.

"...do not forget that we are not friends nor allies, save by Rotunda’s sufferance. Should you not satisfy us, we shall gut you, carve you to pieces, and leave you riven atop the mountainside. On the morrow, prove your worth or perish."

RE: He Who Fights with Monsters [Closed] - Melkire - 08-08-2015

He barked in surprise; only by dint of an arm thrown hastily over the taut chain did he avoid falling altogether. His fingers scrambled for purchase on the icy steel as the great beast above him beat its wings and screeched. Tittering laughter echoed down throughout the cavern from above, and a small face peeked out over the edge.

"My, my, Os, how'd yous ever get up there, Os?" The Keeper's eyes traversed the frozen corpse of the great wyrm even as Osric scrambled down the chain to avoid the raking talons of the griffin. "Oh ho ho! I see, I see! Up hup hup to the tail, aye aye, and from there up hup hup to the top top top! Clever lad, yous!"

The midlander managed to spare Khuja'ya a brief glance. The kneeling Crow shifted his grip on the spear he'd planted buttfirst into the snow and leered down at the sergeant, even as the beast screeched again and with one concerted effort surged up and over to the other side of the chain, beak and talons now perilously close. The turbulence from its passing buffeted against the Hyur, who took a moment to consider how preferable a two dozen fulm drop to the stone below might be to a proper mauling.

"Ansfrid," barked Ortolf's voice, and the griffin screeched for a third time and paused as it turned about in midair to throw a glance down at the approaching highlander. Khuja'ya groaned and scratched at an ear, his manner suddenly surly.

"Spoiling him, Forgie, old soft git, soft git! Old too. Lad was makin' a break and breakin' a make for it, sure and sure, he was! Thinking we was alls guarding just the tunnel. Idiot. Showed him, Ans and I did, showed him good."

"Nevertheless, he is needed. Don't test me on this, Zhwan." Ortolf came to a halt and crossed his arms as he squinted up at the griffin. "Ansfrid," he called again, more warning in his tone this time.

The griffin eyed him again as it beat its wings, then thrummed and called out, a keening that proved far more gentle than the harsh cries of moments past. The beast's head swiveled and its beak closed upon the back of Osric's collar. One swift tug tore the midlander from his tenuous, slippery grip on his lifeline. He cried out in surprise.. and then the beating and buffeting ceased. Beast and man plummeted as the griffin's wings folded only to unfurl a moment later to slow them both as their weight impacted the stone below.

The beak opened and dropped Osric to the stone in time for Ortolf to walk up and scratch at the ruff of the beast's neck. The griffin thrummed and keened again. The highlander whispered a few words, all foreign to the midlander's ears, and suddenly the living symbol of Ala Mhigo took off again and flew up and out past Khuja'ya Zhwan, who looked on wistfully. Forgehand sighed, then reached down and dragged Osric back onto his feet.

"You are supposed to be resting, not making daring attempts at escape. Your wounds will not heal if you strain yourself."

The sergeant shrugged off the man's grip as best he could manage, then slowly made his way to the nearest wall.

Weak. Tired. Aching. Muscles I'd forgotten I have. Piss, this hurts.

"Easier... if... you all hadn't... ssssss."

"I thought I made it clear," Forgehands replied as Osric put his back to the ice and slid down to the ground, "we are not here to coddle you. You are here to be prepared, and we are here to prepare you. The abomination you must face will offer no quarter when the time comes, bairn. So we must press you and threaten you and run you through if need be. Only then will your reflexes anticipate the worst."

"Still leaves us... with me injured... and our 'schedule'... delayed."

"We've administered what medicines we have. What remains is up to you."

"Chakras," muttered the midlander.

"Chakras," echoed the Ala Mhigan as he hunched down before the other man.

"Been drawin' on the Sacral all night. Shite, I been doin' little else! Ain't like this'll heal overnight, not with wounds this deep--"

"--you understand so little." Forgehands seemed unphased by Melkire's sudden glare. "Whose disciple were you, that your training is so flawed, your knowledge so incomplete?"

"As if I'd give y'names, Crow."

The highlander snorted. "Not of the Order, then. Not of the Fist."

Osric bristled. "They're the finest o'--"

"Not. Fist." The highlander's denunciation was absolute, and his tone brooked no argument. "I should know. I was there for the massacre. I stood with the last of them, when our Order died."

The undead man shrugged.

"Young lads, then. Bairns, looking to live up to the legacy of their fathers. What they remember, they pass on. Not a one of them would know the truth."

The midlander squinted. "What truth?"

"That not all men are the same. That not all men walk the same path. That for some, certain emotions are a liability. That for others, those same emotions are power."

Ortolf Forgehands sighed again. The gesture was clearly for Melkire's benefit.

Abominations like 'im don't need t'breathe, after all.

"Rotunda would not have me teach you this lesson. To do so is to hand you too potent a tool that you might turn it on us, once we've parted. But I see no other way. You must recover. To withhold this from you is to delay. Therefore, I will say only this."

Ortolf drew his arms up from where the rested on his knees and held his thighs.

"One man walks by moonlight. The moon shows him the forest trail, leads him to water, grows him berries. When pressed with violence, this man will delve deep and from the radiance of his soul, he will draw forth what is required to prevail."

The Ala Mhigan struck, right hand sliding off his leg before powering into the rock below. Osric jolted, startled, then watched in fascination as the ancient monk withdrew his fist and began gathering shards of stone in his other hand

"One man walks by sunlight. The sun shows him the valley road, leads him to water, grows him wheat. When pressed with violence, this man will delve deep and from the darkness of his soul, he will draw forth what is required to prevail."

Ortolf laid one hand over the other, encapsulating the bits of rock he held within... and then clamped down, ground his hands together, squeezed, twisted, pressured. When he at least ceased, he lifted the hand on top to reveal a small, round sphere of stone, perfectly smooth, an orb with no cracks or imperfections to be seen.

"You are one of the night, yet you have taken instruction from one of the day. You have been taught to steel yourself, to bask in your own confidence, to shut away fear and revel in the knowledge that you will survive."

The highlander passed the marble over to the midlander, who took it with awe and rolled it around in his hands, examining it closely from all angles.

"This is wrong?"

"This is wrong," intoned Forgehands as he stood. "For one such as you, bairn, fear is a tool. Fear is a tool that draws your eyes, that heightens your awareness, that calls to the most primal instincts in you. To move, to flee, to strike out, to fell your foe before they fell you in turn."

The Crow turned to go, only to pause halfway down the tunnel that led outside. He looked back over his shoulder at Melkire.

"Welcome fear."

RE: He Who Fights with Monsters [Closed] - Melkire - 08-23-2015

"You are not to escape."

There was no escape. His attempt the sun before had proven as much. He lacked what was necessary to break through the line. So the task of the bell was....

"You are to stand your ground."

Osric Melkire pivoted where he stood, head swiveling back and forth, eyes constantly in motion as he considered the triangle formation that had once more closed about him and sealed him inside. Pierre. Gnasher. Khuja'ya. Pierre. Gnasher. Khuja'ya.

"You are to defend yourself."

Forgehands' voice was a distraction. The sergeant already knew what was expected of him. The three spare weapons that the Crows had plunged blades first into the snow before him had made that rather clear.

"You are to strike back."

Sword. Axe. Spear. Pierre, Gnasher, Khuja'ya. This was the test for aptitude. This was how they would select his hellish mentor.

"Should you satisfy us, training will begin in earnest."

Satisfying Rotunda was the task at hand. That and only that would stave off what violence would be visited upon Osric's own friends and family. To satisfy Rotunda, he had to satisfy Ortolf Forgehands... which meant passing this test.

"Should you fail to do so, I will kill you myself."

He slowed his breathing, closed his eyes, and fell into the old rhythm. The shift felt natural, and that soothed his nerves, set him at ease. Which was...

...wrong?

Which was wrong.

He still wasn't sure when it had happened, when discretion and vigilance and caution had given way to confidence and impulsiveness and reckless abandon. The past cycle's worth of events was certainly a factor. That he had come so far under the tutelage of Rosethorne and Armstrong... yet that hadn't been the start. No, the first act of insanity he could recall committing was negotiating with a would-be terrorist who'd been hellsbent on leveling Ul'dah.

"Prove your worth, Melkire."

His foolishness, he thought, had started when the Hall had brought him home and, by order of the Syndicate, grounded him. Condemned his insubordination, barred him from promotion, assigned him to an insignificant post within the city' confines and left him to rot within arm's reach. There he had wasted away for moons, ever itching for one more chance to make amends.

The fury with which he'd struck down the slavers hidden within the depths of Halatali and the wrath with which he'd cut into the assassins who had invaded a fellow serviceman's home had been the beginning. That was when he'd changed, when he had discarded fear as a tool. All so that he could cast his defiance into the Syndicate's teeth.

He'd been wrong to do so.

"BEGIN!"

He opened his eyes, his footwork still maneuvering him in a small circle, and he reached down inside to the very core of himself. He seized the seat of his power and bade it open.

Covet the blood.

Something red and hot blazed within him, even as the Crows began to converge, closing the distance between them. He seized the fulcrum of his potential and bade it open.

Will to live, desire my survival.

Something yielded, a floodgate of sorts, and the red heat rose, brightened, cooled and expanded. The bastards were drawing close now, their pace slow and sure as they drew or otherwise unlimbered their weapons. He drew a deep breath, unsure what to expect, and... let go. Let it all go.

Welcome the fear.

Terror slammed into him with all the speed and force of a La Noscean gale.

run flee shite behind me piss fuck insane goin' t'die goin' t'die Gnasher's worst oh hells why am i here why didn't i run Zhwan's reach i made a promise oh gods Pierre's second always second shite piss run just run do it now you can't win you can't

He grappled with it, a twisting serpent intent on ensnaring him in its coils and paralyzing him with its venom. He struggled, he fought, and at last he acknowledged that he was losing. What time remained was all but spent. Soon, the shadows of death's wings would be upon him, and he would be lost forever. So he cast his thoughts as best he could back to a time when he'd been intimate with fear... and had learned to dominate it, to bend it to his will and to have his way with it.

Rings. Dirk. I need you.




"Ain't called on us for a while now. We were startin' to think mayhap you'd forgotten we'd ever existed." Dirk flashed Osric his teeth as he leaned languidly against the mast. This was the lad he'd been when he'd conquered fear. "Didja?"

"Always the Sergeant you're callin' on," moped Rings as the child looked up from his seat at Dirk's feat. This was the boy he'd been when he first learned what true terror was. "As if he's more important. As if y'don't care for us."

"He didn't, Rings. Fell in with a new crowd 'n' they all but pushed us out of his head. Ashamed, is what he is. Ashamed of us. Of who he was. But he's finally come 'round. Ain'tcha, Osric? Finally done denyin' your past? Goin' t'accept that we mattered?"

"Gods damn me, you don't need to ask, so why do you?"

"Perverse pleasure in bein' vindicated." Dirk shrugged. "So?"

Osric sighed and offered both hands, palms up, arms at full extension. Rings frowned as he stood.

"This is how you took him back, ain't it? Why he ain't been around as o' late." Rings squinted up at him. "That's somethin' you'll have t'live with forever, y'know. That you accepted bein' a soldier before you accepted bein'... us. Gutterborn. Problemsolver."

"...I know."

The two approached, but Dirk paused and Rings followed suit. The wetworker's eyes flickered down to the deck on which they stood.

"There's another that deserves acceptance, y'know. Down below, in the brig." Dirk shrugged. "Just sayin'. You start takin' us back? You'd better get the job done. No half-assin' this shite."

"When the time comes. Can't promise more than that."

Dirk made a face. "Bah. It'll have t'do."

They each took a hand. As swiftly as they'd formed when he'd first envisioned them, so long ago, they shattered. Motes of light scattered about, then drifted around him. He breathed them in, one long deep breath, and that was when he remembered.




He tightened his grip on the snake the viper the boa the python the constrictor and twisted. The serpent writhed as he lifted it over his head, his eyes watching intently as it twisted this way and that. That was when, at last, he felt it: a third sphere of potential.

The chakra dawned, as though it had been but hiding beneath the weight of the fear that he had buried deep, and suddenly he could feel the chill wind biting at the hairs on the nape of his neck, the smell of old leather all about him, the soft crunch of snowfall beneath the feet of the damned. New heat bubbled up within him, and he marveled at how he'd missed this all along. It was right there, just under the Root, another link in a chain that evidently ran both up and down through his core, and as he bubbled with laughter and considered the serpent, what he'd noticed earlier finally fell into place, into a form he could understand and comprehend.

They were coming at him again in the same fashion: Khuja'ya first from behind, with the White Needle following up just before Gnasher bore down on him with all the Hellsguard had... and he was out of time.

He'd never been one for the sword, and despite how eager his beloved had been to share what she knew, the lance would never feel quite right in his hands. Passing interest would never triumph over nine moons of desperation, when he'd bid his life on mere practice and discovered righteous wrath instead. So he stepped forward, rolled his wrist, seized his weapon of choice, and kicked out at the haft of the spare axe that had been buried blade first in the ice.

The vicious upswing drove back Gnasher, and the midlander swept his tool around and across at Pierre, who ducked the blade only to meet the Hyur's other foot with his own face. Osric pushed through, and the adrenaline and aether that backed thigh and calf sent the Elezen sprawling into a drift.

His grip shifted and his other hand closed further up the haft in time to adjust the course of the swing as he pivoted, and that course correction brought the axe in line to bat away the Keeper's thrust. The soldier lunged forward, and a left jab driven out with a snap caught Zhwan square on the collarbone. The impact resulted in a sickening wet thud, to which the gutterborn couldn't help but smile.

His shite-eating grin was stolen along with his axe.

Bone Gnasher did something with his own polearm, and the giant slab of stone caught the haft of Osric's weapon. One tremendous tug caught the midlander off-guard before he could brace himself against the motion and bring his chakra to bear; his axe soared through the air and landed in the snow a dozen fulms away.

There was no help for it: he fell back, hand and arm falling over the spare spear still jutting forth from the ice like a lever set into the ground. He drew it forth, set his grip, and recalled Kanaria's lessons; once, twice, thrice he thrust out at Gnasher, keeping his foe at a distance. As he withdrew the spearhead the third time, he spun and swung in the direction in which he turned. The flat of the blade nearly caught Khuja'ya over the head; only a timely cross block with a pair of knives saved the Keeper. That was when Pierre struck.

There was no stopping the Crow from dealing him a pair of nasty cuts; forced to break away or suffer worse, the sergeant dropped his spear and reached for the hilt of the last tool remaining to him. No sooner had he drawn the sword, though, than he found himself not only completely outclassed but also completely at a loss for how to recover. The Wildwood would feint, then lure him into a parry and riposte, over and over. The midlander had lost control over his own blade; Pierre owned it now, Pierre of the White Needle, and the Elezen disarmed his foe at his leisure with a clash and roll of the swords. That was when the Roegadyn's giant fist caught Osric in the side; winded, the man fell to his knees, then pitched forward onto his hands.

"A pity." Forgehands, in the distance. "If he cannot overcome the trial at hand, then he will prove insufficient to the task."

Osric drew a rattling breath, but there was no point in speaking. There was no forestalling judgment.

"Kill him."




"Well, gods damn.... I. Uh. Hit the end o' the line sooner than I, uh, expected. Heh."

That he was jesting belied how conflicted he was over what he was about to unleash... and how deeply he feared the consequences.

Before him was the brig. Iron bars crossed back and forth to form a cage, and behind those bars and inside that cage stood his own shadow. Though they were of one size and one appearance, there was no mistaking one for the other; the shackles and ball-and-chain that secured the latter were tell enough. Malice was evident in his shadow's smile, belligerence in the set of the man's jaw, and there was no humanity to be found in those eyes.

Osric gazed at Melkire.

Melkire gazed back.

The man swallowed and closed his eyes. When they opened again, the restraints were gone. Gone were the shackles, the chains, even the cage itself. Freed at last from its prison, the inner beast surged forward, and then the demon was upon him, bearing him down, a frenzy of snarls, teeth, muscles, roars. A hand closed around his throat.




The depths of him flared, and the three spheres blazed in answer. He fed the white hot coals of his fury to the engines of creation and destruction, and the resulting inferno consumed him. A red film fell over his sight and sickly green wisps of aether licked their way up his legs.

He pushed off the ground, hands slapping against the snow; he spun as he regained his feet, ducked, and then sprung into an uppercut that caught the flat of Gnasher’s axe head and sent the whole of the weapon flying from the Hellsguard’s grasp. Thousands of bells’ worth of practice took over, and a flurry of footwork served to slip him past the giant to recover the spare axe from where it had fallen. A series of deft parries flowed into a moment’s opening, and in that instant Melkire tore the spear from the lancer’s grasp, knocking the Keeper off-balance. That same swing then shattered the White Needle; a quick reversal took the Elezen’s hand from him, as well, before the beast turned and kicked out at the haft of his axe. Pierre fell back. Khuja’ya never saw it coming.

The axe head traversed an arc above them, then swung down and sundered the Keeper’s head from his torso. Zhwan fell in two pieces, and those two pieces fell into ash that floated along on the wind even as Melkire turned and sank his axe into Gnasher’s shoulder.

Take his arm.

The midlander tightened his grip on the haft and pulled.

“Bairn!”

The beast lifted the axe from the crumbling ashes in time to catch Forgehand’s upswing with the haft; the greatsword sliced through the wood, shattered it with contempt, and just as swiftly as he’d closed the distance, Ortolf drove the pummel into Melkire’s jaw. The red film flashed black, and the demon staggered.

The pommel lashed out again.




Words drifted to him as he floated along beneath the surface of consciousness.

“He shows promise!”

“He lost himself. We need a warrior, not an animal. Ought to put him down.”

“Ha! Give me a sun. Animal? We shall see, highlander.”

“...then Rotunda must be informed. I want him alive, you understand? Unspoiled.”

Low, ominous laughter accompanied him as he drifted off at last.

RE: He Who Fights with Monsters [Closed] - Melkire - 09-06-2015




His left thumb slid over the glossed wood, around and back over the soft gentle curve of the haft. He tightened his grip and pressed his skin against the grains, felt the stiff maple refuse to yield. His right fist closed over a red gem. No inlaid dagger pattern, this time.

"Strength. Weight. Pressure. Wield them. Wield them!"

He hefted the axe, felt the heavy metal blade wanting to fall. The man grunted and winced as the motion tugged at old wounds; his right hand crossed over his chest and slipped the gem into a pocket before clamping down on his left side.

"One! Two, two two, yes, ha ha, and here's... three! Failure, failure, must do better, Os, must do bet-ter."

He grit his teeth and set his jaw as he shifted, boots pushing through the snow as he took up the stance that Gnasher had drilled into him bell after bell after bell. He reached inward... for the fear, and for the fury.

"Terror has a home in the heart of man. So too does wrath. Do not dispense with anger, embrace it. Firewood to the flames, bairn!"

Pulse quickened. Blood rushed. Heat rose. Muscles went taut. The First Below opened and, as if in answer, so too did the First Above. The world around him snapped into a sharp focus. Snowflakes across his cheeks. The cold biting at his ears, his nose, his lips. The crunch of powder as life trekked across these wastes. The distinct tell of leather against wood as his thumb slid against the haft. In the distance, approaching him out from the whirling white wasteland... a silhouette. Large. Tusked. Fiercesome.

He grinned his defiance at it as he seized the gates below and above and threw them open.

The chill left him. The tension. The weakness. What coursed through his veins now was something more than mortal, and he believed in it. Welcomed it. Embraced it. Strength and weight and pressure were his to wield.

The Abomination of the Coerthan Highlands roared as it charged him, and he roared back.

A plume of snow erupted a dozen fulms into the air as there came a flash of luminescent green, and suddenly the midlander was there, right there, within the beast's arms. This time, he was ready for the speeds that followed the internal burst; his heels dug into the ground as he skid forward, his left hand dropped to serve as a fulcrum, and he let momentum and inertia and every ponze of force he could drive through his right arm carry the blade of his axe forward to sink into the monster's chest.

There came a loud, high-pitched shriek of pain. He ducked to the left and down, let his grip shift and slide down the haft, and he tugged. There came a sickening squelch as the blade tore through and free of the beast's torso. He powered back upward, straightened even as he wrenched the axe into a spin over his head and back around. He felt the blade slice through more fur and flesh; foiled in its attempt to grapple with him and crush him into a pulp, the yeti roared again in pain and stumbled back, bleeding arms wide open. The midlander released the axe with his left hand as it spun, and caught it again further up the haft; he turned that motion into a jab, a thrust that drove the spike atop the axe into the chest wound. He pushed with his right even as he released with his left again and retreated: one, two, four, half a dozen steps back through the snow he went. That right arm came for him again; skin and flesh and bone hardened as he sped aether along his own left arm and into his left fist. He drew it back and lashed out, a backhand blow with the concussive force of a small explosive that threw the beast's claws out wide once more. He withdrew his axe as he crouched and spun, transferring new momentum and inertia into his hips. The axe head dipped low, came back around and flew into an uppercut that tore into the monster's left hand and severed fingers and claws alike from the appendage.

That red mist was threatening to cloud his visage again, even as he ground his teeth in the midst of a macabre smile against the outraged cries of a wounded animal. He adjusted his grip once more, pommel leading the way, left hand presenting the base of his fist as it held the end of the haft, right hand trailing behind him and just ahead of the axe's blade.

Scythe. For culling.

He dashed again, darted right to avoid another lumbering blow, then curved back to the left. The axe caught against the yeti's calf, just above the foot, and just as Gnasher had once tripped him, now he tripped a monster. The beast fell to its left knee as Osric pulled its right leg out from under it; he reversed his momentum, spun the axe back around, behind, and over. Down it fell as he ran back at the beast, and over and into its shoulder sank the blade.

His own right shoulder flared in sympathy, pangs of long-forgotten pain threatening to drive him to his own knees.

Two points of amber light bore into him with all the hatred and scorn of the seven hells.

He screamed, he leaned and with all his strength, weight, and pressure severed the yeti's arm from its body. The effort was long and arduous; steel sliced through flesh, carved through bone, tore through sinew and muscle... but at last, his blade fell free, and the arm fell free as well as he stumbled several paces back. The abominable snowman threw back its head, threw open its maw, and the thundering bellow that echoed across the cauldron as it turned and came for him chiiled him to his marrow.

...or would have, had his blood not been running hot, his thoughts fevered and his intent murderous. The axe rose and fell once more. The beast's roar faded, then grew into a high-pitched whine of shock and suffering.

"I''ll build my future on a mountain o' corpses," hissed Melkire, "and yours'll be but the first. Kith 'n' kin will meet y'soon, swear on Rhaglr's name, for I'm sendin' you all to Thal."

He twisted, and the yeti yelped. He pulled the blade free and struck one last time, clove the skull asunder, sank the steel into the boiling brains beneath.

His first kill crumpled and collapsed onto the stone. The Hyur eyed the severed arm that lay several fulms off to the side, blood staining the snow upon which it had fallen. He spat on the trophy.

"Death and damnation will follow."

RE: He Who Fights with Monsters [Closed] - Melkire - 09-08-2015

The demon sat in the darkness, tail swishing back and forth. The appendage occasionally paused to coil about one leg or another of the stool upon which the Au Ra sat. Across the male's knuckles danced a small gem that now and again caught the dim moonlight that peeked through the thin curtains drawn across the window panes.

The door frame creaked.

The tail ceased all movement, and the former Crow raised his head by a hair's breadth as he palmed his prize. He sat still for a handful of moments, listening to the restored silence, then snorted. "Well?"

"He'll do," rumbled the voice of the undead highlander leaning against the door to the private chambers of the Geneq. There was a hint of smug satisfaction in the Ala Mhigan's tone. "Took one life this sun. In time, he'll kill them all."

"Good." The tail resumed its to-and-fro. "Then he is returned to his family?"

"Aye."

"And the schedule? He is aware of the sanctions that will be imposed, the measures that will be taken if he fails to show at the appointed hour, stone in hand?"

"He is. He knows the schedule, down to the very bell. I... gifted him Ansfrid. The griffin will follow him at a distance, will answer his calls, will bear him where he needs to go. I thought it best. Less risk for us. Less travel to and from Ishgard."

"A wise decision. Excellent initiative. You are to be commended."

The rumble grew into a growl. Heavy footsteps sounded on the floorboards. "Mind yourself, Adonis. I care not for praise. You owe me, and you will--"

"--deliver, as per our arrangement. I have not forgotten, my friend, though I ask that you take your own advice. The sergeant must mature. I cannot, will not pluck fruit that has yet to ripen. You promised me patience and dedication. Do you flag? Are you tiring? Is the task that wearisome?"

The footsteps ceased.

"...no, captain. Apologies. Please... forgive me. My temper... please."

Those broad Auri shoulders quaked with mirth as a low chuckle danced around the room. "But of course, Ortolf. Apologies accepted. You and the others, you will have that which was promised to you. After all, we wage war, and yet you, my faithful soldiers, are not paid in coin. I owe each and every one of you a debt, and I pay my debts. Have I not done so for those of us who have already fallen? Lucien, Everett, Swynsald, Roroni, Otgonbayar...?"

"...you have."

"Your vengeance is nigh, Forgehands. Simply stay the course."

"Aye, captain. Thank you, captain."

"No," chirped the demon, "thank you, for sparing me that dreadful accent of yours."

"Naturally."

The Eorzean who'd once been Garlean half-turned on his seat and rolled his eyes for the undead man's benefit. Darkness mattered little to Crows. "Now you are stealing my affectations."

"Naturally."

Rotunda snorted again as he turned back to the window. "Occupy yourself for the night. At dawn, you are to accompany and safeguard Aviarium as she goes about our business."

The frown was evident in the highlander's reply. "But the girls--"

"--I do not trust the women, not as I trust you. She chose them, not I. Besides, it comforts her, to know that an extension of my will shadows her every movement, ready at a moment's notice to come to her aid. Particularly after that degrading incident with Grimsong. I will not have a reoccurance, nor will I take undue risks with either of our lives. Do I make myself clear?"

"Aye, Rotunda."

The gem began its dance once more across the Au Ra's knuckles. "Dismissed."

He heard the sound of falling ash and felt the ghost of a slight breeze. Rotunda Crow was alone again, save for the Auri female fast asleep on the nearby bed. He brought the dance to a stop, turned his hand face-up. Upon the palm sat a soulstone, dark as midnight, and the gem glowed, pulsed with a malevolent shade of violet light.

"I know just the witch for you, bauble," he whispered. "But first, you will yield to me one secret. The worst secret."

He closed his fingers over the stone and clenched his fist; the light flared, shone through the gaps between his fingers, white and black and teeming with memory. Adin Adonis bared his fangs as his eyes swam in visions of an age long past.

"Show me how to rend the curtain. Show me the Void."

RE: He Who Fights with Monsters [Closed] - Melkire - 09-15-2015

"Hello."

Flashes. Red and blue and yellow and purple. Heat. Cold. Explosions. Eruptions. The crackle of thunder. Sparks. The smell of blood. The scent of flesh. Brimstone. Something ripping, cracking, flooding.

Searing flames, white hot tendrils, engulfing him, devouring him. His fist blazed like the sun. His brain cooked in his skull. Shaking, spasming, falling, collapsing. Knees now, on his knees, like some barbaric heathen. Something wanted in him. Somehow it was getting there. Someone was playing a dangerous game. Somehow they were winning.

This would not do.

"Welcome to my involuntary employ."

The whole of him rebelled at the very notion. Character, personality, ego, essence... call it what you will, but he wasn't about to subject himself to someone else's whims. He'd spent a lifetime doing so, and for what? To end up dead, then worse than dead, abhorred by his own people. Discarded. No, he'd had a vision, and seeing that dream realized required that he usher in a new future, that his plans come to fruition. That could not come to pass under the yoke of some mongrel pup.

I was once Adin Adonis. I am now Rotunda Crow. I will be Tengri Geneq.

There was beauty waiting for him, for them, for all of them. A flower. One that would bloom, one that would grow, one that would herald a new dawn. For now, though, that flower was yet budding, and that meant he was needed, even if that meant fleeing to his last and final refuge that he had gone to such lengths to prepare. There were too many dangers out there, too many threats to peace and prosperity, for him to succumb to this latest trial. One too many.

One which he and only he could vanquish, would vanquish.

"We should have a little chat."

NO.

He cursed the intrusion, threw himself against it, pounded and thundered and wailed and slammed and bellowed and shrieked. He lashed out in each and every way he could, inside and out. He screamed. He rallied. He twisted and writhed. He chanted his names to himself. He raised his fists and brought them down to crash onto the floorboards. His fingers splayed open for the slightest of moments.

The red-hot stone tumbled free, clattered against the wood as it fell and rolled beneath the window sill.

As swiftly as it had descended upon him, the presence was gone.

He panted as he swayed and shook on all fours, well aware that he was now drenched with sweat. For a long while, he could think of little else than to merely hold himself up off the floor. That'd he'd been assaulted within the confines of his very own private quarters...

...no.

I've been violated.

The rumble that began deep inside his chest grew into a growl as he pushed himself to his feet and staggered into the stool. A few moments more had him right again, and he stumbled forward a mere two paces to bend down and pluck the now-cool soulstone from where it had fallen. As he raised it up to the light with the same left hand which had clenched it tight not so long ago, he noticed something peculiar.

Not about the stone. About his hand.

His hand should have been badly burnt... and yet the only scar tissue to be found... the center of his palm was marked now. A circle with... no. A meteor, descending from the heavens. He'd been marked.

The growl grew into a roar of fury as he spun on the balls of his feet and chucked the little bauble across the room.

"GRIMSONG!"

Panting again. Sweating again. Profusely. Something creaked, and he glanced at the corner, at the bed. She was awake, half upright, propping herself up on those small, delicate hands, looking at him with concern.

He went to her then, sat on the edge of the bed, cooed to her, brushed her hair out of her face, held her cheek in one hand for her to nuzzle into. He did everything he could to reassure her. The gestures came naturally, instinctively, mindlessly, leaving him to ponder the near ruin of his plans. Clearly, he'd been betrayed. This latest delivery, this latest piece, had been rigged. Was he the intended recipient... or was it the intended target? He frowned.

Had he gotten what he needed, in those brief moments, in those flashes of memory, before the intrusion had severed the connection to the imprint of the soul? He thought he might have... but he couldn't be sure. Not yet, in any case. He would have to reflect, to meditate, to sift through it all.

He eyed Sarangerel and whispered.

"In the morn, you are to begin our search for the Kinslayer."

RE: He Who Fights with Monsters [Closed] - Melkire - 09-19-2015

He waited patiently at Raubahn's Salute, eyes scanning the horizon for winged beasts. Though the clouds rolled across the skies and the winds gusted through the valleys, there was not a sign of the mythical monster of Alabathia. There was no griffin in sight... nor, he was beginning to realize, would there be. Wisps of black smoke creeped over the edge, beneath the stone railing that safeguarded the Salute. He couldn't help but smirk as he watched the smog gather in a small pool behind him.

Hands emerged, then arms, then a head and shoulders as Ortolf Forgehands clawed his way back into his corporeal form. The undead highlander stretched, then ran one rotting hand up through his hair and glared at his midlander cousin. Each and every motion was short, agitated, and promised untold violence.

"Ansfrid found me."

Osric's grin grew even wider. "I can see that.'

"...spik, bairn."

The smaller man sobered as he turned from the railing towards his mentor.

"It's time. The target wishes t'meet."

A long, hard silence fell between them. Forgehands' eyes searched Melkire's. The old monk paced back and forth as he considered.

"Too soon. Putting aside that your training is incomplete, the others have barely begun their own. Why risk this now?"

"Grimsong's missin'. Not the woman. Rotunda's runner. The runt claims t'have taken him."

Ortolf stopped in his tracks and turned fully to Osric. "...so?"

"So how many o' these bloomin' stones has Ki delivered, eh? You still need him." The sergeant - sergeant f'now, dead man soon, mayhap - stepped forward until he was mere ilms from the Crow. "I can get him for you."

Forgehands frowned. "For this you require...?"

"A doppleganger. I can't leave Thanalan at the mo', I'm bein' watched. Damned Flames are waitin' t'see if I flee, 'n' if I do, they'll condemn me. That's a complication to his plans that's best avoided, no?"

"Bah... Zhwan's best at what you're asking for, but he's not one for playing civil. Gnasher is worse, and I can't be spared."

"Pierre."

"Pierre. I will see to it that he is within the city on the morrow. Recover Grimsong. Kill Epinoch if you can. How long will you require?"

"One sun, perhaps two. Supposed t'be turnin' m'self in come end o' the sennight. That'll be in two suns."

Ortolf turned and walked towards the railing, through the railing. He glanced over his shoulder.

"Then two suns you shall have."

The Crow fell, then fell apart into motes of ash that drifted away on the winds.

RE: He Who Fights with Monsters [Closed] - Melkire - 10-07-2015

Dust. We are as dust, all of us.

He could not help but think that the sands of Thanalan were to blame for such morbid thoughts. Perhaps he'd been sequestered within the Black Shroud for far too long. Perhaps he'd grown soft, or else accustomed to the peace and tranquility he'd come to know within the past few moons.

Perhaps he'd come to prefer the forest that teemed with life to the desert which spurned it.

A dust devil crossed his path a good hundred fulms down the road. He paused in his tracks and smiled as the small whirlwind split in two. One vortex carried on in more or less the same direction; the other came right at him until it closed the distance down to a mere half dozen fulms or so. As the cloud resolved into a man, Rotunda Crow resumed his journey. Soon enough, an old Elezen fell into step alongside him.

"Captain."

"Pierre."

The two walked in silence for a time.

"If I might inquire... how fared the Amdapor expedition?"

Rotunda snorted. "Poorly. 'twas a fool's errand. We unearthed no relics, recovered not a single tome. What few opportunities we chanced upon were not worth the risk. As abandoned civilizations go, the Lost City was rather surprisingly devoid of ancient artifacts, and the sole voidsent we encountered could not have yielded to me the answers I seek."

"Nothing to aid us in the campaign against Epinoch? Wasted time, then."

"Wasted time? ...I would not call it so. There is something growing now. A seed, perhaps. Portents of changes to come. Were I prone to optimism, I would claim to have struck up a rapport with Hearer Summerfield."

The White Needle looked taken aback. "The conjurer?"

"The same."

"She is anathema to our kind! The risks--"

"--are mine to take. We will need someone of her repute, with her standing, stature and renown. Until then, she may yet be of some use to us, for there is more to the Lady Liadan than she presents to the world. That much was made evident when she plucked me from a near reunion with the abyss."

That was not mere wind.

"...."

"Ah. You witnessed that."

"...I did."

"How did that feel, knowing that you could do naught but observe?"

"I was... uneasy. To stand idly aside... I wish you would not give such orders, captain. You are too important to lose."

"We had little choice in the matter. As you said, they are anathema to our kind. The resurrected might walk in their midst without fear of detection, but not so the damned." He scoffed. "Besides, Sarangerel stands ready to take up your leash, to assume the mantle of leadership should I ever fall... however fleeting a time that may prove."

The Elezen nodded in acknowledgement. The pair fell silent again as they walked on down into Camp Drybone. Half a bell saw them to the local inn and into Rotunda's private chambers.

The scene which greeted them upon their arrival was such that both men, given to decorum though they were, were too stunned to catch the door before it fell shut behind them.

Ortolf Forgehands, highlander priest of the Fist of Rhalgr, held Khuja'ya Zhwan, abhorrent poacher of the Shroud, aloft by the neck. The man's large hands were clenched tight over the Keeper's throat. A futile effort, that. Crows did not need to breathe. The Maw fought back with tooth and nail; fangs and claws sliced into the Gyr Abanian's accoutrements. Their struggle saw them tumbling from wall to wall as the monk slammed the male into the stonework again and again, as though it were possible to knock the dead unconscious.

Pierre Glaisyer cleared his throat. "Captain...?"

Rotunda stepped forward and snapped his fingers.

The two Crows flew apart to opposite ends of the room as though each had been shot forth from a cannon. The Keeper bowled through a pair of wooden chairs before disappearing beneath the chamber's sole desk; the highlander struck the stone above the cot and was held there, as though pinned against the wall by an unseen force.

"What is the meaning of this," the Voice hissed.

Snort-ridden cackling from beneath the desk. "One sun, two sun, task o' one, Zhwan got it done!"

"Shut your mouth, whelp!"

"Red stone, yellow stone, big man's blind, now he's boned!"

"Weren't my fault, I ain't given the bairn a second gods-damned--"

"HE HAS WHAT?!"

"--a stone, a second stone, don't know h--"

A second snap sounded out.

The highlander slid to one side and up into the corner, as though that unseen force sought to drive him into as tight and confined a space as possible, to grind his flesh and bones down into powder. Something shrieked, a loud high-pitched keening as Ortolf's jaws fell open and his eyeballs bulged with the pain. Onyx flames licked at his fingers, at his limbs, at his hair. The smell of brimstone permeated the rest of the chamber and leaked out from beneath the door into the hall beyond.

"I was quite explicit," the Voice hissed again as Rotunda Crow seethed where he stood. "One for each pawn. No more, no less. Certainly not him. ESPECIALLY NOT HIM!"

"--I don't know how--"

"You have been NEGLIGENT! You will RECTIFY this, Forgehands, or so help me yours will be the next soul I feed to the Void!"

"--yes, yes!--"

Rotunda Crow dropped his hand, and the air pressure dropped back to the usual. Ortolf Forgehands collapsed onto the cot below... which promptly broke beneath his weight.

"You have a fortnight to take this new stone from him," growled Tengri Geneq, "or I will visit each of your descendants in turn and purge them from the face of the earth."

RE: He Who Fights with Monsters [Closed] - Melkire - 12-20-2015

”That's jus' a story ta keep men on the straight an' narrow. If that was true…”

Osric took a deep breath and turned about where he stood. He took in the sight of the empty meadow, silent and tranquil as it was. The long blades of grass danced in a gentle breeze, the sun warmed the earth as Azeyma had ordained long ago, and far off - a small brown speck against bright blue - his griffin, Ansfrid, could be seen soaring through the skies.

Through a sea of clouds.

He looked out over the horizon, where rock and boulder and island alike all drifted on the winds. Large veins of crystal were strewn throughout the floating land masses, numerous and abundant. He’d often wondered why this place wasn’t known as the Sea of Stones, but now he thought he knew. The true wonder, the real marvel, wasn’t how far removed he was the world below, but in how close he was to the heavens above.

He’d petitioned Ser Emerissel of House Sauveterre, the new patron of the Dauntless, long and hard for the opportunity, the privilege, to be here. Securing this region was the responsibility of House Haillenarte; they had but recently begun permitting access to adventurers and their free companies. Emerissel had - at last, after many private discussions, most of which had been quite heated - taken his request to Haillenarte, and they’d seen fit to grant it.

Standing here, now, he could sense that this was the right place, that this was the very isle that Berrod had spoken of. He could feel a pulse. The beating of the land’s heart, or so he’d been trained to think of it. He wasn’t sure how it had come to pass… he was quite sure he’d never know... but somehow, long ago, this meadow had seen more than its fair share of bloodshed. Men and women had fought and died here in droves, and the soil had not forgotten.

”...so that’s what it is. Yer poisonin' yerself an' spreadin’ the gods-damned filth t'me.”

He found himself grinding his teeth as the words drifted to him, unbidden, from an earlier time, from a memory he didn’t particularly care for. If the highlander’s writings were to be believed, he was about to open the Solar Plexus, the third chakra… or attempt to, at the very least. This one was said to be ambition, to be will. He lacked neither; he was confident that, should the third manifest, he could and would come to possess a measure of self-control that he’d lacked since he’d first set foot on the path.

Somehow, he rather doubted matters would proceed according to plan.

One below for each one above. That was the conclusion he’d come to after the insight that Forgehands had shared with him. Those had been the words he had shared with Berrod.

”Dabblin' in that shite by yerself is one thing, but don't go smearin' that dirt on me too!"

He would know soon enough. Either he’d reach for the third above and find salvation, or he would slip and fall further into the abyss to grapple with the third below. Damned, that’s what he’d be, and he would know it. That was rather the point of this little exercise.

Was he one to walk in the light, or was he one to walk in the shadows?

Confirmation would come swiftly. Whatever the answer, whatever the result, he would have to be ready. He would have to stand strong, resolute, bound by his own will and his own conscience.

To open is not to grasp.

A small gem, the color of the Warden’s daystar, danced across his knuckles. Armstrong would not have gifted him with a soulstone if there’d been any doubt that he could handle this.

He threw his coattail of griffin leather out behind him… oh, how Ansfrid hated the smell… and dropped down onto the grass. He sat cross-legged, tailor-fashion, in a position he’d come over the past several moons to treat as a posture ideal for meditation. He leaned forward, eyes closed, and dropped both hands between his legs, laid his palms upon the earth.

Osric Melkire listened to the pulse of the land, and then the land listened to the pulse of Osric Melkire, for after a mere two dozen heartbeats, they were one and the same.

His first thought was how different this was from Halatali. The ancient labyrinth had felt vile, foul, wicked, and the torment which had accompanied the endeavor had nearly driven him mad with grief. This isle felt clean, pure, sacred, as if the caress of the heavens had long since cleansed it of any taint left behind by the sins of the departed. He laughed, and there was genuine mirth in his laughter.

Then the weight fell upon him, and his bubbling ceased.

He could feel… more. The isle upon which he sat was but one piece of a larger whole, and by drawing the land’s aether in about himself to facilitate the opening of the third, he’d left a vacuum… a vacuum which the other islands now rushed to fill. The pressure upon him built and built; he barely had time to marvel at how much there was, how significantly this dwarfed Halatali, before the waves crashed over him, again and again and again and….

Clean.

But there was so much!

He reached past the Root and the Sacral… and found nothing. He swallowed, still awash in a torrential downpour, and reached past fear. He reached past anger.

He found the laughter again.

Too much. There was too much.

Gods damn you, Berrod. So ruttin’ high ‘n’ mighty, thinkin’ you know it all. Well, guess what, you pissin’ prick? You were wrong. You were wrong, ‘n’ I was right! But no, that don’t matter, ain’t worth buffalo shite with you, and why? ‘cause you’re the master, ‘n’ the master’s always right. That’s just how it is with tutors, ain’t it? You’ll blow this off, and turn to your other students. You’ll play favorites. Fuck you. I’m better than the rest. I’ll prove it.

Too much. Burn until there’s nothing left to burn, he’d been taught. Use it up. So he did.

He took hold of the third below as best he could, and channeled the excess upward. Through the second and first it passed. Through the Root it passed. Into the Sacral it went, all of it, funneled by his will… and from the Sacral, he drank. He drank, and drank, and drank.

His skin darkened, red hot to the eyes and red hot to the touch. It bubbled, popped, tore, even as it knit itself back together, lightened, cleared up.

With each passing moment, he found himself hating Armstrong more and more.

RE: He Who Fights with Monsters [Closed] - Melkire - 01-24-2016

A shadow streaked across the earth, silent and swift, until it crested the top of the hill. 'Twas not, in truth, a shadow at all, but a rolling cloud of thick black smoke that dissipated and left behind two enormous men. The Hellsguard fell to a reverential knee, but the Auri male strolled forward, his scales glistening in the moonlight. Tengri Geneq spared his manservant a single glance.

"Thank you, Gnasher," he murmured.

The meaty thud of a fist against a bare chest sounded out as he turned to scan the surroundings for the woman who'd promised to deliver.

The woman was a vision of white, pale silver hair smoothly falling down her back, pristine white robes that seemed untouched by the earth billowing from her waist. She had her eyes trained on something in the distance, although with the spectacles that guarded her gaze and reflected any light away, one could never tell what or if anything truly held her interest.

Her back was turned to the two that appeared from the smoke and even as the two towering figures made themselves known, she did not turn immediately.

"I have always wondered. Why that form?" Her voice carried in the stillness of the place, quiet and yet not soft, placid in tone and yet not soothing.

The scaled man was silent as he joined her, save for the rattling of his platemail and all its buckles and straps. He took up position to stand alongside her, his own gaze searching the horizon for whatever, if anything, had caught her attention.

"Familiarity and advantage. Long ago, I served in the campaigns that brought Othard to heel. 'Twas there we first made contact with Raen and Xaela alike." He shrugged. "The latter are a formidable people, warriors all. This particular male was possessed of a wealth of experiences and talents. Youth, intelligence, strength, knowledge, insight, connections, a unique history which made him an ideal platform and foundation upon which to build."

His own voice was rich and deep, his words clipped, his tone imperial... as though he stood above all others and beheld them from a throne.

"I would have been a fool to take on any other."

The horizon was barren, white and harsh. But for a small moment in time, the wind seemed still, absent, as if the frozen earth wanted to listen to their exchange. But no other living beings were about save the three. The woman did not turn her gaze away from the distant mountains covered in ice just yet.

"More of their kind seem to have found their way south," she observed casually, as if discussing the weather. A pause fell between them before she turned her head slightly. Her glasses still reflected the white of the land, but her gaze seemed to be directed at him.

"Are you prepared to eliminate your foe?"

He met her eyes with his own.

"In truth, I am not certain. Five have I Gifted so that they might accomplish what others have not. Of those, one resists his calling, one dawdles for fear of wielding power, and one finds herself paralyzed by her betrothed. The remainder stand ready... but those two alone, with the Crows at their side, will not suffice."

He scowled and shifted his feet, seemingly on edge.

"Am I prepared? Yes. I have the will and the resolve. Are my -men- prepared? Would that that were so easily answered... yet we cannot afford to wait. We can brook no further delays. He went silent months ago. He shall not remain dormant for much longer. And so I need that which I asked you for."

He turned back to the mountains.

"Payment notwithstanding, of course."

"I have what you seek," she answered, her attention also turning back toward the mountains. "It is not an easy thing to obtain, a crystal that is capable of trapping an essence of what is otherwise immortal. And yet..." Her head turned slightly towards him again. "These times seems to be in need of such a miracle, yes? And so it comes to be exist the world."

There might have been a hint of irony in the small curl that rose to her lips. "All things meet their end, sooner or later." Her head canted slowly. "It will almost be a shame to see this particular anomaly come to an end but in your hands, it must."

She reached down into her satchel, and took out a small box. Her movements were careful as she opened the box to reveal an oblong crystal within. It was a plain looking thing at a glance, opaque and dense. Its tips were encased in a darker crystal of deep black and violet hue.

"If the stories be believed, these have been used to bring immortal foes to their end. A pity that I have been unable to gather actual data of these events myself." Her words are clipped with this admission, closest to distaste that has ever colored her mood.

The pale woman looked upon the Au Ra once more. "The part of the price is the data. I only require the ends of this crystal returned back to me, if you are successful in your endeavor."
She held up the box toward him.

He reached out, hands clasping the sides of the box gingerly, eyes fixated on the crystal within.

"There may not be any remnants left of this relic when we are through with it. Such is the destructive nature of the energies that the Gifted will bring to bear upon it." The male's voice was distant, pensive. "That said, whether shards or fine sand, I shall see the ends returned, as requested."

He shook himself from his reverie and shut the lid, took the box from her and slid it under one arm. He turned to the Hellsguard and beckoned with the other hand. "Gnasher!"

The Crow rose to his feet and threw a rucksack to his captain. Tengri knelt, his back to those distant peaks, and slipped the box into the pack before rummaging through it further.

"Part of the price, you said. Before you elaborate, I beg you to consider a gift. If, that is, you are interested."

There was no delight in her visage at the mention of a gift. Not a flicker of anticipation or even curiosity. A slow cant of her head was her only reaction. She seemed to be studying him for a moment longer.

"A gift," she echoed. Those words hung in the air, as if it was a foreign concept. "Unexpected, but... yes. Interested."

She watched as the box was put away, still nary a glance given to the Hellsguard.

The Geneq surfaced at last with his prize. Held in one hand was a small black leather journal of some sort, entirely nondescript save for a title etched into the front cover: "Attempt IX". There were no other distinguishing features, no clues that would yield insight as to its contents.

"Bring him," ordered Rotunda as he slung the rucksack over one shoulder, and at his command the Hellsguard approached.

The Roegadyn wore little more than a pair of ragged breeches. His chest, torn and ragged and rotten as it was, seemed bloated, and the fiend walked as though he were bearing a great weight. One massive hand rose into the air... and plunged into that barrel of a chest. A sick squelching sound accompanied a titanic effort as the Crow drew forth a... a man from within. The poor bastard sucked in a deep breath and started screaming and flailing as he hung in the monster's grip by his wrist.

Bone Gnasher wasn't having any of it. He seized his prisoner by the back of the collar, spun him around, and drove him down onto his knees. The man burst into sobs. Though he looked far too worn, too old, and too pathetic, he would have been instantly recognizable to those who had known him in another life.

The man was Ser Besten.

There was a long bout of silence that fell between them, again the winds were dead still, as was the woman in white. Her glasses almost gleamed white with the reflection of the snow, veiling her skin in a paler hue.

"Curious," she broke the quiet with a monotonous observation. "Have you also mastered the art of returning the dead back to life? Last I knew of this man, his body was found in the middle of Thanalan, gutted and bled dry."

"The Ritual of Crows was designed with the intent of shackling departed souls to this world by way of a corpse," explained Rotunda as Besten sobbed. "In my bid to regain my mortality, I perverted and corrupted that ritual in order to chain the spirit to living flesh." He tapped at his own breastbone. "I was dead I live again. As does Sarangerel. As does this man, difficult and frustrating though it was to reanimate his corpse."

He held out the journal for her to take.

"These are my notes on the altered process. The decidedly magical process. You will find that I have omitted instructions as to how to bind the new being to one's will. That, I am afraid, shall remain my secret... for now." Rotunda Crow shrugged. "This is my gift to you. This journal and this man, for study. You may have Gnasher, as well, for a time... though I would want him back."

White gloved hand reached out and took the journal from the Au Ra's hand. The woman glanced to the weeping form of the man, still her expression blank. But when she answered, there was a hint of satisfaction that only tugged at the very edge of her words.

"Very well. My gratitude for your gifts." The glaring reflection of her spectacles turned toward the Hellsguard. There was a smallest curl of one corner of her lips. "And I shall return this one to you as well, when I am done."

The scientist seemed to study both the subjects at hand before turning back to the Xaela. "You have provided me with an interesting specimen. But I require another. My current studies involve... your kind." A pause, and the dark violet gaze seemed to penetrate through the spectacles to bore straight into him. "And that of dragons."

"You obtained this body for you own use." She seemed to be analyzing the details of his body, as one would an inanimate object. "I require Au Ra specimens of my own. Raen or Xaela, female or male, does not matter. And I require blood of dragons. As much as you can gain access to. Fresh or preserved pristinely."

Tengri smirked as he gave her a half-bow in acknowledgement of said gratitude. He seemed either oblivious or indifferent to her intense regard for his features.

"Acquisition of said specimens is simple enough. We shall have them in hand soon enough." He frowned. "Dragon blood, however... that is a different matter altogether. They have a hierarchy. I take it the blood of, say, a lesser wyvern will not suffice for your purposes."

"No. Lesser specimens, nor scalekin or beastkin will not due. I require the blood of a true dragon." Her words were spoken calmly, their rhythmic cadence. It was either that she did not doubt the capability of the man speaking before her or she simply expected it to be done.

"And the Au Ra, I prefer them robust. I need not weak and fragile things. They need to be able to withstand afflictions." A pause, as she seemed to be regarding him again. "Such as the one you chose for yourself."

“Xaela will suit you better, then. The steppes harden them, whereas the jungle coddles the Raen, keeps them soft, frail."

He smiled for her. There was confidence in him, and a measure of arrogance... but he seemed almost self-aware to a degree, for there were no signs of hubris in his voice.

"Dragon blood... from a true dragon." He chuckled. "'Til now, I hadn't the cause to pit our magic against theirs. They are eldritch and potent beasts. In more prosperous times, I would have relished the opportunity to hunt one down, and yet..." he glanced at Gnasher, "I am still replenishing the ranks, and so I must conserve our strength for the impending finale."

He looked back at her and winked.

"I know of two potential sources, in Thanalan of all places, which might yield the blood you seek without the confrontation I anticipate. The first is a great wyrm, guised in human form, who plays at passing judgment upon the lesser races. We have seen him at his games and we believe he can be convinced to donate to our cause, given proper incentive. I shall barter with him; you shall remain unknown."

Tengri sighed theatrically.

"Alas, the other potential source would have made for a -live- specimen, had we the means to ensnare it. As matters stand, I am loathe to part with Epinoch's bane." He hefted the rucksack, adjusted the seating of the strap across his shoulder. "Perhaps, if there were another shard of auracite at hand...."

He eyed her appreciatively.

"Warren Castille's beloved - she who is bonded to the Arbiter - has been possessed by a dragon, of all things."

The Au Ra was a charismatic man, one would have to be blind and deaf not to notice it. His arrogance was tempered by discipline and while his authority was strengthened by his insight. But if such observations were made by the pale woman, she did not make any outward expression of it, if anything it was recorded like any other statistic in her mind.

"Possessed... by a dragon," Raelisanne repeated in a monotonous tone, seemingly unimpressed. But the pause that followed was accompanied by slight thinning of her lips. There was a slight arch to her pale brows when she continued. "The Arbitor also seeks to draw out and eliminate this possession?"

She stared through the Xaela for a moment longer. "He too seeks an auracite." There was a cant of her head. "And he came to you. Why?"

"He did not come to me at all. Not at first. One of the Gifted did, to ask favor on Castille's behalf. I am known to the man to have considerable... capabilities where the procurement of rare and valuable goods is concerned. Indeed, I have built my public persona around such a reputation. The Arbiter went to him, and he in turn came to me, and so here I still stand, to learn whether I might parlay the prospect of mutual benefit into favors owed and debts paid."

He canted his head this way and that, as if deliberating. "The first source is easier. Little risk to either of us. But the second holds more promise."

"I may be able to procure a second auracite." Her eyes narrowed slightly, her words slowing as if with caution. "I know some things of this Arbiter. He is not of the sort that I would trust with favors to be returned in good faith. At least, not to me. He consorts with those who seek to do me harm."

Her arms remain crossed, but there was otherwise no tension in her frame even as she spoke her foes. No glimpse of animosity either. "What would he have to offer me in trade for a rare item as this?"

He scowled. "Little, in truth, beyond the beast itself. He carries in him an anomaly I've not seen elsewhere... though I cannot be certain, I believe that no small measure of self-inflicted pain and torment somehow serve to fuel his aether reserves. Perhaps that would be worthwhile."

She seemed to consider that for a moment, as one gloved finger tapped idly against her arm. "I will see what I can do about obtaining a second. But the price of the dragon is yours to pay, not his. The Arbiter needs to offer me better than himself for a second crystal. I already have a few Highlanders with aether reserves who are more than capable of surviving their share of torment."

She turned from the Xaela, looking to the mountains again. "Ask him if the chance to save his love is worth the price of a friend's life. If he is willing to pay a costly price, then I would be willing to give him what he needs."

Her head turned just slightly, as if she was glancing at the Au Ra from the corner of his eyes. "I predict his answer will be righteously opposed. Or uncharacteristically willing, his pride seemingly bent by desperation. I know of the Arbiter. Men like him will lie and kill dishonorably and brutally to achieve what he sees as right. Either way, I believe the Arbiter will not deliver. I shall leave to you if he lies or tells the truth about his willingness to sacrifice a part of his soul. That... along with whatever resides in his beloved, would be the price of a second auracite."

Tengri barked a laugh. "How well I have come to know you!"

The Au Ra turned and walked a ways from her, along the crest of the hill.

"I predicted this. I told him in no uncertain terms that you would demand such a price, such a sacrifice. That all transactions with you are give and take."

He glanced back over his shoulder at her. His white eye blazed in its socket where it hid behind a lock of his green hair.

"Perhaps he has yet to stumble upon an alternative. Perhaps desperation will drive him to reconsider. I do not know. What I do know is the answer he gave me a fortnight ago."

The former Crow snorted.

"I shall set Sarangerel to the task. She will treat with Jredthys for us. You will have your recompense."

The pale woman watched him leave; her arms remained crossed and her countenance unmoved as ever. She seemed to stare at him just a moment longer than needed, that blank stare that almost seemed blinding with the snow white reflection in the spectacles. She answered his laughter with silence, although there was a nearly imperceptible tension to her jaw. It was gone in another breath.

"Very well," she said coolly in response and turned from the Au Ra's departure. She seemed to return to the study of the mountains, and did not turn the Xaela's direction even long after he had departed.

RE: He Who Fights with Monsters [Closed] - Melkire - 01-24-2016

Cold.

Shrieking. Movement, white on brown on white. Something large... loud crunching, more shrieking. The cry of eagles. Something large bounded through the snow, beat its wings. Ansfrid. He trembled as he fought to push himself upright. Cold. Snow. He'd fallen in the snow. Getting his bearings was proving difficult. How--

Panic as something struck them midair. Griffincry as they struggled to straighten out before they plummeted too far. Fear as he glanced over a shoulder and saw the billowing plume of smoke snake back towards them. Another collision. Grappling midair as they fell again. Impact.

Hands and knees, now. He looked up and found a terrifying sight.

Bubbling black ooze, like boiling oil in appearance, splattered the drifts as his friend raked their assailant with his claws. Another shriek, this one followed by a thunderous roar… and there stood Ortolf Forgehands, grip tight upon the griffin’s throat, claws still raking across his chest and drawing “blood”.... the highlander roared again and struck Ansfrid across the face. Once, twice… the third was a hook that drove the beast into a snowbank. The Crow spat to one side, then turned and stalked Melkire down.

“Treach’rous bairn… ungrateful… tear ye t’pieces, aye….”

“Ortolf,” the midlander cautioned as he scrambled for purchase, “don’t-- y’don’t need t’--”

“Give it t’me. The temple stone.”

Osric swallowed as he finally found his feet. His hands balled into fists. “No.”

Snow erupted. Forgehands was on him in a flash. “GIVE IT T’ME!”

The smaller man turned as he reached for fear and drank it down, fed it to his fire. In some far and distant corner of his mind, he wondered at how fortunate he was to have discovered this talent. To withdraw and regard himself and his surroundings coldly, to disassociate himself from the present… the rest was as simple as wishing he were elsewhere, that he was somewhere other than where he was, and then drawing upon the first below, upon Atala.

He turned and pushed off with all the power that his chakra lent him and with all the agile grace that had come with growing up gutterborn… but he slipped. The ice below his feet betrayed him, and something seized his left leg, clamped down hard and dragged him back through the green wisps of aether that were his signature. Ortolf turned and whipped him ‘round through the air... he knew I’d slip, he picked here and now because he knew, Root, endu-- ...and down into the snow and onto the ice and stone beneath.

Osric cried out in pain, though tapping the first above had saved him broken bones. Shadow. Ortolf went from looming over him to reaching down for his throat; he kicked out at the other man’s torso with all the force and all the anger he could muster. The highlander’s grasp slackened, and the Lominsan scrambled free and back to his feet.

Forgehands came at him again, and this time he struck out. Jab, hook, jab again and again… the Crow slapped his strikes aside, almost contemptuously, with no regard whatsoever for the aether-driven blows. Whatever forward momentum Melkire had found faltered… and soon he found himself driven back, draining his reserves down the dregs as he fended off Ortolf’s assault.

Cheat, run, or die. Tried runnin’, so.....

He dropped low, right fist and arm drawn back, elbow to the sky, to strike down into snow and ice and stone--

Forgehand’s foot struck him clean in the face, and he went tumbling head over heels across that selfsame ice and stone.

“Weren’t meant for you, else that’s what you’d have been given, bairn! We told you how this was t’go, we did. Clear as crystal!”

He coughed and spat as he listened to Ortolf rant and rave. Red on white. Blood.

“Did you forget? Rhalgr’s Own Fist, bairn, what’s the point in feedin’ your beast if you won’t use it? Coward.”

Melkire laughed. ‘Twas a ragged thing, macabre. “You… you’ve no gods-damned idea.”




Seated on the gods-damned cold stone floor. Because that's where he deserves to be, damn it all.

"Give me the Lotus," he said as he unwound his wristwraps and dropped them into his lap.

Tiergan Vashir reached into a satchel and drew out a small box of Allagan design that was adorned with a crystalline lid. The crystal funneled down towards what lie inside: The Lotus. the flower wrought of steel and power. It gleamed crimson as Vashir held it out towards Osric. The voices were stronger now, strong enough that they could be heard in the room and not merely in the mind. They were begging him not to do it, pleading with him to simply take the Lotus from Vashir instead.

"I'll hold it," explained the former gladiator. “You need only to spill the blood. If you touch it directly somehow, things will be bad... for the both of us.”

Osric nodded. He drew a knife from his belt and murmured, "promised Kanaria I'd never use one o' these ever again...."

“You'll not be using it the way you normally would. I'd not count it against your promise.”

.He held a hand out over the crimson flower, then slowly drew the knife across his open palm. Blood pooled... and then trickled. Dripped. Into the Lotus.

A sudden burst of shrieking, screaming howls tore from the Lotus like a gale, wailing and weeping and roaring and crying, cursing the midlander as power course throughout the room, pulling at clothing, equipment, and furniture until suddenly the room was plunged into darkness. The darkness swallowed them both, dragged them down into the abyss. When the light returned, they were standing, struggling. Snow fell. The cobbles ran red. A little girl shrieked and wailed and sobbed. This was the Brume, and these were the corpses of children. She pushed at them, kicked them, struck them bit them flailed at them. Keeping a firm hold was proving difficult, but she wouldn’t escape. She couldn't. She was but a young girl and they were but a strong man.

"Do it," they heard, and they recognized that voice, they recognized it because those were the words spoken by Ortolf Forgehands, and he would see their hellish training brought to a satisfactory conclusion. "A hundred innocents," he said, there and then, "a thousand, he will hide behind them all, he will knock them down, drown you in them if you let him. You will fall, and you will fail... unless you can do this. So do it. Do it."

At last, their hand found purchase, and they lifted her bodily off her feet by the front of her tunic. The axe head they set against the frail skin of her neckline quivered in their grasp. She meets their eyes with her own, and they trembled harder as she begged them. BEGGED them. "Do it," he said again, but they could not. They could not, because the girl they were holding was D'lyhhia Lhuil.

Say rather, the girl looked like D'lyhhia Lhuil. She had D'ly's hair, her face, her eyes. There were no ears, no markings, no slits... but she was her to the life. "Don't," she wailed, "please don't, please, Halone forgives, please let me go mister I don't want to die I don't want to I... I... please..."

"DO IT!" barked the higlander, and they screamed, they bellowed, and she shrieked in fear, and they raised the axe high. There was a sickening squelch, and then there was red. Then, their whole world was red. They were red. They had done it. They were ready. But at the same time, they had fallen. Their stomach turned and flipped. They fell to the floor, and they puked. Gods. She deserved better. She deserved far, far better than them.

The screaming, the sounds, the rush of pain, emotion, and horror - all of it spiraled down and down and down, howling into the Lotus in a torrent of madness before light suddenly sprang back into the room again and silence swallowed up all of the noise. The candles softly flickered. The sheets on the bed laid undisturbed. Everything remained as though nothing had happened at all. ...and then the petal bearing the mark of the Knife clicked a third of the way shut.

Vashir scrambled backwards, away from Melkire.He let out gasping sound, choking, panting as he blinked something back, staring at Osric, but not really seeing him.

Osric Melkire stared down at the floor in shame. He did not look up. The only sound from him was the slow and steady dripping of blood from hand and knife onto stone.

Vashir's grip on the Lotus was like iron. His hands shook as he put the container back into his satchel, burying it deep as he worked to get his breathing back to normal, gazing down at the Hyur in front of him.

Melkire wiped the blood off his knife onto the back of his already-bloodied hand. He sheathed the blade, then rubbed his hands together until the blood dried. "...are we done here?"

Vashir swallowed hard, his voice low, soft, and ragged - as though he'd had been the one who'd screamed. As though he'd been the one who lifted his axe, brought it down hard, made the world red, red, red, re-

He hissed, snapping his eyes shut. "I..."

"Now you know," growled the midlander as he wound his wristwraps back on.




Here, now, he grimaced as he watched the highlander loom over him again.

“You will not cost me my vengeance. Rotunda will deliver, but first I must deliver Epinoch… which means I must deliver you.” Two large, strong hands seized him by the collar and lifted him up, held him aloft. “The stone.”

“You… you want Mindclaw,” gasped Osric in desperation. “You want Horace Windwhistle.”

Ortolf’s eyes went wide and wild. Those hands clenched against the leather they held. “How do you know that name, bairn?”

“I have m’sources.” No way in the seven hells was he giving up Memith and Nahare.

Forgehands snarled, eyes narrowing again. “No one’s seen Windwhistle in decades.”

“I have. Fascinatin’ man, Horace. Talented. Heard he gave a man his eye back. Reconstituted. Meanin’ grown. From nothin’.”

The highlander trembled. The midlander smirked.

“Rotunda doesn’t know where Horace is, does he?” That smirk grew into a grin. “I do.”

Agony. Red colors swam across a black field. When he came to, he found himself with his back to the frigid ground, Ortolf’s hands tight as a vice around his throat.

”WHERE IS HE?!”

“Th--,” he choked out. “St-- the st-- stone….”

The pressure lifted, and he gasped for air. Gulped it down.

“I… the temple… leave me the temple….”

The highlander growled. Somewhere off in the distance, there came another griffincry. this one pathetic and wracked with pain.

“...you will return to me the one we gave you. You will not display the other so brazenly again, as you did with Castille in the Forgotten Knight. Zhwan saw. The captain… he is not like to leave you under my care. Pierre will be watching you from now on… but we cannot sense the nature of these stones. Only their presence. Their number. Am I understood?”

Osric nodded meekly.

“You will meet me three bells ahead of schedule, each time you present yourself for training. We will trade stones. You will train. I shall find you three bells after you take your leave. We will trade stones again. Am I understood?”

Another nod.

“The stone. That of the Hells.”

Fumbling. Cold fingers. Cold leather. A moment later, a red gem went sliding across the ice. Ortolf Forgehands stooped and plucked it from where it lay.

“You play dangerous games, Osric Melkire.”

“...go piss in a river.”

The winds rose, and then there was white between them, like a veil. The silhouette that was Forgehands turned and dissipated. The Hyur sighed with relief and laid his head back down. He shuddered as he struggled to control his breathing, to stay conscious.

He didn’t last. Within seconds, he was out.

RE: He Who Fights with Monsters [Closed] - Melkire - 02-14-2016

Tengri Geneq sat within the confines of his' room at the Hourglass. He sat and glowered at the gem that danced across his fingers. A different stone, this time, but perhaps this one, too, was somehow trapped. Somehow rigged.

That wasn't what was troubling him. There were ways, methods, to manage such risks. What had left him restless this night was that he'd not found anyone suitable for this particular soul stone, despite months spent searching. There was but a single candidate that came to mind. She was too close to the problem. There was too much at stake to risk everything on whether or not that child could resist temptation.

He sighed and cast his thoughts back to when he'd first laid eyes on this particular gem.



Mikh'a was perched on a rock overlooking the water. He had bare feet and a crude would-be spear in his hand. He was watching the fish as they passed with a very intent cat-like look on his face... and then he lunged. The spear went right through the fish's side and he yanked it back quickly. Mikh'a held it up to examine it proudly. Plopping back down on his bottom, Mikh'a plucked his pearl from his ear and pocketed it. "Fine," he grumped. "We'll do it this way just once."

Mikh'a's shadow... licked its lips and ran a sleeve across its mouth.

The boy stared at it.

"Jin'li, if you're trying to test me again, I'm busy."

He started to climb off of the rock veeeery slowly while watching the shadow. There were no further discrepancies between Mikh'a's motions and the shadows. A trick of the light, perhaps.

"...right. Okay. Maybe I'm the one that's crazy." He stood upright and looked at his fish. "Er.... okay. Maybe it's just like when I talk to Spriggan. She doesn't answer either...." He looked back at the shadow, then around. "Uhhh. Rotund,a I have to talk to you."

There came the sound of shifting sand... or perhaps shifting ash... as Mikh'a's shadow somehow squirmed and... and lightened... as a dark puddle of something pooled into existence about his feet. In a panic, Mikh'a scrambled backwards to get away from the movement at his feet.

The pool shuddered and shot into the air, the black ooze swirling about itself before resolving into... a Keeper. An ugly, dirty, rotting Keeper. The disgusting thing leered at Mikh'a's fish.

"Jealous jealous, that's me me me. So hungry, you know, so hungry. Parched and famished, parched and famished, but can't taste can't taste can't -eat-.... well, alright, I lie a little little. I can eat but I'm always hungerin'." The male bowed with a flourish. "Khuja'ya Zhawn. The Maw. Speak with the captain, yes? That's what you want, yes?"

It took every ounce of self control Mikh'a had not to throw up. The smell was repulsive, would be even to a Hyur... but to his nose, which was even more sensitive than that of an average Miqo'te? It was awful. He stepped backward, then stood his tiny, frail body as upright as he could to look like he wasn't a total failure at life and his role in it.

"...I uh.. I need to talk to Rotunda. You uh... You can have the fish. If you take me to him?"

"Bad-bad at the listenin', yup yup! Ah, well. Rotunda Crow, not here. Not here! But you can speak with him, yes yes." The Keeper started pacing back and forth and speaking to itself. "Charged Khuja'ya with the task! Watch brat, watch brat. Observe! Report in in in, relay if need be! And needing's be!"

"I heard you just fine, you can eat but never get full!" Mikh'a defended. "What do you mean he told you to watch me--- have you been following me the whole time?! You know everything I've said?!"

The Keeper's ears wilted.

"...oops." He rallied. "Rotunda or no, Rotunda or no?!" He jabbed one mangy paw towards Mikh'a's direction.

"Don't you deflect--- this conversation isn't over. Yes. Either take me to Rotunda or bring him to me."

"No need, no need!" The Keeper winked, then shut his eyes. Shuddered. Groaned. Stilled.

Mikh'a hesitated and then took a step toward Khuja'ya with one hand out. "Er..."

Whoever... whatever... opened those eyes next was not the Keeper of a few moments ago. The hands folded behind the Crow's back, the lips curled into a lazy smile, and the Keeper's weight was committed to one leg as the new resident of the corpse leaned to that side.

"Master Korofi." The voice was the same, but the tone was different. Clipped. Measured. Garlean. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

The boy was perceptive enough. He remembered the reports. He remembered Rotunda talking about what was once Tengri but was now him. He remembered.

"...you are neither Khuja'ya or Rotunda, are you?"

"An educated guess. You're exercising your intelligence now. Most excellent. Alas, I am afraid you've quite missed your mark."

Mikh'a wavered a little. "Adin?"

"The very same." One hand emerged from behind the Keeper's back and rolled in a gesture. "The Curse of the Crows has its... benefits. Upon their creation, they find themselves in a communion of sorts, a network. Their minds are... merged? No, linked would be more accurate. They can communicate mentally at near instantaneous speeds over large distances." Adin grins. "Furthermore, the one who holds their leash holds their net... and can commune with them. Through them."

He bowed. The same bow Tengri had once given Mikh'a. The exact same.

"You'll have to forgive my mistrust and discomfort, but I didn't expect I would ever meet you like this." Or, truthfully, at all. He never expected to ever run into the man, despite his initial desire to ask after his own mother.

"If Khuja'ya has been following me and they're a hivemind, you have been linked to them. You know why I'm looking for Rotunda?"

"Unfortunately, my servants seem quite incapable of penetrating the defenses surrounding your home, so I remain blissfully unaware... though I have my suspicions. You have my compliments on those defenses. How did you accomplish such a feat?"

Mikh'a smiled at the Crow. "By being smart." That was all he was going to relinquish as far as information went on the wards, he wouldn't risk endangering his family more than he already had. "Though it's good to know they do the job they were designed for. Thank you."

"You are quite welcome. Now, what did you wish to speak to Rotunda about?"

"The soulstones he wants delivered. I want to know who they are going to and I need a guarantee they'll be returned to their rightful owners...."

"Neither I nor Rotunda nor the men and women to which they are delivered will need the stones once we have made full use of them. They will be returned to their respective owners regardless of the manner in which Askier Mergrey acquired them, though I know not what guarantee I could possibly give you."

The Garlean ex-patriate folded Khuja'ya's hands behind the Keeper's back again and started circling Mikh'a.

"I need to know that the stones are going to be retrieved from the people they're being loaned to and directly returned to whoever delivered them, Adin. I need that promise." He followed Adin's movements carefully. "I need this promise. That the one I'm going to give to you will come back to me... I can't give it to you without this promise."

"I could promise you such a thing, but you would be taking and trusting the word of Adin Adonis. Your friends would argue that such a thing is worthless."

"My friends have argued against a lot of my trust." His hand came up to touch his stomach. "It won't stop me from placing it."

"Then I make you, this promise, Mikh'a Korofi: I will see the stones retrieved and returned. Tengri Geneq will make those deliveries personally."

"Past misdeeds shouldn't rob anyone of the opportunity to make things right." He nodded at the promise and went to dig in his belt pouch. Eventually he produced the telling blue soulstone of the dragoon. "One more thing..." He said and closed his fingers around it. "Nahare can't be put in anymore danger regarding this. She can't be put at risk any longer. No more deliveries or tasks or anything should go to her unless it's absolutely necessary."

"Then her work shall fall to Memith Ganajai until such time as Grimsong has recovered from his latest ordeal. That is my condition."

"...fair enough," Mikh'a relented. He wasn't going to make all the demands and he wasn't foolish enough to believe otherwise.

"Then done. I cannot guarantee her safety while Epinoch is still at large, but I can guarantee that my organization will leave her be."

"That's all I can ask of you," Mikh'a agreed. "To ask more would both be foolish and I don't want to owe you any favors if I can avoid it."

Adin came to a halt at Mikh'a's back.

"How crass. I meet with you, speak with you, deal with you. I offer you not the slightest offense and yet you dare give insult as though you've impunity." The former triarius sniffed. "I forgive you, of course. Pray see to it that you watch your tongue in the future."

Mikh'a smiled thinly.

"Of course. Forgive me." He said and his ears flexed back. He turned to face Adin then and held out the soulstone finally. "It is yours for as long as you need it... though I warn you... Jin'li is convinced he will survive this and come out no worse for wear."

Khuja'ya Zhwan's hand reached out and plucked the soulstone from Mikh'a's. "What Jin'li Epinoch does not know could fill several Sharlayan libraries... and I assure you, those are quite large."

"I'm sure. You'll finish your task, of that I have no doubt."

"Thank you for that vote of confidence." Adin held up the stone and inspected it, turning it this way and that against the light. "Was there anything else, Master Korofi?"

The calico hesitated.

"...there was," he said finally. He rubbed his arm and for an instance looked exactly as he was: a very, very scared adolescent boy. "...when you commanded in Garlemald, did you know Mikh?"

Adin froze, save for a downward tilt to the Keeper's muzzle to bring his eyes in line with Korofi's.

"I do not give handouts, Master Korofi, much less so when the information may or may not involve my own history, my own past. You must trade for the answer, of course, assuming you have anything of value or interest to me with which to barter."

"I've nothing you could want." Mikh'a watched Adin and gripped at his own wrist. "And your past only interests me as far as your involvement with my mother. What you were... what you did... none of that means anything to me. You could have been the instrument for Dalamud's fall yourself and it would not matter." He hesitated. "What could you even ask of me? That you could not get on your own."

Adin resumed his pacing. "For one, why the interest?"

"My mother is a continuous threat to my life." Mikh'a followed him with his gaze. "And she's recently, after near a cycle, decided to become a much more active presence in my return to Garlemald. I've endangered an entire tribe of Seekers as well as plenty of others recently because of this and I just need information about her. She's my mother but my knowledge of her is limited."

"Ah. Your little castrum adventure."

"Yes."

Adin sniffed, paused midstride, and turned to Mikh'a. "You forget yourself, Korofi. I asked you for the interest in my associations. You did not ask me about your mother. Not directly, that is."

"Sometimes..." Mikh'a said quietly. "When we are in the company of others they observe things about us. They see the things we try to conceal from others. They know us sometimes better than they know ourselves. My mother is a very powerful woman in Garlemald and you were no less so when you were there. The probability that you did not move in some of the same circles, at least in some regard, is impossible. I ask what your association and knowledge of her is because I want to know her."

Adin nodded, apparently satisfied. "Tell me how you constructed the wards about the Dauntless headquarters, and I will tell you all you wish to know of your mother."

"I drew them. To tell you more than that would risk the security of my house. You're a brilliant man and I'm sure you don't like those wards there...."

"I care little for breaking into your home, and care more for protecting what is mine. Nevertheless, that is my price." The Keeper frowned. "Drew them. Arcanima, perhaps...." He turned and walked towards the water, deep in thought.

"The wards aren't hurting you, only keeping you out. But no... it wasn't arcanima. It's..." He tilted his head to the side. "I wouldn't even know how to begin to explain it. I don't lecture, I just do things."

Adin rolled Zhwan's shoulders, the Keeper's back still to Mikh'a. "Then the usefulness of this conversation is at its end."

"I suppose it is." Mikh'a wilted. "I'm sorry. I wouldn't even know how to begin explaining the wards even if I could."

The Keeper dropped to its haunches and sniggered.

"Observe and report, deliver and report, task task task, when does The Maw get to feast, I ask ask but no ans ans." Khuja'ya glanced over his shoulder at Mikh'a and winked. "Soulstones, soulstones, better than a man's bones~" The Crow rolled the dragoon's gem across his knuckles. "We done, we done done done?"

"Khuja'ya..." Mikh'a looked defeated, but still he reached to grab the fish that had been discarded. He held it out. "You don't get full, but you can still eat. We're done."

The Keeper's ears wilted again... but the undead abomination took one, two, three hesitant shuffles closer and snatched the fish from Mikh'a's hand before collapsing - Keeper, gem, fish and all - into a cloud of black ash that was blown away on a sudden wind.



Two, almost three months now and nothing. No candidates. Not a one, save for the girl he could not count on. He sighed again and stood, slipping the little gem into a coinpurse as he did so and fastening said purse to his belt.

There was much work to be done. Meeting with Summerfield. Visiting the Winds Estate.

He would worry about candidates later.

RE: He Who Fights with Monsters [Closed] - Melkire - 02-14-2016

"Berrod."

"Hn?"

"You busy?"

"Not if ya need somethin'. What's goin' on?"

"Needin' a word, is what's goin' on."

"Yeah? I can come meet ya, or other way 'round, if ya like. At the Agency house right now."

"Gimme a mo'."

"Yeah, awright."

"Edge o' Horizon, if y'can. Scaffoldin' overlooking Nophica's Wells."

"Close, I'll be there in blinkin'."

"...I'm blinkin'."



Less than a bell later, Berrod Armstrong peeeeered down. "Y'got a lotta faith in that hunk o'junk."

Osric Melkire sat perched rather precariously on a wench situated atop the scaffolding.

"Who's Val?" His voice was muffled when he spoke... but also distant somehow, strangely so. Clinical, perhaps.

"Yer brother, so ta speak. Student o'mine."

The Lominsan grunted rather apathetically.

Berrod was slow, yet he began to catch on. "...I see. Spit it out, then."

"Think I've a handle on this Sutala shite. Ruttin' finally. Figured I'd let you know. Ain't the sole reason why I called you out here, but it’s the best.”

The highlander blinked at that. Not the answer he was expecting, clearly. "Well -- that's good. Got any pointers, then?"

The midlander sighed. "That's goin' t'depend on whether you've the right experience or not."

He earned himself a scowl for his troubles. "Talk plain, hoss."

"Fear 'n' anger, controllin' those comes down t'comin' to terms with and acceptin' that those emotions ain't only a part o' you, but that they're useful... jealousy's different." He shrugged where he sat, still staring out over the canyon. "Empty y'self first, that's essential. Then.... then, detachment. Distance. Professional distance."

Berrod considered that for a moment. "That's wrappin a bandage on a broken leg, though. Bein' professional ain't a part o'the self. It's fake. A farce, a act. It ain't gonna help if things get bad."

Osric shook his head. "You... don't understand. That's just t'keep the energies from buildin'. And we ain't talkin' false-facin'. I'm talkin' that stillness that grips you when you're hidin' behind the door, 'n' it falls shut next t'you, and you slip a garrote 'round some poor sod's neck and quietly strangle him t'death."

He went quiet.

Berrod Armstrong 's face blanked at once. "Wouldn't know nothin' about that, then."

"...you sure?"

Berrod Armstrong didn't answer.

Osric Melkire glanced over his shoulder at the highlander. The big man opted into a solid quiet of his own - for the moment.

"...well, that's what's been workin' for me. Like you told me when we were discussin' Leoric, no one solution for every man." He shrugged again, apologetically this time. "Sorry if it ain't much help."

Berrod finally reattached his gaze, complete with a wide and horribly forced smile. "That's good, still. Won't work fer me, but if ya found what works fer you then that makes me glad."

The Lominsan raised an eyebrow but let it be. "...aye, thanks. I... also need t'ask you a favor."

"Yeah? Ask away."

A moment's hesitation. "...bit reluctant to. Bit of a risk, what with you 'n' I 'n' all this shite we're learnin' t'deal with."

"Worst I can do is say no, hoss."

Osric nodded. "Warren ain't enough. Busy man, these suns. You too, but I'm hopin' between the both o' you, you'll manage. I'll be headed out t'Vylbrand soon. Be gone a fortnight or so."

He asked his favor. There were a few tense moments of conversation as they discussed the details, but at last, Armstrong breathed an audible sigh of relief. "Awright. Thass good."

Osric shook his head ruefully. "Don't think you appreciate how hard it was t'ask you this. Not after... that."

"After what?" he asked with all the tone of a man who already had a vivid idea.

The midlander gave his fellow monk a look as if to ask, really? We're really going to play this game?

"Jus' answer me."

"What you said that night, by the gates."

Berrod nodded, his own notion confirmed. "I didn't mean that. I mighta looked once or twice, but I'd never cross that line."

"Before? No, y'wouldn't. After I poisoned you, though....?"

A shake of the head. "No," he said firmly. "She's someone ta protect. S'hard fer the shadow ta get past that. Er-- hard luck fer anybody who tries ta challenge that."

Osric Melkire blinked. Stood. Turned slowly, his feet somehow finding purchase on the beam. And he laughed.

"Hard... hard! Hard t'get past that, he says!"

"...what? Why d'ya say that?"

"Berrod... that's all the shadow's about. What's mine. What ought t'be mine. What's goin' t'be mine. What I'm goin' t'make mine. If there's anythin' I've learned from the Third Below, it's that."

"I've known that long b'fore I felt that pain in m'knees. But if she's someone precious ta be protected, I won't fall ta any urge ta harm her. If I even have any."

The small man nodded. "Thank you for that. Truly. If there's every a way I can repay you...."

Armstrong snorted. "What are we, strangers? Don't worry 'bout it, hoss."

That earned the big man a smirk. "I best be goin', then. Taken up enough o' your time as is."

Berrod Armstrong turned around to leave himself, but answered with a quick, "Look sharp!" With one swipe of his arm he obliterated the crane's support. The bandage on his hand instantly reddened, but he seemed unphased. "Still yer teacher though," he called as the crane collapsed, "fall an' survive it!"

The Lominsan winked, as he'd been stepping out over empty air even as Armstrong turned. The midlander rolled in midair, curling into a ball as he did so. Osric Melkire fell. And fell. And--

Osric Melkire obliterated some wooden barrels and various crates as he fell like a miniature Dalamud.

"Gods damn," came the cry from above. "Well done!"

There was the sound of pained and somewhat winded laughter from below. "Ow."

"...I'll foot th'bill. An' the possible gaol time."

"...good. I hate Blades."