Garrod Arlette

Garrod Arlette

Fiend Bearer
Weaver
Character Profile
Profile

A cross cut, blade clattered, strong against weak. Threw Garrod's footing off balance. Just managed to catch the rapier's long blade with a desperate turn of his messer's guard. Managed to take some of the kill off from the line. Sword's point found way through gaps in chain mail and poleyn all the same.

Sliced through the meat of the thigh. Spilled hot blood unto the cold stones of the alleyway. Swiped, rageful at the silver masked phantom and their forced grin. The feather in their wide brimmed hat, bobbing jaunty and proud as they stepped away and his own leg faltered with its fresh wound weeping.

"It's a wonder why you of all of them, survived, Black Thorn,' the masked Cazadore barbed.

Amariel D'latruz, and her silver hawk's mask stood amidst the alleyway of Farholm. Mist swirling at the trails of her carcarus-leather, great coat. Grey clouds dark and full over head.

"Though I suppose there is no real wonder to it, is there?" she tilt her chin out toward him, sword still poised and at the ready. Its oil slick blade shimmered strange in the moonlight. Shone like that stray light that spread there in the darkness between the stars as it angled. Her long tail of lifeless white hair flowing behind her. "You did not survive."

Release me, Oh Bearer Mine, the demon in its jewel hissed. Release me, and I will make sure we put an end to this one.

"Yet here you stand," a laugh from beneath the rogue Hunter's mask. Atwift of blade. A step, anounced by knock of boot. "If you can call it standing,"

"Belephus," Garrod growled though grit teeth, and that space of pitch, in absence of his eye, shattered into jagged green pieces.

Chartreuse flame wreathed the bone white grasp of his right hand. Ensorcled the blade of his dueling sword.

South Ilica, Along the Coast of the Boiling Sea,

Hunting ground: Along the Wrathful Coast, between Saex and Cangrejo Azul

Presa: Cazadore Cannibalis: Amariel D'latruz.

Believed to be infected by the blight. Has three confirmed Cazadore kills.

Survivors mark flesh mottled and discolored by grey, and black markings, resembling blight sickness.

Gana: Bounty is currently at Six Gold Pieces of Maldizia.
 
Fray stared sullenly into the bottom of her cup. Empty, just like her coin purse. Half a season spent sailing on waters more treacherous than a room full of jilted old lovers and not even one gold piece to show for it. Not for the first time since regaining her land legs, Fray wondered if she would have been better off eaten by an angry hoard of sea witches.

“Another day, another coin to be made,” she grumbled the old adage with no enthusiasm whatsoever.

Rising wearily to her feet, she tapped the last of her money onto the sticky wooden table and turned to leave. The Devahni felt old—like, really really old, positively decrepit. One more round of this blighted shitshow and she might actually put a bounty on her own head and call it quits. Everything just seemed so heavy, so droll and repetitive and utterly pointless. Was there ever even a time when she was able to feel the thrill of a new challenge? To revel in a job well done and coin poorly spent? Sea witch arms can't be that bad. They might at least be soft, even if their rows and rows of shark-like teeth weren't.

A man one table over suddenly lurched unsteadily to his feet. “I ain’t goin’ no where near that Blighted bitch!”

Fray froze. For one, delirious moment, she thought dick for brains was talking about her. Which, honestly, would have been understandable.

But no, the bearded drunkard was slinging words like “Cazadore” and “murderer” and “thrice blasted coward” around as his companions wrangled him back into his seat, and Fray was sure she was definitely not two of those things.

Her backside slowly reacquainted itself with creaky wood. The trio of men were arguing now in hushed tones, alternating between berating the loud one and each other. Deliberately, glacially, Fray leaned her chair back at a precarious angle, doing her best not to wince at the noise. She kept balance as she eavesdropped without shame, one arm slung over the top rail while the other plucked a sliver of chicken bone from her plate and wedged it between her teeth.

"But how do you even know that's true?" one of them blurted. "What if the broad is just ugly as sin? Or, I don't know, regular sick?

"I told you to keep your voice down, idiot!" the least drunk one hissed. Then, in a slightly less peeved tone, answered, "And I know because I paid a whole gold piece just to get in. That's how you know it's the real fucking deal."

"Damn right!" the super drunk one aggressed. Except, he hiccupped half way through, so his conviction lost some steam as the others shushed him immediately. "I mean...jus'saying, that Denmaster...serious business. She cut off a man's balls once."
A moment of silence. "Why the hell would she do that?"
"Don't listen to him he always lies when he's pissed."

There was more rustling and mumbling, and then, "But Derius, a whole gold piece? How is that even worth it?"

Derius gloated, "Because the Blighted Bitch, as Odric so helpfully supplied, is worth six times that."

Jaws dropped and throats sputtered.

"Gentlemen!" Fray greeted as she dragged her chair over to their table, face split in a toothy grin. The three men stared up at her in utter confusion.

"Oo the feck are you?" Drunky slurred.

Her grin widened as she spun the chair around and straddled it, legs on either side of the back rest and arms crossed over the top.

"Someone who's about to offer you the business proposal of a lifetime."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The proposal, of course, was two black eyes a piece, and the chance to walk away with full use of their legs if they told her everything she needed to know. To Fray's disappointment, the more sober fellows gave up before she even raised a fist to their faces, so she really only got to black one pair of eyes. Shame. She should've saved Drunky for last.

From there, it didn't take long to make her way to Farholm, and even less to find herself being drawn toward the all too familiar sounds of a sword fight.

Fray went slow, creeping towards the commotion with every sense strained. There were two voices, one more angry and masculine, the other condescendingly feminine. Eventually, she peeked around a wall and into a shadowed alleyway as she arrived at the source of the noise. The merc had to squint beneath overcast skies and tendrils of mist, but she could see that both strangers possessed unnaturally white hair. Strange. Stranger still that they seemed to know one another. Fray tucked away these nuggets of information as they came. One of them, an unlikely survivor. Or not? Black Thorn. She had nary a clue what any of this meant. Family, maybe? They did look vaguely alike with all that snowy hair.

Except, of course, it was impossible to be sure, since one of them was also wearing a mask. From her vantage point, Fray could barely catch its silvery edges. Aside from that, she saw mostly the woman's back and half of whoever was challenging her. Judging from the dark splotches pooling on the ground, at least one of them was wounded.

Fray had come here hoping that the woman being Blighted was just a rumor. Now, all things considered, she was starting to regret how hopelessly optimistic she had been. Then the man spoke, and his hand and blade burst into pale green flames.

Eugh, Fray thought miserably to herself. Magic.
 
A wrath cut turned. Green flames about it sparked and hissed with blade's line. Kept the counter harder to find.

Come the thwart cut. Abyssal steel clattered cold against the flames, snuck tip past his guard. Sliced just above the missing eye. A long red line wept beads of dark crimson. Messer's guard found the weak, and Garrod half stepped back, raising blade and its guard up to crown.

D'latruz found her sword shoved off and up. A step around as wrist and arm snaked around the fire. Whipped down into the chest. Pinged hard against chestplate. Green fire licked at her gloved hand. She hissed through her teeth, and bailed back.

Garrod followed in with a down cut. Swiped at coattails. Sliced through leathers. Found blade biting through air. Turned wrist over to line up point. Thrust in the wake.

Point bit into flesh. Sank in until something stopped the sword's drive. Flame hissing and eating at the wound.

A cold and bitter laugh fell from the Silver Hawk's mask. "Half a demon yourself," D'latrz said. Something beneath her coat popped. Wet with the crack of bone. Shift.

Garrod's eye wide. Sword sunk into her shoulder. He tried to pull it out. Yank the blade free as its fire went on eating at the leather of her carcarus skin coat. The abyssal blade in her wounded arms's hand trembled. Garrod's sword did not budge. Like some terrible hand had come pinched about its tang.

"Look then, Black Thorn," she said. The sound of sorrow amidst the shattered remains of who she once was. "Look at the fate that awaits you," her arm twitched violently. Like some ancient reptile made to thrash away from a timeless threat it understood.

The sleeve burst open. Tendrils of black ichorous flesh sprouted from the wound like petals and pistols of wild flower. Turned to angry vines. Wrapped round Garrod's sword. Whipped at him with lashes that split cloth and pinged across metal.

Garrod grit his teeth to brink of shatter. Right hand clenched tight about his sword. Felt the bones of his arm scream in pained protest as ligament and muscle stretched to point of pop. Off hand came to sword's pommel as the tendrils raked and wrapped about him. He ditched his sword. Pulled free hunter's knife. Cut down tendrils like machete through overgrowth.

Didn't see the sword strike sting forward like hornet's barb. Aimed for his neck.
 
Last edited by a moderator:
Nasty…

Fray watched with no small amount of repulsion as the woman's arm exploded into gooey black stuff. Why did magic always have to end up being so gross? It was never a shower of fragrant flowers or sudden materialization of sweet treats. No, it had to be something weird and off putting. Every. Single. Time.

Up until then, the merc had been rooting for the one eyed man. She hadn't quite worked out how she would convince him to share the bounty, but the more she watched them fight, the more she suspected that this was not the sort of thing she could handle on her own. Especially when something under the woman's coat started wetly crunching. It made Fray's skin crawl, inspiring a deep and sudden desire to run in the opposite direction.

Fray hated magic. It so rarely ever worked in her favor, and even when it did, it was impossible to trust. It wasn't until cold hard steel bit into Blighted flesh that she felt her first surge of real hope. The man fought like a whip, all speed and viciousness, but that cut to his eye was doing him no favors and the flashy green flame only seemed to mildly inconvenience the creature known as Amariel (Fray remembered, somewhat proudly, this name from her earlier interrogation, though the surname she'd forgotten in an instant. There'd been too many letters she didn't feel like pronouncing.)

Plus, there was an extra bolster of confidence once she recognized the shorter, hacking swing of the messer. It was a weapon she understood intimately, wielded by someone who clearly knew how to use it. She almost whooped when a clean, powerful thrust punctured the enemy's shoulder.

But then Amariel spoke, and her shoulder started to eat the blade.

Fray's spirits sank at about the same rate as the blade. One-Eye was desperately trying to rip it free, but the creepy black tendrils lashed at him, giving him hell. Maybe, she wondered, it might not be the worst thing to let him die. More reward money for me.

Black vines wrapped around the messer, swallowing it up until it was almost out of sight.

Or...on second thought, maybe not. Maybe I should just leave.

The man abandoned his sword and slashed wildly with a knife. A futile effort, surely, but he tried anyway. He was so distracted in keeping the tendrils at bay that he didn't seem to notice the other, much more dire threat pointed straight at his neck.

A few seconds more, and he would be dead. There was nothing else he could have done at such close range. A ribbon of steel gleamed as it shot forward.

Clang! Fray batted it away with enough brute force to send sparks flying. Metal rang, reverberating in her ears as Amariel’s sword tip hit the ground. She tried not to think beyond how Longboy's thicker blade held down the rapier's at an angle, trapping it for a breath. And a breath was all Fray needed to lower herself and charge, shoulder first, straight into the Blighted Cazadore's chest.

Amariel didn't quite fall, but she floundered to regain her footing, a little oof escaping her lungs, clearly confused as to where this ingrate had even intruded from. "What--"

Fray slid Longboy down the rapier's blade, keeping it controlled until the last possible second. Then, she pushed the pommel forward with her left hand while her right pulled back, winding her blade in an arc before it crashed down at full speed. Tendrils flew to protect Amariel's masked face. Fray cut through most of them, teeth bared in a snarl, but was forced to back up as a second group of black goo shot towards her side. She twisted to slice them away, hoping that the one eyed man behind her had found some way to regather himself.

The black ichor kept coming and she kept cutting, losing ground but not willing to show them anything other than the sharp edge of her blade. One misaligned, flat hit and it might give them purchase to wrap around and yank her best defense out of her hands.

Fray grit her teeth as, this time, she parried the deadly, thrusting point of a rapier instead. “Hey, no rush or anything,” she shouted between pants, “but I could use a little help here!”

Bloody, Blighted hell. They were going to need all the help they could get.
 
Last edited:
Glint of blade's point caught Garrod's eye. Teeth grit. Muscles tensed. All of him tried to wheel back. Turn away. It did not matter that he knew it was too late.

He would die once more.

But, Oh Bearer Mine, his demon hissed full with glee. Certain as the tides crush against shore. I am here.

A harsh clang as steel smacked against steel. Sparks spat as blades clashed. A big frame bulled in. Brawnful and skilled enough to hold Amariel's blade pinned. Turn it and attack!

Garrod pant. Desperate breaths eager to recover some wind. Eye scanned about. No sign of his messer sword. Felt it instead. Strange and withering.

Warped.

"Hey, no rush or anything... but I could use a little help here!"

His eye flit up. Green fire burned through the ichor. Ate away at the black goo that bubbled and hissed like so much puss trying to swell over a wound. Putrid steam hissing from the mass that still tried to swallow the steel.

A hideous laugh, from within the Cazadore's fractured mind. Yes, eat it! EAT MY FLAME YOU BLIGHTED MESS. Belephus' said. Voice all cruel rake of triumph across Garrod's psyche.

The one eyed hunter shook his bloodied head. Huffed a breath. Whispered words of old power into the air as he brought hands together at his core.

Devourer, ash maker, child of morning's star, kin to all light that doth peer through the darkness of the night. Burn bright.

With bone clawed hand, Garrod swept curled fingers forward. Eye full of the strange green fire that spouted from Amariel's side.

Ignite.

Wrathful and full of ruin.

Eat away this wretched blight!

Come shout of the last word, and the messer turned thorn stuck inside Amariel's arm, super heated. Steel bloomed red, then yellowed, then white.

A wretched pang. Shattered, cracked. Splintered there in the mess of blightformed limb. Turned to green flamed shrapnel as it burst.

The rapier flailed wild off course. Black blighted ooze splattered against the cobbles and bubbled and hissed. Some bits of gore smoked as tongues of wyrd green fire danced and ate at their twisted chunks.

Amariel D'latruz groaned as she stumbled from the blaze of pain. Laughed as she stumble stepped and limped back. Still human hand clutching at the crater that was her sword arm. Chords of strange horror whipping and winding to sew the wound back together.

"Not bad," she said, still behind her mask. "Not bad at all," her arm came strong again. Hand firm about the rapier as blackened blood splattered, and green fire licked about the wounds one last tongue before the blighted flesh smothered it dead. "Might be," she raised her guard. "You two will bring me my peace,"
 
Fray watched as green flames boiled away the evil looking slime. It hissed and recoiled with an almost-sentience that made her stomach curdle, and, Blighted hell, it smelled awful. But even so, the mercenary had to concede that maybe, on very rare and fucked up occasion, magic could be useful.

She barely finished this thought before the one eyed man behind her started whispering. Out of sheer reflex, she continued cutting away anything darting at them, but her face was screwed up in morbid fascination. Suddenly, the man shouted the end of his strange spell, and the effect was as swift as it was savage. The sword buried in Amariel's arm glowed red hot right before their eyes, then yellow, then white.

And then it exploded.

Fray peddled back blindly, arms covering her face, as pieces of who-could-even-say-what flew in every direction. By the time she blinked everything back into sight, the Blighted Cazadore was moaning in agony, one whole arm missing. Realizing belatedly that some bits might have stuck to her, Fray patted herself down in a panic, but found that what hadn't immediately sizzled away, the green fire ate greedily.

Sadly, their victory was short lived. Because, of course, Amariel's wound began to rapidly heal, forming a brand new limb faster than Fray could utter some truly unwholesome phrases. In no time at all, the monster was once again in fighting condition, rapier raised.

Shit, shit shit. Fray's mind scrambled for a single, coherent thought. They were so fucked. There was no way they could outlast this creature, throwing everything they had at it while it regrew itself and brushed off their attempts again and again with a light, mocking laugh. Ohh, they were so going to die here. Or, worse, become like her. One-eye didn't even have his messer anymore. The flames weren't enough, either. Regret was flooding her nerves, as was panic and very real fear. It had been a long time since Fray felt fear this tangible. The kind that arrived after all of your options had run dry and chased you as you hobbled desperately in the dark, death banging away furiously on your doorstep. She was starting to forget how to breathe.

That's when she saw it. Something shifted beneath that silvery fox mask. It had looked less like facial muscles and more like...like noodles. Strangely, this rung a bell in her mind. A distant memory, one that she had tried many a time to forget, bubbled its way to the surface.

I'm so tired of this gross, creepy bitch, she decided. Fray shuddered once, spat, and then resolved her will.

"Catch!" the merc shouted to One-Eye before pulling Fang from its sheath and tossing the messer his way. Giving him the briefest glance, she added, "When you see it, kill it with everything you've got."

Amariel let loose another mocking laugh. "It's almost adorable, how the two of you think you can--AGH!"

Fray had reached into one of her pouches and threw a fistful of salt straight into Amariel's open mouth. There was more sizzling as the Blighted woman hacked away, coughing up globs of salty, bubbling ichor. For a brief moment, Fray mourned the loss of her precious seasoning, which she had been saving for a nice cut of steak after she got paid. It was a minor miracle she even knew what havoc salt wreaked on plants. She'd have to pour a drink in Tree Lady's honor later, if she survived.

Sucking in a breath, Fray charged.

She started in a low guard as she ran, waiting until she was just within range. As she swept Longboy up in a wide arc, she used her whole body, torso twisting, to give her sword one full, violent rotation. When she brought it down, it was with full strength and precision, cutting straight through Amariel's sludgy, rapier wielding hand. There was a scream as the rapier clattered to the ground and the Cazadore reeled back. Goo hit the floor in a wet pile. But, of course the wound was temporary, black strands sewing themselves as swiftly as before. And, just like One Eye's messer, Longboy was stuck within the ichor as it smothered him one tendril at a time.

Fray was ready for this. Weapon abandoned, she instead reached both hands out and hooked her fingers around the edge of the mask, even planting one boot on the creature's chest for good measure. Amariel was in too much pain and too bewildered to react right away, which Fray had counted on. Then the Devahni yanked that mask with all her might.

The metal stuck for a second, almost like it was being suctioned inward. Fray yelled, ignoring the goo whipping at her, and pulled harder. When it finally came free, the release was so sudden that it sent her flying back and crashing down onto stone.

Coughing for air, it was all she could do to scream, "NOW!!"
 
Garrod snatched the messer out of the air with his pale armored right hand, loop cut about himself before he tossed it to his left hand, felt surer in his grip. Debris smoking about him, singed his gambeson, and trailed off him in long whisping tongues.

Useful, this one, Oh Bearer Mine. And he felt his demon grin wide and full of teeth, there in the back of his mind.

Garrod gave the Stranger a nod. Eye cut its green glance up to see Amariel. Bent wicked in her laughter. Set his legs to stance, as he pointed his guard out. Pulled his heavy knife out of its sheath with his gauntleted hand. Grinned.

Amariel started in at them. But the Stranger launched a most devastating interruption. Looked like pocket sand. Turned all hound to hare. Tooth that was their sword flashed in a horrid hack that lopped the transformed arm and sent it to the ground like some felled branch.

Amariel ripped a scream through her hacks and wheezes. Lurched back as vines of blighted ichor tried to find their reaching counterpart. But the Stranger slammed into the masked Cazadore. Fingers gripped about her mask. All horrid laughter as she tried to fight the bigger boddy off of her with the hand that was still human. Horrid vines all whip and flail against what flesh they could find.

Garrod grit his teeth. Wanted to jump in. Rip his knife across the hunter's neck. Put an end to it, as his intincts screamed at him to do.

But patience made the hunter.

Wide eyed, he watched as the Stranger was slowly enveloped by the rampant growth of the blight. As if the twisted heart there in its darkness had decided it would be easier to make the Stranger part of it. Part of Amariel. The vines wrapped. Squeezed. Pulsed as they gripped tighter, and tighter. Tried to break bone.

A scream as the silver hawk mask was ripped free. Worms wriggled and squirmd about its edges s it came off. Trailed and tried to twist back together with the other fingers that wreathed and reached. There between their vile writhing flesh, was the face of Amariel. All blue eyed and motherly. A look, like she was taking her frist true breath, after being lost in a haze for so long.

"Now!" the Stranger cried out. Flung the mask up.

Garrod saw it gleam, and glint in the light of the Beast and Beloved moons. Sovreign, just a cresent silver there above those full and lower two.

A step. a twist, and a hard cut come snap of torso, and fluid pull of shoulder. The mask split in two. Tendrils, legs, fingers, membrains and roots all scrabbled and scratched at the air as they tilted and whirled and fell. Clattered in two pieces against the cobbles. Drove messer through one piece with a clean thrust. Pinned it to the ground. Growled and shout as he twist toward the other. Saw it bounce, and skitter, legs scrabbling under it as it tried to get away. Garrod shout. Pounced. Drove his knife in through its silver shell with a crack.

It squeeled.

He scraped his gauntlet's claws against the stone. Struck sparks. Both pieces caught in wooshes of green fire. They screeched.

Amariel screamed. A shrill and blood curdling thing as her eyes went wide and her spine arched back almost a snap. Her flesh began to waste away. Legs turned week. A haggard visage, still beautiful for all the horror that encased her, smiled as she crumbled apart.
 
Fray was still writhing on the ground with no dignity left to speak of, swearing as she desperately tried to rip the horrible black ichor off of her, when she heard the distinct crack of metal. She paused long enough to see the silvery mask clatter to the ground, cleaved right down the middle.

One Eye made quick work, stabbing Fang through one fallen half before rushing to impale the other with his dagger. He drew sparks against stone and suddenly, the broken halves burst into green fire. Metal and Blighted woman screamed in unison.

There was a surge of panic as Fray wondered if the fire would harm Fang, but there were more pressing matters at hand. It took far too long for the mercenary to realize what was happening, and by then, the creature that was once Amariel was disintegrating before their very eyes. Or...well, eye, in the case of her unexpected, white haired ally.

It was gruesome at first, the way the Blighted woman contorted. But near the end came a glimmer of unexpected, albeit forlorn beauty, when an echo of who Amariel once was peeked through all of that ink-black villainy. Fray stared up from where she lay in morbid fascination. For a breath, Amariel swayed on her feet, eyes as blue as a lake. The relief in them was utterly incongruous to how viciously she had fought moments ago. And then she was falling, flesh turning to piles of dried husk, dried husk turning into dust in the wind.

Fray sat up slowly. The black goo had dissolved into the air along with the rest of its host, leaving her a bit cut up and bruised but otherwise alive. She was going to be sore as shit come morning, though. And a hot bath and booze required more coin than she currently owned.

The merc groaned as she pushed herself back onto her feet. Her scaley tail whipped a few times back and forth experimentally. No damage, thank fuck. She'd fallen hard on her ass and a bent tail was the last grievance she needed.

Fray shuffled over to her messer, back stiff with the promise of pain, and looked down at what used to be half of Amariel's mask. It looked old and tarnished now, the intricate design seared into nonsense. As she yanked Fang up and out, the metal fell into even smaller pieces. Fray lifted her boot and smashed down at them a few times for good measure.

Next was Longboy, which laid abandoned in approximation to where Amariel once stood. Fray did a quick wipe of each blade, not that it was entirely necessary, and slid them back into their sheaths.

For the first time since arriving, Fray squared up to take a proper look at One Eye. He was taller than her by a smidge and bore quite the collection of scars. The one running along his neck definitely had a story worth telling. An odd looking fellow to be sure, with his shock of white hair and no shortage of steel. But it was that strange gauntlet on his arm that had Fray the most curious. He'd used it earlier to strike the ground, right before summoning more green flame. Were the two somehow connected?

"Not bad," she grinned, shelving her curiosity for later, and held out her hand instead. "The name's Fray. Don't suppose you've got an idea on how to get paid, what with there not being much of a body left?"
 
Last edited:
Not was left of the Cazadore, Amariel, save her coat, her hat, and the sword she had wielded against them. Bits of the blighted growth that had sprout from her flesh, scattered about.

His eye, on those pieces, one after the other, until the Stranger called out to him. His eye flit to her. A grumble from his throat. Recognition, offered up as a handshake and a name.

His lip hung lopsided a moment. Curved into a pointed smile. Right hand, gauntleted as it was, twitched. Fingers curling to look more like hungry teeth. He clenched it to a fist. "Garrod," he said. Offered up the knuckles of his left. "Spell still working," he tilt his head down toward the Gauntlet. "Not good to touch," green eye turned to see her again. Strong, even covered in all the shit. "Weren't half bad yourself, Fray," stepped one, then two strides toward the rapier with the midnight blade. "We need a trophy," he said flat. Felt the bones in his right hand pop as the fiend laughed with excitement, there in the back of his skull.

That's right, Oh Bearer Mine, just let me get my teeth on that sword, just let me taste it. It crackled and hissed in chords of pale green.

Garrod bent low and scooped the blade up with his left hand. Eyed the blade itself. Felt his eye's vision, spiral into the abyss it seemed forged from.

Blinked.

"Fucking creepy," he said. To himself. Looked over his right shoulder. "Check the coat?" he asked. Looked over at one of the chunks of blight still wriggling as it smoked. Felt the fingers of his right hand come unwound.
 
Fray’s grin held as a name was given and knuckles offered. He spoke with the brevity of someone who knew that staying in one place for too long was a bad idea. She closed her fist and bumped it against his without hesitation, adding the small gesture to a growing collection of details labeled One Eye Messer Guy.

Glancing up from the gauntlet, she watched warily as the man bent to pick up the abandoned rapier. In any other context, it would be a thing of real beauty, rare and full of mystery. Unfortunately, knowing what they knew, the merc couldn’t help but mirror Garrod’s reaction of “utterly fucking creepy.” If the mask alone had been capable of that much Blighted horror…

Her shoulders eased a fraction when nothing obvious and immediate happened. She’d been half expecting it to burst into flames, or explode with black goo.

At the suggestion, Fray blinked and jerked toward the pile of clothing. She hadn’t thought of that, preoccupied as she’d been with wondering if anyone would believe a smoldering hunk of Blight was once a whole Cazadore. Making her way gingerly through the smoking remains, she used the tip of her boot to nudge apart the coat. It seemed harmless enough. Just a trickle of ash from the disturbance, but nothing jumped up to bite her in the face. She considered unsheathing Fang to do more poking and prodding from a distance, then thought better of it. The coat, if left in tact, could be worth something. It looked sturdy and well made. Fray wasn’t usually one for looting the dead (a lie, she loved looting the dead) but she was pressed for coin and wasn’t keen on fighting Garrod for the rapier. Fray had no interest in knowing what roasted Devahni smelled or felt like.

Sighing, she squatted down and started rifling. The first two pockets at the front were deep but yielded nothing except for an embroidered hankerchief. Fray frowned, thinking of where to search next. She turned the jacket round and round, inside out, checked back to front and repeated it all once more. The second time, she noticed an odd, lumpy hemline along one of the sleeves. Flicking out a small knife from her belt, she did her best to cut through the inner lining without ruining whatever might be inside.

A few, careful cuts later, her patience was rewarded by a corner of what looked to be parchment. Emboldened, Fray knicked away at the rest of the threads until a solid, beige square of folded paper dropped onto the cobblestones.

She stared at it for a moment before retrieving it. It was surprisingly heavy, with a slight bulge in the center. Unfolding the old, stained paper, Fray revealed what was hidden within: a ring bearing some kind of crest, large enough to press into a wax seal.

Fray rose and held up the ring and parchment for Garrod to see. She felt an unusual lack of guardedness, as the man did not seem the type to cut and run. Especially when he could just as easily, instead, meet steel for steel before sending green fire her way. Fray had enough good sense not to want to end up on the bad side of that strange gauntlet of his.

“Reckon this will do?” she asked, one eyebrow raised.
 
Garrod eyed the streets. A few shadows scurried through the curtains of mist that thickened about the alleyway once more.

The cry of gulls in the air. The distant clangor of a buoy bell sounding the chop of far off waves. All dulled by the blanket of hushing silver that choked about the scene of Amariel's demise.

Garrod didn't like it.

Felt like the eye of a storm.

Unseen winds churning there beneath the living skin of the waking world. The air, so burned by the stench of the dead thing that wore Amariel's skin, trying to achieve coalescence.

His right hand twitched. Violent as crab legs, fighting with their last breath.

A grunt. A growl as his left hand dropped the vorpal sword that clattered to the floor, and clutched hard about the armored wrist of his right. Fingers locking and popping with rabid glee.

Reckon this will do?

His wide green eye turned too quick to see what Fray had to show. His right hand still choked down and balled into a trembling fist as his lungs heaved ragged and shallow. Gaze flicked to silver signet ring, and the stained paper that held it.

"That'll do," he said through clenched teeth. Looked back down to his hand. Flexed the bones there in. Looked to the blade. Snatched it up once more. Turned it as he walked over to her. "Trade you," all grin. As if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened.

Fingers careful with the sword that seemed to hiss against its own existence. The abyssal sword of Amariel D'latruz.

While his eye was on the signet. Something scurried from the pile of still smoking blight. Too many legs. All bramble and tangle. Rolled more than ran. Scuttled more than walked. Hurried toward the mist.
 
The hairs on her neck were starting to raise. Now that the immediate threat was over and necessary proof of conquest acquired, her awareness for the peripheral returned. They were, of course, not alone, and she was acutely aware that the longer they stayed, the more likely opportunistic scavengers would make a move. The hard part was finished; bounty hunters needed only proof of death to get paid, and handing over those could be anyone's game.

Then there was the additional problem of whatever the hell was going on with Garrod's arm.

The sword landed noisily against the stones just as she finished asking her question. Fray stepped back on reflex. His arm was...seizing, even as he held it down with sheer will, fists and teeth clenched as he fought for control. Fray's hand went instinctively for Fang. She really, really didn't want to have to fight some kind of fucked up Blighted version of Garrod. But if she had to...

When Garrod finally spoke, a breath of relief left her lungs. She remained wary, but at least he didn't seem to have fallen into the throes of insatiable homicide.

Fray twisted her face into maximum upset when he suggested they trade. Sighing, she retrieved the coat first, then wrapped it hastily around the rapier. There was no chance she was going to touch that thing bare handed. There was enough corrupt magic left to ruin the rest of her day and she was not about to test her luck.

She was in the midst of handing over the signet when something scuttled out from the charred remains.

"Oh fuck no." She unsheathed Fang as fast as her nerves would allow her, but the thing was gone in a heartbeat, lost within the mist. There was no time to ponder what it was, however, because a scream immediately followed, cutting through the fog.

At about the same time, something whistled through the air. Fray narrowly avoided it, and only because she had flinched upon hearing the scream, snapping her head toward the source of the cries. She hefted the bundle of coat and rapier against her side before glancing at Garrod.

"It's time to leave," she spat, pressing herself flat against a wall. "You know the fastest way out of here?"
 
Eye traced the signet. Swollen with all its knowing.

That was their ring. Knew that proud rose in full bloom too damned well. Jaw clenched. Fingers tight about the rapier, even as blood welled where its blade sank into pad of finger. Ran rivulets down its lightless edge.

Belephus hissed a low and knowing laugh. Ah, Oh Bearer Mine, how the Thorns do sting, just so... Red wept onto the gauntlets white carapace. Spattered and ran across the channels there in its strange pale surface. Welled about the round of its opalescent eye. Like tears it drank in. Deliciously.

Fray took the sword. Wise enough to bundle it.

Garrod's hadn't quite grabbed the ring before Fray drew their own steel as a distant scream tore through the night.

The ratchet clank of crossbow mechanism. Thump of bowstring and the slicing whistle of the bolt. Clattered against the wall. A new fear rattled Garrod's eye. Didn't stop his body from moving. From taking cover as muffled shouts attempted to coordinate.

Buzzards.

Scavengers that stalked the end of hunts. A cruel grin cut across Garrod's face. Stuffed the signet into a belt pouch. Took hold of his knife. All the good that would do him.

"They've got it blocked off," he said with a nod toward the direction the bolt had flown from. "We can go through the town," his head jerked to the other end. "Towards that scream," he laughed. Teeth showed. "Let's go," he heaved off the stones, broke into the mist.

The crossbow loosed. The bolt flew. Pinged off his back plate with a hard thump. Glanced. Bolt head rattled wild and glanced off the back round of his skull.

Felt it bite. Sharp and hard. Warmth spread fast.

Fucking head wounds always bled so much. No time to check though. He could still move. Brain still working. And if he was dead on the ground. Well, it wouldn't be the first time.

In the mist swirled streets of Farholm, the townsfolk stayed stolen away in whatever refuge they could find. Doors barred. Shutters shut. Eyes peered through broken slats and loose boards as the Cazadore ran. Shoulder pressed to one door. Checked the handle. Pulled. Gave, only so much as the barricade did. Not much at all.

A grunt. A smack of clenched fist. Nothing. Moved on. Saw one house, door open and yawned. Shadow thick. A sharp whistle to Fray. In he went. Heart high, head bleeding.

Fire was still burning inside. No one there. But, what was that strange trail on the ground?

He pressed himself to the wall, remembering the Buzzards. Fray. Gripped his knife as he loosed a long breath. Tension bled from his limbs as he listened and bled.
 
Fray could see the alarm she felt mirrored in Garrod’s eyes, but his body remained calm, motions sure and steady as he tucked away the ring and pulled out his knife. Funny, how they had been fighting the unknowable, ever changing nature of Blight only a handful of minutes ago, only to now find themselves facing the very boring yet immediate threat of taking a bolt to the skull.

She listened as he answered in that curt way of his. A sane person would have, at the very least, doubted his suggestion of going toward the death cry. But Fray had seen enough in the span of one day to throw sanity to the wind.

There was no time to be sane. Survival demanded economy, and in this instance, that meant doing whatever the guy who could throw green fire out of his fucked up hand said to do.

Fray wanted to laugh in kind. She, really, really did. But then another crossbolt went flying past her, coming so close she could hear the swoosh as it shaved off a few centimeters of hair, and any mirth shriveled in her throat.

To her dismay, it hit Garrod in the back. His plate deflected most of the impact, but the bolt head must have bounced in a weird way, because the next thing Fray knew, specks of blood hit the side of her face. He was bleeding from his head, though the wound seemed to do little in the way of slowing him down. A small mercy. They couldn’t afford to slow down.

As they turned another corner, Garrod began looking for a way in. Not missing a beat, Fray did the same, rattling handles and shoving against doors.

A whistle cut through the fog. The merc turned without hesitation, loping towards the source of the sound, not bothering to check behind her. She pushed on despite not being able to see much more than a few feet in front of her; she could have sworn the mist seemed to curl thicker than ever before.

Fray didn’t stop until she dipped horns first into shadow. There was a fire in the hearth and Garrod’s darkened silhouette, which in those first few moments was all she needed to know. Once inside, she shut the door and grabbed a nearby chair, wedging it against the knob, just in case. She then triple checked that everything was locked, barred, and shuttered to her liking, before turning around to give the place a proper look.

At first glance, the marks on the ground were easily assumed to be from Garrod’s nasty head wound. Fray squinted, eyes flashing gold in the firelight. No…this was not blood. This was something else entirely.

She looked up, Fang still clenched in her right hand. Raising her blade, she approached the only other room in this humble abode, boots meeting wood in a slow curve from heel to toe. It was quiet enough that she could hear the crackle of fire and an occasional breath from One-Eye, but not much else. The room remained still and soundless.

“We’d better stop that bleeding,” she said conversationally, the lightness of her tone belying the tension coiled in her limbs. “Maybe there’s something clean back there we can wrap it with.”

Fray paused to give Garrod a look before entering the small bedroom.

It was sparse, as to be expected. A simple bed and small chest were all the room could boast. Fray glanced down, feline eyes following the faint trail on the floor boards. Firelight from the hearth did little to illuminate this room, but the Deva’s heritage allowed her to see just fine.

The marks looked…like something, or someone, had been dragged through. Checking one more time for any other potential hiding places—and finding none—Fray got down on one knee and quickly scanned under the bed, Fang held out before her.

Nothing. The trail went under, but stopped dead.

Swearing, she stood swiftly, cut through a clean looking corner of a threadbare blanket, and returned to Garrod.

“It’s not much, but maybe it’ll help stop the bleeding for now,” she said, offering the scrap.

A thunk resounded from somewhere in the bedroom. Fray whirled to meet their next enemy, but there was still only the bed and chest and darkness. Frowning, she marched back in and, on a total whim, flip the bed against the wall with brute force.

It clattered noisily on impact, but Fray paid it no mind. Because there, in the middle of the floor, right where the drag marks ended, was the vague outline of a handle.

“Well, well,” she muttered, then turned to Garrod. “Fifty fifty chance we regret opening this.”
 
Last edited:
Thoughts drifting as the moments between breath slugged by. Heart pumped. Slow for the burn of the green fire, and the ash it left in his veins.

Eye narrow. Bleary. Pull of lungs loud there betwixt the bone of his ears. Fray rushed in. His hand tightened about the knife. Right hand twitched to reach out. Grab and hold so his left could drive in the point. Neck, liver, lungs.

But they were already painted in the light. Already moving. His latest acquaintance. Fray. Had lent him their sword.

Knife slipped into its sheath, and thumb worked the holding strap over the guard. Chair barricaded the door. Checked the windows. Moved about.

Blood dripped onto the floor. Pouring out of the mouth opened by a bad bit of luck. Garrod's eye just looked on. About the sparse little details that dotted the abode. Fray moved quicker though. Some part of him hated that.

Hated how cold he always felt after the fiend fire did its work. Ends of his fingers numb. Limbs stretched between spent, and pumped with all the effort of holding together.

He stepped slow through the main room. Drifting in Fray's sure footed and quickened pace. It would be tough taking them. Nothing but a knife at his waist.

That's why you always have me, Oh Bearer Mine. Belephus hissed, toothy and pleased as the white right hand curled and flexed. Jewel gleamed. Bright for all its hunger.

The boots knocked back. The thought curdled in Garrod's head. All lump and bump.

"It's not much..."

Garrod accepted the offer. "Thanks," was all he said, before he took the scrap, and wound it tight against his skull. Careful with the angle, to keep what sight he had left.

Come the thunk, and both killers twitched to it. The clatter of wood and hay being turned over, easy as turning the page. He cinched his bandage, and entered the room. All grin beneath the mounting exhaustion and dread.

"Optimist," he teased, marched right over, and yanked the handle open. Creak and groan of rusted hinges. Clatter and rattle of old boards slamming open against planks.

Blood and blight trailing down in gushes and spills. Mixed with the dust and the damp cling of mold. Garrod bent low, all squat and hunch as he angled his eye to peer down into the darkness.

"Eighty twenty," he said with a half laugh. Snapped a finger. A mote of fire spat out from the break of friction and lofted down into the pit of black.

Painted the bricks with an orange and gold that was so gentle it felt violent. Shift and ebbed with the flicker of the floating tongue. Trailed all white and shimmering against the trail of blood that went down each step.

Hefted his weight up. "Whelp," he grunt, and drew his knife anew. "Down we go," he said, too glad for it. Step, after clunking step down the old wooden boards. One hand out stretched, to guide the little flame forward. Eye scanning the crooks and crannies, corners and seams of the storeroom. Eye went wide with witnessing.

There at the corner of the room, a secret tunnel. Lit by shroudlamps. The trail of blood winding there into its maw. The stench of brine and sea rot, sweet for all its malodorous spoil, yawning out.

A mechanical sound. Gears turning. Clicking. Drew Garrod's eye back and up to the door. Only to see it shut. Trap bolts slammed to lock into place.
 
Last edited by a moderator:
You must log in or register to reply here.
Back
Top Bottom