Thrown Into The Snow

Prologue - The Final Battle


Simply put, the region was in a constant state of arctic destruction. Blizzards powerful enough to freeze and topple mountains were commonplace. Icicles the size of warships fell from the sky, causing earthquakes and all manner of landslides. Bitter creatures, bigger and deadlier than the scope of a nightmare roamed the desolate wastes, ending what little life they came across. Their numbers were even greater near the Northern Lance. Unfortunately, the Lance was his destination. It was not the best place for someone like him (or anyone else for that matter, but all things icey gave him a certain feeling of dread.) Ironically however, only someone like himself had even the faintest hope of surviving in such an utterly fatal environment. Even with his innate advantages, the going was ridiculously hard. If most of his nerves had not long since burned away, the pain of impending frostbite would have certainly incapacitated him. Only sheer force of will and the ever-increasing volume of the Red Voice drove him to continue his relentless slog forward.

The frozen land he roamed was called Heaven. There were three reasons for the name, depending on who one asked.

The realist would answer that the name was all about geography. Heaven formed the northernmost landmass on the planet. It was at the top of world. No, it went beyond the top. Continents hundreds of miles closer to the equator were barren for the same miserable, deadly reasons, though to a lesser extent. A far, far lesser extent.

The pious would answer that the name came from the fact that it was the holiest place in the known world. It was where the largest of the Three Lances fell and impaled the planet during the Age of Acernox. It was also the only Lance that still showed signs of… well, being alive. The end of the lance, which rose about eight miles into the air on a shaft roughly the diameter of a small city, glowed all manner of brilliant colors, tossing ethereal lights into the sky. The Northern Lance represented the Greatest Aspect of the Grand Trinity, which was the focal point of the largest religion in the world at the time. At the end of their lives, the most pious would attempt a pilgrimage to the exalted Northern Lance. None were ever heard from again.

However, there was a much smaller third group of people. They were the foolish few who laid boots in the snow of that forbidden continent, but had sense enough to turn tail and sail for home before they could be ripped apart in snowstorms that could swallow tornadoes, or be devoured whole by Messer’yetis the size of castles. They would tell you the land was called Heaven, because it was the opposite of Hell. Hell was the land of eternal fire. Heaven was the land of eternal ice. Some things in life were simple.

He, on the other hand, was perhaps the first of a fourth group who believed that the land was named Heaven out of pure spite. Heaven? Bah, he said. After the first hour, he’d decided that he would much rather be in Hell, preferably the deepest part, where it was hottest. Eight days in Heaven had done nothing to change his opinion on the matter.

He missed his companions terribly. He’d travelled far and wide with them, and surely would not have survived without their swords. Nevertheless, he chose to abandon them at the port while they slept. He hoped that they were clever enough to get the hint and not follow. As attached as he was to them, he knew two things for certain; first was that they didn’t stand a fraction of the already-small chance he stood of surviving. Second was that if he succeeded in his mission, his life would most certainly be lost. Indeed, a death in the rending snow was far kinder than the reward he sought at the end of his endeavor. Unfortunately however, the right to a kind death was something he’d long since forfeit, well before the death of his soul.

It was a hard thing to comprehend how big the Lance really was. He could see it at the port where he left his companions. It extended ever farther over the horizon during the three days he spent on the Cold Ocean. By the time he came ashore, clouds prevented any view of the tip. They were, he remarked, the damndest clouds he’d ever seen. It took him a minute to realize that the curious coloration was due to the curious-er lights that dotted the end of the Lance.

Six days. It had been six fucking days before the receding horizon allowed him his first glimpse of the Lance’s blade. It was crimson red, and unlike the shaft, no snow took to it. What he saw now was something nobody else had ever lived to tell about. The following two days revealed bit by bit of the blade, until finally he crested the last big hill. The Lance was still at least a day’s march away, but now he could see the famed object in all of its glory. Weapon or relic, it was certainly majestic. His looking-glass revealed little else; the snow was simply too thick, and the distance was too far.

“Soon,” he said to himself, with yet another step forward.

“Soon.” agreed the voice. But this time, the voice was no longer in his head. Whirling around, he found the source of the noise about ten feet behind him. He couldn’t believe his eyes, even though he’d anticipated this.

And then the snow and the wind and the thunder ceased altogether. As the last of the flurries settled, he laid eyes upon a living legend who was not supposed to be.

“Barthathos Golvaga…” he said, almost tasting the bitterness in the name, “t’was was my understanding you were killed some seven thousand years ago.”

“Yes, well,” The Assassin King began, brushing snow off his battlesuit of red and black fur over orihalcon chainmail and plate (most impressive and expensive. Fucker probably made it himself with magic.) “One gets tired of being pursued after so many years. It’s rather easy to fake your own death when you can make clones, you see.”

Barthathos had a voice like no other. It was so smooth that it rasped, twisted with the many disturbing accents of the murderously insane.

“I’m glad you’ve come, Casseon,” purred the devil. Casseon winced when he heard his name spill from those evil lips.

“Where’s the sword,” Casseon asked. Immediately he’d noticed that Barthathos carried two blades, worn horizontally on his lower back. They were elaborate; most certainly made of orihalcon. However, the magic he felt resonating in them were no more than enchantments. If Barthathos did not have The Sword with him, then maybe… maybe Casseon stood a chance.

“Don’t worry about it,” Barthathos said, pushing a strand of long crimson hair out of his ice-blue eyes. In a fluid movement, he shifted his left foot back, falling into a battle stance. Both swords were out in a flash, blade-tips close to the ground in classic Golvaga Style. “These are the only swords you need to worry about.”

Casseon growled and bared his teeth as the Mad King came at him like a red lightning bolt. He wore a sword as well, but knew better than to engage the infamous Barthathos in close-quarters combat. Raising his fist to the air, Casseon called upon the power of flame. Fire was what he was. It was his birthright, his past, his present, and his future. The earth split between the two combatants and hellish flames belched out, melting everything they touched. Quickly the fissure spread and more flame gushed forth, creating an impassable wall some twenty feet high. Summoning the extent of his rage, he fired off wave after wave of the hottest form of flame, right through the wall. Anything beyond was doomed to die.

“Behind you,” laughed the voice, once again from his six. Acting on a subconscious instinct that preceded all thought, Casseon ducked as two purple blades scissored where his neck has been an instant before. But he had no time to relish his narrow survival as a metal boot smashed into his chest, sending him flying toward the wall of flame. Thinking quickly through the shock, Casseon willed a hole in the firewall, through which he flew, slamming into the ground some twenty feet from where he’d been kicked. Scrambling to his feet, cloak singed, Casseon quickly collapsed again, bleeding from the mouth. His chest was ruined beyond the point of pain. It was literally concave from the force of the blow. At least two ribs had been fractured so badly that they now stabbed through the skin. His breath came in horrid wheezes… at least one lung was ruined… no, definitely both. That was all he had time to worry about before his thoughts began to blur.

“I never said you shouldn’t worry about my feet though,” Barthathos said, sheathing his blades. “You had to have known you were going to lose.”

Casseon said nothing from where he lay. He knew this was going to happen… He knew that he never had much of a chance. But he had to try. He had to try.

Casseon didn’t remember passing out. He awoke, both frozen and hot. Sitting upright, he realized that his wounds were healed. Turning, he found… red. Yelping, Casseon jumped backward, then slowly gazed up…

He was right by the Lance. Right by the blade, in fact. It was super-massive, and would have taken at least a good three hours to walk around it in its entirety. Reaching a hand out to touch it, he found that it was cool to the fingers, even though it seethed with heat, scorching the air. He was filled with a strange feeling as he touched the crimson blade. He felt… whole.

“You certainly are of The Blood,” came the voice once again.

“And you certainly like to be behind people,” Casseon said, turning to face his foe, who was standing about six feet away, arms crossed.

“I can touch it too, but it makes me nauseous.” Barthathos said, staring at the blade of the Lance, “I escorted an old priest here once just to see what would happen. He exploded when he touched it.”

An eerie silence followed. Casseon’s mind was static.

“Uh. Hmm,” Barthathos started, “You’re not nearly as curious as most people who die and wake up.”

“The Lance healed me,” Casseon murmured, somehow knowing. “The question is; why did you bring me to it?”

“I need you.”

“You tried to kill me.”

“I did kill you. The Lance brought you back.”

“Why would I help you?”

“’Cuz I’ll drag you away from that thing and kill you again if you don’t.”

“You’re going to do that anyway.”

Barthathos laughed dismissively. “Set me free and I’ll grant you three wishes.”

Casseon stared at him long and hard. “If I’d had a mother,” he began, “I’m certain she would have told me to never strike deals with the devil.”

Barthathos nodded and smiled. “Well, I did have a mother,” he said, “she was a prostitute.” He took a step forward, “She told me that everyone has a price.” He took several more steps forward. Casseon stood still; merely kept a hand on the blade of the Lance. When they were almost close enough to kiss, Barthathos whispered, “I could bring him back you know. Your son.”

Quick as a spark, Casseon’s free hand was around the demon’s throat. “Sorry, I don’t breathe.” Barthathos said, not bothering to try and escape Casseon’s dire clutches.”

“You are the one who took him from me. How dare you make such an offer?” Casseon was beyond hatred. His voice was an empty monotone.

“’Tweren’t me,” Barthathos insisted with a grin, unperturbed by Casseon’s continuous ineffectual choking, “I can’t leave this fucking continent.”

“Not physically, no,” Casseon said, tightening his grip though he knew it yielded him nothing, “The assassin has burned for his crime. But I know it was your hellish spectre that guided his knife.”

Barthathos said something after that, but Casseon wasn’t listening. Suddenly, his eyes began to glow red. Then the hand on the blade turned red. Then the arm. Soon, Casseon’s entire body was glowing red.

A dreadful humming filled the air. Casseon began singing his greatest song in a tongue lost to time.

Barthathos’ grin turned to a scowl. He grabbed the hand around his throat and tried to pry open the fingers to no avail. His neck began to singe.

Casseon was the last pyromancer. Fire was what he was. It was his birthright, his past, his present, and his future. It was also to be his end, as it had been for his father, and his father before him.

But not his son.

"Yeah," Casseon said as his song faded into the night, "I'll set you free."

Soundlessly, the blade of the Lance cracked and shattered into an infinite number of pieces. Energy as red as Hell surged through Casseon, who merely smiled. Before they both exploded, Casseon thought he saw Barthathos smile as well. It was, Casseon thought, a glorious fire.

The bladeless shaft of the great Northern Lance was thrown into the snow. It is said that the sound of its impact could be heard on the other side of the world.

That was almost twenty years ago.

Chapter 0 – They Come

It was already dark when the ship anchored in at Port Wessenridge, and Cassuner couldn’t be happier. The last two days had been the very worst in his life, and he nobody had even tried to kill him. “You’re a pussy.” The Voice had informed him within the first ten minutes of their voyage, “I don’t like water,” he responded. Furthermore, it didn’t help that he was prone to motion sickness so severe that he couldn’t even ride a horse for more than an hour. Luckily, after the fourth time he’d thrown up, he no longer had anything left in his stomach to purge.

“Have you ever been here before?” he asked the Voice as he stepped across the gangplank and onto the old dock.

“Yes,” it replied, “but that was a long time ago.”

“How long ago?”

“Long enough for it to have had a different name, and no humans.”

“So this was an elf settlement once?”

“No, it was part of the great Elven forest that once covered the entire bottom half of this continent. Humans did away with most of it, long before the time of your forefathers.”

“You sound bitter. I thought you hated elves.”

“They made my journey north rather pleasant. They have attractive women, you see. And these weren’t the morally upstanding elves you’re used to.”

“So you fit in just fine.” Cassuner smiled as the Voice laughed. He was rather fond of the Voice in his head, even if it was a little evil. It had been talking to him as far back as he could remember.

Turning his attention to the bustling port-village before him, Cassuner decided that he had no idea where he could find a bite and a drink. However, as a rule, taverns were generally very close to the docks, eager to welcome thirsty sailors and their pockets. Setting forth down a random street, Cassuner pulled his hood over his head, not wanting to attract attention. People like him were hard to miss. He had long red hair down to his shoulders, and equally red eyes. He had a mark on his forehead that looked like an X with a vertical line next to it. He also had a long hideous scar across his throat. However, he was rather attractive in the face, if not a bit horse-like. This combined with his small frame meant that Cassuner was the sort of man that other men liked to make into women.

“Afraid of getting your-“ the Voice began, but Cassuner interrupted him. “Afraid that someone might try. I do not want to take any lives on such a glorious night.” And what a nice night it was. It was the end of Fall, and the temperature was perfect. The breeze was magical.

And so, Cassuner continued down that quiet street in search of biscuits and alcohol. On a night such as this, he was ready for anything at all, or so he thought. He thought he heard the voice giggling.

"Ah, books.", Venetica said to herself, walking across the library. "How I wish I could read them all."

She glanced over at the owner of the library, a balding man laying limply in his chair.

"Mr. Dominas, may I borrow this book?", she asked him as she placed it on a pile near the fireplace. The silence was only broken by the crackling of a fire.

"No?", she asked. "That's rude Mr. Dominas. I don't like rude people."

With that, she kicked the stack of books into the fireplace. Flames eagerly jumped across the dusty tomes, onto the carpet and eventually on to the only chair in the room. The old man did not move, for he had been dead several hours now, his throat slit while he was napping.

-----

Venetica stood outside the house as it burned, among other citizens who watched the fire. Her bag was a bit heavier with new books, and she was eager to find out their secrets.

Port Wessenridge was a miserable place, Grom had decided two days prior. And yet he remained here still. Grom had had the displeasure of being in town for 3 days and wasn't sure when he'd be moving on. The fact was, he had nothing at all to do nowadays.

Yes, there were young men here seeking adventure. There always were in port towns. No doubt some of them were criminals, but these were easy enough to identify from a distance. But the problem was Grom himself, he just didn't give off any presence. He was middle-aged, and never had been one to condition his body. He could fight with the rest of them with a blade but was nothing special enough to attract attention. To the discerning eyes of a man on a mission Grom was simply not there. This was a shame for them, as he happened to be a powerful Vitalmancer. Not that he would ever advertise such a thing.

Grom adjusted his spectacles and noticed with small amounts of interest that his cup was empty.

"Barkeep!" He called. "A refill, if you will."

The house burned surprisingly quickly. Maybe she had used too much oil. She shook her head. She used just enough. People were throwing buckets of water at the fire, and she laughed because she spiked the water with kerosene.

The roof caved in, sending ash into the air. She left this side of the town, walking towards a bar nearby. There, she hoped to sleep her way into a warm bed, and begin reading these books.

Slowly the giant figure stepped from the boat the board beneath him groaning and almost giving way underneath him. Stepping back onto dry land he looked around noting a small man wandering off down a small street as well as several others nearby.

As he began walking along he noticed the fear those around him showed as he made his way past as was always the reaction common folk had to him. Even as centuries pass people saw him the same. He made his way down an side street simply seeing where he would end up.

As he was progressing he felt the slightest change in the weight from the pouch on his left hip. Spinning he grabbed the thief and raised his off of the ground by the scruff of his shirt. Noting the tiny, pale frame of the man that while he couldn't have been more than twenty hadn't been treated kindly by the years thus looking much older. Not having the desire to waste time he simply grabbed and squeezed the throat of the thief until he fell unconcious before flipping his limp body aside.

He carried on until he stepped back onto a larger, main street. He surveyed the area around him before deciding that it would be simplest to just walk until he found someone who would be worthy of travelling with. Someone who wouldn't cower in fear at his presence or who could be dispatched with the same effort as swatting a fly. He began to walk deeper into the town towards the smoke he saw rising. Maybe that would prove a good starting point...

Talethal sat on a slightly raised dais in the corner of the tavern, feeling himself being overrun with anxiety. Something had happened to turn the mood of the patrons there. Tucked behind his chair was his lute case, and his love was in his lap, his lute. He instinctively hugged it to his chest and absent mindedly ran one hand down the strings.

Trying to get a sense of what had darkened the gathered crowds spirits, he closed his eyes and took a breath. Opening his eyes and breathing slowly allowed him to see the agitated air currents, to feel the heat of it on his body, to smell and taste the smoke lingering in it.

He sighed, a house had caught fire down the docks, and its only occupant appeared dead. Most of the people here probably did not even know him, but a death so near still caused it to become the focus of their thinking, and brought the fear of it to their fore thoughts.

Tuning the strings, he began playing a gentle dirge, that slowly told the story of a life, that while ended, was fully lived, he hoped he was right.

Quietly sipping his goblet of wine near the back of the bar, Aethr calmly and methodically cleaned his firearm. Slowly polishing the barrel, Aethr made sure to wipe away any trace of dirt on the gleaming steel, then calmly running a long, wooden stick, covered with an oilcloth, down the rifled interior. The old elf took great pride in his firearm, which was the end result of the better part of three centuries worth of research, work, and use of gunpowder-powered weaponry.

After emptying his goblet, Aethr calmly picked it up, then looked across the tavern. A dirty human appeared to be reenacting the burning of his Mother Forest, using his lute to represent the fire, and the song he was playing was a stunningly accurate representation of the screams of the wildlife as it fled the flames. Aethr scowled, then flung the goblet at him, in a vain attempt to get him to shut the hell up.

It wasn't long before Cassuner lost track of himself, and began walking off in a different direction without even realizing what he was doing.

"Sense a flame, do you?" asked the Voice.

"Hmm, I guess I do."

"See the smoke coming over the rooftops?"

"I do now," the pyromancer responded as he stepped into an alley that would most likely serve as a shortcut.

Cassuner had the most annoying tendency to randomly float off into space when he was supposed to be focusing. The presence of fire only aggravated this tendency. He was rather advanced for a pyromancer his age; advanced enough to be able to sense flame. However, his pyrosensory skill had yet to progress to the point where he could actively realize it was a flame he was sensing, instead of just some random thought-catching daydream. It was usually the Voice's job to inform him of what his brain was really doing.

"Someone died here." the Voice commented as Cassuner stepped out of the alley, across the street from a building that had mostly collapsed, yet was still blazing quite powerfully. One nearby building had already caught flame, and another was threatening to follow. People were attempting to throw buckets of water onto the blaze, but others seemed to be... "What are they doing?" Cassuner murmured, as he beheld a few people who appeared to be trying to STOP the others from throwing water on the inferno.

Suddenly, one person lit a match and dropped it into a filled bucket, which quickly caught fire. Everyone else promptly dropped their buckets and began panicking.

"Well, we know this was no accident," the Voice laughed, "Whoever did it put oil in the water."

Sighing, Cassuner looked around. Once he was certain that nobody was looking, he raised an arm to the blaze, then clenched his fist. Instantly, the fire went out in a gush of black smoke. "Aaaw, wasn't that nice?" the Voice purred. Cassuner ignored the Voice, and immediately set off down the road.

The last thing he needed was for people to know that a pyromancer had just arrived in town the day of a lethal fire. This spelled all sorts of bad news.

"Let's find a damn tavern," Cassuner muttered, "this is not a good place for me anymore."

"It never was," said the Voice, "Parents have warned their children of you since long before you were born."

As he arrived he noticed that the fire had been caused by a house burning down but which seemed to have finished doing so leaving little but ashes and making it barely recognisable as someones home. Still able to feel the heat on the air he could tell it had only recently been put out and judging by the crowds shock and chatter he heard he could tell they hadn't been the ones to put out the fire as their buckets had been filled with a highly flammable substance.

So it had both been caused on purpose and then put out in what to these people was some sort of miracle. That meant that there may well be two interesting individuals in this town. Deciding to try and find out who he thought he should go to the two mostly likely places a criminal would go. A tavern and a brothel. Not wanting to go to such place as a whorehouse he set off in search of a tavern. Worse comes to worse he'd find no-one and just have a drink.

'These books must hold a key. A map, a guide, something.', V thought as she took one out. She placed her satchel below the bench she sat on, resting it between her legs. She flipped through the pages, intent of finding an answer.

'I owe far too much money for this not to pay off....', she thought. A dull whispering told her someone was nearby. She glanced up to see a toothless peasant sit beside her. She ignored him for a time.

"The fire jus' went out. Jus' a poof and sum smoke an gone it went."

"How odd.", V replied. This moderately illiterate peasant was seeking her trousers. She cooly flipped another page on one of the books.

"Now I ain't no learnin' man, but I tells ya, there's sum MAGIK running round these parts.", he said, moving closer to her on the bench. "Must be one of them MANCERS. They're illegal, ya know. Mighty high price on their heads."


V sat up. 'THATS IT!', she shouted to herself in her head. She tossed her book into her satchel, tossed it over her shoulder, gave the peasant a kiss on the mouth, gagged from the horrid taste, and fled towards a nearby bar. She had some planning to do.

Ordamos drank deeply from the bottle. Far too deeply for man who had finished nineteen other bottles of the same variety before this one. He looked at the writing on the bottle: ‘Gargon’s Finest Wine.’

“More like Gargon’s Shit and Piss,” he said to himself, tossing the bottle towards the pile.

“Drinking that poison again,” said an adjacent voice.

“Fuck you wolf,” he said releasing a belch and reaching for another bottle from his satchel. Even though his hand was too numb to sense that which he touched, he knew he had no more. As soon as he sobered he would need make a two day travel back to town to buy more bottles, but now was time for rest. He lied down and stared at the swaying sky and began to go to sleep. The wolf he spoke to sat beside him ever watching his master destroy himself.

“You,” Ordamos said pointing to the wolf,” Would be as much a drinker as I would it not be that drinking would kill you.”

“I don’t believe I would,” spoke the wolf, “I do not get to enjoy the pleasures of living until I can no longer count how old I am.”

“If you did…,” Ordamos began, “If you did…”

Their conversation was ended by a nearby limb snapping from the weight of a booted foot. Upon listening further it could be fashioned that it was two men, possibly hunters, nearing on their position.

“Company!” shouted the first man upon noticing the man and the wolf, “Turk we have company.”

The man was large, muscular, and fashioned a grin he had waited days to fashion. He wore layer upon layer of worn leather from various animals he had killed over time. He was every bit a human.. a barbaric one at that from the skulls of small game he wore around his neck. Ordamos’ old tribe had a word for such people so cruel to nature “R’hakati.”

“Looks like we finally found them!” said the second man to come out of the thicket, “It is about time! I was ever so close to giving up our search.”

The second man was not as barbaric in appearance as the first. He wore red silk clothing, a perfectly golden mane, and a mischievous beard more prone to be worn by a murderer then an aristocrat. He wore boots that had shined before the search began; now covered in dirt and sweat. Since he did not appear tired from such a walk within the woods it might be possible to be assumed he was a mercenary. Men who killed for money were known as “Y’kanamo.”

“What luck,” the first one continued, “Now all that is left is to kill the demon and get our gold.”

“The demon,” Ordamos said curiously, “Surely I haven’t earned such a prestigious title!”

“Aye,” Said the first one, “’The Demon of Mekjar.’ From the looks of you I don’t see it as fitting.”

“Might I enquire upon how such a name was settled upon?”

“Simply through the fact that anyone,” he began, “Traveler, Merchant, Mercenary alike seem to dissapear within these woods and it all goes to blame on you.”

“I can’t take all the credit for such a feat,” Ordamos said smiling at his fame, “I would say AT LEAST thirty people attempt to walk through this forest, forbiden I remind you, a day. I can only say I am liable for around twenty today. I suppose however I should go check my traps and see if that number has increased.”

“YOU WILL DIE DEMON,” the first one screamed pulling out a hammer the size of a boulder, “My hammer shall find your skull and smash it like a ripened melon.”

“Shut up you fool,” finally spoke the one named Turk, “He wouldn’t have gained such a title by being an easy kill. Such gloating will only cause you misery in the afterlife should you fail to see through with your claims.”

“I like this one,” Ordamos said winking at the other, “If you insist however I suppose we might as well exchange blows.”

Ordamos grabbed the wolf by the cheeks, lifted his lips, and exposed his white teeth. He then comensed in kissing the wolf; who whimpered in displeasure. “Such a complainer,” he said as the wolf ran into the woods. Ordamos attempted to stand but fell on his ass remembering his drunk never went away. “It appears I am at a disadventage,” he yelled attempting to stand up again but falling on his face, “How about we do this another time?”
The one with the hammer laughed and began to advance. Ordamos backed up against a tree and pulled out his sword, which he could not hold level. Instead of holding the blade towards the advancing man, however, he used it to cut open the palm of his hand. He couldn’t feel the pain but winced regardless then threw the blade to the ground. Using the tree as a prop he lifted himself up to standing just as the man had reached him.

“You die now,” said the man swinging back his hammer.

“Not yet,” Ordamos said. With that he threw the blood clinched inside his fist at the man splattering it across his face. “Now,” he said sitting back down, “You die.”

The man let out a scream of agony and droped his hammer to the ground.

“I’ve gone blind!” he screamed, “Sorcerer! What trechery is this!”

“Poison,” Ordamos said tearing a strip from his pants and bandaging his hand, “Deadly, deadly poison.”

“FUCK!” he screamed, “IT HURTS!!”

“I’m sure it does,” Ordamos replied, “I can’t say I’ve felt it though.. Such is a pro to being ezermancer.”

The man let out a few more screams and dropped dead to the ground. By now the other had pulled out a gun but it was seen in his eyes he had no intent to use it.

“You’ve one” said Turk, “I have no intention to further fight you…”

“And I no further intention to fight you!” screamed out Ordamos.

The Turk bowed and turned to head the other way. Not having taken five steps the wolf leaped from thicket and wrapped his teeth around Turk’s neck. Fangs made even deadlier by a kiss of poison.

“I said ‘I’ have no intention of fighting you.”
Ordamos sheathed his blade once again and grabbed his things. “Let us head to town, wolf,” he ended.

-----Three days later¬--¬-
The harbor was far enough from his forest to safely not draw attention to whom he was however Ordamos still felt safer wearing a robe. Religiously, Ordamos would venture into the same tavern to buy his fix then make the two day travel back home. Money was never a worry as the merchants he was assigned to kill always had enough money on them to afford such luxuries.

“Fifty bottles of your finest for the travels,” he said, laying three satchels onto the counter, “And better make five for here.”

Being unable to die from an overdose of alcohol was certainly one of the attributes of ezermancy Ordamos took most advantage of.

Talethal smiled as finished the song and deftly caught the goblet that was flung at his head from somewhere in the back. The song had raised the mood of the tavern somewhat, and as he took a break between playing to go sit at the bar there was no shortage of people willing to buy him a drink.

Smiling at the group he told the bartender to get him some scutten. Smiling the bartender retrieved him a mug and pour a light liquid into it. Tal raised the mug in cheers to the group of men around him and downed the water and passed the mug back across the counter, leaving no trace of it in the mug to be seen by anybody paying to much attention. He would collect fifty percent of what the men paid latter from the barkeep.

Looking around the back the tavern to find who had thrown the goblet, he met the gaze of a man glowering at him. Shaking of the urge to shiver, he decided to he did not want to fight today and got the attention of a nearby bar wench, whispering in her ear and pointing in the direction of the person, he sent her over with a drink, and something a bit extra. Weighing the gold piece with her palm she smiled and sauntered over.

Happy to have averted a situation, he made his way back to the dais and started prepping for his next song, maybe something bawdy.

Glancing warily at the approaching prostitute, Aethr calmly raised his rifle, so that it was even with the center of her left eye. After showing her that the hammer was indeed fully cocked, Aethr jerked the barrel to the left, towards the door, then chuckled as the pox-ridden whore nearly sprinted out of the dimly lit tavern.

While the human may have meant well by sending that harlot over to him, Aethr did not appreciate the gesture at all. To show this, He calmly lifted his rifle up, then fired at a spot three inches to the left of the bards head.

Grom jerked his head to the back of the tavern and the source of the gunshot. As poor as this establishment was he had not expected it's frequenters to be as low class as they were. If he understood things correctly the untalented house bard had angered an elf enough for him to fire a shot off indoors. The place now stunk of gunpowder and Grom's ears rang somewhat painfully.

Grom sighed and finished his drink. He wasn't going to stay in this place overnight after all. Hell, maybe he'd leave town altogether.

As Cassuner went, he found more and more people. It was beginning to make him paranoid.

Bad things happened when he was paranoid.

"Simmer down," the Voice insisted, "Haw haw, see what I did there?"

"Cease thine relentless faggotry," Cassuner growled, "my head is beginning to swim."

"Biiiiii-iiiiiitch," the Voice mocked, "back in my day, everyone really WAS out to get you, and we still ran around with our dicks out!"

Deciding to ignore the Voice, Cassuner began absentmindedly caressing the soft scar across his jugular. It was a nervous habit he'd had as long as he could remember, much like nail-chewing or lip-biting.

But at least a nice breeze was going. It was the little things that calmed him the most. Nonetheless, he adjusted his hood to better cover his head and face. Pyromancers were generally the only people with a forehead mark, red hair, and red eyes all at once. Everyone but the least-learned of individuals would be able to mark him for the monster that he was with little more than a glance.

His fellow mancers were even harder to fool. They could see the red aura that emanated from his person, and he could do nothing about it. Luckily, such people were rare, and tended to live in the world's capital cities, under the chains of their respective governments who used them for war. It was a sad fate, one that Cassuner was glad to have escaped.

And then the loud bang of a gunshot peeled out into the streets.

"Sounds like more shit's going down," the Voice announced, "Such a peaceful village this is."

Arriving at the conclusion that he wasn't going to find a tavern after all, Cassuner turned toward the direction of the noise, and found... a tavern.

"You've never been observant," the Voice said as Cassuner scowled, "Don't beat yourself up."

"'Tis my liver I intend to 'beat up'," Cassuner said, forgetting about the gunshot. Almost skipping, he quickly crossed the street and stepped into the smoke and the slurry of an establishment that most certainly sold spirits of a strength he required.

Sorrow heard the crack of the gunshot a short distance away. He knew it had come from the very tavern he'd been making his way towards and correct as always were his senses as he rounded the corner seeing that very tavern.

As he walked towards it he noticed the same man he had seen earlier make his way in. This time he saw him long enough to notice there was something off about him. And not just him. There was at least one other person in the tavern who along with this man were different to the rest of the townsfolk.

He decided that the next vourse of action was to find the others who were special and observe however many there were before making his next move.

He walked forward making his way indoors. Noting that the small man had stopped in the doorway he chose to simply walk unaltered causing the stranger to be smashed aside. It would most likely have felt as if he'd just had a mountain walk  into him.

Making his way to the bar he sat down close to a bard he noticed. It had been centuries since he had heard music and no matter how good or bad it could be he would enjoy experiancing it once again.

As Grom stepped out into the street two things he realized two things. The first was that he didn't pay for his drinks and no one had noticed this. The second was that the hooded man going the opposite way as he was glowing as hot coals do.

Grom stopped when the man entered the tavern. He did not know the meaning of what he had seen, but waiting around would be the way to find out.

V had slipped into the tavern long ago, sitting in a dusty corner pouring drinks into someone who looked important. She sat sipping a pint, her seventh so far. Dark Elves had a natural immunity for alcohol, and the watered down spirits they were trying to feed her weren't going to work.

The gunshot startled her for a moment, and her potential bunkmate tried to get up.

"You're off duty, guard captain.", V whispered as she tugged on his cape. "Are you always a soldier?"

He stiffened up, and walked into the middle of the room. V slapped her palm against her head.

'So much time wasted.', she thought to herself. The guard captain shouted something, it couldn't be heard because of the noise and the man was highly inebriated. He gripped his sword and waved it dangerously around.

'Dumbass', V thought to herself.

While waiting for the dense, acidic smoke to clear from the immediate area, Aethr calmly smiled, then cocked the unique lever on the bottom of his rifle, ejecting a crudely made brass shell onto the floor. It's tinkling echoed throughout the tavern, as all the patrons stared at this strange, frightening man holding the gun. Making sure that his shortsword was loose in it's sheath, Aethr took a moment to take in his surroundings.

Aethr saw the man holding the lute, and noticed how his cloak seemed to be billowing, even indoors. He also saw about twenty people staring at him, attempting to put as much distance between the elf and them as possible.

Scanning toward the door, Aethr stopped. It was not everyday that he saw a large, armor clad warrior shove past a pyromancer and live to tell the tale. Aethr subtly nodded at the Pyromancer, then turned his attention to a man walking towards him.

The Captain of the Town Guard may have been an imposing man ten years ago, but it was obvious that he was well past his prime. His chainmail tunic strained around his bulbous midsection, and he was well on his way on completing his second chin, covered with a dense and wiry beard. He drew his sword, and said, "As Captain of the Guard, I order you to lay down your arms, and to explain yourself, this very instant."

Chuckling, Aethr did not let his grip on his rifle falter. He said, "My lord, if you can suggest a better way to express your contempt for a song then with a bullet, please, enlighten me, my good sir. Let us just put away our arms, return to our seats, and allow me to buy everyone here a pint of ale, to make up for this trouble I may have caused you all this fine evening."

Ordamos had just finished the last of his five ordered bottles and was picking up his satchels when the shot rang out. Sober he would have flinched and possibly dropped is pay load… but drunk the sound carried little threat. He had to squint to see the one who had caused the noise. The first thing he noticed that the man was an elf just like Ordamos. The second thing he noticed was the elf had offered up a pint to everyone in the tavern. The combination of these two facts instantly caused Ordamos to like this elf.

“I’ll take that pint now,” he said to the barmaid, “And that guy over there.. He is passed out. I’ll have his too!”

Reluctantly the barmaid gave him both the pints he had requested as the other owner was indeed too far into intoxication to be able to handle such a drink. Ordamos finished off the first pint in the beat of a heart and stood up allowing the drunk to take its full toll on his body.

“That hit the spot!” he shouted now advancing towards the elf.

He lumbered over and stood straight in the guards face. “He is right you know,” Ordamos said pointing at the elf, “It would be mighty awful to cause such an unnecessary scene in such a shit-hole.. I mean beautiful establishment. If he didn’t like the song he didn’t like the song.. Let us leave it at that.”

He then turned to the bard in the corner: “You understood the elf’s intent didn’tcha!? We need a new song! A GLORIOUS SONG! A SONG WORTH DRINKING TOO! SECOND PINTS ALL AROUND!”

Some of the more drunk individuals in the tavern cheered at the knowledge of two free drinks, others nodded.

Having finished the drink he walked towards the bar to get his third, fourth, fifth, and then deciding to have two more, began carrying them to the spot which the elf had resumed sitting. His stride was halted when he noticed a large armor cladded colossus of an individual sitting by the lute player and walked over to him.

“Have a drink ‘Tin-man’!” he said, knocking on the beasts helmet as if it were a door, “This is a tavern! Be merry!!”

Ordamos marked it off as a good deed and kept the other pint. Having reached the elf he plopped down into the seat adjacent and slid the pint over to the elf.

“Tell me a tale,” he said, leaning back into the chair, “You seem to have many to tell”

Sorrow thought about it for a moment. Someone had just knocked on his helmet. He wondered if he had found someone brave enough to travel with. Then he noticed just how intoxicated the man was and came to the conclusion that he was simply drunk past the point of knowing fear. He continued to follow him with his eyes till he sat down next to an elf. He noted that the drunken buffoon might still be worth paying attention to as he possessed that strange difference from others that the small man had.

Looking at the pint glass that he was delicately pinching (something most people wouldn't have expected someone of his size to do but was necessary to avoid the glass exploding from the force) in his hand. He decided he had been forgotten long enough ago that it was unlikely someone would be trying to poison him but he still took a sip just to check before downing the lot in one as it was little more than a drop to him.

As foolish as the drunken elf was he decided to take his advice and reached into his bag pulling out a metal container that he kept which was a flask shape made out of metal that could hold around 8 pints. Unscrewing the lid he placed in on the bar and ordered it to be filled with the strongest spirit the bar had and asked for a 9th pint of it in a metal container. The barmaid might as well been fleeing hell itself with how she ran off praying that they had such a container and a spirit strong enough to please the monster.

Music and now alcohol. He had forgotten the pleasures of such things.

'Well, he wasn't horridly murdered. Maybe I can salvage this.', Venetica thought to herself.

The guard captain stood numbly in the middle of the room, unsure of what to do now since the situation was peacefully resolved. He felt a soft tug at his elbow, and allowed himself to be lead back to his seat.

When the captain wasn't looking, V unbuttoned the top two buttons on her shirt. Hopefully she could get this over with, she could feel sleep approaching. The captain seemed more interested in her now, and much more drunk.

The bar stayed quiet, or as quiet as a bar gets, for roughly twenty minutes. People talked, laughed, and pinched tavern wench ass. All was well.

Two town guards entered the tavern, hopefully on a regular check up. She saw many people in the bar clench up and try to look busy and unassuming. It would have been quite humorous, if she were not one those people.

One of the guards said something and pointed where V sat.

'Fuck', V thought. 'Maybe they want the captain?'

They both walked towards her, making sure to cut off any possible exits. She was trapped in the corner.

"Can I help you?", she asked. The two guards laughed, and grabbed V roughly by the arms.

"Andrea, you are wanted for the murder of a Nobleman, the destruction of property and the seduction of an officer of the army.", one of them said.

"My name is Ven-", she began, but was cut off when one of the guards slapped her. The bar grew quiet, intent on watching the drama unfold.

"QUIET ELF SCUM!", the guard shouted. The captain found this moderately offensive, that the woman he was trying to bed was being manhandled.

"As Capain of the Guard, I order you to stay your hand.", he said as he stood up. He was punched in the jaw and thrown against the wall. He slid down limply and fell heavily on the table. A small pool of blood around his mouth, and he coughed up a few teeth.

"This woman was caught red handed with evidence linking her to the crime.", the guard said, and with a slight of hand that not many would notice, tossed a small flask into V's open satchel. He then bend down, rummaged through her bag and pulled out a bottle and some matches.

"Evidence.", he said, opening the bottle and sniffing it. "Smells like the oil that was found in the water."

The other guard smiled. "Lets take this murderin' elf away."

Talethal paused his playing as a bullet smacked into a wall next to his head. Knowing from where exactly it came, he hopped the elf was very drunk, or that he had insinuated he had his mother gagged in a dungeon somewhere begging for death in some small way, else he would have to kill the bastard.

Thoughts of vengeance slipped his mind as a few things happened very quickly, a giant of a man entered the tavern and sat down near him, A tale told by his master scratched at the back of his mind, but he shook it off as a pyromancer entered the room.

There was no mistaking it, the aura he have of was of flame. He remembered the fire and thought of him, but these thoughts too where pushed to the back of his mind as the elf who shot at him won the crowd over with a round of cheap booze.

Sighing he was about to return to playing when another commotion was caused. Two guards where roughing up a female elf. Watching the event unfold, he caught the motion of one of guards hands and saw him place something in the woman's bag then draw it back out again to show to the bar, that combined with one of them decking their superior officer, told him something was wrong.

They where probably corrupt guards looking for something to gloat about in the morning. Not one to normally interfere, he felt a pang of his conscience telling him to stop this. Sighing he popped his lute in its case for safe keeping and walked over to the guard.

"Stop what you are doing, I don't thi" Tal choked on the last word word as one of the guards gave him a solid push into a drunk. Turning with the speed only a drunk has, he gripped a bottle by its neck and broke it over the head of the man next to him. The friend of that man took a swing at the first. The situation deteriorated from there.

In all of Ordamos’ traveling he had largely adopted two beliefs. The first belief was that no good could come from one drawing attention to oneself being a magus. The second was to always help an elven brother when in need of aid. This elf had luck fleeting, she was surrounded by guards and pinned with a violent crime. Ordamos had almost decided that whatever this elf had done had rightly been deserved but then the bard came over in a manner to defend her, was pushed, and a brawl commenced.

“Perhaps…” Ordamos spoke aloud beginning to think.

With such a distraction as a tavern brawl perhaps Ordamos could successfully save the winch of a dark elf (he had noticed her flirting with the captain before the upset) and set her back on her way. Ordamos viewed the elven race as superior to that of the humans.. Longer lives, better looking, and much more wiser of the ways of nature… truly a perfect example of what the god’s intended to create.

“Listen friend,” he began turning to the other elf, “I have business to attend to. We will continue this conversation at another time. At which point you can tell me how that contraption of yours works.”

Ordamos attempted to stand up but fell back in his seat; a reminder of his intoxication. At this level of drunk he would be of no use to the winch. With that he closed his eyes, took a large intake of air, and exhaled the fumes which poisoned him.

“Better.”

Ordamos cracked his knuckles and hopped out of the seat. Before taking on the guards he walked up to ‘tin-man’ who had since last talking to taken the advice of Ordamos by enjoying the festivities the tavern had to offer.

“Perhaps you can do me a favor,” he said, knocking on the hulking creature’s helmet to summon him once again, “I have to go help out that winch in the corner.” He pointed to the dark elf. “If you could cause some form of momentary distraction for me.. to avert the eyes of the still weary.. I would be forever grateful.”

He slammed down a hand on Tin-man’s shoulder and gave a smile.

“Do me proud.”

With that he ducked into the brawling crowed and made his way towards the guards, an arrow in hand in case the need arose.