The tavern glows a dull orange. Slumped clusters of men murmur amicably to one another. The last embers of the evening’s hearthfire still smolder in their own sort of huddle, a microcosm of the tavern’s own low burn against the bitter black of midnight.
Nash, a savory and well-dressed young man with deep tan skin, grins to himself. It is a nice thought, if strangely ominous. But what good is mead, if it does not numb a man’s worry? And so Nash grins. He’s always fancied himself one fourth poet—
Vadolier grabs Nash’s forearm. A pale and sickly boy. Nash thinks of him as a sort of unofficial squire. He looks frantic. But hold on. We’re almost finished with this thought.
Yes, one fourth poet. A veritable wordsmith. One fourth too much, his father always told him! But plague the bastard, he never cared for Nash. Not like you—
Vadolier whispers something frantically. He shakes Nash’s arm again. Insistent, this one. What to do?
[[Attend to Vadolier.]]
[[Adopt a sober demeanor and address Vadolier.]]
[[Dwell on Nash’s history.]]
“You dirty beetle… what is it that so urgent… demands my attention…” Nash slurs.
Vadolier pauses. “Why are you speaking like that?”
“It’s a haiku.”
Vadolier cocks his head. Almost as drunk as Nash. He looks down at his hands and begins ticking up his fingers. Five. Seven. Six. “No it’s not. ‘Demands my attention’ is six syllables.”
“I didn’t say that.” Nash holds back a belch.
“Yes you did.”
“No I didn’t.”
Vadolier squints one eye and raises his gaze. “You dirty beetle…”
“Hags of Fairfallow, Vad! What do you want?”
The boy starts, then swivels his head for a moment, frantically blinking. Retracing his mental steps, Nash imagines. Smart boy.
“The – the woman!” Vad catches himself and lowers his voice. Ducks his head a touch and gestures toward a nearby table. “Look. I think it’s her.”
Nash squints. A woman slouches sickly, half-conscious before them. A dozen empty mugs litter the otherwise vacant table. Her face does look a bit familiar, but it simply could not be the Crimson Rider. The scourge and greatest rival to [[Attend to Vadolier pyreking<-Pyreking Aulkreth]]. “Come now, Vad.” She adjusts her legs. The hem of her trouser licks up above her boot momentarily, and something glints dimly beneath. “It couldn’t be—”
BOOM!
[[What was that??]]
Nash shakes off the veil of his stupor and addresses the boy. An unusual respect, but perhaps today is not a usual day. "Yes? What is it?"
Vad gestures toward a nearby table. “Look. I think it’s her.”
Nash squints. A woman slouches - sickly, half-conscious - before them. A dozen empty mugs litter the otherwise vacant table. Her face does look a bit familiar, but it simply could not be the Crimson Rider. “Come now, Vad. It can't be. For the most daring and clever outlaw in the Six Winds... to carry herself like that?”
But there is something more to her. Beneath the surface. Nash can tell. Moving subtly - stirring like the dark dregs of forgotten poetry.
She adjusts her legs. The hem of her trouser licks up above her boot momentarily, and something glints dimly beneath. A knife. A blade. Forbidden.
And so perhaps... no. For certain.
"What is she doing here?" Nash almost whispers.
"She could be caught." Vadolier seems equally reverent.
It was no surprise that none of these drunks had yet recognized her, but it was only a matter of time. And not all young drifters were so liberal as Nash and Vad, to oppose - albeit passively - the [[Pyreking Aulkreth]].
A shiver up the spine. Something is coming.
BOOM!
[[What was that??]]
His father was a fool and an alcoholic, but Nash was a quick learner. His father would often leave in the afternoon to go on a bender, and come back in the night or early morning, fists swinging. These were the worst examples of his sporatic abusive fits.
And so, whenever his father stayed out late, Nash would retrieve a blade his father kept hidden in the upper compartment of an old oak wardrobe. He would practice his play for hours until his father returned, and then... well, who held the steel?
Many boys wouldn't have had the gall to swing at their father, abusive or not. But Nash was not most boys. His father assumed he was, but Nash taught him a lesson that needed only be taught once, on that first night. He'd not practiced for very long, but a drunk was predictable. Especially one you'd danced with on so many occasion.
His father, ale-addled and weak, would forget Nash's impudence by each following morning, and ignore the boy by and large while sober. But some part of him must have remembered, because he never made another go at the boy while he held steel. An animal sort of muscle-memory, Nash supposes. But either way, it was a... happy equilibrium.
Until the man killed his mother. And Nash killed the man in turn. Now he wanders, in the hopes of one day using his skill with a blade for good. To become a knight of the resistance, perhaps. He would never give himself to the Empyre and the [[Dwell Pyreking<-Pyreking Aulkreth]]. But the thought was often tempting, if just for the opportunity to hold a sword again - a luxury no longer permitted to common men--
BOOM!
[[What was that??]]
The tavern door bursts open, and a squad of three ratty brigands saunters in. Navy badges identify them as servants of the Empyre. License to the otherwise contraband blades at their sides. Nash clenches his fists.
"Nobody move!" One of them growls. "Or he gets my axe!"
The room draws in its breath.
Another one of the bandits starts toward the center of the room. "Well, well, well. Would you look at this?"
For a moment, it appears as though he's indicating Nash. Then he zeroes in on the woman nearby. The only one unperturbed by the interruption, she sits vacantly. Eyes half-lidded. Lost in the empty collection of mugs set before her. "Hags. It really is you. The Crimson Rider." The man whines. He stands a few tables away from her still. His friends slink up behind him on either side.
A momentary silence. Nash swallows.
"Not so dangerous now, eh?" They jide. Moving in slowly.
[[Jump up! Do something!]]
[[Consort with Vadolier.]]
<!---Keep still. Do nothing.--->
Nash careens to his feet. His heart rushes with a furious adrenaline. He doesn't notice his knees wobbling in his stupor.
The men raise eyebrows at him. One scoffs.
[[Go for a weapon.]]
[[Sit back down.]]
[[Charm the hell out of them.]]
"Vad." Nash whispers. The boy's ear perks up furtively.
[["I need you to make a distraction."]]
[["What should we do?"]]
[["LET'S GET OUT OF HERE!"]]
He is a lover, not a fighter.
A poet and a writer.
Would he feel bad
If this fair lass
Turned out to be the Rider?
Yes, he supposes. He has always been on "her side," if not the most active of supporters. But what is he supposed to do? Throw himself onto their blades? It would do no good. He is a poet. And there are more ways to rebel than wars and conquests.
Tastalore himself, it is said, conquered the world with the pen! And although he oft yearns to feel steel in his hand once again, it seems like his only options there are to become an outlaw himself, or join with the Empyre's cause. A pickle upon which he has remained passive all his life.
And so when the extreme manifestation of that dichotomy comes to head here, his passivity should elicit no surprise.
"Crimson, they must call her for her drunken blush!" One of the brigands yells. They snicker amongst themselves. A truly unremarkable jape, to be sure.
They move in and seize the woman. Nash takes a swill of his draught. He tries not to feel it. There is a stinging, there. But what good is alcohol, if not to dull such pain?
But as Nash feels his mind start to slip into that foul darkness of the poison, there is a strange, almost surreal moment of clarity. All of the excitement and fuss tonight over his morals and goals has shaken him. And he has a new resolution. One he'd never expected to come.
[[It's high time he pursues poetry as a career.]]
[[It's high time he takes his first steps to join the rebellion.]]
A weapon! Perfect! Nash is confident that he could hold off this rag-tag bunch with steel in his hand. But where to get one?
[[From Vadolier.]]
[[From the woman.]]
[[From the nearest brigand's scabbard.]]
[[Wait, what? He doesn't have a weapon?]]
Nash slumps awkwardly back down into his chair. Thankfully, the men seem to think nothing of the outburst, and turn their attention away from him as quickly as it came.
Phew. Close one.
Vad swallows nervously.
<---!Keep still. Do nothing.--->[[Consort with Vadolier.]]
"Gentlemen." Nash begins. "How can we help you on this fine summer night?"
The rightmost brigand sighs, unhinging a handaxe from his belt. He brandishes it overhead, then pitches forward.
WHISS! The blade flies, singing through the air. Horror zaps across Nash’s face. He pivots backward desperately—
SPLICK! The head buries between his eyes. SHOOF! Nash collapses with a spurt of blood. The crowds gasp and cry. Vadolier squeals, scrambling down beside the corpse.
“SILENCE!” Shouts the squad leader, and the susurrus dies down to an uneasy murmur.
But the bandits grow uneasy as well. The warmth saps out of the room. The embers snuff out in the hearth. The candles on the tables flicker ominously, and for a moment, the blue of midnight hums in the darker corners of the tavern. The men draw their weapons.
[[Exit Nash’s body.]]
Nash stoops suddenly and shoves his hands into the boy's sleeves. He's always hiding things in these pokets, isn't he? But it's a fool's hope. A radical play fueled by the ill-advised cocktail of adrenaline and alcohol.
Nash pulls back a hand to find a shriveled apple core and two loose buttons. His mouth opens halfway. Vadolier is equal parts confused and mortified.
Nash stammers for a moment. How to best downplay this fruitless outburst? But it is already too late, it seems.
The rightmost brigand sighs, unhinging a handaxe from his belt. He brandishes it overhead, then pitches forward.
WHISS! The blade flies, singing through the air. Horror zaps across Nash’s face. He pivots backward desperately—
SPLICK! The head buries between his eyes. SHOOF! Nash collapses with a spurt of blood. The crowds gasp and cry. Vadolier squeals, scrambling down beside the corpse.
“SILENCE!” Shouts the squad leader, and the susurrus dies down to an uneasy murmur.
But the bandits grow uneasy as well. The warmth saps out of the room. The embers snuff out in the hearth. The candles on the tables flicker ominously, and for a moment, the blue of midnight hums in the darker corners of the tavern. The men draw their weapons.
[[Exit Nash’s body.]]
Nash looks at the woman. A shimmer from the lip of her boot.
The rightmost brigand works a handaxe free from his belt and brandishes it overhead.
Nash dives to the floor behind the woman. WHIZZ! THUNK! The axe bites into her table. Between two mugs.
Nash slips his hand up her leg, producing a knife. He shoulders her chair.
SHUMP! CRASH! She falls to the floor. The men unsheathe their weapons and surge forward.
[[Pop up to throw the knife.]]
[[Pop up to pry up the handaxe.]]
[[Push the table onto its side to create a barrier.]]
Nash lunges forward, charging the men. Grasping. Not so clumsy now.
SHING! But before he manages to close the distance, the men unsheath their weapons.
Nash scrambles to halt, but his momentum is too great. He barrels headfirst into a torrent of blades.
WHACK! THRRRIP! SHRUP! Triplet longswords rise and descend in ravenous rage. Ripping cloth and skin alike. Nash screeches, falling in a tattered heap of flesh and blood.
The crowds gasp and cry. Vadolier squeals from the edge of his seat.
“SILENCE!” Shouts the squad leader, and the susurrus dies down to an uneasy murmur.
The bandits regard the corpse with similar unease. The pungent odor of death mingles with that of the blood spattering them from the neck down. Something is wrong. Perhaps this kill felt different.
The warmth saps out of the room. The embers snuff out in the hearth. The candles on the tables flicker ominously, and for a moment, the blue of midnight hums in the darker corners of the tavern. The men brandish their weapons. Vad rocks himself in the chair, sobbing.
[[Exit Nash’s body.]]
Nash looks down at the table. Dumbfounded. Of course he doesn't have a weapon. He hasn't held one since he was a child. Had it been that long since danger had felt so close? That his fears still automatically latched onto a phantom blade?
The rightmost brigand sighs, unhinging a handaxe from his belt. He brandishes it overhead, then pitches forward.
WHISS! The blade flies, singing through the air. Horror zaps across Nash’s face. He pivots backward desperately—
SPLICK! The head buries between his eyes. SHOOF! Nash collapses with a spurt of blood. The crowds gasp and cry. Vadolier squeals, scrambling down beside the corpse.
“SILENCE!” Shouts the squad leader, and the susurrus dies down to an uneasy murmur.
But the bandits grow uneasy as well. The warmth saps out of the room. The embers snuff out in the hearth. The candles on the tables flicker ominously, and for a moment, the blue of midnight hums in the darker corners of the tavern. The men draw their weapons.
[[Exit Nash’s body.]]
You rise from the body, yourself once more. A shimmering, twisting orb of golden irridescence. Gold trails of mist swirl around your center and drip up out of the body beneath.
The color slowly drains out of the room. Men and women alike twist their necks, murmuring. But not a single eye lands on you.
Nash was good fun, and a good man. It is a shame he died. A shame that perhaps you twisted his fate toward that end. But you have felt this before. It is a familiar guilt. The Vestige Curse. And you know that only concern now which truly demands your attention is that grave and punctual choice.
Before you three strong wills now stand at uncertain balance. The bandit leader, Yatsen. A powerful man. His eyes set on the prize of the century. What riches, rewards and positions would befit the captor of the Pyreking's most reviled adversary? The Crimson Rider.
Erhimorsa, they used to call her. Now in her darkest night. After all she knew and loved failed her, and her most elaborate schemes crumbled to dust before her eyes. Undoubtedly the most intelligent, skilled and powerful of any soul you've seen before. You could do so much with her.
And then there is Vadolier. Burning and seething now in fury and pain. The great injustice of it... his master murdered before him so brutally. The tide of these emotions would be hard to fight, once within his mind. But perhaps you owe more to this boy than any other.<!---
Which one to take? Which one to become? Whose destiny to control? Or is it too much to ask? So many have died before. Perhaps the Curse has won in the end. Maybe it's time to... cease.--->
[[Enter Yatsen.]]
[[Enter Erhimorsa.]]
[[Enter Vadolier.]]
<!---Cease.--->
Vad swallows. "Like... jump up and wave around my arms and yell 'fire! fire!' like a crazy person while everyone looks at me and you go around all sneaky pulling some other shit to dupe the bad guys?"
Nash nods. "Precisely!"
"I'm not sure I'm clear on the whole plan here." Vad whispers.
"What do you mean? You just elaborated the whole goddamn thing."
"Got it. Yup. The thing I said. Totally on the same page now."
Nash squints in confusion. "What did you think I meant by 'precisely'?"
"I honestly dont remember what we're talking about."
"The diversion, Vad!" Nash hisses. "Can you do it?"
"You know I can, boss!" Vad jumps into action and climbs a nearby table.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" He yells, thrusting out his arms to either side. "Who here is a fan of magic?"
The brigands look up at him, incredulous and bewildered.
[[Sneak around behind them.]]
[[Go to the woman.]]
"LET'S GET OUT OF HERE!" Nash burts out, overcome with fear. He jumps to his feet. There is a stunned pause.
The rightmost brigand sighs, unhinging a handaxe from his belt. He brandishes it overhead, then pitches forward.
WHISS! The blade flies, singing through the air. Horror zaps across Nash’s face. He pivots backward desperately—
SPLICK! The head buries between his eyes. SHOOF! Nash collapses with a spurt of blood. The crowds gasp and cry. Vadolier squeals, scrambling down beside the corpse.
“SILENCE!” Shouts the squad leader, and the susurrus dies down to an uneasy murmur.
But the bandits grow uneasy as well. The warmth saps out of the room. The embers snuff out in the hearth. The candles on the tables flicker ominously, and for a moment, the blue of midnight hums in the darker corners of the tavern. The men draw their weapons.
[[Exit Nash’s body.]]
"What shoould we do?" Nash hisses.
Vadolier gapes, mortified. "You're asking ME?"
"I'm severely intoxicated." Nash says flatly.
In the center of the room, the bandits laugh to themselves over what could only have been some entirely banal or otherwise witless jape.
"I'm not exactly sober either, Nash."
"Yes, but you are a crafty drunk! You know what I mean! It all affects you differently. Come! Hurry up!"
Vad considers the compliment for a moment, then nods to himself. As if to decide that it's probably true. "Well," he starts. "I suppose if we cause a commotion... get everyone upright, storming and yelling... we could pull off just about anything in the heat of it."
Nash stews. The bandits are closing in on the woman. He isn't too sure about it, but it sounds like it could work, and Vad //is// a crafty drunk.
[[Do it. Cause a commotion.]]
[[Jump up! Do something!<-Abort! Don't involve anyone else! Just jump up and DO something!]]
Nash nods to Vad. He nods back. They break away in opposite directions, waving their arms.
All eyes snap to them. The bandits flinch.
"RUN! RUN!" Vadolier yells, scrambling between huddles and tables.
"RAPE! FIRE! BLOOD! DEATH!" Nash screams, darting this way and that.
"RUN! RUN!" Vad continues. It makes more sense. Nash realizes that now.
"RUN! RUN!" Nash adopts the battlecry.
The brigands swivel their heads. Grip their weapons.
The huddles and scores of people begin sweeping, spinning and bolting like dust bunnies beneath the broomstick. Screams pitch up, and soon everyone is on their feet.
The buzz grows to a tumult of madness, and the brigands are lost in the stampede.
[[Go for the men.]]
[[Go for the woman.]]
Nash watches the swirling torrent of men, and for a moment, feels like a god. //And look now, Maedora, on what chaos I've invoked. The rest beyond which animals and men could never know.//
He prowls through the currents. Calm now. Circling. Files out behind one of the bandits. Nash slips a knife from the man's belt and sinks it into his back. He claps a hand over the brigand's mouth and ducks back into the crowds.
"Yatsen?" A whiny voice calls moments later. The numbers are thinning. From a crouched position, Nash sees one of the Empyre men peering about. Time to act.
He draws Yatsen's longsword and lunges up from hiding.
TOOF! He impales one man with each weapon. They crash to the floor, wailing. The longsword is stuck in the hardwood through one of their chests, but the dagger lifts easily.
The three men writhe and coil in their blood. The masses dwindle, wailing out into the night. Nash stands, panting. Knife dripping. He grins like a madman. The steel feels immaculate in his hands. Killing is its own poetry, in a twisted kind of way.
The brigands' eyes search for him with fervent fear. He feels them. Bloodshot and cowardly, peering. Quaking.
[[Kill them.]]
[[Spare them.]]
Nash slows and crouches in the rising storm of chaos. He follows the currents, circling in on the the woman.
Nash comes upon her. Shakes his head incredulously. She is still unresponsive. In this ruckus, it must have taken some serious alcohol poisoning. Or apathy.
The bandits are barely visible through the roiling throngs, but the crowds are thinning. Time to act.
Nash handles her arms -- she slumps easily -- and slings her up onto his back. His legs scream, pumping at a crouch with the added weight. But he fights through. Sifts back into the current.
He follows Vad's voice -- "RUN! RUN!" -- to a vantage near the door. He snatches the boy's flailing arm, multitudes dwindling fast beside him.
"You got her!" Vad hisses.
"Come on!" Nash replies. "Before they see!"
(set: $swords to 'no')(set: $badges to 'no')
[[Leave.]]
Nash lifts the first bandit's head by his hair to expose the throat. Slices long and deep.
A gurgle. Blood curtains down his neck. Soaks his tunic and puddles on the hardwood.
Nash moves to the next.
Vad peers out the window to see that the last of the crowds flee safely away. Then returns to the center of the room.
He approaches the woman while Nash works. He has seen Nash kill before, but it is rare. He really is a gentle man until provoked by the navy badge.
Vad takes her shoulder and shakes her. "Are you okay?" He asks.
She stirs.
Nash finishes off the last man. Steps up beside Vad. He idly wipes at the bloodied knife with a crimson rag. He is otherwise totally clean, head to toe.
"Who..." She begins. Her eyes are vacant. She does not continue.
"Looks bad, Nash." Says Vad. "What do we do?"
(set: $swords to 'no')(set: $badges to 'no')
[[Loot the bodies.]]
[[Take her and go.->Leave.]]
Perhaps they will survive. Perhaps not. But Nash will not dwell on it. If this woman truly is the Crimson Rider, then Nash has bigger fish to fry.
No. It changes everything.
As the last of the men hurry from the tavern, Nash approaches her and touches her shoulder. "Hello?" He asks.
Her eyes flutter. "Who..." She begins. But she does not finish.
Vad watches the trail of the crowds from the window.
"Come, Vad." Nash commands. He wipes at his knife with a red rag.
He stoops under one of her shoulders, and Vad mirrors him. They hoist her up.
(set: $swords to 'no')(set: $badges to 'no')
[[Leave.]]
It is midday by the time the woman wakes. Nash sits in a nearby chair, pumping his leg up and down. Picking at the armrest. His eyes rest vacantly on her.(set: $vad to 'yes')
The linens RUSTLE. Nash jumps to his feet. The Crimson Rider stirs.
"Vad!" Nash yells. Pots CLATTER and CLANG from another room.
The woman groans, raising a hand. "Please... don't yell."
Nash winces. "VAD." He leans out into the threshold beside him. Whispers a scream. "VAAAD."
The woman props herself up and cracks her eyes open. "Where am I?"
CLACK! CRANG! Vad trundles into the room with a steaming pot. The woman flinches and GRUNTS.
"Vad! Shh!" Nash yells. The woman grimaces.
"Just... please." She whispers. "Where am I?"
"My name is Nash." Nash says. "And this sorry little thing is my ward. Vadolier. Go on. Say hello, Vad."
"Hel--"
"Brigands came looking for you while you were passed out at the tavern last night. As supporters of the resistance, we decided to step in and rescue you. Brought you back here, to our home."
It is unclear whether the woman frowned at the word "supporters," or just due to her general discomfort.
Nash wags a gesture, and Vad pours out a cup of his concoction.
"Nolstern. To help your head." Nash explains.
The woman takes it. Eyes it. Sniffs it. Squints at the boys. Then drinks. Vad smiles.
[["What were you doing black-out drunk at a tavern?"]]
[[Wait.]]
[["We'd like to join the resistance."]]
Nash pops up as the bandits charge. One angles toward the right side of the table. Two to the left.
Nash licks out his hand in a deadly arc toward the single man.
WHIRR! The knife blurs through the air and--
THUPP! Materializes in the bandit's chest. He cries! Stumbles, falling forward.
Just as the two others begin to round the table on the left, Nash lurches toward the collapsing man. He dances around him, leaning over to snatch the longsword from his limp fingers.
The two men dart around the table, angling for their new foe. Nash lashes out in a furious barrage. The two men scramble to fend him off. They are slow. He pushes them back. He feels the heat rising in him. Rage building. He probes their defenses deftly, whipping back and forth between their guards at all angles.
He flicks his blade low at the man on the left. Dodges a hurried thrust from the other. Strikes up! SHRING! Disarmed! He strikes the man's exposed throat on his returning stroke.
CLANG! Parries an overhead swing. Nash pitches his body into his off-fist and clocks the bandit square in the jaw. The man crumples, blade clattering to the floor.
Nash spits on his badge. Then thrusts the blade down into his dome. THUNK!
A spurt of blood.
The room erupts with a strange solution of joy and horror. Many people run from the tavern, wailing, while a few cheer whistle for the unnamed swordmaster.
Nash turns to the woman. Approaches her.
He squats beside her and places a hand on her shoulder. "Are you okay?"
Her eyes flutter. "Who..." A moment passes, and she does not finish the thought.
Nash hoists her up onto his shoulder.
(set: $swords to 'no')(set: $badges to 'no')
[["Vad, loot the bodies."]]
[[Leave.]]
Nash pops up and scrambles for the handaxe. It is embedded fast in the wood. He grunts. Pries. It groans, angling toward him between wedges of splintered wood.
But they are already upon him. He raises the knife in a last-minute defense. Too late. He barely deflects the first brigand's sword. It bites into his shoulder.
Not a moment later, another blade cracks into the back of his skull. He falls foward, lifeless. Blood and brains spurt from his head.
The crowds gasp and cry. Vadolier squeals, gripping the edge of his seat.
“SILENCE!” Shouts the killer, and the susurrus dies down to an uneasy murmur.
But the bandits grow uneasy as well. In a moment, the warmth saps out of the room. The embers snuff out in the hearth. The candles on the tables flicker ominously, and for a moment, the blue of midnight hums in the darker corners of the tavern.
The men back away from the cadaver.
[[Exit Nash’s body.]]
CLANG! CRASH! Myriad mugs shatter and the table shudders against the hardwood floor.
Nash grips the knife to his chest and closes his eyes in a silent prayer. He focuses on his hearing.
One approaches on the right. Two on the left.
[[Pop up and throw the knife.]]
[[Wait in ambush for the one on the right.]]
[[Wait in ambush for the two on the left.]]
Nash pops up, brandishing the knife--
But they are already upon him. He raises the knife in a last-minute defense. Too late. He barely deflects the first brigand's sword. It bites into his shoulder.
Not a moment later, another blade cracks into the back of his skull. He falls foward over the edge of the table, lifeless. Blood and brains spurt from his head.
The crowds gasp and cry. Vadolier squeals, gripping the edge of his seat.
“SILENCE!” Shouts the squad leader, and the susurrus dies down to an uneasy murmur.
But the bandits grow uneasy as well.
Suddenly, the warmth saps out of the room. The embers snuff out in the hearth. The candles on the tables flicker ominously, and for a moment, the blue of midnight hums in the darker corners of the tavern.
The men back away from the cadaver.
[[Exit Nash’s body.]]
Better to face off against one man than two, Nash reckons. He brandishes the knife toward the right pass. His ear twitches.
He lurches up his arm, catching the bandit in the chest just as he rounds the table. With his offhand, he snatches the longsword from the man's limp grasp.
Nash spins, catching the other two as they round the table in turn. WHING! CLANG! They raise their own blades in defense.
Nash flips his sword from one hand to the other and lashes out in a furious barrage. The two men scramble to fend him off. They are slow. He pushes them back. He feels the heat rising in him. Rage building. He probes their defenses deftly, whipping back and forth between their guards at all angles.
He flicks his blade low at the man on the left. Dodges a hurried thrust from the other. Strikes up! SHRING! Disarmed! He strikes the man's exposed throat on his returning stroke.
CLANG! Parries an overhead swing. Nash pitches his body into his off-fist and clocks the bandit square in the jaw. The man crumples, blade clattering to the floor.
Nash spits on his badge. Then thrusts the blade down into his dome. THUNK!
A spurt of blood.
The room erupts with a strange solution of joy and horror. Many people run from the tavern, wailing, while a few cheer whistle for the unnamed swordmaster.
Nash turns to the woman. Approaches her.
He squats beside her and places a hand on her shoulder. "Are you okay?"
Her eyes flutter. "Who..." A moment passes, and she does not finish the thought.
Nash hoists her up onto his shoulder.
(set: $swords to 'no')(set: $badges to 'no')
[["Vad, loot the bodies."]]
[[Leave.]]
Better to have one madman at your back than two, Nash reckons. He faces the left, brandishing the knife.
The bandits skid around the table and Nash leaps upon them.
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! Nash lashes out in a furious barrage. The two man scramble to fend him off. He is pushing them back. He feels the heat rising in him. Rage building. He probes their defenses deftly, whipping back and forth between their guards at all angles.
SPLICK! His chest ignites in a roar of pain. He drops his knife and lowers his gaze. A longsword sticks out through his chest, tunic ripped and tented around the crimson tip.
The crowds gasp and cry. Vadolier squeals, gripping the edge of his seat.
“SILENCE!” Shouts the killer, and the susurrus dies down to an uneasy murmur. The men disengage from their target. He slumps unceremoniously to the ground.
Suddenly, the warmth saps out of the room. The brigands stir worriedly. The embers snuff out in the hearth. The candles on the tables flicker ominously, and for a moment, the blue of midnight hums in the darker corners of the tavern.
The men back away from the cadaver.
[[Exit Nash’s body.]]
One current endpoint. Kind of the joke/comedy route, this path will just have stuff about him writing poetry and "pick the next line" segments.
One current endpoint. The only way to continue the adventure without the Crimson Rider, this path will focus on something like the "main story," with only Nash and Vad.
Nash makes his way around several tables undetected. One of the bandits grunts. Nash freezes. But they seem wholly entranced by Vad's performance. Whether it is annoyance or amusement which now tickles them, Nash is concerned.
He is positioned behind them, now, but still a ways away.
One of the brigands whips out a handaxe and raises it aloft. Poised for Vadolier. He winds up.
[["NO! STOP!"]]<!---
[[Keep silent and approach.]]--->
Nash stalks around to the half-conscious woman while Vadolier expounds on his magical abilities. A truly strange boy. But a good one.
He reaches her undetected. One of the brigands grunts at Vad. Nash cannot decide if it sounds like annoyance or amusement.
[[Search the woman.]]
[[Pick her up and retreat.]]
A shimmer from the lip of her boot. Nash slips a hand up her leg and produces a knife.
The affected brigand works a handaxe free from his belt and brandishes it overhead, toward Vadolier.
Nash leaps up over the table, winging the knife at the attacker.
THUD! It impales his forearm, and his fingers go limp around the haft of the axe. He screams.
Before the others get their bearings, Nash is upon them. The nearest man goes for his sword, but Nash knees his arm. The blade resets in its scabbard.
He reaches up and plucks the handaxe from the arm raised aloft. Brings it down on the nearest man's neck.
THUNK! His head rolls.
SPLACK! Nash hacks it into the original wielder's throat. He tilts back in a thrashing fountain of blood.
The last man barely clears his sword from its sheath by the time Nash turns on him. Under the blade, Nash kicks him in the solar plex. He keels forward weakly.
Nash snatches up his sword with his offhand and lets his arms cross over each other elbow-to-elbow.
When the man looks up, Nash lashes his arms forward and the axehead and blade cross back, slicing through either side of his neck. SHOOF!
The room erupts with a strange solution of joy and horror. Many people run from the tavern, wailing, while a few cheer whistle for the unnamed warrior.
Nash drops his weapons and hustles over to the woman.
He places a hand on her shoulder. "Are you okay?"
Her eyes flutter. "Who..." A moment passes, and she does not finish the thought.
Nash hoists her up onto his shoulder.
(set: $swords to 'no')(set: $badges to 'no')
[["Vad, loot the bodies."]]
[[Leave.]]
As Nash lifts her up, the affected brigand produces a handaxe and wings it at Vad. The boy freezes, mortified.
THUNK! It lands between his eyes. He falls back lifelessly in a puff of blood and brain matter. Nash wails, horrified. "VAD!" He drops the woman back into her chair.
The bandits start, turning toward him. Before he can react, another one whips out a knife and hurls it through the air.
THUD! It sticks in Nash's chest. He grits his teeth. Grabs the hilt of the knife. Begins pulling it out. His chest is unstoppered, and blood rushes out over his tunic. He gasps, knees giving out, and falls back.
The crowds gasp and cry.
“SILENCE!” Shouts the squad leader, and the susurrus dies down to an uneasy murmur.
But the bandits grow uneasy as well. The warmth saps out of the room. The embers snuff out in the hearth. The candles on the tables flicker ominously, and for a moment, the blue of midnight hums in the darker corners of the tavern. The men draw their weapons.
[[Exit Nash’s corpse.]]
You rise from the body, yourself once more. A shimmering, twisting orb of golden irridescence. Gold trails of mist swirl around your center and drip up out of the body beneath.
The color slowly drains out of the room. Men and women grow into a panicked tumult. But not a single eye lands on you.
Nash was good fun, and a good man. It is a shame he died. A shame that perhaps you twisted his fate toward that end. But you have felt this before. It is a familiar guilt. The Vestige Curse. And you know that only concern now which truly demands your attention is that grave and punctual choice.
Before you two strong wills now stand at uncertain balance. The bandit leader, Yatsen. A powerful man. His eyes set on the prize of the century. What riches, rewards and positions would befit the captor of the Pyreking's most reviled adversary? The Crimson Rider.
Erhimorsa, they used to call her. Now in her darkest night. After all she knew and loved failed her, and her most elaborate schemes crumbled to dust before her eyes. Undoubtedly the most intelligent, skilled and powerful of any soul you've seen before. You could do so much with her.
[[Enter Yatsen's body]]
[[Enter Erhimorsa's body]]
<!--- Cease --->
The room freezes for a moment, and the attacker spares a glance back toward Nash. But he does not seem moved. He throws.
THUNK! The axe lands between Vad's eyes. He falls back lifelessly in a puff of blood and brain matter. Nash wails, horrified. "VAD!"
Before he can react, another bandit whips out a knife and hurls it through the air.
THUD! It sticks in Nash's chest. He grits his teeth. Grabs the hilt of the knife. Begins pulling it out. His chest is unstoppered, and blood rushes out over his tunic. He gasps, knees giving out, and falls back.
The crowds gasp and cry.
“SILENCE!” Shouts the squad leader, and the susurrus dies down to an uneasy murmur.
But the bandits grow uneasy as well. The warmth saps out of the room. The embers snuff out in the hearth. The candles on the tables flicker ominously, and for a moment, the blue of midnight hums in the darker corners of the tavern. The men draw their weapons.
[[Exit Nash’s corpse.]]
Nash steels himself and stalks forward.
The bandit throws.
THUNK! The axe lands between Vad's eyes. He falls back lifelessly in a puff of blood and brain matter.
The multitudes howl and cry terrible pangs of fear.
The attacker grunts again. Satisfied. The others snicker to buy Nash another precious moment.
And just like that, he is upon them.
He flicks a knife from the nearest brigand's belt and needles it in and out of his upper-left back. The man stumbles forward with a cry as Nash slashes the next man's throat.
The third has only begun to draw his weapon by the moment that Nash spins to meet him.
THUCK! His plants it in the man's right eye. The body folds. Nash kicks it away, ripping the knife out for himself.
He swallows, shambling over to Vad's corpse. A still-occupied table.
"Find him good soil." Nash remarks to the horrified denizens of Vadolier's death stage. One man quivers a nod, aghast.
He produces a crimson rag from his back pocket and takes it to the dripping bloody knife. Then approaches the woman.
He kicks her leg. "Hey."
Her eyelids flutter. "Who..." But she does not finish the thought. Nash tucks a relatively clean knife into his boot.
Looks like alcohol poisoning. Nothing he can't nurse. And she needs hiding, or else she'll be found again.
Well, this is one way to //change things up//, he supposes.
[[Take her away.]]
One current endpoint. The story continues with Nash and the Crimson Rider, without Vadolier.
Yatsen settles to a calm and exhales. The orange glow of life returns slowly to the room.
A pitiful whimpering noise surfaces. Vadolier. Who? Vadolier. The boy. Yatsen wonders for a moment how he suddenly knows his name. Strange. But that's right, that boy was sitting next to the man they just killed.
Nash. Nash? How --
Oh, what's the point?
Yatsen indicates the woman with a gesture of his weapon.
"Get her."
His two men, Permix and Nerel, move in on either side of her and begin to lift. A momentary and - Yatsen notes - quite soothing silence falls over the room.
[[Help them lift her.]]
[[Keep watch over the area.]]
Her eyelids shoot open. An ounce of precious awareness.
Her mind is a storm of blurred images and slurred echoes. The world around is a jigsaw puzzle.
A pitiful whimpering noise surfaces. Vadolier. Who? Vadolier. The boy. She tries to wonder how she suddenly knows his name. It's no use. But sure enough, a boy quietly sobs nearby.
She blinks. And what's this? A corpse?
Nash. Who? Oh, what's the point?
Three men, blades drawn. She almost surmises that "Nash" was trying to protect her somehow, from the positioning of it all. And the blue badge on the armed men's lapels. A visual cue rooted so deep within her core that it strikes harder than any clue that her poison-addled mind could hope to decode.
And they are rounding on her.
She has to kill them. She lashes out in an ungainly spasm, but finds her body entirely uncooperative. She grits her teeth and sets her mind against the thick fog.
[[Leap up<-plae up ot a dnagtis oistonip]]
[[Prop up<-oywsll oppr thirpug]]
[[Stay still<-syat lilst dan do tonighn]]
Tears blur Vad's vision. He knows only pain.
Nothing is right.
This isn't how it's supposed to be.
Nash was his friend. His protector. The only person he could ever rely on. The only person who had not betrayed him.
Pyres burn them. Pyres burn them all.
[[Kill (die)<-KILL.]]
[[Kill (die)<-KILL.]]
[[Kill (die)<-KILL.]]
[[Kill (die)<-KILL.]]
[[Kill (die)<-KILL.]]
[[Kill (die)<-KILL.]]<!--- A way for Vad to die and Ehrimorsa get captured...
[[Fight it 2<-Fight it.]]--->
Double-click this passage to edit it.
Erhimorsa licks her legs up in an attempt to jump to her feet.
SLAM! She thrashes straight into the floor. Her face smacks on the wood. She recoils and roils, lip split. Bleeding.
"Oy! Easy, now!" Yatsen yelps. The men file in around her. Two sheathe their weapons and grasp at her with filthy hands.
[[ATTACK!<-CTAKAT!]]
[[Bide...<-Dbie...]]
The Crimson Rider slams her palms down on the hardwood and grunts. She flexes her arms, rising up onto wobbly knees.
The bandits fidget, adjusting their grips on their weapons. One swallows.
Good to see that her persona still demands some fear. Even in this sorry state.
She frantically works her clouded mind for another moment. Blessedly, the madness has notched down a rung.
[[Intimidate<-Imatindite thme.]]
[[Knife<-Kfien.]]
Erhimorsa holds still while the world shifts in throbbing waves.
The men file in around her, sifting in and out of focus. Two sheathe their weapons and grasp at her with filthy hands.
[[ATTACK!<-CTAKAT!]]
[[Bide...<-Dbie...]]
No matter how intoxicated, Morsa has an undeniable alacrity.
SHUCK! She swipes a knife from her sleeve and plunges it toward one of the unarmed men. Yatsen, was it? SPLICK! It connects with his neck. He gurgles a wordless scream.
Perhaps she is lucky. The man falls back. But then again, perhaps she is not.
WHOOM! On her other side, the armed bandit arcs his blade down upon her. THUNK!
The people wail and a few begin fleeing out the door. Others remain transfixed. Paralyzed by horror. The bandits back away again in revery.
They've killed the Crimson Rider, after all.
[[Exit Erhimorsa's body.]]
The two hoist her arms up over their necks. They stand side by side. She dangles in between, legs trailing limply on the hardwood floor. They turn to the door.
They seem distracted by the task of carrying her, and the third man - Yatsen, was it? - scans the tavern, back turned. Now or never.
[[Salm tiehr hades.]]
The tension in the tavern is palpable. Are these bandits mad? Has an arrest just become a killing spree? All eyes fall upon them, and as you rise from the Crimson Rider's still-warm body.
None is more contemptuous than that of the young lad, Vadolier. He cries, silently praying for his dearest friend. But there is an old anger in him, boiling up to the surface. Some immortal well of rage hidden in the twisted fabric of the soul.
Most peculiar. Most enticing.
[[Enter Vadolier's body<-Enter Vadolier.]]
Tears blur Vad's vision. He knows only pain.
Nothing is right.
This isn't how it's supposed to be.
Nash was his friend. His protector. The only person he could ever rely on. The only person who had not betrayed him.
Pyres burn them. Pyres burn them all.
[[KILL.]]
[[KILL.]]
[[KILL.]]
[[KILL.]]
[[KILL.]]
[[KILL.]]<!---
[[Fight it.]]--->
Vad's face becomes a storm of silence. So much louder it seems than his sobbing. To keep it in. Razor winds whipping at the inside of his skull.
Kill.
He wobbles to his feet. Shambles forward.
No one seems to notice him.
The bandits busy themselves peeling up the woman from off the floor. They prop her corpse between them. Share the burden.
Vad swallows. He comes upon the closer man. Pulls a knife silently from his belt.
It slides just as easily into his back. A black river of blood runs down like plunging shadows. And Vad unleashes the storm.
He yells, bloodshot eyes bulging. Shoves the bleeding bandit over into his friend.
SHINK! The three bodies collapse in a heap. One dead, one dying, one stunned. Vad knows there are important distinctions to be made here, but his faculties are not so cooperative.
He plunges down over the mound, arms flailing. He's forgotten which hand wields the knife, but it's no matter. It deals the same damage this way.
SLICK! SLACK! SLINK! Gouts of blood trail up with every strike. The pounding and thrashing is drowned out by Vadolier's cries of anguish and vindication.
Minutes pass. Vad does not slow. He does not stop. His throat is parched and dry and coarse, but still he screeches madly.
He swears a solemn oath of revenge for his master. His king. His God. Not this. Not just on these pawns. On their own master. Their own God. And whatever heathen law should brook such atrocities.
He feels his mind snapping. His spirit scraping away. His person ripping apart. And he lets it.
He lets himself lose what precious little he has left. Any trivialities which stand to hinder. He gives himself up to the abyss. Sells his soul for naught but to be rid of it.
And screams.
[[Scream.]]
Vad keeps a white-knuckled grip on his body. He grinds his teeth. He gnashes his teeth. He screams into closed lips. He weeps. He lets his mind storm and reap and burn and scour and bleed.
It was Nash who took pity on him. When he was naught but a pulp. Beaten and stick-thin, half buried in soot and mud. Nash rescued him. Why could he not do the same? Why could he not rescue Nash?
He was only ever weak. Only ever nothing.
He sits and watches idly as they cart off the corpse of that awful woman. Awful not for anything she was or seemed or did. She had even killed one of the FUCKING EMPYRE DOGS.
She was awful simply because she existed in this one instance - this one place and time and event that cascaded into the death of the only single thing in reality for which Vad cared.
So he hates. Himself most of all. If he had ever been good - ever been competent - he could have helped. Two on three? No big difference. Whichever side has Nash wins there. And Vad could have supplied those odds. Should have.
Once the bandits are gone and escaped into the black of night, the people leave in a great hurry. All joy replaced by new fears and horrors. And Vad wails over Nash's corpse.
Howls into the emptiness of midnight.
He feels his mind snapping. His spirit scraping away. His person ripping apart. And he lets it.
He swears a solemn oath of revenge for his master. His king. His God. He lets himself lose what precious little he has left. Any trivialities which stand to hinder. He gives himself up to the abyss. Sells his soul for naught but to be rid of it.
And screams.
[[Scream.]]
The following day, in the quarters above the tavern. Vadolier sits silent. The barkeeper, Corrig, sits beside him. Puts a spoon to his lips.
"Come now, child. you must eat." She assures.
Vad has not spoken - has not recovered - from the night before. His mind is numb and tattered. But some things are returning to him. Slowly.
He clamps down on the spoon.
She gave him a bed for the night, but he did not sleep.
She lowers the utensil and stoops to look in his eyes.
She is kind. Vad is kind as well, he thinks. He was, at least. It is a good thing to have in common with someone.
They share a moment of looking. If the soul can heal, then Vad expects it does so one stitch at a time. Perhaps this moment is one of them.
Vad looks down into his hands. He finds his voice. "Why did you bury them?"
She raises an eyebrow. Takes a calculating breath. "I suppose it's not good for business, the longer you've corpses strewn about."
"You didn't have to bury them." Vad replies. His voice is flat. Emotionless.
"Perhaps it was just... the right thing to do."
He looks at her. "Not according to the Empyre." Burning has been standardized as the proper social and religious ritual for the past century. "But perhaps you don't support the Empyre."
Corrig silently sizes him up for a minute. "Such a thing would be heresy."
This was a familiar dance between passive rebels. To risk outing one's own progressive ideals was foolhardy at best. But Vad had no more patience for dancing.
[["I want to join the rebellion."]]
[["I'm going to kill the Pyreking Aulkreth."]]
Vad's face becomes a storm of silence. So much louder it seems than his sobbing. To keep it in. Razor winds whipping at the inside of his skull.
Kill.
He wobbles to his feet. Shambles forward.
No one seems to notice him.
Two of the bandits busy themselves lifting up the woman. She is limp.
The third remains alert, scanning the area, blade in hand. His eyes fall on Vad. He pauses.
Vad continues forward in his contemptuous stupor.
He dashes forward, reaching for a blade in the belt of the nearest bandit. But the sentinel is too fast, and he cuts off the boy.
"Now what do you think you're doing?" He squeaks. Long nose and filthy face. Yatsen.
Yatsen? How does he know that? Vad pushes away the thought, raising his fists in defense.
SLACK! Yatsen slaps the blade into Vad's collarbone. A messy swing, but more than enough. Vad crumples down in a thick puff of blood.
More wailing and shouting from around the room. The carrier bandits drop the woman on the floor and draw their weapons once more, suddenly alerted.
Yatsen slices down again. Another splash of blood. And Vad is extinguished.
[[Exit Vadolier's body.]]
Vad keeps a white-knuckled grip on his body. He grinds his teeth. He gnashes his teeth. He screams into closed lips. He weeps. He lets his mind storm and reap and burn and scour and bleed.
It was Nash who took pity on him. When he was naught but a pulp. Beaten and stick-thin, half buried in soot and mud. Nash rescued him. Why could he not do the same? Why could he not rescue Nash?
He was only ever weak. Only ever nothing.
He sits and watches idly as they cart off that awful woman. Awful not for anything she was or seemed or did. By principle, she even stands opposed to these FUCKING EMPYRE DOGS.
She is awful simply because she existed in this one instance - this one place and time and event that cascaded into the death of the only single thing in reality for which Vad cared.
So he hates. Himself most of all. If he had ever been good - ever been competent - he could have helped. Two on three? No big difference. Whichever side has Nash wins there. And Vad could have supplied those odds. Should have.
Once the bandits are gone and escaped into the black of night, the people leave in a great hurry. All joy replaced by new fears and horrors. And Vad wails over Nash's corpse.
Howls into the emptiness of midnight.
He feels his mind snapping. His spirit scraping away. His person ripping apart. And he lets it.
He swears a solemn oath of revenge for his master. His king. His God. He lets himself lose what precious little he has left. Any trivialities which stand to hinder. He gives himself up to the abyss. Sells his soul for naught but to be rid of it.
And screams.
[[Scream.]]
"Turn around. And walk away." She feels her eyelids threaten to flutter. Holds them open with an iron grip.
"And you--" One brigand scoffs.
"I WILL TEAR YOU LIMB FROM LIMB!" She screams. No response. Good. "Do you know why they call me the Crimson Rider?"
The men stand in uncertain limbo. Apparently not.
"Fairfallow's Turn on the Brace of the Apscowl. I rode against forty men with three of my own. By the end of it, not an inch of me was dry. Blood lay so thick upon my face and hands that I was red for weeks. My horse as well. The blood lathered my eyes. All I could see were shapes within the red curtain. I killed my own men that day, I suspect, in the heat of battle. And their blood lies upon me still, corpus and cor. But I did not hesitate. I do not hesitate. I would do it again to keep my momentum. I would do it again if it meant the death of my enemy. Ask yourselves: what makes you greater than forty on the riverroad? And go on. Try me. I would welcome death. Can you say the same?"
The brigands exchange a nervous glance and a few whispered words.
PTEW! She spits at them. "COME ON!" Pounds her chest.
WHICK! She whips a knife out from under her left sleeve. She holds it up to her own collarbone and slices a deep cut. Crimson rushes down into her tunic. She begins walking toward the bandits.
They flounder, aghast. People gasp and flinch all around.
She runs the blade up the back of her forearm. Blood wells and pours from the gash.
"TAKE THE CRIMSON RIDER IN ALL HER GLORY!" She screeches, and brandishes the glistening knife before her. Drawing close.
And in a moment, the men turn tail and flee. Their boots scrape against the floor in unbridled haste. The door SLAMS behind them.
Erhimorsa freezes in place. Really? That worked?
What the hell was that?
From some shallow part of her consciousness, she thinks she hears something like a cheer roar to life in the tavern. But the blood loss and alcohol poisoning prove too much. Her eyes droop and vision falters.
She wobbles. And falls.
All reality fades to black. And the world is nothing for some time.
[[Wake up.]]
Erhimorsa rips a knife out from her sleeve. Brandishes it.
Yatsen scoffs and continues toward her.
"Put it down, Rider. You're in no condition to fight."
She feels the hatred boiling up. Lets it burn away an inch of the drunken fog.
She surges forward and plants the knife directly in his throat.
KISHH! A spray of blood. He falls back, clutching his neck.
BOOM! BOOM! Morsa hears her heat throbbing against her skull. Her vision darkens in unruly fits. Sweat beads upon her face. She grits her teeth and raises the knife defiantly.
They look scared.
She is near collapse. Hangs on by a thread.
//Just a few... more moments...//
One of the men whispers to the other, and they begin turning.
Erhimorsa grows increasingly blind to the dark of fatigue, but grips her body like iron.
The men turn and run.
Only when she hears the door SLAM shut does Erhimorsa allow herself respite. She crumples to the floor.
And slumbers for a long while in that endless black.
[[Wake up.]]
Ehrimorsa stirs from her slumber. So bleary. SO BRIGHT.
She clamps her eyes shut. From somewhere in the room, a voice gouges her ears.
"COME ON, NOW. WAKE UP."
Erhimorsa holds up a hand. Movement is torture. She whispers. "Please. Don't yell."
"I'M NOT YELLING. YOU'RE WHISPERING."
Existence is pain. Is this hell? Has the Pyreking killed her? Or worse, taken her alive?
Her heart hammers. She sits up in a tremulous fit. Forces her eyes open. The light sears them. They well and tear up.
But it is not the Pyreking crouching over her. Or one of his deadmen. As the throbbing blind subsides, Erhimorsa pauses. She is on a bed. Linen sheets. A comely young woman sits beside her. Where does Ehrimorsa know her from? Some deeply hidden memory.
"How are you feeling?"
"Awful." Morsa admits.
"You're lucky to be alive, after last night." The woman says.
Last night. She laid assault to the Pyreking's capital. Cut through all of their defenses. Destroyed the watchpyres and broke the gates. Everything went so well, until... the memories muddle.
"Did I do it? Did I kill him?" Perhaps this is the dawn of the new era. More heaven than hell.
The woman's face falls. No? No. No... Of course she hasn't killed the Pyreking. She would remember that. This is a hangover. A particularly wicked one. Meaning something disastrous happened last night.
"I'm sorry, Ms. Crimson Rider..." The woman does not look her in the eyes. "But according to you, last night... the rebellion is dead. You were the only survivor of the siege."
It hits Erhimorsa like a fist in the gut. She remembers. Fleeing through the hillside. Storming into the bar, bleeding from her shoulder. She looks down. The wound is patched.
But nothing before that.
What of Erhimorn? What of her brother?
[["Did I say anything else?"]]
[["I have to go."]]
You rise up, face-to-face with Yatsen's cruel expression. Blind as he is to your presence.
Another one down. Erhimorsa stirs, facedown, lip split and bloodied.
The crowds begin buzzing furiously. Working into quite the commotion.
[[Enter Yatsen's body<-Enter Yatsen.]]
[[Enter Erhimorsa's body<-Enter Erhimorsa.]]
Yatsen scans the room warily. Time to go.
"Grab her!" He yells. "Let's get out of here!"
His men, Permix and Nerel, scramble to retrieve Erhimorsa. Erhimorsa? Had he always known her name?
There is roaring now from the crowds, and some people have begun to flee.
Yatsen swivels his neck nervously as his men begin for the exit.
[["Come on! Let's go!"<-Leave.]]
Her eyelids shoot open. An ounce of precious awareness.
Her mind is a storm of blurred images and slurred echoes. The world around is a jigsaw puzzle.
She blinks. And what's this? Two bloody corpses decorate her environs.
Nash and Vad. Who? She wonders for a moment how she knows their names. Then she cranes her neck to look up.
Three men, blades drawn. She almost surmises that these two trying to protect her somehow, from the positioning of it all. And the blue badge on the armed men's lapels. A visual cue rooted so deep within her core that it strikes harder than any clue that her poison-addled mind could hope to decode.
And they are rounding on her.
She has to kill them. She lashes out in an ungainly spasm, but finds her body entirely uncooperative.
Two of them file in around her, sifting in and out of focus. They sheathe their weapons and grasp at her with filthy hands. She grits her teeth and sets her mind against the thick fog.
[[ATTACK 2!<-CTAKAT!]]
[[Bide...<-Dbie...]]
No matter how intoxicated, Morsa has an undeniable alacrity.
SHUCK! She swipes a knife from her sleeve and plunges it toward one of the unarmed men. WHIP! It almost connects with his neck.
WHOOM! On her other side, the armed bandit - Yatsen, was it? - arcs his blade down upon her. THUNK!
The people wail and a few begin fleeing out the door. Others remain transfixed. Paralyzed by horror. The bandits back away again in revery.
They've killed the Crimson Rider, after all.
[[Exit Erhimorsa's body 2<-Exit Erhimorsa's body.]]
No one knows where he came from. But the day they all learned his name was the same that he bathed the world in fire.
His name is Aulkreth. He has bound the nations together through fear, death and flame, and ruled with his cruel iron first for centuries.
Satellite brigand forces scout the lands on his behalf, loyal as extended limbs.
The pyre is an ever-present symbol of his regime, from the holy pyredays to his iconic public executions. It is said that after every battle, he steps into the pyres himself to become pure.
Indeed, as far back as memory reaches, he has always been warped and burned, head to toe, with no common features to speak of.
Nash considers himself an enemy of the "Empyre," but has never officially joined the resistance or taken up arms against them.
[[Adopt a sober demeanor and address Vadolier.<-Return.]]
You rise up slower this time, horrified by the gravity of your choices. And the inevitability of your path. Only one left. Murderer, marauder and Empyre dog.
Perhaps you could change him. Perhaps you could make a difference.
But you know that isn't really how it works. You will give your will to him, as he will to you. Such is the way.
In a fluster, you scan the room. So many other souls here - can none compete with the magnetism of this swine?
A soft glow from the barkeep, Corrig; but hers is not enough.
You feel yourself already inching toward him passively. There is no more fighting it.
[[Enter Yatsen (sole survivor)<-Enter Yatsen.]]
Yatsen swears under his breath. This night is not what he expected. But he supposes he should not have made any assumptions at all, considering the fact that Erhimorsa is the most wanted and dangerous fugitive in the Empyre.
Erhimorsa? Has he always known her real name?
"What should we do, Yats?" Permix asks.
It doesn't make much difference that she died. Sure, it would have been nice to earn the larger sum offered for her live capture, but either amount would do, really.
Splitting that amount three ways would be the real kicker. Perhaps he would do well to take measures against that. It isn't the first time betrayal has crossed his mind this night, but even so, now is not the time.
Yatsen clears his throat and addresses Permix.
[["Take the body."]]
[["Take her head."]]
[["Take her ear."]]
The road is easy this night. Stars smile down upon the bandits as they make their trek to Straglauer, the stronghold of the Empyre. Steep hills rise to either side of the road. The most direct path, but one largely considered impassable for the prime raiding geography it presents.
But there is nothing now to fear, for the rebellion is dead. The corpse they carry, the final nail in her coffin. The last leader. Silenced.
Indeed, it is safe here. Safe but for the single muderous thought lingering in Yatsen's mind. His group... the reward. They trudge along behind him, Erhimorsa's lifeless body slung between.
Should he be so content to split the money with these witless barbarians?
[[No. Kill the others.]]
[[Yes, Body<-Yes. Trek on to Straglauer.]]
The road is easy this night. Stars smile down upon the bandits as they make their trek to Straglauer, the stronghold of the Empyre. Steep hills rise to either side of the road. The most direct path, but one largely considered impassable for the prime raiding geography it presents.
But there is nothing now to fear, for the rebellion is dead. The severed head they carry, the final nail in her coffin. The last leader. Silenced.
Indeed, it is safe here. Safe but for the single muderous thought lingering in Yatsen's mind. His group... the reward. They trudge along behind him. Nerel holds Erhimorsa's head by her hair. Permix scans the hills idly.
Should he be so content to split the money with these witless barbarians?
[[Kill them. (head)<-No. Kill the others.]]
[[Yes. (head)<-Yes. Trek on to Straglauer.]]
The road is easy this night. Stars smile down upon the bandits as they make their trek to Straglauer, the stronghold of the Empyre. Steep hills rise to either side of the road. The most direct path, but one largely considered impassable for the prime raiding geography it presents.
But there is nothing now to fear, for the rebellion is dead. Erhimorsa was the final nail in her coffin. The last leader. Silenced. Yatsen feels her ear patting against his thigh with each sway of the pouch.
Indeed, it is safe here. Safe but for the single muderous thought lingering in Yatsen's mind. His group... the reward. They trudge along behind him.
Should he be so content to split the money with these witless barbarians?
[[Kill them. (ear)<-No. Kill the others.]]
[[Yes. Trek on to Straglauer.]]
Yatsen whips around, blade signing from its sheathe.
His men fumble in place. He rounds on them.
They drop the body a moment too late.
SLICK! He opens Permix's belly. Guts spill out. He cradles them helplessly and falls to his knees.
SLACK! Yatsen slices Nerel's throat. He collapses, blade half-cleared from its scabbard.
They fall just a few seconds after Erhimorsa.
Yatsen goes to lift her, but finds the burden too onerous. Many miles still lie before him. It would be foolish to carry her alone.
[[Continue to Straglauer.<-Take her head.]]
Yes. It would be good to have some familiar companions in Straglauer, after all.
Unfortunately, Permix has other ideas.
THUD! Nerel is dead by the time Yatsen whips about. Permix rushing. Nerel's body lies limp on the ground.
CLANG! The two men lock blades. Permix sneers.
SLANG! Permix screams wordlessly, arcing his sword in a tight crescent swipe.
Yatsen's weapon flings away, and his arms come to rest held up before him defensively. "Now hold on, Mix."
SPLICK! Permix impales him through the heart. Crimson rushes down over his tunic.
In a moment, Mix kicks the body off and flicks the blood from his blade.
[[Exit 2<-Exit Yatsen's corpse.]]
Yatsen whips around, blade signing from its sheathe.
His men fumble in place. He rounds on them.
SLICK! He opens Permix's belly. Guts spill out. He cradles them helplessly and falls to his knees. Nerel clears his blade and lashes out at Yatsen.
CLANG! Yats throws up a hasty parry.
SLANG! Nerel twists his sword in a crescent arc. Yatsen's blade flings away helplessly.
Yatsen raises his hands. "Hold now, Nerel. You--"
SPLICK! Impaled straight through the heart. A warm path of blood seeps down his tunic. Yatsen's eyelids droop.
[[Exit Yatsen's corpse.]]
Yatsen whips around, blade signing from its sheathe.
His men fumble in place. He rounds on them.
SLICK! He opens Permix's belly. Guts spill out. He cradles them helplessly and falls to his knees. Nerel clears his blade and lashes out at Yatsen.
CLANG! Yats throws up a hasty parry.
SLANG! Nerel twists his sword in a crescent arc. Yatsen's blade flings away helplessly.
Yatsen raises his hands. "Hold now, Nerel. You--"
SPLICK! Impaled straight through the heart. A warm path of blood seeps down his tunic. Yatsen's eyelids droop.
[[Exit (ear)<-Exit Yatsen's corpse.]]
There's not much to say. He's certainly not brilliant, but he's the only one around.
Nerel is nervous, but he is excited at the prospect of attaining such a bountiful prize all for himself. That's... something.
Look, he's not the most ambitious spirit you've latched onto. But you're going to have to get over that. You've had chances, okay? It's not quite right to say "you blew it," here but you //have// had your chances.
Just do it.
[[Nerel (head)<-Enter Nerel.]]
There's not much to say. He's certainly not brilliant, but he's the only one around.
Nerel is nervous, but he is excited at the prospect of attaining such a bountiful prize all for himself. That's... something.
Look, he's not the most ambitious spirit you've latched onto. But you're going to have to get over that. You've had chances, okay? It's not quite right to say "you blew it" here, but you //have// had your chances.
Just do it.
[[Enter Nerel.]]
CRACK! Morsa whips her arms forward and the two bandits collide face first. They drop in a babbling daze.
She snatches the nearest sword from its scabbard and hacks down at the two men in turn.
SPLACK! WHACK! Blood fountains up with each strike.
WHIR! She hears the rush of steel and flings herself around, blade raised. CLANG!
Yatsen snarls, nosing in beside the deadlock to glare at her.
FLOOM! She plants her shin in his groin. He clutches himself. Falls forward with an animal scheech.
THUNK! Erhimorsa spits a blade through his back. Into the floor.
Then her eyes droop and her vision falters.
She wobbles and drops to her knees. Falls forward completely.
Absolute darkness.
Erhimorsa loses consciousness for some time.
[[Wake up.]]
STRICK! Nerel cuts Yatsen's pouch free and handles it. What a prize this mark shall fetch. The reward, unimagineable. Tripled...
Nerel stalks away from Yatsen's body.
He peers up the road to Straglauer beneath that soaring canopy of stars.
[[Nerel ear.<-Continue to Straglauer.]]
Nerel pants. Backs away from Yatsen's body. What the hell was that?
He walks back to the head and lifts it gingerly. Either way, the reward has tripled. The prize will be grand, for certain.
He peers up the road to Straglauer beneath that soaring canopy of stars.
[[Nerel continue w/head.<-Continue to Straglauer.]]
Yes. It would be good to have some familiar companions in Straglauer, after all.
Unfortunately, Permix has other ideas.
THUD! Nerel is dead by the time Yatsen whips about. Permix rushing. Nerel's body lies limp on the ground. His own severed head beside Erhimorsa's.
CLANG! The two men lock blades. Permix sneers.
SLANG! Yatsen screams wordlessly, arcing his sword in a tight crescent swipe.
Permix's weapon flings away, and his arms come to rest held up before him defensively. "Now hold on, Yats."
SPLICK! Yatsen impales him through the heart. Crimson rushes down over his tunic.
In a moment, Yatsen kicks the body off and flicks the blood from his blade.
He walks back to Morsa and stoops to retrieve her head
[[Continue to Straglauer.]]
Yatsen fidgets in the dark room. Alone. The space is desolate but for one - rather uncomfortable - chair, and a massive portrait on the wall. Of the Pyreking himself, all singed and smooth, flesh mottled and contorted in horrific patterns.
The Pyreking's personal antechamber. Apparently, he insisted on meeting and rewarding Yatsen personally for his great feat.
It was an unimaginable honor. Yatsen swallows.
And waits.
Minutes pass before the door finally creaks open. And sure enough, Aulkreth shambles in behind it.
It takes everything Yatsen has to not gasp at the sight. His burns are fresh. Flesh red and black, boiling and peeling in some places.
So it is true, what they say. That he melts himself clean after every battle. And last night was quite the battle indeed, according to the Straglauer personnel. The battle the Crimson Rider fled right into Yatsen's hands.
"I am told that your name is Yatsen." He croaks, coming to stand in the center of the room. His eyes are a wild and striking blue. Strange. The portrait now poised mockingly behind him is decorated with much darker irises.
"Y-yes, your majesty." Yatsen catches himself and snaps his attention back to the man. He suddenly feels very foolish sitting, and snaps up to his feet. Bows awkwardly. He can not remember the last time he bowed.
The Pyreking laughs. "Please, sit."
[[Sit.]]
There's not much to say. He's certainly not brilliant, but he's the only one around.
Permix is mostly vacant, but he is excited at the prospect of attaining such a bountiful prize all for himself. That's... something.
Look, he's not the most ambitious spirit you've latched onto. But you're going to have to get over that. You've had chances, okay? It's not quite right to say "you blew it" here, but you //have// had your chances.
Just do it.
[[Enter Permix.]]
Yes. It would be good to have some familiar companions in Straglauer, after all.
Unfortunately, Permix has other ideas.
THUD! Nerel is dead by the time Yatsen whips about. Permix rushing. Nerel's body lies limp on the ground beside Erhimora's.
CLANG! The two men lock blades. Permix sneers.
SLANG! Permix screams wordlessly, arcing his sword in a tight crescent swipe.
Yatsen's weapon flings away, and his arms come to rest held up before him defensively. "Now hold on, Mix."
SPLICK! Permix impales him through the heart. Crimson rushes down over his tunic.
In a moment, Mix kicks the body off and flicks the blood from his blade.
[[Exit 3<-Exit Yatsen's corpse.]]
STRICK! Permix cuts Yatsen's pouch free and handles it. What a prize this mark shall fetch. The reward unimagineable. Now tripled...
Permix grunts. Stalks away from Yatsen's body. A good leader. But no longer necessary.
He peers up the road to Straglauer beneath that soaring canopy of stars.
[[Permix ear.<-Continue to Straglauer.]]
There's not much to say. He's certainly not brilliant, but he's the only one around.
Permix is mostly vacant, but he is excited at the prospect of attaining such a bountiful prize all for himself. That's... something.
Look, he's not the most ambitious spirit you've latched onto. But you're going to have to get over that. You've had chances, okay? It's not quite right to say "you blew it" here, but you //have// had your chances.
Just do it.
[[Enter Permix sever head<-Enter Permix.]]
Permix grunts. Stalks away from Yatsen's body. A good leader. But no longer necessary.
THOOK! He slices off Erhimorsa's head and stoops to pick it up. The prize will be grand, for certain.
He peers up the road to Straglauer beneath that soaring canopy of stars.
[[Permix continue.<-Continue to Straglauer.]]
Yatsen sheathes his sword and helps pull Erhimorsa's arm up over Nerel's shoulder.
Erhimorsa? Had he always known her real name?
BOOM! Vad collides with Yatsen, nearly knocking him over. He Barrels into the other three, and they tumble to the floor in a great clatter.
SHING! Vad rips a knife from Yatsen's belt. Petulant boy!
POOM! Yatsen kicks him down onto his back. Draws his longsword and executes the boy. SLACK! Straight through the collarbone. A weak spurt of blood.
SHRICK! Yatsen whips around. Behind him, among the cluster of tangled limbs, the woman has come to. And drawn a long silver knife.
[[Let her kill them. Split the reward less ways.]]
[[Stop her!]]
Yatsen turns to see the teary-eyed boy, Vadolier, sauntering lifelessly toward him.
"Now what do you think you're doing?" Yatsen scolds with a devilish charm. He readies his blade, but surely the boy would not be foolish enough to--
SHRIEK! The boy screams madly, rushing Yatsen with outstretched arms.
SPLACK! Yatsen hacks down at him. A puff of blood. He falls silent.
The men stand behind him. Alerted, but still in possession of Erhimorsa. Erhimorsa? Had he always known her name?
The crowd begins buzzing and wailing into a frenzy.
[["Come on! Let's go!"]]
The road is easy this night. Stars smile down upon the bandits as they make their trek to Straglauer, the stronghold of the Empyre. Steep hills rise to either side of the road. The most direct path, but one largely considered impassable for the prime raiding geography it presents.
But there is nothing now to fear, for the rebellion is dead. The corpse they carry, the final nail in her coffin. The last leader. Silenced.
Indeed, it is safe here. Safe but for the single muderous thought lingering in Yatsen's mind. His men would take two thirds of the reward. They trudge along behind him, Erhimorsa's unconscious body slung between.
It is helpful of them to carry her. Without them, he would not be able to transport her. Well, whole, at least. If he severs her head, and takes that as proof, he would receive the "Dead" reward. Half as much. But that's still more than the third he would get of the "Alive" reward for showing up with these two. He thinks. That's correct, right? Math is not exactly Yatsen's strongsuit.
Killing is. And he's never been afraid to kill.
Should he be so content to split the money with these witless barbarians?
[[No, alive<-No. Kill the others.]]
[[Yes, alive<-Yes. Trek on to Straglauer.]]
Yatsen pauses very deliberately.
SOOF! The knife thrusts down into Nerel. Like a spider descending on her prey. The man screams madly.
Yatsen begins stalking forward. Cold and calculating.
SHRACK! Before Permix can react, the wetted blade slips across his throat. His pain comes out as a fiendish gurgle.
Yatsen stands over the woman. His roiling, tortured friends to either side. She looks up at him. Fire in her eyes. Blood up to her wrists.
WHOOM! Erhimorsa strikes out as his leg. He leaps away.
Then jumps upon her again, lashing out with his blade.
THUNK! He lands at a crouch, longsword embedded in her throat.
Madness takes over the room all around. People begin running and screaming.
SPLACK! Yatsen finishes beheading her and stands up. Calm as the eye of a storm.
[[Continue to Straglauer.<-Leave]]
Yatsen zooms over her and brings down his blade again.
SKLAT! She grunts. The other men try to free themselves from the pile. She arc the knife toward Nerel. So much fight in this one...
SPACK! Yatsen buries his blade in her heart. Blood soaks over her shirt.
He swears under his breath as his men bustle to their feet. This night is not what he expected. But he supposes he should not have made any assumptions at all, considering the fact that Erhimorsa is the most wanted and dangerous fugitive in the Empyre.
"What should we do, Yats?" Permix asks.
It doesn't make much difference that she's dead. Sure, it would have been nice to earn the larger sum offered for her live capture, but either amount would do, really.
Splitting that amount three ways would be the real kicker. Perhaps he would do well to take measures against that. It isn't the first time betrayal has crossed his mind this night, but even so, now is not the time.
Yatsen clears his throat and addresses Permix.
[["Take the body."]]
[["Take her head."]]
[["Take her ear."]]
Yatsen whips around, blade signing from its sheathe.
His men fumble in place. He rounds on them.
They drop Erhimorsa a moment too late.
SLICK! He opens Permix's belly. Guts spill out. He cradles them helplessly and falls to his knees.
SLACK! Yatsen slices Nerel's throat. He collapses, blade half-cleared from its scabbard.
They fall just a few seconds after the woman.
Yatsen tests her weight, but indeed finds the burden too onerous. Many miles still lie before him. It would be foolish to carry her alone.
[[Continue to Straglauer.<-Take her head.]]
Yes. It would be good to have some familiar companions in Straglauer, after all.
Unfortunately, Permix has other ideas.
THUD! Nerel is dead by the time Yatsen whips about to the sound. Permix rushing. Nerel's body lies limp on the ground beside Erhimora.
CLANG! The two men lock blades. Permix sneers.
SLANG! Permix screams wordlessly, arcing his sword in a tight crescent swipe.
Yatsen's weapon flings away, and his arms come to rest held up before him defensively. "Now hold on, Mix."
SPLICK! Permix impales him through the heart. Crimson rushes down over his tunic.
In a moment, Mix kicks the body off and flicks the blood from his blade.
[[Exit 3.5<-Exit Yatsen's corpse.]]
No one knows where he came from. But the day they all learned his name was the same that he bathed the world in fire.
His name is Aulkreth. He has bound the nations together through fear, death and flame, and ruled with his cruel iron first for centuries.
Satellite brigand forces scout the lands on his behalf, loyal as extended limbs.
The pyre is an ever-present symbol of his regime, from the holy pyredays to his iconic public executions. It is said that after every battle, he steps into the pyres himself to become pure.
Indeed, as far back as memory reaches, he has always been warped and burned, head to toe, with no common features to speak of.
Nash considers himself an enemy of the "Empyre," but has never officially joined the resistance or taken up arms against them.
[[Attend to Vadolier.<-Return.]]
No one knows where he came from. But the day they all learned his name was the same that he bathed the world in fire.
His name is Aulkreth. He has bound the nations together through fear, death and flame, and ruled with his cruel iron first for centuries.
Satellite brigand forces scout the lands on his behalf, loyal as extended limbs.
The pyre is an ever-present symbol of his regime, from the holy pyredays to his iconic public executions. It is said that after every battle, he steps into the pyres himself to become pure.
Indeed, as far back as memory reaches, he has always been warped and burned, head to toe, with no common features to speak of.
Nash considers himself an enemy of the "Empyre," but has never officially joined the resistance or taken up arms against them.
[[Dwell on Nash's history.<-Return.]]
There's not much to say. He's certainly not brilliant, but he's the only one around.
Permix is mostly vacant, but he is excited at the prospect of attaining such a bountiful reward all for himself. That's... something.
Look, he's not the most ambitious spirit you've latched onto. But you're going to have to get over that. You've had chances, okay? It's not quite right to say "you blew it" here, but you //have// had your chances.
Just do it.
[[Enter Permix sever head<-Enter Permix.]]
Permix fidgets in the dark room. Alone. The space is desolate but for one - rather uncomfortable - chair, and a massive portrait on the wall. Of the Pyreking himself, all singed and smooth, flesh mottled and contorted in horrific patterns.
The Pyreking's personal antechamber. Apparently, he insisted on meeting and rewarding Yatsen personally for his great feat.
It was an unimaginable honor. Permix swallows.
And waits.
Minutes pass before the door finally creaks open. And sure enough, Aulkreth shambles in behind it.
It takes everything Yatsen has to not gasp at the sight. His burns are fresh. Flesh red and black, boiling and peeling in some places.
So it is true, what they say. That he melts himself clean after every battle. And last night was quite the battle indeed, according to the Straglauer personnel. The battle the Crimson Rider fled right into Permix's hands.
"I am told that your name is Permix." He croaks, coming to stand in the center of the room. His eyes are a wild and striking blue. Strange. The portrait now poised mockingly behind him is decorated with much darker irises.
"Y-yes, your majesty." Permix catches himself and snaps his attention back to the man. He suddenly feels very foolish sitting, and snaps up to his feet. Bows awkwardly. He can not remember the last time he bowed.
The Pyreking laughs. "Please, sit."
[[Permix sit<-Sit.]]
Permix fidgets in the dark room. Alone. The space is desolate but for one - rather uncomfortable - chair, and a massive portrait on the wall. Of the Pyreking himself, all singed and smooth, flesh mottled and contorted in horrific patterns.
The Pyreking's personal antechamber. Apparently, he insisted on meeting and rewarding Yatsen personally for his great feat.
It was an unimaginable honor. Permix swallows.
And waits.
Minutes pass before the door finally creaks open. And sure enough, Aulkreth shambles in behind it.
It takes everything Yatsen has to not gasp at the sight. His burns are fresh. Flesh red and black, boiling and peeling in some places.
So it is true, what they say. That he melts himself clean after every battle. And last night was quite the battle indeed, according to the Straglauer personnel. The battle the Crimson Rider fled right into Permix's hands.
"I am told that your name is Permix." He croaks, coming to stand in the center of the room. His eyes are a wild and striking blue. Strange. The portrait now poised mockingly behind him is decorated with much darker irises.
"Y-yes, your majesty." Permix catches himself and snaps his attention back to the man. He suddenly feels very foolish sitting, and snaps up to his feet. Bows awkwardly. He can not remember the last time he bowed.
The Pyreking grimaces. "Sit."
[[Permix sit to die<-Sit.]]
Nerel fidgets in the dark room. Alone. The space is desolate but for one - rather uncomfortable - chair, and a massive portrait on the wall. Of the Pyreking himself, all singed and smooth, flesh mottled and contorted in horrific patterns.
The Pyreking's personal antechamber. Apparently, he insisted on meeting and rewarding Yatsen personally for his great feat.
It was an unimaginable honor. Nerel swallows.
And waits.
Minutes pass before the door finally creaks open. And sure enough, Aulkreth shambles in behind it.
It takes everything Nerel has to not gasp at the sight. His burns are fresh. Flesh red and black, boiling and peeling in some places.
So it is true, what they say. That he melts himself clean after every battle. And last night was quite the battle indeed, according to the Straglauer personnel. The battle the Crimson Rider fled right into Nerel's hands.
"I am told that your name is Nerel." He croaks, coming to stand in the center of the room. His eyes are a wild and striking blue. Strange. The portrait now poised mockingly behind him is decorated with much darker irises.
"Y-yes, your majesty." Nerel catches himself and snaps his attention back to the man. He suddenly feels very foolish sitting, and snaps up to his feet. Bows awkwardly. He can not remember the last time he bowed.
The Pyreking laughs. "Please, sit."
[[Nerel sit<-Sit.]]
"I must admit that I was not planning on walking today." He begins pacing. His movements are awkward. He favors strange limb positions and posture. It is not weakness, but discomfort. The fresh burning, of course. "But this, I simply had to see. The Crimson Rider, my final adversary. Dead. The proof delivered to my doorstep."
He clears his throat. Still pacing. "So I waved away my apothecary. I limped in shambles around this manse. I consorted with gate guards and servants and working men so that I might most swiftly attain my prize."
Nerel shifts in his chair. His finger pecks at the wooden arm.
"And do you know what I found?"
Nerel furrows his brow.
The Pyreking produces Erhimorsa's ear. A manic grin warps his face. "An ear!" He giggles. "An EAR! Do you know the thing about ears, Neller?"
"N-no, your--"
"THEY ARENT MARKEDLY RECOGNIZABLE!" He hurls the ear onto the floor and stomps it. CLAP! SQUISH! CLAP! "Now why by the HAGS would you wake your Pyreking, disrupt his recovery, and subject him to minutes of unstately humiliation in order to show him AN EAR?"
Nerel flounders his mouth wordlessly. Horrified. Tears welling in his eyes.
SHRANG! Aulkreth draws a curved blade. Nerel gasps, scrambling away. The chair scoots out from under him and he falls to the floor.
Aulkreth looms above.
THOOMP! Nerel's head rolls.
[[Final Yatsen exit<-Exit Nerel's body.]]
"You are a hero, now." He states. "And I would like to add you to my personal retainer, in addition to the reward you have sought. Does this sound agreeable to you?"
Even Yatsen understands that this isn't truly a choice. He nods his head.
"Good." The Pyreking grins. A frightful sight. "But I do have one question. One very important question. And I need you to answer me with complete honesty, Yatsen."
Yatsen swallows. Nods again. "Yes?"
"Can you do that for me, Yatsen?"
"Yes."
"What did she say? Was she speaking to anyone when you found her? Did she tell you anything? Did she tell anyone anything, as far as you know?"
"No. She was black-out drunk. Alone, at a tavern. No company but a dozen empty mugs." Yatsen stammers.
"Hmm. Then what about the barkeeper? Did you see her interact with the barkeeper?"
"I suppose she must have at some point in the night. She - the barkeeper - was behind the bar when we walked in. And none did much talking after that. She - Erhimorsa - was already unconscious by then." Yatsen explains.
"And which tavern was--" Aulkreth stops short. His eyes dart aside for a moment, and he mutters something under his breath. "Did you just say Erhimorsa?"
Yatsen grips his chair. Uh oh. "Well... that's her name, isn't it?"
Aulkreth zaps forward and throttles Yatsen's neck. "You know her."
CRASH! The chair explodes as Aulkreth thrusts Yatsen to the floor. "No! I swear!" Yats squeals through the madness. "Only her name! I swear!"
"No one just knows her name. And no one should know more."
CRUNCH! Aulkreth smashes his heel into Yatsen's skull. Blood and brains splash out over the cold stone floor.
[[Final Yatsen exit<-Exit Yatsen's body.]]
"You are a hero, now." He states. "And I would like to add you to my personal retainer, in addition to the reward you have sought. Does this sound agreeable to you?"
Even Permix understands that this isn't truly a choice. He nods his head.
"Good." The Pyreking grins. A frightful sight. "But I do have one question. One very important question. And I need you to answer me with complete honesty, Permix."
Permix swallows. Nods again. "Yes?"
"Can you do that for me, Permix?"
"Yes."
"What did she say? Was she speaking to anyone when you found her? Did she tell you anything? Did she tell anyone anything, as far as you know?"
"No. She was black-out drunk. Alone, at a tavern. No company but a dozen empty mugs." Permix stammers.
"Hmm. Then what about the barkeeper? Did you see her interact with the barkeeper?"
"I suppose she must have at some point in the night. She - the barkeeper - was behind the bar when we walked in. And none did much talking after that. She - Erhimorsa - was already unconscious by then." Permix explains.
"And which tavern was--" Aulkreth stops short. His eyes dart aside for a moment, and he mutters something under his breath. "Did you just say Erhimorsa?"
Permix grips his chair. Uh oh. "Well... that's her name, isn't it?"
Aulkreth zaps forward and throttles Permix's neck. "You know her."
CRASH! The chair explodes as Aulkreth thrusts Permix to the floor. "No! I swear!" Mix squeals through the madness. "Only her name! I swear!"
"No one just knows her name. And no one should know more."
CRUNCH! Aulkreth smashes his heel into Permix's skull. Blood and brains splash out over the cold stone floor.
[[Final Yatsen exit<-Exit Permix's body.]]
"You are a hero, now." He states. "And I would like to add you to my personal retainer, in addition to the reward you have sought. Does this sound agreeable to you?"
Even Nerel understands that this isn't truly a choice. He nods his head.
"Good." The Pyreking grins. A frightful sight. "But I do have one question. One very important question. And I need you to answer me with complete honesty, Nerel."
Nerel swallows. Nods again. "Yes?"
"Can you do that for me, Nerel?"
"Yes."
"What did she say? Was she speaking to anyone when you found her? Did she tell you anything? Did she tell anyone anything, as far as you know?"
"No. She was black-out drunk. Alone, at a tavern. No company but a dozen empty mugs." Nerel stammers.
"Hmm. Then what about the barkeeper? Did you see her interact with the barkeeper?"
"I suppose she must have at some point in the night. She - the barkeeper - was behind the bar when we walked in. And none did much talking after that. She - Erhimorsa - was already unconscious by then." The bandit explains.
"And which tavern was--" Aulkreth stops short. His eyes dart aside for a moment, and he mutters something under his breath. "Did you just say Erhimorsa?"
Nerel grips his chair. Uh oh. "Well... that's her name, isn't it?"
Aulkreth zaps forward and throttles Nerel's neck. "You know her."
CRASH! The chair explodes as Aulkreth thrusts Nerel to the floor. "No! I swear!" Nerel squeals through the madness. "Only her name! I swear!"
"No one just knows her name. And no one should know more."
CRUNCH! Aulkreth smashes his heel into Nerel's skull. Blood and brains splash out over the cold stone floor.
[[Final Yatsen exit<-Exit Nerel's body.]]
You rise up.
Aulkreth pants through clenched teeth. Sweat beads on his forehead. His eyes trail up from the corpse and... stop. On you.
His aura is so cold. While the strong usually pull you in, Aulkreth actually pushes out. Like a matched magnetic force. You have never felt anything like this before.
"No..." He mutters. You hear the vibrations faintly, although the material plane is dampened to you in many ways without a human body and nervous system.
[[Enter Aulkreth.]]
As you approach, the pushing force grows stronger and stronger. It's like battling a hurricane. He backs up and begins to flee.
You rally your strength.
VOOM! You make a wicked snap at his back. CLAP! And touch.
The magnetic force dies immediately.
But you do not enter him.
THUD. The body drops.
You look down at it. What is this?
And slowly, a silver light rises from its back. A gray, glowing orb, trailing silver mist.
It hangs ominously in the air beside you. Inches away.
It's... another Vestigial? Ruling the Empyre? Enslaving her peoples? Torturing multitudes? Demanding sacrifices?
Anger boils up within you.
This is not the way! You were sent to give yourselves to these people. To help them and to forfeit any gain. But this one has taken so much. Taken so many.
You creep toward the silver orb. It edges back into a corner.
HUM. It vibrates a low and sonorous fear. Shivers.
ZAP! A bolt lashes out at you in the spirit's terror. Like lightning, but cold and white. It jolts through you. Rattles your core.
It SCREECHES out a rusty cry. Pierces the air.
You move another inch closer. It is pitiful, in the end.
[[Destroy it.]]
[[Just leave.]]
Gold and silver splash together and lock in place. Glowing, humming and frothing.
Reality grows more and more distant. The Crimson Rider, Nash, Vad and Aulkreth are distant memories. The physical world is completely vanished.
Then pain blackens your mind, and you feel the energy consuming you. Your thoughts, your faculties, your contemplation all sap away.
Until there is nothing left.
Only darkness.
[[< RETURN >]]
It is all so empty. All in vain. You can not kill one of your own. No matter how it desecrates the ancient tenets. Your wrath stills. Your mists evaporate.
You fade.
Reality grows more and more distant. The Crimson Rider, Nash, Vad and Aulkreth are distant memories. The physical world is completely vanished.
Then your mind slows. Your thoughts, your faculties, your contemplation all sap away.
Until there is nothing left.
Only darkness.
[[< RETURN >]]
"I must admit that I was not planning on walking today." He begins pacing. His movements are awkward. He favors strange limb positions and posture. It is not weakness, but discomfort. The fresh burning, of course. "But this, I simply had to see. The Crimson Rider, my final adversary. Dead. The proof delivered to my doorstep."
He clears his throat. Still pacing. "So I waved away my apothecary. I limped in shambles around this manse. I consorted with gate guards and servants and working men so that I might most swiftly attain my prize."
Permix shifts in his chair. His finger pecks at the wooden arm.
"And do you know what I found?"
Permix furrows his brow.
The Pyreking produces Erhimorsa's ear. A manic grin warps his face. "An ear!" He giggles. "An EAR! Do you know the thing about ears, Perlix?"
"P-Permix, your--"
"THEY ARENT MARKEDLY RECOGNIZABLE!" He hurls the ear onto the floor and stomps it. CLAP! SQUISH! CLAP! "Now why by the HAGS would you wake your Pyreking, disrupt his recovery, and subject him to minutes of unstately humiliation in order to show him AN EAR?"
"I - I - I--" Permix stammers. Horrified. Tears welling in his eyes.
SHRANG! Aulkreth draws a curved blade. Permix gasps, scrambling away. The chair scoots out from under him and he falls to the floor.
Aulkreth looms above.
THOOMP! Permix's head rolls.
[[Final Yatsen exit<-Exit Permix's body.]]
Nerel fidgets in the dark room. Alone. The space is desolate but for one - rather uncomfortable - chair, and a massive portrait on the wall. Of the Pyreking himself, all singed and smooth, flesh mottled and contorted in horrific patterns.
The Pyreking's personal antechamber. Apparently, he insisted on meeting and rewarding Nerel personally for his great feat.
It was an unimaginable honor. Nerel swallows.
And waits.
Minutes pass before the door finally creaks open. And sure enough, Aulkreth shambles in behind it.
It takes everything Nerel has to not gasp at the sight. His burns are fresh. Flesh red and black, boiling and peeling in some places.
So it is true, what they say. That he melts himself clean after every battle. And last night was quite the battle indeed, according to the Straglauer personnel. The battle the Crimson Rider fled right into Nerel's hands.
"I am told that your name is Nerel." He croaks, coming to stand in the center of the room. His eyes are a wild and striking blue. Strange. The portrait now poised mockingly behind him is decorated with much darker irises.
"Y-yes, your majesty." Nerel catches himself and snaps his attention back to the man. He suddenly feels very foolish sitting, and snaps up to his feet. Bows awkwardly. He can not remember the last time he bowed.
The Pyreking grimaces. "Sit."
[[Nerel sit to die.<-Sit.]]
"I want to join the rebellion."
Corrig is thrown off balance for a moment, but quickly regains her posture. Glances away. "I'm sorry, son." She stands up. "But the rebellion died last night with that woman."
"What do you mean? They... disbanded?"
"No. They... all died. In her assault earlier that evening, on the capital. She was the last one."
Vad's eyes go wide. Something like an emotion plucks at him. But this does not feel like a healing stitch. "I never helped. We never helped." He was not referring to Corrig, but she seems to take the comment to heart.
She looks down. "I thought if I buried her... if I hid the incident, the death... then there could still be some hope. The Empyre would remain unsure. And perhaps a spark could catch again. Some remaining hope." She turns and begins walking away. "But it was foolish. For none without the courage before should expect to step forward now, in the very umbra of the dark."
"I am." Vad says. She stops.
"You are a child."
"I'm going to kill him, Corrig." That did something. Her posture changes. She turns.
"How do you know my name?"
Vad swallows. He doesn't know. "Is there anything that you can give me? Information? Resources?"
She pauses. Looks him over. "I don't know if this qualifies as information, but there are the Pyre ceremonies in a few days. Two towns over. That's the only time his location is predictable, save within his fortress." Vad nods. Swallows. "And as for resources, I stripped those bodies from last night. I've got three longswords, five knifes and two axes tucked away in the storage closet..." She trails off.
"Thank you."
"But son. This is foolishness. You will die if you go. You know what they say about him. He is half phantom. Unkillable. How else would he survive the pyres? All the Crimson Rider's assaults? It's suicide."
[["I have to try."]]
[[No, the time is not yet right.]]
"I'm going to kill the Pyreking Aulkreth."
Corrig's jaw drops. She might have laughed if the statement had been more predictable. It sounds silly, after all. And not mildly pretentious. "You're mad."
"I... I believe I am." Vad swallows.
"And why are you telling me this, most fearful assassin?" There's the humor. Mockery. Vad would have laughed once. He understood the input, but found himself incapable of outputting in turn. A broken machine.
"I need to know where I can find the rebellion."
Corrig glances away. "I'm sorry, son." She stands up. "But the rebellion died last night with that woman."
"What do you mean? They... disbanded?"
"No. They... all died. In her assault earlier that evening, on the capital. She was the last one."
Vad's eyes go wide. Something like an emotion plucks at him. But this does not feel like a healing stitch. "I never helped. We never helped." He was not referring to Corrig, but she seems to take the comment to heart.
She looks down. "I thought if I buried her... if I hid the incident, the death... then there could still be some hope. The Empyre would remain unsure. And perhaps a spark could catch again. Some remaining hope." She turns and begins walking away. "But it was foolish. For none without the courage before should expect to step forward now, in the very umbra of the dark."
"I am." Vad says. She stops.
"You are a child."
"I'm going to kill him, Corrig." That did something. Her posture changes. She turns.
"How do you know my name?"
Vad swallows. He doesn't know. "Is there anything that you can give me? Information? Resources?"
She pauses. Looks him over. "I don't know if this qualifies as information, but there are the Pyre ceremonies in a few days. Two towns over. That's the only time his location is predictable, save within his fortress." Vad nods. Swallows. "And as for resources, I stripped those bodies from last night. I've got three longswords, five knifes and two axes tucked away in the storage closet..." She trails off.
"Thank you."
"But son. This is foolishness. You will die if you go. You know what they say about him. He is half phantom. Unkillable. How else would he survive the pyres? All the Crimson Rider's assaults? It's suicide."
[["I have to try."]]
[[No, the time is not yet right.]]
A wicked storm whips at the trees come nightfall, and Vad watches through the tavern window. Rain batters against it. A cold, papery sound. He adjusts the pack on his back and swallows.
A dreadful omen, to depart in such terrible conditions. But Vad has no more patience for wive's tales and superstitions. Corrig steps up beside him. A few desolate people sit scattered at the tebles behind them. Nothing compared to last night's crowd.
"Worried?" She asks.
[["Yes."]]
[["No."]]
Vad stays in the upper quarters of the tavern that night. Plotting his revenge. He tries to sleep, but only lies in the dark. Thinking. Always thinking.
He will kill the Pyreking. He will. Despite what the tales say. Despite what Corrig thinks. He feels at the knife under his pillow, and takes a deep breath.
Sleep does eventually come. And with it nightmares.
Vad dreams that Aulkreth has found him. The Pyreking, with his burned skin, warped face and frayed wits, CREAKS his door open in the black of the night.
Vad hears a storm raging outside. Lightning blares through a window. Thunder CRACKS.
The creep inches closer to him, drawing a thin, curved blade.
Vad can't move. His fear and hatred mingle into a paralyzing cocktail, exacerbated by that common grip and stupor of the dreamt body.
His grunts, pouring all of his energy into his right arm.
MOVE.
But he can not. Until he realizes that this is not a dream at all. A strike of lightning catches the Pyreking's face. As terrible as anything Vad has ever imagined.
"Where is she?" He growls. Vad hears a woman scream from somewhere in the tavern. Corrig.
Vad spasms, snatching the knife from beneath his pillow. He sits up--
CLAP! The Pyreking shifts closer, slapping the knife away.
Vad's mouth gapes in horror.
"WHERE IS SHE?" The ruler yells.
Vad says nothing. Then scrambles for the knife in another burst of motion.
Aulkreth hacks down at the boy. CRACK! Vad SCREAMS. SPLAT! Blood spatters and seeps over the bed.
[[Exit Vad, bed<-Exit Vadolier's body.]]
"Yes." Vad almost whispers it. Perhaps it is a good sign. Another stitching in his soul. He can feel fear, even if he has not the patience to heed it.
"You can still stay here. If you'd rather wait."
[["I have waited too long already. I must go."]]
[[No, the time is not yet right.<-"Perhaps... it would be best."]]
"No." Vad says. Still broken enough, it seems, for the task at hand. Good. "But I have stayed here too long already. I must go."
Corrig steps aside, and Vad goes for the door.
He pauses and looks back at her. "Thanks." He says.
She nods. "Good luck."
[[Step out.]]
"I have stayed here too long already. I must go."
"Of course." Corrig steps aside, and Vad goes for the door.
He pauses and looks back at her. "Thanks." He says.
She nods. "Good luck."
[[Step out.]]
Vad steps out. Rain immediately batters his face. A slightly acidic flavor. His clothes dampen. Soak.
He grits his teeth and starts forward.
Stops just as quickly.
Before him, three slouched and sickly ironclad knights stand behind a horrible and imposing figure dressed in black. Through the curtain of precipitation, Vad makes out a severely burned, charred and warped face.
The Pyreking. Just a few yard away. A burning surges through Vadolier. Hatred or fear, he cannot descry. He feels his mind snapping again. His soul sapping away.
[[Rush the Pyreking<-KILL.]]
[[Rush the Pyreking<-KILL.]]
[[Rush the Pyreking<-KILL.]]
[[Rush the Pyreking<-KILL.]]
[[RUN.]]
Vad dashes out into the rain.
CRACKOOM! Thunder booms in the distance.
The boy screams, ripping a knife from his sleeve.
The Pyreking sees him and raises a hand at the last moment.
SLICK! Vad takes a finger. The man recoils his hand and steps back. "KILL HIM!" He screams. "KILL HIM!" The knights draw their blades.
Vad continues rushing. WHIP! WHAP! WHACK! He swings wildly at the Pyreking. One strike catches him in the belly. He stumbles away. A red splotch plumes over his wet black coat.
The knights descend around Vadolier.
CRUNCH! SLACK! SPLICK! Their blades rise and fall on him in a fountain of blood.
[[Exit Vadolier!]]
Vad bursts through the tavern door. Panting. Rain water sopping and splashing in his haste.
Corrig, only halfway accross the room, turns with a disbelieving smirk. "Forget something?" She asks. She sees his eyes and furrows her brow. "What is it?"
The attention of the handful in the room falls upon him.
"He's here." Vad whispers. Barely audible. But a darkness falls over the tavern. Vad straightens and regains his posture. He sidles into position beside the door hinges and draws a knife. Some gape and exchange glances confusedly. Corrig scrambles toward the back of the room. Vad places a finger over his lips.
CLICK. RRRR. The door opens, covering Vad. Three knights stomp in, along with the howling fury of the storm. Slower footsteps follow. That would be Aulkreth.
Vad cringes back. A warped, burned, knobby hand curls around the edge of the door. Eases it back.
Vad grips his knife. The door swings away to reveal the Pyreking, turned profile to Vadolier. The man pauses, and turns to vad. Alert. A moment too late.
SLOOK! Vad leaps forward, impaling the Pyreking's throat.
A gurgle of blood, and they fall to the floor together in a thrashing tangle of limbs.
SLICK! SLACK! THUNK! The knife rises and falls with gouts of blood. The knights around jump and turn, drawing their weapons. The thrill of blood. Of murder. Coursing up his arms. He feels his madness returning from the night before, full force. Vad cackles a mad fit of laughter.
HE'S DONE IT! THEIR GOD IS DEAD! //NASH! LOOK! THEIR GOD IS DEAD!//
He continues stabbing. A wet and wicked orchestra.
The Pyreking's body glows. Vad slows. What's this? An eery mist sifts up off his body.
Slowly, a silver orb rises up. Face to face with Vad. It squirms away from him. So familiar. What is it?
Vad thrusts out a hand to grab it.
VOOM! A burning cold sensation shreds up his arm from his fingers. He falls dead.
[[Exit Vad's body tavern finale<-Exit Vadolier's body.]]
You whip up out of the body in the torrential storm.
You've carriend his anger within you as a sort of urgency. You feel a bit silly for it, in your ethereal form...
But why should you? If it is so pivotal that your show sympathy, then why not empathy? Why should you not be invested in the freedom of this world? In the death of the Pyreking...
Lightning strikes the horizon. You shiver with a deadly resolve. Enough passivity. Enough letting this world fall in the hands of broken men.
You SCREAM, and it manifests as a hum.
The Pyreking quints through the rain. His eyes lock on you.
He mouths something, and scrambles back away. Strange.
[[Take a knight.]]
[[Take the Pyreking.]]
The knight blinks. Searches for his name. Finds no memory. No personality. Hollow. Well, this would be an easy person to take.
You scratch away his programming. Scratch away what little he has of directives and motivations. Imprint yourself upon him.
Rain batters tinny notes against your helm.
The Pyreking coughs, doubled over beside you.
You flick your blade up over his neck. THUNK! His head rolls. There. Dead.
The other knights turn on you, readying their weapons.
You let energy surge through your limbs and lash out with inhuman speed and accuracy.
SLINK! SHING! CLACK! Your blade finds the gaps in their armor and gouges deep wounds. The men SCREAM, dropping away like flies.
You relax. Examine the carnage around. Pools of blood mingle with the rainwater beneath the knights. The Pyrking glows softly. Double take. What? The Pyreking emits an eery mist.
Slowly, a silver orb rises up from his core.
It can't be. A deep and immortal rage guts you.
[[SHED THIS BODY.]]
As opposed to the powerful spirits which typically seem to beckon and draw you in, Aulkreth emits a resisting force. No matter. You have found a will beyond which you had ever dreamt before now.
You carren forward, even as he curses and tries to flee. The force is a whirlwind against you. Your mists are ripped away.
CRACK! You tap him.
But do not enter.
He falls flat on his face. Dead.
What is the meaning of thi--
The Pyreking's corpse glows. Eery mists rise up off his body.
Slowly, a silver orb rises up from his core.
It can't be. A deep and immortal rage guts you.
Your mists swirl and lash about, mirroring the fury of the storm. Your golden light gleams and flashes like lightning.
The silver Vestigial Spirit vibrates and hums a wash of fear. The coward. The serpent. The swine.
This is not the way! You were sent to give yourselves to these people. To help them and to forfeit any gain. But this one has taken so much. Taken so many.
[[Destroy it.]]
[[Just leave.]]
The knight drops lifelessly behind you.
Your mists swirl and lash about, mirroring the fury of the storm. Your golden light gleams and flashes like lightning.
The silver Vestigial Spirit vibrates and hums a wash of fear. The coward. The serpent. The swine.
This is not the way! You were sent to give yourselves to these people. To help them and to forfeit any gain. But this one has taken so much. Taken so many.
[[Destroy it.]]
[[Just leave.]]
You zoom up, face to face with the silver orb. What new madness is this? Another Vestigial Spirit? It was a Vestigial all along? Enslaving? Torturing? Burning? Murdering?
Your mists swirl and lash about, mirroring the fury of the storm outside. Your golden light gleams and flashes like lightning.
The silver Vestigial Spirit vibrates and hums a wash of fear. The coward. The serpent. The swine.
This is not the way! You were sent to give yourselves to these people. To help them and to forfeit any gain. But this one has taken so much. Taken so many.
It inches away.
[[Destroy it.]]
[[Just leave.]]
You rise up.
Aulkreth pants through clenched teeth. Blood flecked on his forehead. His eyes trail up from the corpse and... stop. On you.
His aura is so cold. While the strong usually pull you in, Aulkreth actually pushes out. Like a matched magnetic force. You have never felt anything like this before.
"No..." He mutters. You hear the vibrations faintly, although the material plane is dampened to you in many ways without a human body and nervous system.
[[Enter Aulkreth 2<-Enter Aulkreth.]]
You carren forward, even as he curses and tries to flee. The force is a whirlwind against you. Your mists are ripped away.
CRACK! You tap him.
But do not enter.
He falls flat on his face. Dead.
You find yourself shaking slightly. You've adopted some of Vad's anger, it seems. //What is the meaning of thi--//
The Pyreking's corpse glows. Eery mists rise up off his body.
Slowly, a silver orb rises up from his core.
It can't be. A deep and immortal rage guts you.
Your mists swirl and lash about, mirroring the fury of the storm. Your golden light gleams and flashes like lightning.
The silver Vestigial Spirit vibrates and hums a wash of fear. The coward. The serpent. The swine.
This is not the way! You were sent to give yourselves to these people. To help them and to forfeit any gain. But this one has taken so much. Taken so many.
[[Destroy it.]]
[[Just leave.]]
"No." The woman says. "But that's not the end of it."
Erhimorsa raises an eyebrow.
"Three brigands came, my lady. Empyre dogs." The woman explains. "You got rid of them, but the word will spread. I imagine the Pyreking will hear tell soon enough."
"They know where I am?" Erhimorsa starts.
"Not now, precisely. We are at an inn across town."
She calms, and runs her fingers through her hair. "Then perhaps I should go." It would be very dangerous here. Very soon. If she knows the Pyreking - and she does - he will make it a personal quest to come here and suss her out himself. He is not afraid like any king of old. It all plays into his image of immortality.
With no resistance left, he will be more bold than ever. And his pride will control his blade. He will want to kill her himself. He will come...
Himself.
Erhimorsa blinks.
This presents a unique opportunity, but one that would also put the lives of this village at risk. Lives that chose to protect her. There is only one way to stop him before that happens. An opposite path.
The barkeeper scoffs. "And where will you go?"
[[Straglauer. The Pyreking's capital. "To finish what I started."]]
[["Back to the tavern. To meet him when he comes."]]
"I have to go." Erhimorsa whips covers away from her legs.
"What? Where? Why?" This barkeeper is full of questions.
"No offense, my lady. But there is only one reason I would poison myself with so much liquor in a night." She swings her legs off the side of the bed. "And that is to forget something. To forget something horrible. To be certain that I cannot harbor fear of that thing in the future. To ensure that I do not give up. That I keep fighting no matter how unstoppable the obstacle."
The woman just works her mouth silently.
"I must go and keep fighting."
"But... That's insanity. If the odds... the facts are too great... You'll die."
"That's what they tell me. Yet here I am."
"But where will you go?"
[[Straglauer. The Pyreking's capital. "To finish what I started."]]
Erhimorsa tops the crest of a hill. Late afternoon. The skies swirl with dark gray clouds. In the distance, a telltale crack of thunder BOOMS.
She wipes a smear of blood from her longsword absentmindedly. Two bodies lie mangled behind her.
Before, a great black array of spires and towers gouges the horizon. The castle of Straglauer. The ground is parched and scorched all around it. Two deadmen stand in their armor at the front gates.
Off to the side, some rubble stands at the foot of the fortress walls. It looks strangely familiar. She pauses. Blinks. Something gnaws at her.
[[REMEMBER 2<-Remember.]]
[[Continue to the gates.]]
Erhimorsa sits at a table in the tavern. Hood covering most of her face. She keeps her head down.
A wild storm wails against the windows and walls. An ominous symphony.
The barkeep leans back from a window. Makes her way toward Erhimorsa. She hoists a pitcher of water and fills Erhimorsa's glass. "No sign of them yet." She whispers.
Erhimorsa does not respond. She scans the area. Half a dozen people sit scattered and derelict throughout the room. The saddest and darkest stories of the town, she imagines. The crowd is pitiful compared to yesterday's, and for good reason. A man would have to be mad to return here so soon.
She knocks back the glass to appear normal. To fit in. But it's unlikely any of these people are paying her any attention.
The keeper goes back behind her bar. Begins fiddling with some wine bottles and tankards.
Erhimorsa glances over to the door. Just at the edge of her line of sight, beneath the thick black hood.
The knob moves. CLICK. She lowers her head. RRR! The door creaks open. The storm rushes in frantically.
CLINK! CLINK! CLINK! Three limp figures shamble into the room. Spiked iron armor. Vacant posture. Deadmen. This is it. Behind them...
Behind them, a fourth man saunters in. He eases the door shut behind him. Burned, warped features. Faceless. Haggard, grim. The singes are fresh. He must have burned himself after the battle. The rumors are not entirely true. He does not do so every time.
But it boggles her mind why he ever does it at all.
"Where is she?" He growls.
The barkeep plays with her hands nervously. She goes to speak--
"YOU KNOW WHO, WHORE!" The Pyreking snaps. Hags, he is mad. "The Crimson Rider."
She hates hearing her moniker touch his lips. She tightens her grip on her knife beneath the table.
Aulkreth gestures toward the barkeeper. "Make her talk."
Two of his deadmen stalk toward the bar. The woman freezes. Eyes wide. Erhimorsa chews her lip.
Aulkreth begins rounding tables, examining faces. Grunting.
He isn't moving fast enough. The deadmen have nearly reached her...
[[Bide.]]
[[Attract his attention.]]
CLINK. One of the deadmen grabs the barkeeper's wrist. Yanks her out over the bar. She gasps.
The other grabs her hair. Pulls her up. She grunts a high note.
The third deadman follows close behind Aulkreth as he weaves between the tables.
SLAM! They smash the young woman's face against the bar. A string of blood rises as the pull her back up. A tooth CLATTERS down. Erhimorsa winces. A fire rising in her gut.
The woman sobs.
The Pyreking draws closer. Within a few yards. Striking distance.
SLAM! They batter her against the bar a second time. Erhimorsa twitches with rage.
[[Attack him.]]
[[Just a bit closer...]]
Erhimorsa shifts in her seat. It squeaks against the floor.
She feels the Pyreking pause. Turn toward her. His footsteps fall a touch faster.
She adjusts her grip on the knife.
He comes very close to her side. She feels the fabric of her clothes touching his. His cold, gray aura. She almost shivers.
He places a hand on her hood.
Erhimorsa leaps to her feet, pumping out her arm. The knife SCREAMS toward his neck!
She looks into his eyes. She wants to see the fear. Wants to see the light leave them. Wants to //hurt// him.
But she finds something else. She brings the knife to his throat and freezes. Grabs his neck to hold him in place. The deadmen by the bar turn on their heels. Draw their weapons.
The nearest one jumps and places a hand on his own.
"Stop..." Aulkreth says quietly. To whom he spoke, Erhimorsa does not know. She does not care. She stares into his eyes.
And sees a deep, piercing ocean of blue.
[[REMEMBER.]]
[[JUST KILL HIM.]]
Erhimorsa leaps to her feet, pumping out her arm. The knife SCREAMS toward Aulkreth's neck!
She looks into his eyes. She wants to see the fear. Wants to see the light leave them. Wants to //hurt// him.
But she finds something else. She brings the knife to his throat and freezes. Grabs his neck to hold him in place. The deadmen by the bar turn on their heels. Draw their weapons.
The nearest one jumps and places a hand on his own.
"Stop..." Aulkreth says quietly. To whom he spoke, Erhimorsa does not know. She does not care. She stares into his eyes.
And sees a deep, piercing ocean of blue.
[[REMEMBER.]]
[[JUST KILL HIM.]]
"STOP!" The woman wails between sobs.
The Pyreking freezes and turns. "Tell me. Where. SHE. IS!"
Erhimorsa plants the knife against his neck. "Right behind you." She says. Slices.
A spray of blood.
The two deadmen let go of the barkeep and draw their weapons.
Erhimorsa lets Aulkreth fall to the floor. GURGLING.
She plants the knife in the eyeslit of the nearest deadman's helm. He crumples back wordlessly. Morsa snatches his sword.
The two rush at her from across the room.
She dashes toward them. Strides up a table and leaps off it.
Erhimorsa soars through the air, longsword swinging.
CLANG! She bats away their blades midair and SLAMS into them.
CLINK! SHINK! They topple easily to the floor. Their balance is their weakest attribute.
SKLAT! She beheads the one on the left. SPLICK! Impales the last one's throat. Blood pools beneath them.
Morsa huffs, turning back to Aulkreth. He twists and roils for a moment, then slows to a stop.
Blood drenches his neck and coat. Total silence. All around, people are frozen with fear, wonder and confusion. A crazed smile breaks over Erhimorsa's face.
Then his body begins to glow. She pauses. What in Fairfallow is this?
An eery mist sifts up off his body.
Slowly, a silver orb rises up. How strange... how familiar.
She takes a step toward it, and it moves slightly toward her. Around the room, no one else seems to be watching the orb. They go between Erhimorsa and the bodies. Can they not see it?
Is it him? She has to kill it! She raises her blade--
CRACK! It zooms forward and connects with her arm.
[[OUT]]
Erhimorsa's body crumples away from you. You hover in place, then lower a touch.
And come face to face with the silver orb.
It can't be. A deep and immortal rage guts you.
Another Vestigial? Did all of this?
Your mists swirl and lash about, mirroring the fury of the storm. Your golden light gleams and flashes like lightning.
The silver Vestigial Spirit vibrates and hums a wash of confusion and rage. The coward. The serpent. The swine.
This is not the way! You were sent to give yourselves to these people. To help them and to forfeit any gain. But this one has taken so much. Taken so many.
It lashes out at you. ZAP! CRACK! CRASH! Cold lighting bristling. Shocks of pain.
The insolent fool. The mad Spirit.
[[Destroy it.]]
Erhimorsa panted. A wild grin between the stripes of fresh blood upon her face. Pyreking Aulkreth lay still of the floor of his inner sanctum. Sconces blazed on the intricately patterned stone walls.
She looked up at Erhimorn. "We did it."
He stood beside the corpse, catching his breath. He swallowed. Matched her gaze. His eyes were beautiful. "//You// did it, sis."
She laughed a light, heady laugh. It was surreal. The joy...
Turned bitter in her mouth.
Erhimorn crumpled over. Expressionless. The flames flickered low in the room. He put his head in his hands and began groaning.
Morsa reached out a hand. Pivoted forward. "Morn? What is--"
He SCREAMED. A rusty howl of pure torture. A ragged screech. Nothing she had ever heard before from a man with all his limbs attached.
She scrambled down to his side, clamping his shoulders. "ERHIMORN? ERHIMORN!"
There he knelt for some time.
He cried and yelled and babbled until his throat tore, and blood flecked upon his lips.
"ERHIMORN!" She yelled, sweat pouring down her face. She positioned her legs and tried to lift him. To her surprise, he rose.
He leaped. He ran. WAILING. Straight for the fires on the walls. She sprinted after him. "ERHIMORN!"
TSS! He stuck his frothing, spasming face directly into the flames. He croaked and muttered in strange tongues.
"ERHIMORNE! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" She grabbed his shoulder and shook him. Yanked him. Pulled him! "WHAT ARE YOU--"
WHOOM! He spun away from the fire, falling silent. She almost fell back from the give.
His head twitched to one side. His hair burned and singed in motley tufts. Flesh sloughed off from his chin. Blackened and bloody. Warped skin, welting and boiling. He looked almost like...
Her heart seized in pitch-black terror. Save his eyes, he looked just like the Pyreking Aulkreth. His piercing blue eyes.
"Not Erhimorn anymore." He growled. His lips stretched back in a horrible grin. A patch of melted flesh SLAPPED to the floor.
And Erhimorsa ran.
[[New choice.<-Return.]]
There is a reason she forgot.
She slices the blade across his throat. A spray of blood.
Erhimorsa lets Aulkreth drop. GURGLING.
Before the nearest deadman can react, she plants the knife in the eyeslit of his helm. He crumples back wordlessly. Morsa snatches his sword.
The two rush at her from across the room.
She dashes toward them. Strides up a table and leaps from it.
Erhimorsa soars through the air, longsword swinging.
CLANG! She bats away their blades midair and SLAMS into them.
CLINK! SHINK! They topple easily to the floor. Their balance is their weakest attribute.
SKLAT! She beheads the one on the left. SPLICK! Impales the last one's throat. Blood pools beneath them.
Morsa huffs, turning back to Aulkreth. He twists and roils for a moment, then slows to a stop.
Blood drenches his neck and coat. Total silence. All around, people are frozen with fear, wonder and confusion. A crazed smile breaks over Erhimorsa's face.
Then his body begins to glow. She pauses. What in Fairfallow is this?
An eery mist sifts up off his body.
Slowly, a silver orb rises up. How strange... how familiar.
She takes a step toward it, and it moved slightly toward her. Around the room, no one else seems to be watching the orb. They go between Erhimorsa and the bodies. Can they not see it?
Is it him? She has to kill it! She raises her blade--
CRACK! It zooms forward and connects with her arm.
[[OUT]]
"Morsa." He grins the same awful grin.
"You foul bastard." Tears well in her eyes. She throttles him.
"Come now. Is that any way to speak to your brother?" He purs.
"You..."
"It's me... Erhimorn!" He breaks out in a gigantic smile.
[["Truly..? Erhimorn?"]]
[["Not anymore."]]
"Truly..? Erhimorn?" Morsa eases her grasp on his neck. Lowers the knife.
He pouts a scoff. THUD! Sticks a dagger in her gut. His face transforms into hideous, unsaddled joy. "OF COURSE NOT, YOU BITCH!"
He stares into her eyes as she falls. She curses him with every fiber of her self. He cackles. Hoots. Howls.
[[Exit Erhimorsa bamboozled<-Exit Erhimorsa's body.]]
"Not anymore." She purses her lips. Her hairs bristle. FLECK! She slices the blade across his throat. A spray of blood.
Erhimorsa lets Aulkreth drop. GURGLING.
Before the nearest deadman can react, she plants the knife in the eyeslit of his helm. He crumples back wordlessly. Morsa snatches his sword.
The two rush at her from across the room.
She dashes toward them. Strides up a table and leaps from it.
Erhimorsa soars through the air, longsword swinging.
CLANG! She bats away their blades midair and SLAMS into them.
CLINK! SHINK! They topple easily to the floor. Their balance is their weakest attribute.
SKLAT! She beheads the one on the left. SPLICK! Impales the last one's throat. Blood pools beneath them.
Morsa huffs, turning back to Aulkreth. He twists and roils for a moment, then slows to a stop.
Blood drenches his neck and coat. Total silence. All around, people are frozen with fear, wonder and confusion. A crazed smile breaks over Erhimorsa's face.
Then his body begins to glow. She pauses. What in Fairfallow is this?
An eery mist sifts up off his body.
Slowly, a silver orb rises up. How strange... how familiar.
She takes a step toward it, and it moves slightly toward her. Around the room, no one else seems to be watching the orb. They go between Erhimorsa and the bodies. Can they not see it? Could this have something to do with what happened that night? An invisible, intangible essence of the Pyreking?
IS IT //HIM//? She has to kill it! She raises her blade--
CRACK! It zooms forward and connects with her arm.
[[OUT]]
You whip up out of the body in a torrential storm.
You've carried her anger within you as a sort of urgency. You feel a bit silly for it, in your ethereal form...
But why should you? If it is so pivotal that your show sympathy, then why not empathy? Why should you not be invested in the freedom of this world? In the death of the Pyreking...
Lightning strikes outside. Echoes through the halls. You shiver with a deadly resolve. Enough passivity. Enough letting this world fall in the hands of broken men.
You SCREAM, and it manifests as a hum.
The Pyreking quiets his laughter and sobers. His eyes lock on you. Shock and horror squirm over his face. He scrables away from you, falling onto his backside.
[[TAKE HIM.]]
You carren forward, even as he curses and tries to flee. As opposed to most powerful men you have encountered, Aulkreth does not draw you in. In fact, he seems to pulse you away.
You battle closer and closer. The force is a whirlwind against you. Your mists are ripped away.
CRACK! You tap him.
But do not enter.
He falls flat on his back. Dead.
You find yourself shaking slightly. //What is the meaning of thi--//
The Pyreking's corpse glows. Eery mists sift up off his body.
Slowly, a silver orb rises up from his core.
It can't be. A deep and immortal rage guts you.
Another Vestigial Spirit? Did all of this?
Your fog swirls and lashes about, mirroring the fury of the storm. Your golden light gleams and flashes like lightning.
The silver Vestigial Spirit vibrates and hums a wash of confusion and rage. The coward. The serpent. The swine.
This is not the way! You were sent to give yourselves to these people. To help them and to forfeit any gain. But this one has taken so much. Taken so many. Aulkreth!
It lashes out at you. ZAP! CRACK! CRASH! Cold lightning bristling. Shocks of pain.
The insolent fool. The mad Spirit.
[[Destroy it.]]
Erhimorsa strides up the path of scorched earth. The deadmen stir to her approach from a short distance, and begin readying their weapons. She twirls the longsword in her hand easily.
The first one rushes, and makes a thrust for her.
CLANG! SHOOF. His head rolls with a flourish of her blade.
The second man charges--
SHRING! She disarms him. And snatches his throat. He makes choking sounds. Works his jaw. She pulls him close and whispers into the part in his helm. "Tell Aulkreth that the Crimson Rider has come to claim her prize."
SLAM! She shoves him back, and he crashes into the great door. He scurries to his feet and plunges into the dark of the fortress.
Erhimorsa spits. From all around, people begin drifting out of doors and from behind walls. Although she believes most of the proper army was destroyed in her assault, many men, women and sattelite brigand forces still remain loyal here to Aulkreth.
It doesn't matter much. She imagines they know that Aulkreth wants to get at her himself. She is giving him his chance.
Soon, a great multitude comes around her. They circle off at an impressive distance. She doesn't give them the satisfaction of panning fully around in shock. She is tired, and finished with the cruel games of the Empyre's ruling class.
She just wants Aulkreth.
BOOM! the great doors of the fortress crack open.
Erhimorsa adjusts her grip on the sword.
Aulkreth strides out, accompanied by a dozen armored deadmen.
They square off ten yards apart in the charred soil. He is freshly burned and charred. Skin glistening and boiling.
"Morsa, my dear." He says. //WHAT?//
She balks. He should not know her name. He can not know her name. She clenches her teeth.
Aulkreth laughs. A terrible laugh... a cavernous cackle.
She GRUNTS. Shakes away her memory. Against her will, tears begin stinging at her eyes.
All around her in the great square, a tumult rises. People begin... laughing. At her. She finds herself panting. Looking away. The Pyreking inches closer, and she backs away, downcast. Why could she not look at him?
[[Look at him.]]
[[KILL HIM!]]
Ehrimorsa ran, breakneck, through the dark fortress corridors. Laughter echoed from behind. Nipping at her heels.
CLAP! CLAP! CLAP! No footsteps rang but hers. CLAP! CLAP! CLAP!
Bodies of good rebels and dead men alike littered the floor. Wet and dry blood all mixed together beneath heaps of limbs and corpses.
No life but the cackling. Yet she dared not turn around. She could not face him. She could never.
Horror. Tears streaked her face. She sobbed. Her chest was sore from it. And she ran. Ran.
Ran.
Up to a crack in the wall. She slipped through, shimmying between jagged, broken stones.
STRICK! A jut caught on her leather and ripped it! She GRUNTED. Yanked her shoulder through. RIP! It left a red line in her flesh.
She didn't think on it. She slipped out into the cool, starry night.
Dropped down to the side of the wall. Cracks and divets of broken stone formed a line straight down in the facade of the fortress. She scrambled down them.
That awful cackle whistled still through the breach, and out into the night. She cried as she descended, and eventually landed on a small pile of rubble. Corpses lay strewn about down here, as well.
She ignored them, and ran off into the night.
Howling laughter whispered at her back.
[[New coice 2<-Return.]]
Erhimorsa lifts her head up from her hands. Examines the pile of rubble. A smashed line traces up the facade of the wall, leading to...
Sure enough, a gaping crack. The breach.
[[Continue to the gates.]]
[[Sneak around and ascend the breach.]]
The sconces are extinguished along the corridor of Pyreking's Antechamber. He likely burned himself clean after the battle. And lies in the hospital wing.
The rumors are not entirely true. He does not burn himself every time. But it boggles her mind why he ever does it at all.
Still, this is good.
She prowls through the halls. Never pausing before a turn. It is not her first time in these halls. She expects she knows them as well as anyone, save perhaps Aulkreth himself.
She slinks away down a nearby hall.
The hospital wing consists of a series of rooms filled with injured or recently indoctrinated deadmen - recovering from whatever method Aulkreth employs to sap their humanity and will.
But he has his own personal chamber here, of course. Usually occupied after a Pyreday or battle when he is charred anew.
A thick black door in a silent and grim hallway. A SCREAM of pain echoes from the commons behind her. //Not so silent after all//, she supposes. She rises from her crouch as she comes to the threshold in question.
CLICK. Erhimorsa turns the nob.
Within, the shriveled weasel wheezes his breaths beneath a snow white linen. She swallows and draws a knife from her belt.
Steps up beside him. She looks at his sleeping face. So raw. Warped. Charred and welted. There is no denying his burns are real. That is not the trick. It is something much deeper, much more insidious, that must promote his illusion of immortality.
His eyes snap open. And drill into her. She almost stumbles back, but something holds her in place. Captivates her. Her eyes go wide. The man grins. The vulnerable, weak and broken man grins. His eyes... a deep, striking sea of blue.
Something she wanted to forget.
[[REMEMBER 4<-REMEMBER.]]
[[Just kill him 2<-KILL HIM!]]
Erhimorsa looks up. Into his smirking face. The laughter drowns out to nothing around her. Then the shuffling of limbs and clanking of armor. Until all she hears is the wind. A cruel and barren breeze. She stares into his eyes.
And sees a deep, piercing ocean of blue.
[[REMEMBER 3<-Remember.]]
[[KILL HIM!]]
Erhimorsa rushes forward. Looking anywhere but his face. He brandishes his curved blade, Cryptwalker. She hones in on it.
SLANG! Meets it with a strike of her longsword.
Lashes out at him. CLANG! He parries. So fast. She lets the tears come. Lets her fire burn. Lets it take her.
She screams, whipping her blade about in a furious storm. WHIP! CRANG! SHRING! She pumps her arms faster and faster. Tears stream down her face.
Aulkreth parries. Doesn't break a sweat. His arm just seems to adjust automatically, zipping and maneuvering between blows.
She hates him. Hates him.
CLAP! He lands a blow on her face with his offhand. She tumbles down. Her sword CLATTERS down at her side. She COUGHS a sob of rage.
She is spent. Worn. She lunges for her sword, but Aulkreth blinks toward it. CLANG! Kicks it away.
He raises his sword over his head. "A lamb unto the lion's den." He mutters. "Thank you for your cooperation."
She WAILS.
Aulkreth brings his blade down into her chest.
[[Exit Erhimorsa black field<-Exit Erhimorsa's body.]]
You whip up out of the body in a torrential storm.
You've carried her anger within you as a sort of urgency. You feel a bit silly for it, in your ethereal form...
But why should you? If it is so pivotal that your show sympathy, then why not empathy? Why should you not be invested in the freedom of this world? In the death of the Pyreking...
CRACKOOM! Lightning strikes. TSSHH! Rain begins pouring from the dark gray skies. You shiver with a deadly resolve. Enough passivity. Enough letting this world fall in the hands of broken men.
You SCREAM, and it manifests as a hum.
The Pyreking quiets his laughter and sobers. His eyes lock on you. Shock and horror squirm over his face. He pivots away.
[[TAKE HIM. 2<-TAKE HIM.]]
Erhimorsa panted. A wild grin between the stripes of fresh blood upon her face. Pyreking Aulkreth lay still of the floor of his inner sanctum. Sconces blazed on the intricately patterned stone walls.
She looked up at Erhimorn. "We did it."
He stood beside the corpse, catching his breath. He swallowed. Matched her gaze. His eyes were beautiful. "//You// did it, sis."
She laughed a light, heady laugh. It was surreal. The joy...
Turned bitter in her mouth.
Erhimorn crumpled over. Expressionless. The flames flickered low in the room. He put his head in his hands and began groaning.
Morsa reached out a hand. Pivoted forward. "Morn? What is--"
He SCREAMED. A rusty howl of pure torture. A ragged screech. Nothing she had ever heard before from a man with all his limbs attached.
She scrambled down to his side, clamping his shoulders. "ERHIMORN? ERHIMORN!"
There he knelt for some time.
He cried and yelled and babbled until his throat tore, and blood flecked upon his lips.
"ERHIMORN!" She yelled, sweat pouring down her face. She positioned her legs and tried to lift him. To her surprise, he rose.
He leaped. He ran. WAILING. Straight for the fires on the walls. She sprinted after him. "ERHIMORN!"
TSS! He stuck his frothing, spasming face directly into the flames. He croaked and muttered in strange tongues.
"ERHIMORNE! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" She grabbed his shoulder and shook him. Yanked him. Pulled him! "WHAT ARE YOU--"
WHOOM! He spun away from the fire, falling silent. She almost fell back from the give.
His head twitched to one side. His hair burned and singed in motley tufts. Flesh sloughed off from his chin. Blackened and bloody. Warped skin, welting and boiling. He looked almost like...
Her heart seized in pitch-black terror. Save his eyes, he looked just like the Pyreking Aulkreth. His piercing blue eyes.
"Not Erhimorn anymore." He growled. His lips stretched back in a horrible grin. A patch of melted flesh SLAPPED to the floor.
And Erhimorsa ran.
[[New choice 3<-Return.]]
The Pyreking approaches calmly. Within striking distance. He mouths words, but Morsa only hears static. She looks at him. Horrified. Her sword limp in her hand.
"You..."
[["YOU BASTARD!"]]
[["Erhimorne?"]]
Erhimorsa grits her teeth. Grips her blade. Screams. "YOU BASTARD!" She rips up her sword.
SLANG! He meets it with his own.
She lashes out again. CLANG! He parries. So fast. She lets the tears come. Lets her fire burn. Lets it take her.
She screams, whipping her blade about in a furious storm. WHIP! CRANG! SHRING! She pumps her arms faster and faster. Tears stream down her face.
Aulkreth parries. Doesn't break a sweat. His arm just seems to adjust automatically, zipping and maneuvering between blows.
She hates him. Hates him.
CLAP! He lands a blow on her face with his offhand. She tumbles down. Her sword CLATTERS down at her side. She COUGHS a sob of rage.
She is spent. Worn. She lunges for her sword, but Aulkreth blinks toward it. CLANG! Kicks it away.
He raises his sword over his head. "A lamb unto the lion's den." He mutters. "Thank you for your cooperation."
She WAILS.
Aulkreth brings his blade down into her chest.
[[Exit Erhimorsa black field<-Exit Erhimorsa's body.]]
[[CLAP!]]
"Erhimorn?" Morsa eases her grasp the blade. CLANG! It hits the dirt.
He pouts a scoff. THUD! Sticks his blade in her gut. His face transforms into hideous, unsaddled joy. "OF COURSE NOT, YOU BITCH!"
He stares into her eyes as she falls. She curses him with every fiber of her self. He cackles. Hoots. Howls. And laughter springs up all around.
[[Exit Erhimorsa black field<-Exit Erhimorsa's body.]]
Erhimorsa CLAPS her hands down on the broadsides of the blade. SCREAMING! It clamps in place in her sternum. Blood pools around it. A hot, bright explosion of pain. She grits her teeth. An iron vice of sheer will. She will not let him have her brother. Even from the brink of death.
So close to the edge, so close to ejecting, your consciousness separates from hers. She feels you now, sifting and calculating within her. A foreign spirit.
And as she fights, she prays silently. To whatever God or man or beast or animal or angel you are. //To rip this blade from her chest and cast asunder what foe would seek to devour this world in flames.//
Your feel the fire in her belly. The beat of her heart sychronized with your own ethereal pulse. Rage. Rage against the Pyreking. You will kill him.
[[TAKE OVER.]]
[[Jet up out of Erhimorsa.]]
You carren forward, even as he curses and tries to flee. As opposed to most powerful men you have encountered, Aulkreth does not draw you in. In fact, he seems to pulse you away.
You battle closer and closer. The force is a whirlwind against you. Your mists are ripped away.
CRACK! You tap him.
But do not enter.
He falls flat on his back. Dead. Rain batters down on his corpse.
You find yourself shaking slightly. //What is the meaning of thi--//
The Pyreking's corpse glows. Eery mists sift up off his body.
Slowly, a silver orb rises up from his core.
It can't be. A deep and immortal rage guts you.
Another Vestigial Spirit? Did all of this?
Your fog swirls and lashes about, mirroring the fury of the storm. Your golden light gleams and flashes like lightning.
The silver Vestigial Spirit vibrates and hums a wash of confusion and rage. The coward. The serpent. The swine.
This is not the way! You were sent to give yourselves to these people. To help them and to forfeit any gain. But this one has taken so much. Taken so many. Aulkreth!
It lashes out at you. ZAP! CRACK! CRASH! Cold lightning bristling. Shocks of pain.
The insolent fool. The mad Spirit.
[[Destroy it.]]
WHOOM! Energy rushes up her limbs. You do not incinerate her will or consciousness, but sequester and protect it. You grip the blade.
CRACKOOM! Thunder sounds, and a sudden torrent of rain pours forth from the dark gray sky.
THRACK! You rip the sword from her chest!
You spin up to her feet. Burning with power. And snap at the Pyreking. He babbles incoherently, stumbling back. CLAP! His wrist. CLOP! His jaw.
His sword clatters to the ground and he careens into the dirt behind it. SHOOF!
You zap up beside him, blood pouring from Erhimorsa's chest. SLAM! Kick him in the face. Teeth and blood spatter about.
He cries. "YOU--"
CRUNCH! You stomp.
And his face is gone. Blood and brain matter pool out in the pouring rain.
You pant. Heart racing. Grin spreading. All around, the laughter has ceased. The deadmen stand shocked and motionless. You look at the body. Joy rattles in your core.
The Pyrking glows softly. Double take. What? The Pyreking emits an eery mist.
Slowly, a silver orb rises up from his core.
It can't be. A deep and immortal rage guts you.
You takes a step toward it, and it moves slightly toward you.
CRACK! Then whips forward and connects with your chest.
[[OUT 2<-OUT]]
You whip up out of the body in a torrential storm.
You've carried her anger within you as a sort of urgency. You feel a bit silly for it, in your ethereal form...
But why should you? If it is so pivotal that your show sympathy, then why not empathy? Why should you not be invested in the freedom of this world? In the death of the Pyreking...
Lightning strikes in the distance. A torrent of rain pours forth from the sky. You shiver with a deadly resolve. Enough passivity. Enough letting this world fall in the hands of broken men.
You SCREAM, and it manifests as a hum.
The Pyreking quiets his laughter and sobers. His eyes lock on you. Shock and horror squirm over his face. He falls onto his backside, shuffling away.
[[TAKE HIM.]]
Erhimorsa's body crumples away from you. You hover in place, then lower a touch.
And come face to face with the silver orb.
Another Vestigial? Did all of this? The murder, the slavery, the sacrifices...
Your mists swirl and lash about, mirroring the fury of the storm. Your golden light gleams and flashes like lightning.
The silver Vestigial Spirit vibrates and hums a wash of confusion and rage. The coward. The serpent. The swine.
This is not the way! You were sent to give yourselves to these people. To help them and to forfeit any gain. But this one has taken so much. Taken so many.
It lashes out at you. ZAP! CRACK! CRASH! Cold lighting bristling. Shocks of pain.
The insolent fool. The mad Spirit.
[[Destroy it.]]
Erhimorsa panted. A wild grin between the stripes of fresh blood upon her face. Pyreking Aulkreth lay still of the floor of his inner sanctum. Sconces blazed on the intricately patterned stone walls.
She looked up at Erhimorn. "We did it."
He stood beside the corpse, catching his breath. He swallowed. Matched her gaze. His eyes were beautiful. "//You// did it, sis."
She laughed a light, heady laugh. It was surreal. The joy...
Turned bitter in her mouth.
Erhimorn crumpled over. Expressionless. The flames flickered low in the room. He put his head in his hands and began groaning.
Morsa reached out a hand. Pivoted forward. "Morn? What is--"
He SCREAMED. A rusty howl of pure torture. A ragged screech. Nothing she had ever heard before from a man with all his limbs attached.
She scrambled down to his side, clamping his shoulders. "ERHIMORN? ERHIMORN!"
There he knelt for some time.
He cried and yelled and babbled until his throat tore, and blood flecked upon his lips.
"ERHIMORN!" She yelled, sweat pouring down her face. She positioned her legs and tried to lift him. To her surprise, he rose.
He leaped. He ran. WAILING. Straight for the fires on the walls. She sprinted after him. "ERHIMORN!"
TSS! He stuck his frothing, spasming face directly into the flames. He croaked and muttered in strange tongues.
"ERHIMORNE! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" She grabbed his shoulder and shook him. Yanked him. Pulled him! "WHAT ARE YOU--"
WHOOM! He spun away from the fire, falling silent. She almost fell back from the give.
His head twitched to one side. His hair burned and singed in motley tufts. Flesh sloughed off from his chin. Blackened and bloody. Warped skin, welting and boiling. He looked almost like...
Her heart seized in pitch-black terror. Save his eyes, he looked just like the Pyreking Aulkreth. His piercing blue eyes.
"Not Erhimorn anymore." He growled. His lips stretched back in a horrible grin. A patch of melted flesh SLAPPED to the floor.
And Erhimorsa ran.
[[New choice 4<-Return.]]
There is a reason she forgot.
She rips the blade across his throat. A spray of blood.
He clutches his neck. GURGLING. Cool blue eyes boring into her frantically. She watches as he writhes and roils, blood soaking and spattering the sheets. He slows to a stop.
A crazed smile breaks over Erhimorsa's face.
Then his body begins to glow. She pauses. What in Fairfallow is this?
An eery mist sifts up off his body.
Slowly, a silver orb rises up. How strange... how familiar.
She reaches out and touches it.
CRACK!
[[OUT 3<-OUT]]
"Morsa." He grins the same awful grin.
"You foul bastard." Tears well in her eyes. She grips her knife.
"Come now. Is that any way to speak to your brother?" He purrs.
"You..."
"It's me... Erhimorn!" He breaks out in a gigantic smile.
[["Truly..? Erhimorn?" 2<- "Truly..? Erhimorn?"]]
[["Not anymore." 2<- "Not anymore."]]
"Truly..? Erhimorn?" Erhimorsa drops the knife. It clatters to the floor. She leans over him.
He pouts a scoff. SMACK. Snatches up her throat in a vice grip. His face transforms into hideous, unsaddled joy. "OF COURSE NOT, YOU BITCH!"
He stares into her eyes as she squeezes. She thrashes and throttles to no avail. Keels her windpipe crumbling beneath his hand. His fingers punching deeper and deeper. She curses him with every fiber of her self. He cackles. Hoots. Howls.
RIPS out her throat with a thick spurt of blood. She falls to the floor.
[[Exit Erhimorsa bamboozled 2<-Exit Erhimorsa's body.]]
"Not anymore." She purses her lips. Her hairs bristle. FLECK! She rips the blade up across his throat. A spray of blood. He clutches his neck. GURGLING.
His wide, blue eyes bore into her. She watches as he writhes and roils, blood soaking and spattering the sheets. And slows to a stop.
A crazed smile breaks over Erhimorsa's face.
Then his body begins to glow. She pauses. What in Fairfallow is this?
An eery mist sifts up off his body.
Slowly, a silver orb rises up. How strange... how familiar.
Could this have something to do with what happened that night? An invisible, intangible essence of the Pyreking?
IS IT //HIM//? She has to kill it!
She lunges for it, fingers grasping. They connect with a froth of electricity.
CRACK!
[[OUT 3<-OUT]]
Erhimorsa's body crumples away from you. You hover in place, then lower a touch.
And come face to face with the silver orb.
It can't be. A deep and immortal rage guts you.
Another Vestigial? Did all of this?
Your mists swirl and lash about, mirroring the fury of a storm. Your golden light gleams and flashes like lightning.
The silver Vestigial Spirit vibrates and hums a wash of confusion and rage. The coward. The serpent. The swine.
This is not the way! You were sent to give yourselves to these people. To help them and to forfeit any gain. But this one has taken so much. Taken so many.
It lashes out at you. ZAP! CRACK! CRASH! Cold lighting bristling. Shocks of pain.
The insolent fool. The mad Spirit.
[[Destroy it.]]
You whip up out of the body in a torrential storm.
You've carriend her anger within you as a sort of urgency. You feel a bit silly for it, in your ethereal form...
But why should you? If it is so pivotal that your show sympathy, then why not empathy? Why should you not be invested in the freedom of this world? In the death of the Pyreking...
Lightning strikes outside. Echoes through the halls. You shiver with a deadly resolve. Enough passivity. Enough letting this world fall in the hands of broken men.
You SCREAM, and it manifests as a hum.
The Pyreking quiets his laughter and sobers. His eyes lock on you. Shock and horror squirm over his face. He inches back away from you on the bed.
[[TAKE HIM.]]
She finishes the cup and lowers it. She looks disgusted, but that is more likely the Nolstern than the company.
She lets her gaze drift. Her lips draw slightly. A half scowl. Her expression continues to darken.
"I should go." She says. "And you should too. The resistance is dead. And none of us is safe."
Nash and Vad share a look. Striken. "The rebellion... gave up?" Nash asks.
She shakes her head. "I don't remember anything exactly from last night, but I know that it began with a siege on the Empyre capital. Every recruit, every machination, and every resource that we had went into that fight. It was the final battle. It was going so well, until... everything muddles. And there can only be one reason I ended up alone after all of it. Poisoning myself. Hags."
Nash gapes.
"They're all dead." She whispers to herself. "They're all dead." Her gaze lowers.
Vad pipes up. "But you're here, still. The greatest leader the resistance has ever seen."
She snorts a joyless laugh. "Indeed, the first to kill her entire cause." The Crimson Rider grabs a fist of her linens. "And I expect I will be captured soon enough, either way. If they found me before, they can do it again."
"Then there is only one way to outsmart them." Vad says. Nash raises an eyebrow. "We bring the fight to them. Go on our own terms."
[["No!"]]
[["What?"]]
"We'd like to join the resistance." Nash announces.
The woman pauses mid-gulp. Looks at Nash. And keeps drinking. She finishes the cup and lowers it. She looks disgusted, but that is more likely the Nolstern than his request.
"I'm sorry, boys." The Crimson Rider mutters. She looks away. "The rebellion is dead. I'm afraid I am the final loyal."
Nash and Vad share a look. Striken. "The rebellion... gave up?" Nash asks.
She shakes her head. "I don't remember anything exactly from last night, but I know that it began with a siege on the Empyre capital. Every recruit, every machination, and every resource that we had went into that fight. It was the final battle. It was going so well, until... everything muddles. And there can only be one reason I ended up alone after all of it. Poisoning myself. Hags."
Nash gapes.
"They're all dead." She whispers to herself. "They're all dead." Her gaze lowers.
Vad pipes up. "But you're here, still. The greatest leader the resistance has ever seen."
She snorts a joyless laugh. "Indeed, the first to kill her entire cause." The Crimson Rider grabs a fist of her linens. "And I expect I will be captured soon enough, either way. If they found me before, they can do it again."
"Then there is only one way to outsmart them." Vad says. Nash and the woman whip their necks to him. "We bring the fight to them. Go on our own terms."
[["No!"]]
[["What?"]]
"What were you doing black-out drunk at a tavern?" Nash blurts out. The hint of an edge creeping into his voice.
The woman pauses mid-gulp. Looks at Nash. And keeps drinking.
"It seems irresposible, for someone in your position." He elaborates. "You almost got yourself killed!"
She finishes the cup and lowers it. She looks disgusted, but that is just as likely the Nolstern as his impudence. She looks away. "The rebellion is dead."
Nash and Vad share a look. Striken. "The rebellion... gave up?" Nash asks.
She shakes her head. "I don't remember anything exactly from last night, but I know that it began with a siege on the Empyre capital. Every recruit, every machination, and every resource that we had went into that fight. It was the final battle. It was going so well, until... everything muddles. And there can only be one reason I ended up alone after all of it. Poisoning myself. Hags."
Nash gapes.
"They're all dead." She whispers to herself. "They're all dead." Her gaze lowers.
Vad pipes up. "But you're here, still. The greatest leader the resistance has ever seen."
She snorts a joyless laugh. "Indeed, the first to kill her entire cause." The Crimson Rider grabs a fist of her linens. "And I expect I will be captured soon enough, either way. If they found me before, they can do it again."
"Then there is only one way to outsmart them." Vad says. Nash and the woman whip their necks to him. "We bring the fight to them. Go on our own terms."
[["No!"]]
[["What?"]]
"No!" Nash exclaims.
"Think about it, Nash!" He has that devilish fire in him. A good sign. The brilliant bastard. The boy sticks out his chin. "If the Crimson Rider fled from battle last night, and she was found later by brigands, what does that mean?"
Nash pauses. But Vad has no patience for him.
He barrels on. "Ms. Crimson Rider. You said that the battle was going favorably last night, before your memory fades?"
She nods curiously. "Yes. We slew hordes of deadmen and breached the fortress walls. Many of us got inside."
"Deadmen?" Nash asks.
"That's what we call the Empyre's capital army. The Pyreking's primary force." She says.
"So why did they not follow her?" Vad asks. "Why did one of the small Satellite bandit crews find her? In light of the assault last night."
"They are depleted." Nash murmurs.
"And all the strength they have remains in the Satellite groups. Far from home." Vad finishes.
Nash strokes his chin. "Even if they have returned to defend the capital, they would make poor soldiers. They've no experience with the walls and machinations. No experience or discipline."
Vad swallows. "We bring the battle to them."
A thought strikes Nash.
[["Hang on."]]
[["Let's do it."]]
"What?" Nash exclaims.
"Think about it, Nash!" He has that devilish fire in him. A good sign. The brilliant bastard. The boy sticks out his chin. "If the Crimson Rider fled from battle last night, and she was found later by brigands, what does that mean?"
Nash pauses. But Vad has no patience for him.
He barrels on. "Ms. Crimson Rider. You said that the battle was going favorably last night, before your memory fades?"
She nods curiously. "Yes. We slew hordes of deadmen and breached the fortress walls. Many of us got inside."
"Deadmen?" Nash asks.
"That's what we call the Empyre's capital army. The Pyreking's primary force."
"So why did they not follow her?" Vad asks. "Why did one of the small Satellite bandit crews find her? In light of the assault last night."
"They are depleted." Nash murmurs.
"And all the strength they have remains in the Satellite groups. Far from home." Vad finishes.
The woman mulls. "Even if they have returned to defend the capital, they would make poor soldiers. They've no experience with the walls and machinations. No experience or discipline."
Vad swallows. "We bring the battle to them."
A thought strikes Nash.
[["Hang on."]]
[["Let's do it."]]
Nash and the Crimson Rider storm the hill up to the Pyreking's fortress. Spattered with blood. Fire in their eyes. The sky above is a dark and threatening gray. Lightning CRACKS on the horizon.
A pair of (if: $swords is 'no')[disarmed, ]ironclad deadman corpses lie mangled on the road behind them. (if: $vad is 'yes')[Vad tails Nash closely. Clutches a knife befitting his size.]
The hill levels off, and they pass through what appear to be the remains of city walls. Step easily over a cracked row of rubble. Two deadmen and a brigand rush them from behind a building.
FLICK! FLOO! The Crimson Rider lashes out. Fells a brigand and a deadman. Ironclad, again. Nash has never seen one in person before today, but they are certainly frightful. All limp and silent beneath their blackened armor.
The second deadman shambles for him. Lifts a blade.
WHOOM! Nash dodges. Plants his longsword under the knight's helm. SLICK! Draws out a slice.
The Crimson Rider leads the way, padding forth toward the central square at the fortress gates. The ground grows progressively darker and more charred underfoot.
Another pair of WAILING bandits leaps out, but the two swordmasters silence them just as quickly. More blood sprays over them.
The city rises into a tumult, with more and more crying men and women pouring forth from their homes. But no others attack. The Rider huffs, feet padding on the soil. Crowds fill the street in their wake.
They pull up to a stop several meters from the fortress. Two deadmen stand at the doors. They brandish spears. Grit their teeth and charge.
The woman SCREAMS and takes the first one's head. Nash parries the thrust of the second and plants a kick in its chest.
SHINK! It falls. He raises his hilt and impales it. SPLICK!
Crowds have formed an impressively wide circle around the blackened square. The woman takes a step toward the gate.
RRR! It creaks open toward her. She steps back. From the darkness steps a grotesque, featureless man. Skin charred and warped in soft patterns. He smiles a terrible smile. Aulkreth. "Hello, Morsa. How good of you to pay me visit." Three deadmen waddle out behind him.
She looks into his eyes. A deep ocean of blue. And horror strikes over her face. She pivots back. Her blade goes limp in her hand. "Erhimorn..." She whispers.
Erhimorne? Nash narrows his eyes. Then the Rider grits her teeth. Tightens her grip.
"YOU BASTARD!" Morsa screams. She charges.
CLANG! The Pyreking blocks her with an easy stroke. The deadmen filter out from behind him. "Kill the friend." Aulkreth growls. Parries a barrage of strikes.
(if: $vad is 'yes')["Behind me." Nash murmurs. He guides Vad with a hand. ]The deadmen scurry closer. Nash holds up his blade and takes a deep breath.
Nash sidesteps the first strike. (if: $vad is 'yes')[Vad follows close in his shadow. ]CLACK! SHRICK! Nash slices the back of the first deadman's leg. The knight crumples. Flounders in the dirt. (if: $vad is 'yes')[Vad leaps onto him and gouges his neck. SPLAT! GURGLE!]
CLAP! Nash grabs the forearm of the second deadman. His axe is stopped mid-swing. BANG! He slams the hilt of his sword into the man's helmet. The man falls away. (if: $vad is 'yes')[Vad whips over to this one, knife dripping blood.](if: $vad is 'no')[Nash thrusts into the man's back. SPACK!
And WHIPS up as the third approaches.](if: $vad is 'yes')[The third descends, swinging a greatsword. Nash whips up his own steel.] CLANG! Their blades lock.
From the corner of his eye, Nash sees the Pyreking disarm Morsa. She topples back. Sword CLATTERING to the dirt. Aulkreth foists his curved blade overhead.
"NO!" Nash screams. He spins, glancing the greatsword aside, and buries his longsword in the last deadman's neck. SHOOF!
He turns to the Pyreking... too late. SLACK! He buries his blade in the Crimson Rider's chest. His mouth makes a small "o" of joy, and he HOOTS. Then grins a wide, dark, horrible grin. He eases his blade out of her and turns on Nash.
Charges.
[[Engage him.]]
[[Let him come to you.]]
"Hang on." Nash raises his hand. Vad makes a short, frustrated sound.
(if: $badges is 'yes')[
[[PLAN<-"No - you're right, Vad. But I have a plan."]]]
[[No Vad?<-"No, you're right, Vad... but I can't allow you to come."]](if: $badges is 'one')[
[["I have a plan."]]]
[["Let's do it."<-"Never Mind. Let's do it."]]
<!---[["Let's hear what the Crimson Rider thinks of this."]]--->
Nash yells. Leaps for the Pyreking.
CRANG! Their blades meet with a wild spark. A momentary deadlock. The tyrant grins. So easily.
Sweat beads on Nash's brow.
The Pyreking disengages suddenly, then flails.
FWING! CLANG! TINK! Nash reels back, blade flinging left and right between blows. Too much speed! Too much power!
He barely maneuvers the sword back into position between each strike. CRANG! WHANG! The Pyreking bears his teeth in manic delight. Eyes boring into Nash.
Nash GRUNTS. Still stumbling back. Aulkreth pushes him faster and faster. WHOOM! CLACK! SLANG! Nash growls.
WHIP! Aulkreth gets under Nash's blade and sweeps it away. It lands in the dirt off to the side. Nash pants. Helpless. Nearly collapses. Aulkreth readies his strike.
[[PUNCH HIM!]]
[[Dodge.]]
(if: $vad is 'yes')[He jets straight past Nash in a wild blur. FWING! Deflects the longsword.
SHOOF! THUD!
The sound of a body dropping. Nash is frozen in place. He slowly creaks his neck around. Eyes bulging. Vad lies headless on the blackened earth. The dismembered dome seems to stare up at Nash vacantly. "NO!" Nash peels a long wail. He feels his throat tear.
The Pyrking swivels his neck to watch Nash with that same cruel grin. A hideous pleasure. He is enraptured. Entranced. Delighted.
[[You die<-ATTACK!]]
[[You kill him<-PULL IT TOGETHER. ASSUME A READY STANCE.]]
](if: $vad is 'no')[Aulkreth leaps forward. Nash raises his steel. FWING! CLANG! TINK! Nash reels back, blade flinging left and right between blows. Too much speed! Too much power!
Sweat glistens on his forehead. It takes every bit of will and strength he possesses to maneuver the sword back into position after each strike. CRANG! WHANG! The Pyreking bears his teeth in manic delight. Eyes boring into Nash.
Nash GRUNTS. Still stumbling back. Aulkreth pushes him faster and faster. WHOOM! CLACK! SLANG! Nash growls. His back nears the wall of people. The jostle and murmur behin him in a wordless cacophony.
WHIP! Aulkreth gets under Nash's blade and sweeps it away. It lands in the dirt off to the side. Nash pants. Helpless. Nearly collapses. Aulkreth readies his strike.
[[PUNCH HIM!]]
[[Dodge.]]
]
Nash grinds his teeth. Holds firm as tempered steel. Raises his blade.
The Pyreking narrows his eyes, then laughs. He eases his posture and steps toward Nash. "What's wrong, son?" He rasps. "You look stunned."
Nash blinks.
"Perhaps you thought you could protect him." Aulkreth purs. "You thought you would so easily trample the Pyreking." Aulkreth saunters up within striking distance. Smirks. He places a hand on the flat of Nash's sword. Begins to lower it. "But I know your ilk-"
FLACK! A font of blood. Nash slices off his arm. The Pyreking howls. Stumbles back. Brandishes his sword.
Nash lunges. SLOOP! The longsword bites through the madman's chest. Blood races down beneath the wound. The Pyreking raises his gaze to Nash. Exhales. Nash lets him fall. THUD!
All around, the multitudes are silent. His body lies still. Glowing slightly. Double take. Glowing. What?
An eery mist sifts up off his body.
Slowly, a silver orb rises out of him. How strange... how familiar.
Nash takes a step toward it, and it moves slightly toward him. He reaches out a hand, mesmerized.
CRACK! It zooms forward and connects with his fingers.
[[Out! of Nash<-OUT]]
Nash brandishes his blade and charges. WAILING.
Aulkreth smirks.
Nash winds up his strike-
FWING! The Pyreking pivots. Disarms Nash with a calculated thrust. The longsword skitters over charred earth.
"My thanks." The Pyreking sneers. "For your cooperation."
FLACK! Nash's head pops from his shoulders and rolls to the ground. SLUMP! His body follows.
Aulkreth pauses to take in the scene. He flicks blood from his blade.
[[Exit Nash combat<-Exit Nash's body.]]
(if: $swords is 'yes')[Nash doesn't let her into close quarters. He draws his longsword. She lunges.
SHRICK! Nash slices her attacking arm. SPLAT! CLANG! It falls away with a spurt of blood.
SHOOF! He takes her head with another stroke.
Her body tumbles down after it. A dirty puddle of blood pools at Nash's feet. Nash pivots back. Watches. The body glows.
Mists rise. Then a silver orb.
Could that be... Aulkreth?
It zooms for Nash.
CRACK! Connects with his chest.
THUD! Nash collapses. The silver orb does not enter. It touches him again. Does not enter. It shivers and hums. Confused. Backs up a touch. (if: $vad is 'yes')[Somewhere drowned out in the distance, Vad screams.]
[[Out! of Nash<-Exit Nash's body.]]
](if: $swords is 'no')[Nash draws his knife. She lunges.
He sidesteps and swipes at her arm.
She pulls away and spins. Twice as fast as him. Impossibly fast.
Before he can adjust, she slices Nash in the gut. Nash swears. Backpedals. She weaves in at him again.
He fumbles to raise his weapon. She twists and pivots inside his drunken guard. Stabs him in the chest. Nash falls back.(if: $vad is 'yes')[
Vad WAILS, immobile. He pants. Curls up on the scorched ground.]
Nash lies still. The knife buried in his chest. A warm pool of blood blossoms out beneath him. It pools up in his mouth.
His eyes glaze over.
[[Exit to Pyrhimorsa<-Exit Nash's body.]]
]
The Crimson Rider lunges. Nash sidesteps and snatches her wrist.
She flips the knife into her other hand and spins. Slices Nash in the gut. Nash swears. Backpedals. She weaves in at him again.
He fumbles to catch her hand. She twists and pivots. Stabs him in the chest. Nash falls back.(if: $vad is 'yes')[
Vad WAILS, immobile. He pants. Curls up on the scorched ground.]
Nash lies still. The knife buried in his chest. A warm pool of blood blossoms out beneath him. It pools up in his mouth.
His eyes glaze over.
[[Exit to Pyrhimorsa<-Exit Nash's body.]]
"Let's hear what the Crimson Rider thinks of this." Nash says. He turns to the woman. She is pensive.
"Your points are sound." She says. "But that may not be necessary."
Vad furrows his brow.
"If I'm the only rebel left, then the Pyreking will lose what little cautionary inhibitions he has. He has made it known before that he wishes to kill me himself. It would promote his image. So we may not need leave here at all."
"You're saying..." Nash begins.
"He will come to us."
Vad shakes his head. "That gives him the upper hand. Coming on his terms, with his selected retinue, when offensive power is the only true advantage he has left... it is foolish."
She cocks an eyebrow. Cheeky little tactician, Vad. Nash knows the feeling. "Perhaps it is." She smirks. "But nevertheless, he won't be expecting much of a fight. Chances are he wouldn't tip the odds too much for a single target."
Nash feels the attention fall subtly upon his shoulders. The two grow silent, considering the options. Nash clears his throat.
[["Let's do it."<-"Let us take the fight to him."]]
[["We should stay here."]](if: $badges is 'yes')[
[[PLAN<-"We should go. I have a plan."]]]
Double-click this passage to edit it.
"Vad, loot the bodies." Nash says. He walks to the threshold of the tavern and pops open the door.
Vad leaps down and starts messing with one of the brigand's blue badges. It seems to give him trouble.
Nash peeks out the door. The street outside is not busy, but Nash attracts a few looks from passing pairs and stragglers. He adjusts the woman on his back. Swallows. It would be best if they weren't followed.
He looks back at Vad. Still fumbling with the pin.
[["Just rip it! Hurry up!"]]
[["Just take the swords! Let's go!"]]
Nash undoes two navy Empyre badges, and Vad collects two belts and blades. They don the badges and swordbelts and stoop under the woman's arms. Hoist her up.
(set: $swords to 'yes')(set: $badges to 'yes')
[[Leave.]]
SCRRIP! Vad rips the badge from the bandit's tunic and trots up to Nash.
Nash turns and peers out onto the cool night street. Some people just passed. The coast is clear.
(set: $badges to 'one')
[[Leave.]]
Vad leaves the badge and scoops up a sword backwards in each hand. He trots up to Nash.
Nash turns and peers out onto the cool night street. Some people just passed. The coast is clear.
(set: $swords to 'yes')
[[Leave.]]
"No, you're right, Vad... but I can't allow you to come." Nash says.
Another level of impudence washes over his face. "What? Why? It was my idea!"(set: $vad to 'no')
(if: $badges is 'one')[
[[PLAN<-"I have a plan, but we would need Empyre badges. And we only have one."]]]
[["Fine. But please, Vad. Be careful."]]
[["Let's do it."<-"No. It is too dangerous. And that's final."]](if: $badges is 'yes')[
[[PLAN<-"It's too dangerous. Even with a plan." Take one of the Empyre badges.]]]
Gray skies hover over the Empyre capital, Straglauer. Nash glances from side to side. A navy blue badge bobs on his breast.
He leads Erhimorsa by her arm. Her hands sit tied behind her back. Her head hangs low. (if: $vad is 'yes')[Vad flanks her other side, a knife clutched at his belt. ]Although not densely populated, a few straggling bandits, busy citizens and armored deadmen patrol the streets.
Whispers ignite as they pass, and at several different times, messengers or watchers have turned and run straight to the fortress at the center of the city.
Nash raises his gaze to where its dark spires stab the clouds. It is not too far ahead now. The ground grows darker and more charred as they approach.
The group hobbles into the clearing before the fortress.
RRR! The great doors creak open before them. There is a moment of silence. The shadows shift behind the threshold.
Then from the darkness steps a grotesque, featureless man. Skin charred and warped in soft patterns. He smiles a terrible smile. Aulkreth. "Greetings, my most honored guests." Three deadmen waddle out behind him.
Nash has never seen them before today. They certainly are frightful. All loose and limp beneath that iron.
Aulkreth motions for them to stay by the door. He saunters toward the group. His boots scrape against the black earth. "And you, Morsa. How good of you to visit."
As he comes closer, the Rider gasps. Her eyes search him. Nash frowns.
Her eyes grow frantic. Then glassy. Nash glances at her bonds. They look loose, as they should. What is she waiting for?
"Erhimorn?" She whispers. Aulkreth sidles in ever closer. Face to face with the Crimson Rider.
He grins wickedly. "Not anymore."
Nash swallows.
FLICK! She whips up her arm in a blur. A knife glistens in her grasp. The Pyreking stumbles back. His lips flounder.
A line of red bursts open across his throat. Blood spills forth in gouts. He drops to his knees.
The deadmen stir by the door. Pivot and jockey. One goes for its weapon.
Erhimorsa stares at the corpse, panting. Nash looks left and right. Onlookers at the outskirts of the square begin WAILING and SCREAMING.
"We've done it." Nash whispers.
(if: $vad is 'yes')["Yes, we've done it! Now let's go! Quick!" Vad hisses.]
Nash grabs the Rider's arm. Then sees the corpse.
It's glowing. An eery mist sifts up off the body.
Slowly, a silver orb rises out of it.
Something tickles at Nash. A half-forgotten memory... The world is darker for a moment. The air thick and slow.
The orb jets into the Crimson Rider. She stumbles back. Nash recoils. It disappears into her chest.
The deadmen draw their weapons and charge forward.
Then she screams. The Crimson Rider lets out a howl of anguish and drops to her knees. She holds her head in her hands. Peels out another great cry.
Nash grits his teeth. Reaches down to her. The deadmen slow.
"Are you okay?" Nash asks. The woman pants. SCREAMS again. Nash flinches.
The deadmen come to a stop. They look between each other.
"Come on! Let's get out of here!" Nash urges.
The woman looks up at him. Deep clawmarks gouge her face with lines of crimson. Blood flows in rivulets down her chin. Strips and chunks of flesh hang from her fingernails.
She laughs a harrowed laugh. A fiendish grin through her mangled face. Nash steps back. His face turns to pure horror.
She SHRIEKS. Produces her knife. Lunges at Nash.
Nash dodges back. He growls. "What is this!"
She saunters toward him. Something about her stride reminds him of... Aulkreth. In fact, once her face scars over, she may look very similar to him indeed. All she needs are the burns.
Could it be...
She CRIES again, readying the knife.
[[Kill her.]]
[[Try to subdue her.]]
Vad sets his jaw. Nods. (set: $vad to 'yes')
The Crimson Rider eyes them curiously and rises to her feet.
[["Let's do it."<-Go.]]
CRACK! Nash uppercuts Aulkreth's chin. The man lifts for a fraction of a second, then sprawls backward, stumbling.
POOM! Nash slugs his solar plexus. The Pyreking doubles over.
CLAP! Nash snatches the Pyreking's collar and kicks up kis knee. SKOOF!
Aulkreth falls onto his backside. The crowds are silent all around. Aulkreth looks up at--
THWACK! Nash lashes out with a roundhouse kick to the jaw.
The Pyreking lands spread-eagle, face up. His face turned profile. Crushed. Blood leaks from his nose and mouth.
Is that it? Nash eases.
All around, the multitudes are silent. His body lies still. Glowing slightly. Double take. Glowing. What?
An eery mist sifts up off his body.
Slowly, a silver orb rises up from him.
What... is this?
Somehow, it is strangely familiar.
Nash takes a step toward it, and it moves slightly toward him. He reaches out a hand, mesmerized.
CRACK! It zooms forward and connects with his fingers.
[[Out! of Nash<-OUT]]
Nash leaps to the side, but the Pyreking merely adjusts his grip.
WHOOM! His blade whips down into Nash's shoulder. The hot bite of steel. Nash SCREAMS. Spins to the ground, clenching his teeth.
He raises a hand in defense--
SHRACK! The blade takes his neck.
A spurt of blood, and Nash fades.
[[Exit Nash combat<-Exit Nash's body.]]
You rise from the body, yourself once more. A shimmering, twisting orb of golden irridescence. Gold trails of mist swirl around your center and drip up out of the body beneath.
The silver orb fidgets. Another one of your kind...
It can't be. A deep and immortal rage guts you.
Another Vestigial Spirit? Did all of this?
Your fog swirls and lashes about, mirroring the fury of a storm. Your golden light gleams and flashes like lightning.
The silver Vestigial Spirit vibrates and hums a wash of confusion and rage. The coward. The serpent. The swine.
This is not the way! You were sent to give yourselves to these people. To help them and to forfeit any gain. But this one has taken so much. Taken so many. Aulkreth!
It lashes out at you. ZAP! CRACK! CRASH! Cold lightning bristling. Shocks of pain.
The insolent fool. The mad Spirit.
[[Just leave.]]
[[Destroy it.]]
You rise from the body, yourself once more. A shimmering, twisting orb of golden irridescence. Gold trails of mist swirl around your center and drip up out of the body beneath.
It is a crossroads. A familiar moment you have come upon many times before. To choose your path. To choose your next host. Who to bless and who to curse. Who to become. Only this time is very different.
The woman's - Erhimorsa's - bloody eyes lock on you. She bears her teeth. That silver orb. That silver spirit.
It must have been another Vestigial Spirit. One of your own.
Your mists swirl and zap with lucid energy. Just the notion fills you with rage. And you know what you must do.
VOOM! You careen toward her.
CRACK! Touch her chest.
THUMP! Her body falls. And... sure enough. Glows.
Silver mists pour up.
The orb emerges a moment later.
Your fog swirls and lashes about, mirroring the fury of a storm. Your golden light gleams and flashes like lightning.
The silver Vestigial Spirit vibrates and hums a wash of confusion and rage. The coward. The serpent. The swine.
This is not the way! You were sent to give yourselves to these people. To help them and to forfeit any gain. But this one has taken so much. Taken so many. Aulkreth!
It lashes out at you. ZAP! CRACK! CRASH! Cold lightning bristling. Shocks of pain.
The insolent fool. The mad Spirit.
[[Just leave.]]
[[Destroy it.]]
You rise from the body, yourself once more. A shimmering, twisting orb of golden irridescence. Gold trails of mist swirl around your center and drip up out of the body beneath.
Nash was a good man. A great man. But he could not kill the Pyreking. And now here you are, once again preparing to make that pivotal choice. Who to inhabit next?
The Pyreking seems to regard you. You ignore it. None can see you in this form, after all.
But a deep ire burns for him. Something inherited from Nash. Emotions aren't supposed to infect you like this, yet here you are. Nash could not kill the Pyreking...
But perhaps you could; from the inside.
His eyes fix on you and he stumbles to his backside. Fear.
He sees you? How strange. You approach him.
His aura repels you. Like heavy winds he fights your descent. But you only need one touch. The man wails, scrambling backward. One touch...
You battle closer and closer. The force is a whirlwind against you. Your mists are ripped away.
CRACK! You tap him.
But do not enter.
He falls flat on his back. Dead.
Then the Pyreking's corpse glows. Eery mists sift up off his body.
Slowly, a silver orb rises up from his core.
It can't be. A deep and immortal rage guts you.
Another Vestigial Spirit? Did all of this?
Your fog swirls and lashes about, mirroring the fury of a storm. Your golden light gleams and flashes like lightning.
The silver Vestigial Spirit vibrates and hums a wash of confusion and rage. The coward. The serpent. The swine.
This is not the way! You were sent to give yourselves to these people. To help them and to forfeit any gain. But this one has taken so much. Taken so many. Aulkreth!
It lashes out at you. ZAP! CRACK! CRASH! Cold lightning bristling. Shocks of pain.
The insolent fool. The mad Spirit.
[[Just leave.]]
[[Destroy it.]]
"I have a plan." Nash begins. "To get the Crimson Rider straight to the Pyreking."
She cocks an eyebrow.
"But," Nash produces a single navy badge. "Her company will need badges. And we only have one, Vad."
Vad crosses his arms. "You'll go without me?"
[[PLAN<-"I'm sorry, Vad. But I'm afraid we must."]]
[["Let's do it."<-No. There is greater strength in numbers.]]
Welcome to the Vestigial Spirit interactive narrative experience. This is a story of sorts, which mimics a game in its simulated elements of challenge and problem solving.
The narrative will be communicated through text, with character choices/options written as bold, gray links at the bottom of each page. Select a link in order to jump to a new page and advance the story.
[[Tavern Scene 1<-Begin.]]
Created by Ben Orthey
His father was a fool and an alcoholic, but Nash was a quick learner. His father would often leave in the afternoon to go on a bender, and come back in the night or early morning, fists swinging. These were the worst examples of his sporatic abusive fits.
And so, whenever his father stayed out late, Nash would retrieve a blade his father kept hidden in the upper compartment of an old oak wardrobe. He would practice his play for hours until his father returned, and then... well, who held the steel?
Many boys wouldn't have had the gall to swing at their father, abusive or not. But Nash was not most boys. His father assumed he was, but Nash taught him a lesson that needed only be taught once, on that first night. He'd not practiced for very long, but a drunk was predictable. Especially one you'd danced with on so many occasion.
His father, ale-addled and weak, would forget Nash's impudence by each following morning, and ignore the boy by and large while sober. But some part of him must have remembered, because he never made another go at the boy while he held steel. An animal sort of muscle-memory, Nash supposes. But either way, it was a... happy equilibrium.
Until the man killed his mother. And Nash killed the man in turn. Now he wanders, in the hopes of one day using his skill with a blade for good. To become a knight of the resistance, perhaps. He would never give himself to the Empyre and the [[Dwell Pyreking<-Pyreking Aulkreth]]. But the thought was often tempting, if just for the opportunity to hold a sword again - a luxury no longer permitted to common men--
BOOM!
[[What was that??]]