Atrophy

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@catchamberYou might have better luck posting this in the General Interest Check sub-forum than in here.

Amongst the Lonesome- A return to Santa Somabra [Fantasy Noir]

@Zombiedude101Oh boy! Welcome!

@KingfisherYou need to stop changing your avatar, because the next one will never be greater than the one you have now.

The Origin: A War Resumed (Arc One; Completed)

@RaijinslayerI misread "magical drugs" as "magical drums" and was thoroughly distraught when Drosil didn't fly off the handle like Buddy Rich.

Amongst the Lonesome- A return to Santa Somabra [Fantasy Noir]

Collab featuring @JulienJaden

Sander hadn't been home, but his assistant had been there and had returned her items to her. Her phone was erupted with messages from Quinn and others Rats; messages she decided to ignore for her own sanity. The walk to her apartment consisted of half a pack of cigarettes. She made it to her front porch before her sense of smell finally drifted back. At first she thought she was smelling the mildewing corpse of a wino someone had gutted in the alley nearby before realizing that the putrid stench actually came from her. It didn't seem to bother Sammy very much, for the undead dog still pelted her with puppy kisses as she threw open the door to her sad, pathetic apartment. She tossed her bag containing Cain's book on her one and only piece of furniture, disregarding the plastic crate used as a table. After an uncomfortable shower consisting of struggling with keeping her bandages dry, she flopped down onto the couch. Grabbing the book from the bag, Valorie shifted herself into the most comfortable position she could find on that moth-eaten curbside pickup and popped a few pills into her mouth. Cain had said no hard drugs. They give these shit to preschoolers, she thought as she stuck her nose into the book.

She didn't remove it from the book for several hours.

---

It was well past midnight when Cain opened the door to his apartment. At first, he had tried to be quiet; after all, maybe there was a girl sleeping in his bed. But the twilight of the dark room was enough to see that both the bed and couch were empty. Valorie had not come back. His mood had already been fowl but this not entirely unexpected disappointment weighed almost as heavily on him as the deal he had shaken hands on and it tipped him over the edge. The door fell into the lock behind him as he flicked on the light and, with heavy steps, grabbed a bottle and a glass from a cabinet before slumping down on the couch. Tomorrow would be a long day, another one, but that could wait. He hadn't had a drink since yesterday morning and he felt like celebrating.

"Here's to doing the vampire's dirty work", he murmured bitterly as he downed the bourbon in one big gulp.

He could have checked where Valorie was - if he focused on the life bond, nothing would be able to hide her from him, not for another day or two - but he would have felt it if she was hurt and if she had decided not to come back, he wouldn't force her. On any other day, he might have been restless enough to go out and look for her but not tonight.

Tonight, he drank another glass in one and filled yet another with the golden liquid as his mind wandered to the terrible deals, acts of cruelty and depths of hell this whole 'Slayer' affair had led him to and had yet in store for him. He had been following leads since before Nyxvira Bloodbloom called but to find out what the Nyctari knew and take it from them... that was an offer he couldn't refuse, even if Concetto had asked him for much more.

With another hearty sip, the first tendrils began to ensnare his brain, wrapping it in cotton as he lazily stared at the note he had previously left on the doorstep for Valorie: 'Have to work late - Eat/drink/read what you want but don't touch the Blood Magic books. I'll know if you did.'

So what if he had to deliver a stranger to the fangs of the Nyctari. Hadn't he done worse already?

Yes, I have. But only to those I knew deserved it...

---

An alarm went off on her phone and pulled Valorie out of her zone. Grabbing her cell, she winced as she saw how late it was; she had been so focused on reading that she had almost missed her plans with Cain. The book in front of her was shoved full of bookmarks for clarification she wanted from her new teacher. Surely, he couldn't be upset at her if she had spent the time actually being productive? Throwing on some pants and zipping a hoodie up around her top, she twisted her hair into a quick and sloppy bun before grabbing Sammy and tucking him into her hoodie. Walking out the door, the silent dog shifted around wildly with excitement as she tried to cradle him. It would be his first time outside in a long time, and although it was dark the poor creature was still too obviously ghoulish for her to just walk him like a normal dog. He rose too many probing questions. Just because Cain was okay with her necromancy did not mean the city was.

It was well after midnight when she made it to his apartment. So much for that drink, she thought. Sammy's head poked out of the top of the zipper, resting beneath her chin and making her appear to be some kind of horrific late night monster movie experiment gone wrong. Testing the handle and finding the door locked, she rapped her knuckles lightly to the tune of shave and a haircut. As the door opened, Valorie pulled Sammy up so that the dog was blocking her face.

"Sorry I'm late," she said. "This one is kind of a handful. He kept getting distracted."

What looked at Francis from where Valorie's face was supposed to be was... hideous: It had unmistakeably been a beagle but its eyes were milky white and dead. One of its ears had been half torn off and probably stapled back in place - Cain could see where the staple had torn through the skin when it was ripped off - and now hung at a weird angle. Its colors were a mix of brown, white, black, along with green and red where the fur was missing and the toughened skin had begun to rot. It was these naked patches of him where the stitches and staples were the most visibly. The dog looked like a teddy bear after a moody kid had had its way with it...

... and then put it back together, crying, hands shaking, apologizing over and over. It was hideous, but it was also visible at first glance that Valorie had loved this animal so much she did what she could as quickly as she could to bring it back to life, and that made the old mage look upon it with kinder eyes. It lolled its tongue, breathed excitedly - even though that was no longer nessary - and probably even wagged its tail inside her sweater; if not for its visible flaws, Cain couldn't have told it from a normal dog at this time, and for a first attempt at magic, that was impressive indeed. He was no necromancer and had never had a particular talent for this school of magic but he knew that most creatures that were revived barely did anything besides breathing to prove that they were animate again; to revert even a mouse back to its original behavior was challenging.

Its soul, at least, seemed intact. There wasn't much that could be done to physically restore it - not without asking a vampire for help - but perhaps some of the damage could be hidden.

Valorie said something that was muffled by a mouthful of fur - did she complain about the dog's weight? - and it shook him from his reverie; he stepped aside.

"Right, come on in."

As she passed, they could both make out the smell of the other: He the scent of rotting dogmeat, she the one of alcohol on his breath. While she set the dog down who seemed to take a keen interest in the leg of the coffee table, Cain closed the door and locked it once more. Without a word, he grabbed another glass from the cabinet and set it on the table. Somewhere in his inebriated mind, a smart little voice suggested they should eat dinner, but his talk with Concetto had robbed him of all appetite. Instead, he filled her glass with the hard liquor and refilled his glass for the fourth time before sitting down.

"I had to work late, so I wasn't on time either", he explained, his words coming out so clearly as if he was completely sober; there was something in his tone, though, that was different from this morning, something that made him sound and look older. "I wasn't sure you'd come back."

"Come on, what kind of girl do you think I am?" she said, pretending to be offended as she slumped into a couch near the table and pressed the glass against her lips. "I'm not that unreliable—I'd never turn down a free drink."

Winking, she tipped the glass back of bourbon back. It turned out to be stronger than she had guessed. Bad idea, bad idea, she thought as the liquor burned her throat and brought tears to her eyes. Her wink had turned into more of a grimace as she forced herself to finish the drink, turning her head and giving one heavy cough in her fist in an attempt to not appear like a complete chump. Perhaps she could mix it with some soda or something to take the edge off. She knew not to ask. For starters, the bottle looked expensive, and people who drank bourbon were always so precious about the purity of their liquor. Although, really, when most of the liquor she drank came out of giant, bulk-sized plastic bottles found below the bottom shelf, anything in a bottle looked expensive. Maybe she just wanted to impress Cain. Regardless of the reason, she gave a satisfied "ah", set the glass down on the table, and expectantly looked towards the bottle.

"Delicious," she said, leaning towards the table so she could prop her head up with her hand. Her finger idly ran around the rim of her empty cup as she looked at Cain. Compared to this morning, he seemed exhausted, beat. It made her curious. "I imagine running around town rescuing damsels in distress would be pretty tough. Wanna talk about it, or...?"

He leaned back into the couch and the leather groaned under his weight. His eyes were glued to the dog as it continued to very slowly explore the apartment; it couldn't be easy to take in unfamiliar smells when you smelled like dead animal and your nose was rotting off.

"Let's just say that I had to meet somebody I'm not fond off and, in order to get something I need, I have to do something without knowing how it's gonna turn out", he explained cryptically. Cain may have despised the vampires but he was a man of his word nonetheless. "When I left the police, I thought I was freeing myself from having to watch whose toes I'm stepping on and that I could just do jobs for whom I pleased. But that's not how this city works. No matter what you do for a living, everybody's a whore: We all have to do things we hate ourselves for to stay afloat. My mother had it right though - at least a prostitute only has to sell her body, not her soul."

Francis rose the glass to his lips and let more liquid fire run down his throat, savoring the burn.

"Smart woman, my mother. And she had a good heart, despite everything this city had her do. If she hadn't tried to make things better for other prostitutes, she might have lived out her days in peace. Kindness gets you killed here."

He looked at the girl next to him who listened attentively. He had it all wrong: His life didn't start revolving around women a day, a week, a month ago. It had always been that way. That's what happened when you saw women getting punished every day.

"It's not too late for you to get out of Santa Somabra, you know. There's nothing here you wouldn't find anywhere else except for the Somabra Slayer - hopelessness and catchy names, that's all this town is good for."

"No, it is too late," she said, her voice soured as she thought of her predicament. She grabbed the bottle and poured herself a double. So what if it was hard to drink; she felt like she deserved it. God knows she needed it. "I'm sorry about your mother," she added with a tinge of guilt. When was the last time the girl had talked to her parents? They weren't the best folks, but they certainly tried to be. She hadn't even returned a single text message to them in months, let alone give them an actual phone call. Valorie sighed and took a sip of her drink. Still gross.

"But I think you're wrong," she said, trying to sound hopeful. "The whole world's fucked up, not just this city. I would've turned out to be a fuck up anywhere I went. At least here I can find it, whatever the hell it is anyway." She tucked her legs under her, her feet brushing against Cain's thigh. She gave him a sideways glance and a half-smile. "Besides, you're here, old man. You didn't forget your promise, did you?"

"No, I didn't. And that should tell you one thing: You are not a fuck-up", he said a little more forcefully than he would have if he was sober. "I wouldn't have offered a talentless junkie to become my apprentice. I am not a good person, Valorie. I have done things that should keep me up at night... but most of them don't."

As if to drown the images these words had evoked, Cain raised his glass once more, drowning them in hard liquor. This gulp, however, wasn't savored in any way; he drank it with thirst, with the need of bad habit, only one or two steps short of full-blown addiction.

"I was kinda like you when I was your age: Angry at pretty much everything for no particular reason, tired of people avoiding me and every semblance of success crumbling under my touch, feeling oppressed by the environment I grew up in, but most of all, I was disappointed in myself for not being able to do something about it. I left the city, drifted from place to place and let myself spiral out of control in a way that makes what you got involved in yesterday look like something to write home about."

His eyes were glued to her frame, an intensity in his voice that spoke of the kind of memories you'd rather forget. His empty hand sat right next to her knee, brushing against it as if looking for something to hold on to.

"It got bad, really bad, and I crossed a lot of thresholds I shouldn't have. If my mother hadn't died when she did, I would have either ended up dead in a ditch, in a hail of bullets, with a needle in my arm or burning myself up in some failed demonic ritual. And if I can, I'll make sure you never do anything worse than drugs, so you don't become a fuck-up like me."

Valorie shifted uncomfortably, staring into her drink as Cain talked to her. When she was older would she one day find herself confiding in someone much younger with the hope to...what, exactly? Redeem herself for her past transgressions? She frowned. The thought that someone who was little more than a stranger seemed to be convinced that he knew and understood everything about her irked her. She had come over here to learn, to study, to better herself as a necromancer—and perhaps she had found the man a little charming, as well. Now she found herself annoyed with Cain and, perhaps even more so, angered at herself for being annoyed with the man. Yet she refused to let herself become some morality pet, some little Rat locked up in a cage because he was afraid she'd be eaten by a cat. She sipped her drink to cover up her silence.

"How kind of you," she said in a deadpan voice. Her eyes drifted to the book in her bag. She doubted tonight would turn into a study session at this point; Cain seemed too moody (or perhaps less sober than he appeared) to answer any questions. She had really been curious to see if he could confirm some of her ideas on using reversed runes to turn the wards into jinxes or adding various components to a wax seal would give certain charms a stronger seal. Valorie would be lying if she said she wasn't disappointed, but she'd also be lying if she said her disappointment didn't fill her with guilt. Cain had saved her after all; the least she could do was lend a sympathetic ear and a few kind words. She drained her drink and poured herself another one.

"What I mean is, well, look, man, I think I get what you're trying to say, but...that stuff doesn't really work on me, you know?" she said, feeling the heat from the liquor in her face. Grabbing an ashtray from the table and setting it in the gap between the two, she stuck two cigarettes in her mouth and lit them before handing one to Cain. "I mean, like, I'm sure you've seen a movie before, right? I think they were called talkies in your day," she said, smirking. "Because this is the part where I'm supposed to be a shitty young adult and yell how I'm nothing like you, or how you don't know me, or how you can't control me and then storm out, and to be honest I kind of want to do those things. Really, I don't feel good about it, but I do. This heavy shit, I'm...I'm just not mature enough yet for it, I guess."

Valorie took a big drag and huffed out a cloud of smoke.

"But I know I'm immature, and I'm not going to do anything like that," she said, giving Francis an uncertain smile. "But if you start calling yourself a fuck up I might have to hit you. You're the one person in this town who has helped me out without really asking for much of anything in return. And who gives a shit if you're not a good person? At least you're trying to do good things," she said. "That's gotta be worth something, right?"

Cain gave her a tired smile but didn't answer. It was okay, really. He didn't think she'd be remorseful or break into tears or grow up in an instant. That wasn't how youth worked. Talking never changed you that much, only something that hit you really hard could do that.

Why had he spoken so freely to her then? Because he was selfish. He felt reminded of a fight with one of the many girlfriends he had had in his lifetime, where the pressure on his head and weight on his chest were so great, where thoughts kept repeating in his head so unbearably that he had to get out. Of course you always regret them once the other heard them but it was still a relief to not carry them around with you anymore. That's how Francis felt right now. This evening had put him into turmoil over losing a bit more of himself, but it wasn't just this evening - it was the culmination of the past weeks and years even. Vigilance was a friend but there were things he didn't want her to see in him. God only knew why he decided to confide in Valorie, of all people. Well, not just God. Cain knew. He saw himself in her and that made him stupid. That and an attraction to her that didn't exactly seem to contribute to a good learning environment.

The silence became awkward very quickly as both nursed on their cigarettes and Cain emptied his glass. At that rate, the bottle was not long for this world.

"Being like me is not entirely bad", he finally spoke with a wry smile. "It means you'll become a former cop and badass wizard one day, when movies are called 'talkies' again."

"Better than being like me," she muttered, replacing her thoughts and words with a deep, heavy drink. She couldn't help but hear Kennedy's threat ringing in her ears. She had been trying to ignore thinking about it all day, but then Cain had to implant her with the horrific thought that she would one day be sharing the same occupation as that slime ball. Of course, Valorie knew that would never happen. She might have been a dirty, rotten snitch, but she still had some self-respect. She took another drink in hopes of finding refuge in its warmth, but thoughts of Kennedy had ruined it. She set the glass down on the table, a heavy pout on her lips as her face sunk into her hands.

"Not to bring down this chipper mood, but I, Kennedy's, shit, man, I think he's going to..." she said, unable to finish her sentence before a new idea formed and shut her up. It was a disgusting, horrible thing to think, but she thought of it anyway. Perhaps the drink had reacted with her negative mood (or the study drugs) and opened the gate for the dark parts of her brain to creep out. Whatever the reason, she couldn't let the thought go. It was a possible solution to her police problem, and if it wouldn't really help her in the end at least she would have the gratification of knowing that she had gotten the last laugh when it came to dealing with Kennedy. She glanced deviously towards Cain. It was wrong, she knew it was wrong, but she could use him. No, call it like it is: manipulate him, she thought, looking away from the man. She had caught his sideways glances. He had said he would do whatever he could to make sure she did nothing terrible. He seemed to have a checkered and violent past. She believed she could convince him to do it.

"Francis, I know you and Kennedy are associates or whatever, but if I—" Or she could just completely ruin whatever it was that the two had between them. "—never mind. I don't want to think about that asshole, it's just—" Maybe she could just hint at it; make it seem like it was his idea. "—I sometimes can't help myself but think how better my life would be if Officer Dick wasn't in it.

He could have seen that glance, should have seen it, should have realized that she was trying to implant an idea in his head, but he didn't. The alcohol made Francis blind and his strange attraction to her added stupid to the mix. And yet she didn't succeed in the way she hoped she would.

Her words and what she was clearly hinting made Cain wonder: How much could he press this issue with Kennedy?

As dysfunctional as their private relationship had become, their work association was both stable and mutually benefitial, that much was clear. When it came to influential underworld contacts and pure deadliness, Richard Kennedy couldn't play in the same league as the mage; but likewise, Cain had none of the friends in high places Kennedy could boast, he would have far less insight into what the SSPD were up to or knew without him and he was a valuable source of income.

The truth of the matter was that Cain was convinced he could get Kennedy to back off and concede Valorie to him but he wasn't sure he could do so without damaging their 'partnership', if one could call it that. And Rich tended to do stupid things when he was feeling angry or betrayed, the kind of things that raised attention; last time he did something of the sort, he almost got himself caught with incriminating evidence, enough to put him in jail, and if Kennedy was ever faced with a trial, there was no doubt he would sell out everybody he could, including Cain.

No matter how he looked at it, there were only two ways to make sure that Kennedy didn't get himself in trouble: By making him scared or making him dead, and as strong as Cain was, he alone was not influential enough to scare Richard into submission; it was easy enough when they were face to face but through the phone, that was more difficult.

And that raised one final question: If all else failed, was he ready to kill somebody who was so valuable to him and who he had so much history with to help one girl out, to maybe not even save her but just make her life a little easier?

He didn't know. Now really didn't seem to be the time to think about it. But he would put her mind at ease, and if he had to go back on his word later... Well, it wouldn't be the first time.

"I will talk to Kennedy", he announced.

He lifted his hand from besides her knee to her shoulder and stroked it reassuringly. Then he grinned and added:

"And I'll make sure he knows not to mess with my girl."

A dissonant voice rang through Valorie's head as Francis tried to reassure her. It sounded like her own voice, but in that surreal, almost unrecognizable way that your voice sometimes sounds when you play it back through a recording. "You don't know me, old man,' said the voice. "I am nobody's fucking girl." Although she could not remember ever saying those words, she knew that she had uttered them fairly recently. Perhaps it was just deja vu. Regardless, the words filled her with confidence. In her mind, her little ploy had worked without a hitch. Talk was clearly a euphemism used by the old man because he was afraid of harming the sensibilities of "his girl" with such violent words, or at least that was what she assumed. Through the growing haze of liquor, she could feel her face numbly forming into a devilish grin. She knew she should feel bad about what she was trying to do. Deep down inside, she truly believed she felt bad about what she was trying to do.

But she was going to do it anyway.

She looked down, biting her lip to prevent her toothy grin from giving her motives away, and then turned her eyes hungrily up at Cain. Perking up in her seat so that they were closer to eye level, she took his hand from her shoulder and clasped her fingers between his as she inched slowly forward. She didn't quite understand how she felt about the man, but she knew this didn't feel good. She was leaning on the couch on her good knee now, her free hand wrapping itself behind Cain's head. This is the part where she should've stopped, should've realized she was doing these things for the wrong reasons. She could smell the alcohol on his breath, see the wrinkles around his eyes. This was just some way to try to control him; this wasn't right. She stared into his eyes of what she assumed to be a sad, lonely old man, but all she could see was the reflection of a scared, stupid little girl. She hesitated for a second, and only a second.

"Can I tell you a secret, Francis?" she said, smirking, as she pulled her lips up to his ear to whisper. "I'm not a good person, either."

Before he could respond, she closed her eyes and kissed him. Now the only voice she could hear was Francis's echo: "But that's not how this city works. No matter what you do for a living, everybody's a whore: we all have to do things we hate ourselves for to stay afloat."

Thanks for the advice.

Amongst the Lonesome- A return to Santa Somabra [Fantasy Noir]

@FlaggThe number of people who know Valorie is a necromancer is very limited, so it seems like the best way for Kurtz and her to connect would be through Cain...unless he puts out something like a flyer or something...

The Origin: A War Resumed (Arc One; Completed)

Vesta & Cyril

The ambassador had already disappeared up the stairs and into a bed. Surely, a pencil pusher like him would have been exhausted after a long day of traveling. Vesta, too, felt tired and her body ached, but it was a good pain. Riding horseback worked muscles she could actually use; she didn’t have to worry about putting the wrong kind of pressure on her knee or slowly and methodically trudge her way down a road. A simple pleasure, like the kind she found in the mug of mead that she was currently nursing, or it would have been if dark clouds looming in her future. They would be in Gurata soon. The last time she had been in that frozen shithole some bastard had crippled her with a cheapshot. How long ago had that been? She couldn’t even remember. And now she was going back, dragged along by some wide-eyed and bushy-tailed scion.

Tilting the mug back, she drained her drink before pushing herself back from the table and onto her feet. Her scabbard clacked against the ground, betraying her otherwise silent footsteps as she approached Cyril and the Wanderer. Vesta brushed the hair out of her face and faked a cough to get their attention.

“I am safe in assuming that you are free now? I would still like a chance to have a word,” she said to Cyril, before casting a cold glance at the Wanderer. Her voice dripped with venom; her left hand curled into a ball. “He was just about to go for a walk, was he not?” she said, before turning back to her Prince. Her gaze did not soften as she nodded to the stairs leading to their private rooms. “Shall we, Cyril?”

The cough was enough to apparently physically startle the Wanderer, making him jump slightly, almost threatening to be expeled from his skin. Cyril's reaction was much more tame, straightening slightly before he turned to face Vesta with a smile. Though it didn't fade, his gaze became curious as the sudden, unpleasant turn came into the woman's gaze and words. Beyond that curiosity, whatever Cyril thought about it he kept to himself. The Wanderer, meanwhile, shrank away, seeming to become even smaller than he usually was as he looked away, as if ashamed.

"Sure thing, Joy."

She nodded as if to say "follow me" and then limped her way up the steps, holding the door to her room open for Cyril before stepping in behind him. Closing it, she latched the door and made her way across the small room. It was actually quite a bright and quaint room, but for some reason the atmosphere felt heavy. She set her sword up against a side table next to her bed, offering the chair to Cyril with a gesture of her hand as she leaned against the wall. Pulling her flask off of her hip as she looked out the window, she took a big swig of the burning liquor. You're just delaying this, she thought, capping her flask. She tossed the object to Cyril instead of putting it back on her belt.

"Have some," she said with a huff, folding her arms over her chest. It sounded more like a demand than an offer; she eyed him expectantly as she mulled over in her head how to start. Sighing, she lowered her gaze to her feet, her lips pressing into a frown. Finally, after what felt like an almost unbearable amount of time, she spoke.

"I think the first time we ever met was when I was close to your age now," she said, her voice heavy. "Your father had ordered me to train his son how to use a sword. I was one of the best back then." She drummed her fingers as she continued to fix her eyes to the ground. "I remember being real upset about that. I think both of us were upset about it. I always figured you wanted daddy dearest to spend time with you. I just felt like I was being punished, forced to babysit some little brat because I had upset a few dozen noble families during my younger years. I didn't let it show, but I was furious." For a moment, there was a hint of a smile on her face. "Although, I wasn't nearly as mad as the day your father promoted me and had to find you a new trainer because I had become too busy. Stupid to think about now."

She let out another loud huff, and then peeled her eyes off of the floor to look at Cyril.

"Do you remember my first lesson? The first thing I said to you?" she asked. There was a hint of doubtful desperation in her words, as if she knew he would not remember.

Cyril was not one to drink often, especially not while on a mission. He nearly missed the flask entirely, hands quickly coming up at the very last moment to catch it. Blinking, he almost absentmindedly took the seat she had offered him. In the silence that followed their arrival, he spent the moments looking over the flask, before almost cautiously opening it. The expression on the woman's face made it seem like he didn't really have a choice in the matter, so after a silent sigh he finally took a sip, thinking one was more than enough.

He managed to keep himself from wincing. She was just carrying this around?

The burning in his throat quickly faded at the mention of his father. In the time that she was looking at the ground, the color had drained from the Prince's gaze slightly as he tensed just a little. His finger tapped slightly against her flask, being the only other sign of his irritation. As her words went more away from the subject his father and instead towards how the two of them were in the past, the Prince relaxed some. By the time she looked up to him, the displeasure was gone entirely as he instead smiled to himself, thinking back to the practical beatings in the past that, while at the time and at first he hated, he had grown to understand the reasoning why they happened in the first place.

The response to her question came immediately, straightening slightly in the chair as he set the flask off to the side, with no desire to consume any more. "Never lower my guard. Surprised I still don't have the bruises from how long it took you to whip that into me."

She cocked an eyebrow, surprised by the quick response. She couldn't tell if she was more impressed that he remembered or upset that he had not taken it completely to heart. Her fingers stopped drumming as she chewed over what she was going to say next. The boy had proven he could take a physical thrashing from her; maybe he could benefit from a verbal one.

"So you do remember," she growled. "Yet you still lower it. Pray tell, why are you not more careful? Traveling with such a small group yet still flying Barcean colors, sending your men ahead to scout while remaining behind with unknown quantities, and know inviting those strangers to join us without even knowing who or what they are! You can't truly tell me that you trust them. Why are you being so goddamn careless?" she demanded, her fist hitting the wall.

His eyebrow rose slightly as her tone suddenly shifted. It had become aggressive, almost violent; a far cry from what it had been moments before. It took him a few moments to figure out just what she was going on about, but when he did... It brought an almost relaxed feeling over him. This he could deal with, as he had advisors and worriers before. It was just more of the same. Not even the sudden fist against the wall startled him.

"A small group moving within the borders, going from place to place to not just scout, but direct and lead." He began to rise then, slowly crossing his arms after he stood at his full height. "A group to react quickly and effectively, to save as many lives as possible. A group to find those unknown quantities, those strangers you speak of..." He brought one hand up even as his arms remained crossed for the most part, one finger lightly tapping his temple. "And to keep an eye on them, rather than simply letting them roam free just after hearing or even seeing them. Does it make sense more from that perspective, ma'am?"

"It made sense to have a ceasefire with H'kela. It made sense to march West to liberate Aatroia from the God Kings." It made sense for me to run away, she thought spitefully. "Just because something makes sense does not mean it is a good idea," said Vesta, folding her arms again as she shook her head.

"What if those villages this morning had not yet been destroyed, but were still under siege. What would you have done if we had come across the H'kelan forces? Fight them outnumbered ten to one? Do any of your men even have any real experience outside of a few bandits here or there? Would you be able to give the order to flee, knowing that you were condemning your countrymen to death in hopes that, perhaps, somehow, you could save more later?" She pointed a finger at the Prince. "And if those two idiots can drive an army back, then what chance do we have if they turn out to be enemies of the crown?"

"If you want to do things that don't make sense, I can think of a few. If my father were still along, he probably would have executed the two of them in the middle of the village square, if it fit his fancy. But we wouldn't have been able to do that, now would we? If they were enemies of the crown, we'd be dead already. The village would have been left alive to draw us in, we would have been massacred in the streets in our confusion, and the rest of the village would have been finished off as well. The fact that the village is still alive, that we are still alive, gives me some pause, gives me some reason to be grateful to them. Because of that, I'm willing to be a little more patient."

Cyril had waited for Vesta, but in that moment the words suddenly spilled from his lips. Once more he was tensed, gaze narrowed slightly as he defended his actions. It was more than just that, though, and really what was directed towards him was the least of his concern. It was what was pointed at the rest of the Sentinels that he saw as the true attack.

"Sampson is a Barcean soldier, through and through. He is one of the most resilient men I know; nothing phases him, and he just doesn't stop. Gortul is one of the strongest within reasonable limits; he's no Direwolf, but for a so-called 'regular' man he's impressive. Alasa is brilliant, and has fought every day to survive. Diane lived on the western border. In a way the reason she was born was because of the constant warring, and she's seen that constant warring, and she's acted during it."

Briefly he paused, closing his eyes as he sighed. Once more his hand went to the bridge of his nose, the habit of a physical attempt at relieving tension bringing pause and giving him a moment to figure out just what he wanted to say next. "Even more, they're more than just the sum of their parts. On their own, they're worth ten men each. Together, thirty men each, easily. You may not believe me, but I believe in them. And I know that if I'm ever faced with that choice of sacrificing the few for the many, or attempting to save those few and face nearly certain death, we will pull through that crucible even stronger than before."

Vesta dropped her eyes. She knew it had been a mistake to bring up his men; she would have defended her own in the same way. If Cyril was ever going to listen to her words in the first place, then whatever fleeting chance there had been drifted away the moment she had attacked his men. However, despite understanding his reaction she couldn't help but feel herself overwhelmed with jealousy again. The jealously quickly burned itself into anger mixed with actual concern. She glared at him.

"I do believe you," said Vesta, thrusting herself off of the wall and placing her hand to her heart. She felt a pain shoot through her knee. "That is why I'm trying to protect you from your own childish thinking." Wrong words again. Damn it! she thought, shaking her head. "It's just that you're being unrealistic. Just because someone is worth an entire battalion doesn't mean that there isn't a person on the other side that's worth a whole army. You can't rely on others like that." She exhaled with frustration; her voice betrayed her emotions. "You put too much faith in these people. You're always like this every time we talk. I don't even know why I try; you never budge an inch. Your stubbornness will get you killed one day, Olain, I—"

She clasped her hand over her mouth and turned towards the window. You idiot.

In that instant, something about Cyril turned cold. It hadn't been being called childish, or even being called unrealistic; it was the name that caused the change in the Prince. Any hope of the conversation continuing for much longer was snuffed in that moment. Gaze sharp, he slowly brought up a hand. As he did so, it was very apparent he was trying to keep himself calm, breathing in and out slowly... But he only extended his forefinger, pointing as he gestured to himself slightly, and then down.

"The reason why I am not like my father is because I rely on others. Because I put faith in them. Don't ever think of me and him in the same vein when it comes to that." His voice was just as chilly as his eyes. Slowly he lowered his hand, turning to begin walking out. "I'm going down to the main room to get some food. Need to make sure there's a big enough space for all of us. Even if you don't decide to join us, make sure to get some food. We leave early tomorrow morning."

With that, the Prince left, almost too carefully closing the door behind him.

Although Vesta stared out the window she could not see the village in front of her; all she could see was the past. Pulling herself away from the terrible view, the woman grabbed her flask from the desk and fell into her bed. She spat out the swig she had taken. It tasted foul in her mouth. Rolling onto her side, Vesta stared at the wall as if she would find some kind of answer. All she could see was the face of her Prince and her King, blending together into one. She frowned. She told herself that Cyril had been wrong about one thing: Olain did rely on others. It was the reason she was here, was it not? To watch over the ones he had left behind. His final orders; much better than the reality of things.

It was so great of a lie that even she believed it.

Amongst the Lonesome- A return to Santa Somabra [Fantasy Noir]

@FlaggHey, I know a shitty discount necromancer!

VIGILANCE: Sanctuary

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Somewhere Terrible, Outside Pointe Bordeaux | Grace Kennison

Some Awful Day, Some Awful Month, Some Awful Year - 0 Time For Messages

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Grace only heard the ringing in her ears as she opened her eyes, blinking the dancing stars out of her vision. Her head hurt as if her older brother Peter had just drilled her with a baseball again. For a moment, she felt herself transported through time back to that moment of her childhood. The ringing was still there, but she could also hear shouts from her brothers mixed with the wild hoots of laughter from her sisters. The sun was shining and she could feel the grass on the back of her legs and arms. It was hard to breath. She could feel the warmth of her own blood on her face from where the ball had smashed her nose. She could hear Peter’s voice, the gravitas in his angry words marred by the cracking of his voice as he yelled at someone to check if she was still breathing.

“No way is that bitch still alive after that headshot,” said someone. A man. Joseph, maybe. How? He was younger than Peter, it made little sense for his voice to be deeper. Had her hearing been ruined too by that fastball?

“Trust me, it’s best to hit these freaks twice,” said Peter. Except, no, that wasn’t right. He hadn’t been the nicest of brothers, but he was never downright malicious. Peter had moved away.

She blinked again. The sunny sky disappeared, blackened out almost instantly by the storm clouds above. The grass turned into mud; Grace could feel it seeping in through the cracks in her helmet and clinging to her hair. The blood on her face was gone, replaced by the cold drops of rain from the sky above. The visor on her mask had completely shattered. Her head still hurt, but her nose no longer felt smashed. She was overwhelmed by the smell of smoke, swamp, and something putrid that she couldn’t place but would later learn to be burnt flesh. She closed her eye in concentration as she pulled herself out of the past. There was no time for unhappy walk down memory lane. The convoy. The attack. She had to do something.

Step one: Get up. Get safe.

“Holy shit, I went to school with this girl. Should’ve guessed that stuck up bitch was Thu—”

Grace heard three sounds at once as she sat up. The first sound was of someone yelling out in surprise. It seemed like it was supposed to be a warning, but the words that came out were a mixture of unhelpful rage-fuelled gibberish. The second was the mousy squeak of her own voice as she saw the man looming over her whip his revolver towards her face, his reaction time slowed by the surprise of seeing a corpse (or what he had assumed to be a corpse) come back to life. The third was the discordant and percussive noise of a bone snapping in two accompanied by the shrill symphony of vocal cords being shredded by bloodcurdling screams.

An instant wave of regret hit Grace as she realized that she had reacted too fast and had not controlled her strength. She scrambled as she pulled her body out of the mud, lost her balance, and dropped forward onto all fours. A noise like a cannon firing went off nearby, but it was not enough to cut the gut wrenching cries of anguish from the crippled man. She crawled next to him and carefully smacked him in the face. The blow was strong enough to knock him unconscious. It had been an attempt to be merciful both to her attacker and to her own ears. Grace did not have time to become sick as her eyes danced over his twisted leg. Move on, move on.

She stumbled to her feet as the other man yelled something at her and fired his gun at her chest. Grace had expected a bullet to smack the wind out of her, possibly even putting her on her ass again and send her drifting back to wonderland. The man had expected the girl to drop to the ground and to start shaking like a pair of back alley dice. There was a brief tingling sensation as the barbs bounced off of her body that cause Grace to jump and tense up ever so slightly, but in the end the wires harmlessly fell to the ground along with the bloom of plastic confetti. The two exchanged a short, confused glance before they quickly realized what had actually occurred.

“Seriously? Why would you think that would work?” said Grace as she walked towards the man. She wasn’t taunting the man; she was offended. Do I really have that little of a reputation? she thought. Using a taser on her was like trying to kill someone with a nerf gun—unless you were going to disregard the choking hazard warning and shove the damn thing down their throat then you’d be better off just pissing into the wind. She tapped him in the gut as he tried firing on her again, knocking the wind out of him as he doubled over in pain. He’d be incapacitated for a good while. Grabbing the taser, she chucked it effortlessly into the swamp.

Step two: assess the situation.

Grace had to figure out what was going on—getting shot in the face had a way of confusing your timeline. The welt on her forehead was already throbbing in dull pain.The last thing she remembered was rushing around warning people about the attack, and then there was a loud noise, and then she was on her back. She looked around and tried to grasp what was happening besides the obvious fact that her warning had been too little, too late.

Cars were continuing to swarm into the plantation. She couldn’t tell where the vehicles belonging to the convoy ended and the ones brought by the rioters began. It was noisy, way too noisy. Guns rang out in the air. Electricity crackled through the sky. Rallying cries and screams pierced through her helmet. The damn crunched up thing was blinding her peripherals, but for some dumb reason she couldn’t bring herself to break it off even though it no longer masked her face. A stupid comfort in all of this chaos. It wasn’t enough. Months of childish games of make believe where she ran around a city in some shitty get up and confronted drug addicts, petty thieves, and wannabe wiseguys did nothing to prepare her for something like this.

She was moving. Why was she moving? My phone, my phone. I stashed my bag in a van. I need to call Joseph. He can help, she thought, her better judgment clouded with panic. She could hear someone praying between heavy, sobbing breaths. It took her a minute to realize it was her own voice. The soft voice faded as her eyes fell upon throngs of bodies. She couldn’t stop looking. Surely they were okay. Surely they were just napping; tasers were always nonlethal, right? Surely it was normal for that man to only have half of a face left, the rest of it blown away by a weapon. Surely she wasn’t the only—hrk! Her mind cleared just in time for her to move to ditch the helmet. Ripping the mask off of her face, Grace doubled over as she lost her breakfast. How lame, she thought, wiping her mouth off with a muddy sleeve. Really, you’re worried about that? Dizzied but strangely sobered by the sickness escaping from her body, Grace pulled her thoughts together.

“Step three,” she muttered under her breath, echoing the words Joseph had said to her ages ago. “You gotta be a hero.” The logic, in her mind, was sound. She knew she could take a beating; she wasn’t so sure about the others. She had to protect her people, whatever that fucking meant. Until this afternoon she had considered the citizenry of Pointe Bordeaux to be “her people”. Now, she had her doubts about it. Whatever. She’d worry about that cerebral shit later. She had to stop this madness from spinning further out of hand. Okay. You got this, Grace.As she stood up, there was just enough time for her to cover her face with her arms as a truck crashed into her.

She didn’t see what happened, but she felt the force of the truck smashing into her chest as pain shot through her entire body. The air pushed itself out of her lungs, but she did not budge. She couldn’t budge. Typically, a person would have been thrown like a ragdoll over the hood or smashed under a tire like a opossum. For Grace, the vehicle just wrapped itself around her body and encaged her in steel. Trying her best to ignore the pain (and the crumpled over body that was sprawling over the windshield) she pried herself free from the tangled mess of metal and made her way around to the side of the truck. She checked for fire and saw none. Good. There would be no need to move anyone then—she didn’t want to be that idiot who paralyzed someone by pulling them from a wreck that wasn’t going to go up in flames. Despite the fact that the driver had tried to mow her down, she ripped the door off the side of the truck to make sure that nobody needed immediate attention.

The scene in the front of the truck was vicious; there was no convincing herself that the driver or the man sprawled across the windshield were alive. She felt the churn of sickness in her stomach once again and averted her gaze, her fingers clasping around her necklace. It was rough, way too rough. Move on. Focus. They crashed into you. It’s not your fault. Not your fault. Move on. Focus. Tearing the collapsed back door off of its hinges, Grace felt a shadow fall over her. There was nobody to save. She felt her head spin as she backed away from the wreck. Move on. Move on. There are others. Move on. Not your fault. Move on. Move on. It didn’t work. She collapsed behind a car in despair, her hands clutching her face in shock.

She didn’t have much time to wallow in her own miseries. Say what you will about Catholics, but they knew how to use guilt to motivate themselves. Grace forced her to keep moving. She had said she would help. Taking her dirty hands from her face, Grace looked to her left and spotted the man who had searched her earlier. Lucas, right? He clearly was not okay. The man was crouching down in the mire, his hands pressed to his ears as he sat on his haunches with his hands on his ears like a scared child. It was like how she wanted to be, come to think of it. I can atleast help him, right? God, please don’t let me screw this up too. She crouch-walked her way over to the man, cautiously reaching out to grab his shoulder.

“H-h-hey,” she said, brushing a finger against him. “Come with me, okay? I, I, I...you’re going to be okay, okay? You are okay, right? No injuries or anything? I think the convoy’s retreating. I’m going to help you, alright?” Whatever confidence that seemed to be in her voice (which was little if even any) faded, replaced instead by a frantic desperation. “Jesus, let me help you, please? I, I, I can’t live with myself if I don’t even...listen, grab my hand. I’ll protect you, okay?”She held her hand out to Lucas, knowing that she could just throw him over a shoulder if he was unwilling or unable to cooperate.

“Please?” she said, trying to force a trusting smile on her face. It failed, a pained frown taking its place. The only thing she could think about was what Joseph had said to her on the phone about him fearing that she was doing something stupid. She exhaled deeply. The real step three: do something stupid. My fucking creed.

Amongst the Lonesome- A return to Santa Somabra [Fantasy Noir]

<Snipped quote by JulienJaden>

There is a Richard Dickface on there, but thank you for noticing the friends reference.

@Kingfisher

Oh.

So calling that one dude killed by the Slayer "Hugh Blackwood" was not an accident?

Amongst the Lonesome- A return to Santa Somabra [Fantasy Noir]

@DrinkyThe reading's good, but that little spooky echo effect triggers the same negative response in my mind that happens when a show has a laugh track and now it's the only thing I can notice.