NytefallThe Weeper looked on with something close to a melancholy amusement. Of course he would enter the fight before he understood. Why were they always so willing to test The Weeper? Had they not learned that one so old must have killed so many?
Perhaps they had all learned in the end, but it was not a lesson one could survive.
Sparks in his palm, signalling that he fought one with magic. Oh how The Weeper had hoped this would be a difficult conflict, yet even as he watched the strange power grow in his foes hand he felt no fear. His arrogance would consume him yet, that was certain. Waves of debilitating aura shot from The Weeper, intensifying with each sonar-like pulse. Unfortunately for Mikael the effects would feel all too personal to notice, until it was likely too late. His eagerness to fight was to be his first elevated emotion, would he resist the tendency to surrender to adrenaline and blood, to go beserk as it were? Time would tell…
The Weeper moved with an unnatural grace, drawing his sword across his body with his right hand as he ran forward on nimble and sure feet. The ashen ground at his feet provided a number of dangerous pitfalls he avoided with apparent nonchalance, as he closed the distance in a second and a half he noted the man’s magical object had grown slightly, though he had certainly reached him faster than expected and so it was unlikely it could be complete in time. Regardless, The Weeping Blade swept across the man’s left side, with the deft slash of a shortsword aimed to incapacitate one’s arms with sharp, and more importantly incredibly quick, cuts.
Regardless of the outcome of his attack The Weeper was planning to use his momentum wisely, cancelling it out with his left foot coming forward, the sudden halting motion allowing him to swing his right leg across in a quick follow-up kick to the outside of his opponent’s knee (provided he was still within range.)
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Adrian turned suddenly from his mourning at the side of his fallen friend and caught the attention of Anton and Viktor, both blessedly unharmed. Adrian roused himself into some semblance of action, knowing in his heart that sitting around wasn’t going to help anyone, nor answer any of his burning questions. He took a slow breath.
The tavern had grown more populous while he had been indisposed, he spotted Vasily and Tjasa with a cursory glance, though there were obviously more in the crowds, and some were even shaking themselves from their grief like Adrian and turning to help. Though fear for his mother and father still shook him, the young man forced himself to his feet and walked over to Anton, about to query as to Grigory’s health. The farm-hand was bleeding profusely from his wounded leg, slumped as white as virgin snow on one of the few standing chairs.
Anton looked at him blankly, as if shock had finally seized him, and Viktor seemed to be obeying the commands of Chiudka and carefully moving those he could closer to the fire, while clearing space by forcing any offending tables to one side. The tavern was starting to look like a warzone.
“Chiudka.” Adrian said simply to get her attention from an obviously dying man. “Grigory is hurt, he’ll bleed to death.” He relayed the information clinically, as he knew his father would, he drew strength from it.
Vasily was trying to coax Oskar into some semblance of sanity in the corner of the room, and more people were flooding the tavern. There was only so much that could be done, and with a painful shudder Adrian had to sit himself down on the floor, his back to an upturned table. He reached back and brushed a hand across his shoulder, turning away from the sudden pain with shock. He sat there with his hand in front of his face, watching the blood drip from his fingers.
The tavern had grown more populous while he had been indisposed, he spotted Vasily and Tjasa with a cursory glance, though there were obviously more in the crowds, and some were even shaking themselves from their grief like Adrian and turning to help. Though fear for his mother and father still shook him, the young man forced himself to his feet and walked over to Anton, about to query as to Grigory’s health. The farm-hand was bleeding profusely from his wounded leg, slumped as white as virgin snow on one of the few standing chairs.
Anton looked at him blankly, as if shock had finally seized him, and Viktor seemed to be obeying the commands of Chiudka and carefully moving those he could closer to the fire, while clearing space by forcing any offending tables to one side. The tavern was starting to look like a warzone.
“Chiudka.” Adrian said simply to get her attention from an obviously dying man. “Grigory is hurt, he’ll bleed to death.” He relayed the information clinically, as he knew his father would, he drew strength from it.
Vasily was trying to coax Oskar into some semblance of sanity in the corner of the room, and more people were flooding the tavern. There was only so much that could be done, and with a painful shudder Adrian had to sit himself down on the floor, his back to an upturned table. He reached back and brushed a hand across his shoulder, turning away from the sudden pain with shock. He sat there with his hand in front of his face, watching the blood drip from his fingers.
The Weeper seized upon the words of his fellow human with an eager excitement barely displayed under fabric, something he paused a moment to consider sagely. He stood somewhat straighter then and let his thoughts fly to each word with a rapid but intense exploration of the wonderful music of oration. It would have seemed a slightly uncomfortable pause in a normal conversation, but such a pause was necessary to The Weeper and he did not lament it.
“You are right. To die here would be as if you fell as a single raindrop into the sea, your passing would be like your very existence, meagre and unimportant.” He sounded oddly happy about such a dire observation.
Then, The Weeper made another huge leap in conversation, going so far as to ask Mikael a question, something one may consider unprecedented.
“Are you afraid to die?” The Weeper asked ominously, taking one step forward, intending to walk closer to the man. He could have drawn his pistol and fired right then and there, but the sword wouldn’t allow it, or so he told himself. Perhaps there was more to it, perhaps some small part of the man The Weeper once was wanted to give this young man the chance he deserved. Perhaps The Weeper sought his own end.
“You are right. To die here would be as if you fell as a single raindrop into the sea, your passing would be like your very existence, meagre and unimportant.” He sounded oddly happy about such a dire observation.
Then, The Weeper made another huge leap in conversation, going so far as to ask Mikael a question, something one may consider unprecedented.
“Are you afraid to die?” The Weeper asked ominously, taking one step forward, intending to walk closer to the man. He could have drawn his pistol and fired right then and there, but the sword wouldn’t allow it, or so he told himself. Perhaps there was more to it, perhaps some small part of the man The Weeper once was wanted to give this young man the chance he deserved. Perhaps The Weeper sought his own end.
Which was when Fury decided to make an appearance.
The pilot had relayed the hero’s presence almost the moment he entered sensor range, having given his last moments over to the task the Fireen was loathe to let his sacrifice go to complete waste. Even if he gave not a single damn for the Angar-Ryllan’s plights, for there was ultimately only one reason he fought, Fury would still see the hero brought down. Hence why he exerted himself, hence why only a few moments after the pilot was stricken down the energy-manipulating warrior crashed into the end of the alley-way scattering bins and debris in every direction.
He had righted himself after landing almost instantaneously, and locked General Freedom with a piercing gaze. He strode towards him, breaking out into a run as his right hand trailed across the wall, energy leaking into the brickwork of whatever building it happened to be. Such observations were unimportant to Fury.
Words weren’t necessary for such a serious conflict, this was no time for arrogant boasting, only clinical killing. At naught but forty feet from his target the Fireen lashed out and flung his right hand forward, the energy tightening along the wall behind him and ripping a long line of bricks from the wall, sending them hurtling down the alley-way like a whip directly at the General. Such a minor display of his power had turned the masonry into a deadly projectile the like of which could shear through an entire battalion with ease, or sever a car in two. Time would tell if the General could deal with it, or the rapidly approaching Fireen. Fury would of course be acting upon the results, but time was short for both of them, Fury was fast.
The pilot had relayed the hero’s presence almost the moment he entered sensor range, having given his last moments over to the task the Fireen was loathe to let his sacrifice go to complete waste. Even if he gave not a single damn for the Angar-Ryllan’s plights, for there was ultimately only one reason he fought, Fury would still see the hero brought down. Hence why he exerted himself, hence why only a few moments after the pilot was stricken down the energy-manipulating warrior crashed into the end of the alley-way scattering bins and debris in every direction.
He had righted himself after landing almost instantaneously, and locked General Freedom with a piercing gaze. He strode towards him, breaking out into a run as his right hand trailed across the wall, energy leaking into the brickwork of whatever building it happened to be. Such observations were unimportant to Fury.
Words weren’t necessary for such a serious conflict, this was no time for arrogant boasting, only clinical killing. At naught but forty feet from his target the Fireen lashed out and flung his right hand forward, the energy tightening along the wall behind him and ripping a long line of bricks from the wall, sending them hurtling down the alley-way like a whip directly at the General. Such a minor display of his power had turned the masonry into a deadly projectile the like of which could shear through an entire battalion with ease, or sever a car in two. Time would tell if the General could deal with it, or the rapidly approaching Fireen. Fury would of course be acting upon the results, but time was short for both of them, Fury was fast.
Dressed in a brown jacket strode a young man, he emanated sorrow, surely he had been forsaken the idyllic life everyone deserved the opportunity to live. The thought that any he ran across would be marked with the same misfortune caused The Weeper to pause in his descent down the ash-strewn cliff. He shook his head with sudden disappointment, staring intently at the unfortunate who strayed into his path.
He knew of course that he was a ludicrously easy target to spot, standing there all theatrically in his cloak atop a rocky slope. Though he couldn’t tell if the man had actually turned to look at him yet, stealth wasn’t something The Weeper was interested in at that moment anyway. He kicked some loose rocks down towards him, to ensure he’d definitely been spotted, and then set down with an icy determination. However, about half-way down the rocks he was distracted by the sudden dim illumination of the clouds above as one sometimes finds on an overcast day. This kept him transfixed for a little while, standing completely still, like some grotesque human statue. The mask on his face only heightened this image to the outside eye.
He shook himself angrily from his reverie, shifting his weight slightly as his hand strayed to the sword at his hip and grasped tentatively, before he settled his eyes once more on the young fool.
He wondered then if he would talk, if he could talk even. Would the young man answer he wondered. Could The Weeper remember how to form words? Would it overcome him? His mouth moved unseen beneath the white-mask, struggling with every breath of anticipation.
There wasn’t much distance between them now, maybe twenty paces, the ground was uneven and rocky and particularly steep behind him, though they had some relatively flat ashen earth around them. It would be an ideal place to die.
“This would be an ideal place to die.” The Weeper said suddenly, concurring with his own thoughts, and shockingly spoken in the open air. For a moment he stood transfixed by his own words, remembering the last time anything had been uttered from his so very aged mouth. He was overcome with a shuddering, awe inspiring excitement, which quickly shifted into an irritating trembling. He didn’t want to look afraid, his head tilted and the sorrowful mask was displayed in full view for the human to stare at. Maybe he would be afraid, perhaps he wouldn’t.
He knew of course that he was a ludicrously easy target to spot, standing there all theatrically in his cloak atop a rocky slope. Though he couldn’t tell if the man had actually turned to look at him yet, stealth wasn’t something The Weeper was interested in at that moment anyway. He kicked some loose rocks down towards him, to ensure he’d definitely been spotted, and then set down with an icy determination. However, about half-way down the rocks he was distracted by the sudden dim illumination of the clouds above as one sometimes finds on an overcast day. This kept him transfixed for a little while, standing completely still, like some grotesque human statue. The mask on his face only heightened this image to the outside eye.
He shook himself angrily from his reverie, shifting his weight slightly as his hand strayed to the sword at his hip and grasped tentatively, before he settled his eyes once more on the young fool.
He wondered then if he would talk, if he could talk even. Would the young man answer he wondered. Could The Weeper remember how to form words? Would it overcome him? His mouth moved unseen beneath the white-mask, struggling with every breath of anticipation.
There wasn’t much distance between them now, maybe twenty paces, the ground was uneven and rocky and particularly steep behind him, though they had some relatively flat ashen earth around them. It would be an ideal place to die.
“This would be an ideal place to die.” The Weeper said suddenly, concurring with his own thoughts, and shockingly spoken in the open air. For a moment he stood transfixed by his own words, remembering the last time anything had been uttered from his so very aged mouth. He was overcome with a shuddering, awe inspiring excitement, which quickly shifted into an irritating trembling. He didn’t want to look afraid, his head tilted and the sorrowful mask was displayed in full view for the human to stare at. Maybe he would be afraid, perhaps he wouldn’t.
Tantalum said
About time I situated my character somewhere, now that the site's back up. Awesome that Mahz sorted that so quickly.Seems like the easiest spot to enter would be versus The Weeper (what with the main thread being stuffed right now), though that power of his makes me a little hesitant. Mikael's mood already swings by the second, and I'm unsure how clearly I would be able to exaggerate that in writing. If you're okay with that, Melon, then I'm game -- else I'll be glad to fight any other <T5 character in the Swamps.
Yeah, that's fine. The point isn't that The Weeper's power controls anyone else's emotions, it just means those emotions should have more of an effect on the actions of the character (though that will always be up to an individual, I'm never going to suggest a character should do something because of how they're feeling, this is just a chance for people to learn to allow that side of a character to impact a fight, something I see as somewhat lacking in a lot of characters, probably due to a lot of playing to win, which is fair enough, though slightly bad story telling.)
It's a bit strange that everyone seems to have decided to congregate together into one messy big fight, something that doesn't tend to work very well I've found.
As a side note, The Weeper has been chilling in the Ash Valley for about six days now, I might have him build a house or something if he's left alone for much longer.
As a side note, The Weeper has been chilling in the Ash Valley for about six days now, I might have him build a house or something if he's left alone for much longer.
Sorry I took so long to sort out the tavern, but it's all open and a brief explanation of what happened there are down now, as it seems like most of the PC's are making there way there.
If only they had been able to keep the darkness where it belonged… outside. The barricades should have been enough, Adrian was sure his plan should have worked… he should have saved them.
The fire flickered out as the great mass of darkness enveloped the tavern, only for a moment, but it was enough. The screams echoed from within, and Adrian felt a claw rend his shoulder, he screamed in agony. Then, it passed, and only the unlucky survivors were left with the devastation within. Bogdan rocked over the body of his stricken dog, and Adrian stared blindly at the slumped figure, caught as the window cracked and the shutters tore from their fixings. David’s upper body was marked with hundreds of minor lacerations his face a barely recognisable mess. The oldest farm-hand, a man Adrian had known from birth almost, was dead. He couldn’t do a thing. His brothers were around him, Viktor was helping a quietly crying girl, her mother another poor unfortunate. Anton, his younger brother, was helping Grigory to one of the few undamaged chairs, his leg a mess of blood, his face contorted with pain. Adrian felt tears stain his cheek as he pulled at David, tried to shake him back to life.
“What have we done… to deserve this.” He muttered incoherently, even as one of the luckier men who had not suffered an immediate loss pulled frantically at the barricaded doors. Adrian had not the strength to stop him, though he was not yet ready to believe the danger had passed. The doors swung open, allowing other unfortunates to enter or leave the tavern at will if they wished, and the man himself ran out into the darkness, seeking loved ones.
Adrian’s will hardened then, there was something he had forgotten in the throes of his own immediate and shaking grief. His mother and Father, alone in the darkness, in the farm. What was it his father had said to him before he was to leave for the festivities?
Adrian, fetch some firewood boy, we’ll be lucky if we’re not taken by the cold come morning.
Adrian blanched, his face whitened, he had forgot.
The fire flickered out as the great mass of darkness enveloped the tavern, only for a moment, but it was enough. The screams echoed from within, and Adrian felt a claw rend his shoulder, he screamed in agony. Then, it passed, and only the unlucky survivors were left with the devastation within. Bogdan rocked over the body of his stricken dog, and Adrian stared blindly at the slumped figure, caught as the window cracked and the shutters tore from their fixings. David’s upper body was marked with hundreds of minor lacerations his face a barely recognisable mess. The oldest farm-hand, a man Adrian had known from birth almost, was dead. He couldn’t do a thing. His brothers were around him, Viktor was helping a quietly crying girl, her mother another poor unfortunate. Anton, his younger brother, was helping Grigory to one of the few undamaged chairs, his leg a mess of blood, his face contorted with pain. Adrian felt tears stain his cheek as he pulled at David, tried to shake him back to life.
“What have we done… to deserve this.” He muttered incoherently, even as one of the luckier men who had not suffered an immediate loss pulled frantically at the barricaded doors. Adrian had not the strength to stop him, though he was not yet ready to believe the danger had passed. The doors swung open, allowing other unfortunates to enter or leave the tavern at will if they wished, and the man himself ran out into the darkness, seeking loved ones.
Adrian’s will hardened then, there was something he had forgotten in the throes of his own immediate and shaking grief. His mother and Father, alone in the darkness, in the farm. What was it his father had said to him before he was to leave for the festivities?
Adrian, fetch some firewood boy, we’ll be lucky if we’re not taken by the cold come morning.
Adrian blanched, his face whitened, he had forgot.
Fury sat to one side in the busy Angar-Ryllan outpost, nestled in the surviving bottom floor of a damaged high-rise. All around him shouts rang out among the alien invaders, and the faint sounds of open warfare aggravated the Fireen’s ears. He had no interest in murdering weakling humans,that was never what he was there for and their similar appearances unsettled him, he was sent with the intention of combatting humanities greatest individual warriors. The Angar-Ryllan had carefully observed the potential resistance they would be facing, and deemed their foot soldiers insufficient. As much of the planet had to be captured intact, and with an irony perhaps the Americans would appreciate they had deemed the destruction of a few key cities full of people necessary for a clean and relatively cheap victory. Once the terror missions were successful and the armies could be deployed the fall of Earth was inevitable.
The Fireen’s brow furrowed as an Angar-Ryllan, large and imposing, shouted in his general direction from a cautious distance away. Finally having enough of the man’s commanding nature the very human-looking alien burst from his chair and smashed him through the wall of the building, leaving a shocked silence around him. His body was donned in the ancient armour of his people, the Fireen, though it resembled the Angar-Ryllan in the traditional style it was obviously far superior for his particular energy-manipulating abilities. Hence why his entire form glowed an iridescent and terrifying blue, his signature appearance, as he walked out the door. Despite his obvious rejection of the Angar-Ryllan’s commanding authority, he had still listened to the orders, and deemed them worthy of his time.
Freedom? He would put the hero to the test.
The Fireen’s brow furrowed as an Angar-Ryllan, large and imposing, shouted in his general direction from a cautious distance away. Finally having enough of the man’s commanding nature the very human-looking alien burst from his chair and smashed him through the wall of the building, leaving a shocked silence around him. His body was donned in the ancient armour of his people, the Fireen, though it resembled the Angar-Ryllan in the traditional style it was obviously far superior for his particular energy-manipulating abilities. Hence why his entire form glowed an iridescent and terrifying blue, his signature appearance, as he walked out the door. Despite his obvious rejection of the Angar-Ryllan’s commanding authority, he had still listened to the orders, and deemed them worthy of his time.
Freedom? He would put the hero to the test.
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