The Queen's Madness (Open)

Asavar. She mouth the name silently, fitting it to the man in her vision. It sounded right, and she was pleased to have a name to match the man, though it didn't make her feel any better about the outcome of the fight. At his assertion that she had the wrong man, her brow furrowed with concern. He had to understand. To believe. She had to make him believe. He would die if she didn't. Her mouth opened to respond when another voice slipped in.


The woman jumped, twitching away for a moment before calming herself. Normally she could sense people approaching, but she'd been so focused too focused on the man before her. Those hazel eyes swung towards the new voice, a female one this time. It took a moment to process what she'd actually said, but when it clicked, the corner of her lips turned up into a smile, though it was a strained one. "Not too many of us anywhere, I'm afraid," she answered, voice slightly lighter than it had been, though her body stayed tense. "I believe I met a male seer once, though I couldn't comment on his eyes. I was, unfortunately, unable to see them."


At least she was able to make a joke now, pathetic though it was. Another deep breath, before her hand tentatively reached towards where she'd last heard the coin. Luckily her aim was true for once, and she caught it easily between her fingers, tucking it into a pouch at her waist. "I'll return shortly with your food. But you are the Gareth from my vision. And if I can't make you believe it, you'll die."


Turning away from him, she addressed the woman once more. "Is there anything I can get for you as well?"


@Beowulf @SirFlabberghaspy


Allan closed his hand briefly around the one on his arm. Whether or not he noticed the chill of it, he didn't comment, nor show any reaction, merely laughing at her worry over the cushion. "It's alright, Amunet," he said with a smile. "We've had many more cushions destroyed in much worse ways. It'll be quick to patch up." His bright eyes met hers, briefly tracing the lines of her face, before smiling again and beginning to walk, leading her towards their wine cellar. It was a little larger than most, with a small table and chairs set up. Him and Emmony had frequently played down there while the tavern was open, keeping them out of harms way.


"It is always a pleasure to find people who share my interest. And who have a care to peruse my books." He lead her towards a mostly hidden door behind the bar, opening it and gesturing for her to enter first. "If you'd please, my lady. We should be able to have some quiet down here, and it's well lit."


@LadyArdent (I'm sorry it took so long and it's so short! My brain is on the fritz.)
 
Aster found a peaceful tavern with few patrons, and enjoyed a meal, sans ale, which seemed to supprise her server. She was midway through a portion of beef when a young servant girl ran in, baring a small piece of parchment.


"M'lady, the Queen has summoned you! The dress she commissioned must be done within the hour!" Aster looked startled and rather forlorn as she glanced between the girl and her plate. She sighed dejectedly, and took the small girl's hand.


"Lead the way, little lady."
 
Siara smiled as the strange and shadowy man handed her a beautiful flower. She'd gladly take it, peering down at it within her hands before looking back up at the man. He was strange. An aura of darkness and cold seemed to follow him, various insects of dark color clinging to him like a murder of crows to a dead tree. After some contemplation, Siara had managed to figure that he was a user of Dark Magic, or Black Magic. A necromancer, a warlock, he was one of those, but he didn't seem as scary as many would make out his kind to be. Upon closer inspection, she made the further conclusion that he was the undertaker in the area, especially due to his comment.


"Thank you, sir," she'd murmur with her smile, looking down at her flower as she spoke. Siara turned her gaze back upwards, only to watch the man walking off silently, without warning. A strange, but curious man. She hoped to run into him later.


(Won't let me tag Meowbot? Hrm)
 
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Yara smirked at this, humored at Lady Emmony's nature. She'd grab at the Seer's shoulders and sigh,

shifting her gaze over towards Gareth with a smirk before looking back at the blind woman. "You can get me a fine


mead, if ye got it. I'll be sitting with my friend, 'ere, he's got a job t' do for me," the Northerner would

speak, taking an immediate liking to the Seer. Truly, though, she sought to make a Priest out of the woman. A Seer,

especially a Western one, could make for a powerful asset for the Priesthood.

"And ye can keep me company afterwards. I got a fair bit o' questionin' for ye. If ye think your


tavern is too busy, I'll pay ye to talk, but that'll come with a free dance," the scarlet-haired woman

would go on, smiling as she let go of Emmony and turned to eye Gareth, then shifting her gaze

to a chair. Yara leaned back and simply collapsed in one of the wooden people-holders, letting out a fine

yawn as she eyed her baggage on the other table. It didn't look heavy at all, most of the bag being

empty. The very bottom seemed to be filled with a sort of ooze, though, generating a bit of stink

as it created a thick puddle of an unknown substance between the phases of solid and liquid. Yara raised a brow

at her own package, as if she wasn't sure what it would do, which didn't bode too well for Gareth.

"Sorry if it burns yer hand a bit, ye can never know with that stuff," Yara murmured towards Gareth.

She'd lean back to retrieve an unconscious stranger's mug of brandy, then leaning forwards once more

as she rested her arms on the wooden table and chugged the remainder of the alcohol inside.

The Northerner would slam the mug, now absent of liquid, down onto the table with a hearty laugh,

wiping away the stains of brown on her mouth as she gazed back over at her hired muscle. Northerners

were always known to be rowdy, especially when you put alcohol into the occasion. Or blood. Or sex.

Any of the three.

@ianbabyyy

@Beowulf​
 
The little servant and Aster made it back to the palace unscathed, and quickly ascended the stairs to the sewing rooms. Work began on the Queen's elaborate gown. The young girl set to work with her, although she had little skill with a needle, Aster did her best to assist in training her. That was, until the little lady managed to prick her finger on a needle, and three droplets of blood dripped onto the gown. The girl gasped and covered her mouth, alerting Aster, and the rest of the group. Her eyes darkened and she grimaced.


"Go, run along and bandage that, don't come back out for a while." A maid took the little one off to fix her finger.


"What will you do ma'am? She will surely be punished for that! It's Arabian silk; worth more than her life...any of our lives!" A servant asked, her hands trembling.


Aster was pale and still, "Hand me that letter opener, from the desk. Hurry."


The woman did as instructed. Aster removed the bandage from her finger and used the small blade to reopen a priorly made cut. She turned to the others, "It was I that stained the dress, is that clear?" There were murmurs of "yes ma'am", and that was all. The room was still until a man entered, a frooft, foppish court man. He inspected the gown, and upon seeing the blood, looked up to meet eyes with Aster.


"You, come, now," he snapped, "the rest of you, remove that stain immediately, or the Queen will have all your worthless heads." With that, Aster was roughly removed from the room, a small smile appearing on her lips upon seeing the little girl peer out at her with a bandaged finger, a 'thank you' on her lips.
 
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on the ground at her lay a small dark leather backed journal which had his name imprinted on it with dark ink in large fine print. Fiolan had walked away from her still visible if only for a moment when he inhaled becoming a burst of visible smoke that dissipated reforming in the graveyard as he then walked around and went over down the crafted stone path leaving flowers and a burning candle at the shrine giving a prayer to the god of death before standing up. Fiolan then went about his usual duties. It was only a moment he stopped when he heard the meowing of a small cat looking around crouching down. "Here kitty kitty....."He calls with a little whistle as the cat cautiously approached meowing at him only to purr when he picked it up started petting it.


@SirFlabberghaspy
 
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Let him lead her down to the wine cellar. Blue orbs took in all the different containers of wine. The scents mingled in the air told her some were vintage, some from the country, some bitter. It was actually a pleasant smell to her. Amunet closed her eyes as she let all wash over her. Truly she did relax feeling better now that she wasn't in the same room. It was quiet and she was able to focus her attention at the task at hand.


Opening her eyes as she moved some from his arm to claim a chair of her own. The lighting to her would be suitable enough. Some people may think it odd she would be fine in some cellar of any type. Truthfully she was a little lethargic. The inn provided her ample coverage to wake up even if it is at the hour she should be resting. Placing the book on the table as she looked up at him. "It is suitable for this. I like the different scents in here it reminds one of the country away from all the harshness of the city. It is sort of fitting. Wine, and art usually go well together. I wouldn't be drinking any persay, but I like the setting."


Biting ber lower lip a little as she raised her hand to tuck away a strand. The place above seemed to be gaining a little more business less tense she looked up. A comfortable setting would provide the best distractions. Amunet wondered how he'd take to her attempt at wanting his blood more than his little book. For now she really actually want to see some of it. Opening it the the first page and gazing at the picture if that is what it opened up too. Studying the art of an unknown.
​



@ianbabyyy
 
Gareth waved his hand dismissively at Emmony, the fact that she was blind momentarily slipping his mind. "Don't forget your scarf. Directly at your feet." At least he remembered it then, otherwise it might have been somewhat awkward for a few brief seconds. The Seer had predicted that he would die, and the way he figured it there wasn't any way to escape what a Seer has Seen. At least she had the courtesy to not tell him when he'd die, unless she hadn't known in the first place. Either way it was for the best, he had seen men turn into nervous wrecks and nearly lose their sanity after a Seer told them the exact day something bad would happen to them.


Now for his employer. The bags looked empty, except for the glimpse of something slimy at the bottom of one. "And what exactly is it that I'm carrying," he asked her. He'd carry it regardless of knowing what it was or wasn't, but he'd prefer to know what it was. He didn't want to accidentally mishandle it and blow up in the process.


@ianbabyyy @SirFlabberghaspy
 
Yara smirked towards Gareth, sliding the mug off of the table carelessly. The wooden container would fall off and drop onto the slimy flooring below, lightly stained scarlet with the blood of a previous tavern brawl. She'd cross her arms and lean forwards, eyeing Gareth carefully. "It's a bunch of slime. Don't get it on yer armor, it'll stink it up for months. There are also acids mixed in, would burn through giant flesh like butter. Try not to spill it on yer self," the Northerner would suggest as she eyed Gareth up and down with a bright smile. She liked the man, and she liked Lathien. There were many potential servants for her god.


She'd turn her gaze over towards the bar, eyeing the many customers laugh and clash their ales together in toast and celebration. Yara never quite grasped the true enjoyment of a "friendship", moreso caring about her god and her own worries. The alien attraction always interested her, though. She just found it was rather hard to keep any sort of true friend when your only concern was to kill in the name of your deity.


@Beowulf
 
Allan loved the cool air of the cellar, the smell varying scents of the wine, the way the light glowed and glinted off the bottles. It reminded him of his childhood, when things had been simpler, when he hadn't been fighting a secret war that could decide the fate of the country. He frowned inwardly. The expression would never be allowed on his face obviously, at least not while dealing with a woman unconnected to the rebellion. Though, now that it was on his mind, he wondered if she could be persuaded to join the rebels. They could always use more eyes, more ears. And though he was unsure of there actual race, he could feel the power that thrummed through her.


He shook himself from his thoughts, taking the other seat and ensuring that it was close to hers so he could peer at the book easily with her. "You're quite right about the atmosphere down here. I've always enjoyed being in the cellar. My sister and I use to play down here when we were little, so this room always reminds me of more..." he hesitated trying to think of the proper word. "More innocent times, I suppose. Before we had to worry about money or work or the state of things here in the city." The man shook himself once more before smiling at her. "My apologies for rambling. Shall I show you some of my favorite paintings?"


@LadyArdent


The woman actually appreciated the hand on her shoulder. It always her more comfortable when she could touch the person she was talking to. It gave her a better sense of where they were. She smiled again, this one coming easier, her body slowly releasing it's tension. "Mead it is then. We only stock the best quality we can find." At her request for a talk, Emmony nodded. "It seems like it will be a slow day, and I'm too tired to be of much use on the floor. No need to pay me, I'll appreciate the company. Though I do hope you don't mean me by that free dance. I've no ability to stay on my feet." She nodded at her, before leaning down to pick up her scarf, smacking her head on the table on the way up.


Tying the scarf around her eyes, Emmony made a hasty retreat, cheeks flushing pink. Normally she was more aware of things like tables and chairs, but she couldn't seem to make anything focus. She was having a hard time sensing objects, and was stumbling more than usual. She shook herself, bustling about the kitchen and again getting in the way of the cook, who eventually shooed her over to a stool, pushing a small plate of food into her hands. It occurred to the woman then that she hadn't actually eaten yet. Her stomach twisted a bit at the thought of food, but she forced herself to pick at it, thoughts wandering.


The man, Gareth, hadn't seemed overly concerned about the knowledge of his impending doom. Was it that he didn't believe her, that he truly thought she had the wrong person? Or did he just not care about the thought that he might die, that he simply accepted it. Eyes widening, it finally occurred to her what it could be. It was possible he simply thought it was an inevitable ending. She'd encountered that frequently when she looked into peoples' futures and Saw something bad. It usually required the explanation that the future can always be changed. Even simply knowing what will happen could change it.


She dug into her food then, impatiently waiting for the cook to finish with the man's breakfast so she could go and convince him again.


@Beowulf @SirFlabberghaspy (I'm gonna wait a couple of posts before throwing her back in.)


 

She already shifted through a couple pictures enjoying what was made so far. The man who made this was talented indeed. Allan was speaking as he pulled up a chair close to her. If persuaded right she could join the rebel cause. One just has to do it the right way. Maybe she could be a great asset? The woman isn't quick to give up who she is.


Allan came close enough to her yet not enough to invade her space. Amunet was on the third page when she looked back at the man with her full attention. She spoke on the matter since it was mentioned. Through all the land she did hear talk of everything she just didn't know what to believe. She had killed a few people on either side. She didn't do it to join a cause it was something she needed and desires. Plus there was extra coinage in her pocket. Granted she didn't even need that either the woman had ample enough fortune last a couple generations.


Amunet ignored the book for the moment. "When I finally entered the city I heard more talk of the Queen. The poor city is the worst of it I have seen too. In the country in the little villages I've heard talk yet I wasn't sure of what to believe. Madness is exactly what can be described as the state of things. I'm sure you rather have the simple times than wondering on eggshells." Amunet was matter of fact with her words. It didn't give away what side she chose. Just that she is very much aware of the state of things.
​



@ianbabyyy
 

Joran Stronham


Knight of the Queen's Guard


"The Steel Wolf"




Joran grunted as he grabbed at a stinging wound on his side, turning


around and around in confusion as he eyed the scenes of violence around him.


Scores of men were cut down by shadowy black knights on the backs of Drakkon,


the fierce half-dragon half-hounds circling the Queen's Guard like a tornado


of shadows as they took the lives of his companions. He felt stinging pain as


he turned to see Gregor jam his curved dagger into Terisa's stomach, the female


priest collapsing and slumping into ashes after the older man ripped his blade free.

Joran yelled and rushed at Gregor, who met his own blade against Vowforger.


The Lord laughed in his scarlet face. He was amused by his anger. Amused


by the death of his men, and amused by his victory. Joran wouldn't allow him


to feel any more amusement.


Suddenly kicking at Gregor, the man would be impacted by the plated foot of


the Lord of House Stronham before laughing in pity. Joran growled, suddenly eyeing


Gregor in fear...


The man hadn't budged.


Joran felt a rip across his back, like one thousand daggers stabbed at his flesh. Gregor's


barbed whip tearing across his back, side, and legs in a manner of unnatural seconds. He


stumbled back, eyeing the corpse Asavar next to him, the . Turning his head the other way, he spotted


many more of his friends, all brutally slaughtered by House Whytewynd soldiers and Drakkon


riders. The trembling and now prone Queen's Guard turned to eye Gregor, who planted his


left boot down onto the defeated man's chest. He let go of Vowforger due to the pain, watching as


Gregor took up his blade.


"Pathetic."


His father's blade plunged into his neck, the world twisting violently


as pain assaulted the man from all sides. He had lost everything.


The old man suddenly awoke in his bed, sweating heavily. He'd swiftly grasp at his neck, sighing


in relief as he came to the realization that it was all a nightmare. The knight would slide out of his bed,


wiping at his soaked brows before turning to notice a handmaiden standing within his doorway. The


Queen's Guard was in the nude, resulting in a wave of scarlet red rushing across the younger woman's


face. Joran smirked at this, turning to grab at his mug of ale silently. He was too stunned by the impact


that was awakening to really care about dealing with the servant, whom bowed respectfully and


quickly made her way out.


After three large tankards of ale, Joran would set down the alcohol and don his signature armor.


With a huff, he stretched and launched a few quick jabs in front of him before retrieving Vowforger


and moving out of his room, shutting it and locking it before proceeding towards the courtyards.


He was suddenly stopped, though, by the sight of a smirking Richard greeting him. "Hey, old man,


Asavar wanted to tell you that I'm a prodigy," he'd boast mockingly. Joran shook his dead with a doubtful smile


before sighing. He'd tilt his head and point towards Richard. "If you've earned his liking, don't lose it.


Now that he's seen you on a higher horse, the fall will only be greater, and that lad will be the hard


rock under you."


"Lad? He's hardly a lad," Richard murmured. Joran had just realized his wording, shaking his head once


again as he walked past Richard. "Old habits," the Queen's Guard ensured the recruit before leaving the


hall to proceed through the Castle's courtyard. He headed to the stables, hoping to mount his horse, Vowkeeper,


in order to make his way to the lower levels of the city he wished to personally patrol. The people didn't fear


him like they feared Asavar. Some revered him, actually. However, it was still his duty to protect the civilians within


the city, and enforce his Queen's laws.
​
 
"Then how far would I be carrying it if I needed my armor? You'd have to excuse me if I do absolutely need it, I didn't expect having to wear it so early." Stinky armor was the least of his worries. If that stuff could melt through giant flesh like it was nothing, his own wouldn't hold up much better. "I will follow where you lead, but if I must travel for it then I would like to be ready for it." And he wouldn't be surprised if he was traveling with all the Silver Dragons she had given him. Every one of those silvers could get him at least a bed to sleep in ever night if they found an inn to stop at, if they were indeed traveling.
 
At this moment, Aster, in no more than a thin white chemise, was drug out into the courtyard. She didn't fight, and allowed herself to be dragged like a rag doll, and tied against the whipping pole. Ten lashes for the Queen's gown; five to ten more if she resisted. She had no intention of doing so. She simply rested her head against the beam, and stared straight ahead, violet eyes dull and emotionless. And so it began. The first whip was the easiest; they seemed to build momentum as the number increased. Around four she was willing away her tears. At six she resolved to shutting her eyes. At eight she felt numb. By ten she could feel nothing but the stinging pain of her back and the warm trickle of blood down her shoulder blades and along the curve of her spine. She was unbound and hauled to her feet, none too gently despite her wounds. She smiled bitterly to herself.
 
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Little did she know the result her punishment had on her attire. Never did she notice the stares she received. Never did she notice the dark sort of lustiness that now lingered in the eyes of her captors. When she was released roughly, left to drop to the dirt floor, was when she realized something was awfully wrong. When she heard the sound of belts being undone, she knew something was oh so awfully, terribly wrong, so she did what any logical person would do, and screamed. This obviously upset her captors, as a sweaty hand pressed over her lips. She was backed into a stone wall, kicking like a rabbid animal, screaming into the hand, her expression one of shock, anger, and most of all fear. She kicked with all her might, distressed when her feet were merely caught and held by the counterpart of the man who was silencing her, who now proceeded to hike up her skirt. She used this as an opening to shove off his hand and scream as loudly as she could, which earned her a sharp slap.
 
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Richard noticed the punishment, wondering what the beautiful maiden had done to


deserve such a lashing. Interested, he decided to continue observing the situation


while keeping his distance. Truly, he was sure Joran couldn't stand for it...





His ensurity only grew more certain as he heard the sudden scream after she had


been dragged to the ground. Sighing, he'd eye a rushing Joran move into the courtyard.


Joran eyed him with concern, Richard nodding with a sigh as the two began rushing


towards the source of the scream. He really didn't care, but his mentor did, and that


meant he had to act like he did as well.


Joran continued his sprint towards the figures in the distance who surrounded her, grabbing at the handle


of Vowforger and drawing the gleaming longsword with a yell. Richard would draw his own blade, a bastard sword,


hefting it in front of himself from a distance behind the old man as he approached the rapists.




@Rui​
 
Yara smirked, crossing her arms and shrugging. "Ye won't be travelling far. Nearest grate ye can find, or place to hide it, I don't really care, as long as ye throw it away," the Northerner would inform, eyeing the tavern's occupants once again. From what she had just told Gareth, the scarlet-haired woman had essentially just hired him, for much money, to go throw away some rubbish.


"Hey, how long do ye think that lady 'll take?", Yara murmured curiously. She truly thirsted for some fine alcohol...


@Beowulf
 
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The men continued their assault until Joran and Richard drew near enough to actually attack them in return. They left her there on the ground, like a little bird with broken wings, her shift torn at the front, revealing the top of her pale chest, which she quickly sought to cover. She curled herself into the smallest ball she could manage, simply wishing to disappear then and there. She tucked her legs in tightly to her chest, which heaved with exertion. Silent tears slipped down her face, but she refused to sob. She shakishly stood, eyeing the two warily.


@KillThemAll
 
"Depends on if she's going to bring my breakfast with her and if the cook has to make it." He was a glorified street cleaner? No, street cleaners didn't have to worry about having trash melt their flesh. If the pay wasn't so good, and if he wasn't the person that he was, he would drop the job and hand back the money. But how hard could it be to find a place to dump the stuff? Some alley way down the road would be getting slimed once he finished his meal.
 
Emmony tried to get up a number of times to take food and mead to the pair, but each time she found her head smacked with a wooden spoon, with the admonition that she looked like she would faint if she got up. Finally, after her third escape attempt, Emmony found a plate of food in one hand and a tankard of mead in the other. The cook shooed her out, griping about people invading her space and getting in the way. Which made the woman grin slightly. She secretly enjoyed riling up the cook.


The moment she stepped out into the main room that smile slipped, hands beginning to tremble. Deftly maneuvering through the tables and people, who kindly moved their feet for her, she found her way to the table, following the sounds of their voices to determine the exact one. "Apologies for taking so long, I was held up by the cook." Very carefully she placed the food and mead on the table, approximating where the two of them were sitting, hoping they hadn't switched seats. That had happened before. Suddenly her cheeks pinked, remembering her retreat. She hoped to the gods that they hadn't noticed her little head bump.


@Beowulf @SirFlabberghaspy


"Both pretty and intelligent." He flashed her a toothy grin. "That's quite a dangerous combination." Brushing hair out of his eyes, the man grew serious. "Yes, things around here are rather tense. The towns directly surrounding this city get it the worst, but the farther out you go, the less people are touched by it." There was a long pause, his green eyes absently tracing the page she'd left open. The painting was absolutely lovely, but it didn't hold his attention. Rather, it was simply a place for his eyes to rest as he attempted to gather his thought.


"Things in the city have been getting even worse lately. We had it fairly easy for a while, probably do to the number of foreigners that visit us." His lips twisted, brow furrowing. At one time he could have traded with people from almost anywhere in the world. He was able to hold small stores of specialized products, and their tavern had been very popular with foreigners because of it. While business certainly hadn't gone down, he had noticed a decrease in trade with the city in general. "Harsh laws are being imposed here now as well. Rules that make little sense. Punishments that in no way match the crime. And the number of people executed has gone quite through the roof."


His eyes met hers again, lips twisting into a wry smile. "I apologize my lady, I don't mean to ramble and bring down the mood. I simply worry about us commoners. The people who come through my tavern are each my friends and I despair each time one goes missing, caught by the guards for something or other."


@LadyArdent
 

Joran Stronham


Knight of the Queen's Guard


"The Steel Wolf"





Joran growled, sheathing Vowforger as he yelled for Richard to go follow the men. He'd eye Aster with concern, shifting his gaze


downwards before growling again. He violently ripped through a satchel on his side to retrieve a clean rag, moving to help purge


the beautiful woman of blood and dirt that might be caked on her mortal vessel. He'd glare over towards where Richard had gone,


hoping those who did her the injustice got their dues.


"We need to get you to the infirmary. Mother Alyara should know


how to mend your wounds..."

​
 

The Obsidian Executioner

proxy.php



​




Asavar's fingers tapped against his plated leg, his patience starting to wear thin. Every minute he remained in the square was another minute this 'Mr. Tanner' had to find out about his... meeting with one of his 'girls' and the greater the chance he will relocate before he can get to him. His fingers finally stopped and Asavar let out an annoyed grunt, whatever was holding the recruit up wasn't going to stop soon. He would deal with the criminals himself, but he was going to expect a report from the recruit on her return.


He turned on his heel and headed down an alley, following 'Lady Lily's' directions the best he could. Given her age, it was less 'right and left' and more, 'turn at the purple flowers'. Despite the... directions, Asavar came to a stop outside of an old warehouse... with a surprisingly new, heavy steel door. He stepped forth, running his gauntlets over the hard surface just as his eyes caught sight of the small symbol carved into the top right, a swirl. The... 'orphanage' he was raised in did much the same. They would use small signals to alert other members of a safe location and warn off other gangs from their territory while being small enough to be easily missed by the Guard.


Asavar examined the warehouse for a moment, it would be tight spaces, he would not be able to use his blade. Well, he could, but he could bring the roof down upon himself from destroying walls and support beams with his swings, and while he was certain he could walk out, he wasn't sure if there were any other children still in there, he would have to us his hands.


Raising a large fist, he pounded on the door twice and waited. Sure enough, he heard movement behind the door but before the voice could question who was out there, Asavar lifted a large boot and smashed it into the center of the door. The metal groaned as it bent in, but it did not give in... but it did not have to. The door was steel, the walls the hinges were attached to were not. The walls the hinges were attached to shattered inward from the force and the large metal door was sent tumbling down... directly on the ganger who had been standing behind it moments before. Asavar stepped inside the warehouse, standing on the door that lay on top of the squirming door guard, his muffled cries for help coming around gasps for air.


Each step Asavar took on the door, the harder he struggled for air, when Asavar figured he was close to where the man's head was, he lifted his foot and brought it back down onto the door, smashing it into the man beneath a loud, nauseating crunch filled the small hallway as red liquid spilled out from under the door, the man twitching twice before falling still. The silence lasted only a moment as the warehouse exploded into activity, shouts of alarm, doors in the hallway opening as men and women armed with daggers, axes, mallets and rusted blades rushed out, but they all paused at the sight of him. The massive dark armored figure standing in the door way, bowed over slightly as his head rubbed against the high ceiling, his bulk filling the entire hallway with barely inches of space between his arms and the walls on either side.


Asavar's eyes jumped from one to the other, their faces pale, their eyes wide. Animals startled by the sight of a predator unsure if they should fight or flee. But there would be no escape. In their search for a strong hideout, they had chosen a defensible one... but one that only had one exit.. and he was in front of it. The soft sobbing from a nearby room broke the silence and destroyed any chance they had at surrender. Each chest hiking sob from the unknown child built and fed the rage growing inside his chest. Asavar leaned his head back and let out a deep warcry, a roar of anger that echoed through the hallway causing the gangers to jump, some to drop their weapons, fleeing on instinct lacking the disciplined training of soldiers.


He lowered his shoulder and charged down the hall, his grieves digging into the dirt covered floor beneath him as he capitalized on the distraction he created, slamming into the first women, her chest caving in under the force of his impact, but he did not stop with her, his sheer size and momentum carried him through unto the next person... and the next, whatever unity or cohesion they had left was shattered in his charge, the ones in the back pushed the others out of the way, knocking each other down as they sought to flee, but all they did was send them to an early death as they were trampled by their 'comrades' or by Asavar's immense boots.


Like an enraged bull, Asavar rammed and trampled the soft bodies in his path until he came to the end, slowing down to a stop as he turned to look at the devasation behind him, nine people lay on the ground where they had been pushed and trampled by himself or their fellows, one lay on his side, holding a shattered knee, a knee Asavar had crushed moments before. He could hear the frightened yells of the ones who escaped his charge in a nearby room, trying to barricade the door, but he would get to them. Like a crazed bear, he prowled towards the wounded man, who was trying to crawl away from him, begging to live, begging to be spared... for Asavar to stop.


Asavar leaned down, his large hand gripping the mans throat and lifting him into the air, his mangled leg dangling beneath him, "How many times did they ask you to stop," Asavar hissed, his vision blurred red from anger... and their blood, "How many times?" He demanded, his large fingers tightening on the man's throat.


Tears rolled down the man's dirty face, his face scrunched up in pain in its efforts to draw in air, "Did you ever stop?" Asavar demanding, slamming his upheld body into a wall, denting in the wall behind him.


The word 'please', or something close to it, was gasped out of the mangled man's throat, "Did begging ever save them?" Asavar asked before clenching his fist, crushing the man's throat and dropped the gurgling body to fall in a heap on the floor.


Asavar walked through the hallway, back towards the end, being sure to examine the bodies of the fallen to ensure none hid among the dead, but there was none. From the sounds behind the door, he knew they were trying to barricade it. To preserve their misbegotten lives at the price of their 'comrades'. Pointless.


He lifted his massive boot once more and shattered open the door. So pointless. They were all dead, they just didn't know it yet.




Asavar pushed open the last door, tucked in the back corner of the warehouse, that opened up to reveal a small, finely furbished room. A small, nasally man sat behind a desk, his fingers clenched tightly before him to hold his composure. "I-I'm glad you could make it, Commander," The weasel said, the fear that flashed behind his spectacles disappearing as quickly as it came.


"I'm sorry about all that... I am sure we can come to an arrangement.." He said, taking a nervous gulp as Asavar stepped into the room, "I have lot of little ones and they have ears everywhere. I could be a very useful friend."


Asavar's dark eyes scanned the room before falling on a girl, no more then fourteen if he had to guess. Huddled in the corner on a filthy bed role. The rags she wore falling apart and the bruises covering her body telling him more then he would ever wish to know. "Wait outside," Asavar said, watching as the girl struggled to stand, her body weak from malnutrition and being locked away for... well, he didn't want to know how long. But she slowly limped out of the room, the spectacles man still speaking of something... but he wasn't listening.


With the girl out of the room, Asavar circled the desk, running a blood drenched gauntlet along the surface, leaving a trail behind it, the weasel man remained in his chair, his body tense as he started to stammer, "I-I understand what this looks like, and I will fully cooperate and place myself in your custody."


"Custody?" Asavar asked, his deep voice sounding distant to his own ears.


"I... I am sure a court will agree that I run a... a... clean business here. The... little ones will attest to that," He said, his thin lips peeling back into a smile, a look of triumph in his eyes, certain that he could bribe and talk his way out of any court room as a case like this would never reach the Queen's ears.


His large, bloody gauntlet wrapped around the small man's head, "I don't believe that will be necessary," Asavar said


"B-But, I deserve a trail.." the weasel said, his eyes wide with disbelief even as his hands remained clenched before him as if maintaining the familiar posture would make this all better.


"Agreed," Asavar growled, but just as the thin lips peeled back to smile, Asavar whispered, "And my verdict is guilty," the large gauntlet pulled his head back to slam it into the desk, the weasels long nose shattering and splaying blood, the glasses bending and skipping across the surface of the desk from the blow. With mechanical precision, Asavar pulled the man's face back... then slammed it back down again, the loud thud echoing through the room.




The girl sat curled up on the ground outside the room, her hands around her thin knees as the thudding continued, the screams growing before suddenly stopping, but the heavy, dull thuds didn't stop. Tears spilling from her eyes, her hands came up to cover her ears as she rocked back and forth in the hallway trying to look anywhere but at the dead bodies that lay around her, mangled as if an animal had torn them to pieces... trying to do anything to block out the heavy thuds that echoed through her mind... the sound that would not stop.


Her body jerked as something warm touched her arm, slowly she looked... the large gauntlets, once black but stained blood, gently touched her to get her attention, the blood streaking across her pale skin, and she bit her lip tasting blood as she fought the urge to wipe it off, to feel clean.


"Are there other girls here?" The deep voice said, she shook her head, the tears spilling down familiar worn paths down her face.


"Come with me," he said, and when she shook her head, his grip tightened on her arm and pulled her up and dragged her behind him, she tried to fight at first, but stopped seconds later, it was pointless.




Asavar turned to look behind him, the woman at the door gave him a small nod. She was a local noble, a minor noble, and one who owed him a favor from... long ago. He had dropped the girl off there, to be taken care of and given a position when she was well enough. It would never make what happened to her better, make what she saw him do or what they did to her go away, but it was a start.


His eyes flicked down to his hands, he could still see them as they were just minutes ago, stained red, so red they had been dripping as he pulled the girl with him. The last thing he saw of her was the crimson outline of blood he had left on her arm. Blood that was neither his nor hers.


Even after wiping them down with more rags then he cared to think of, he could still almost see the blood dripping off them. Twenty-three. He had lost count during the... massacre, but he had counted on the way out. Twenty-three. Eight women. Fifteen men. Most of which had not seen their third decade. He clenched his right fist... then his left before lowering then and looking up at the sky. They deserved what they got, he consoled himself... They were animals, and so, died like animals. Just as, someday, he will die like one. But.. that day was not today, and he had work to do.


Casting one look at the large town house, he turned on his heel and headed up the road that would return him to the castle.




Asavar rolled his shoulders as he neared the gate, the first line of business to talk to the Old Man about his recruits and then... a long wash to remove the blood that had slipped through the gaps in his armor to stain the cloth underneath, the caked blood making each movement uncomfortable as the linens stuck to his skin.


He came to a stop at the base of the steps, his dark eyes falling on the figure perched at the top, a staff stretched across her legs. A gypsy, if he ever saw one. Slowly, he ascended the steps, his heavy boots impacting with the stone beneath as he wondered how long she had sat there, how long had the guard knew of her presence? Why had they not moved her? Either way, he wasn't in the mood for this, Asavar came to a stop, a few steps below her, gazing down at her hooded face, "You are in the way," Asavar informed her.


@xEmoBunnehx
 
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Ser Coster Sinclair


"Sow"

The Weeping Women Ruins, Three Hours Following the Beginning of the Battle.


Casualties

House Whytewynd: 1,223


House Sinclair: 1,910

"B-Back!", a wounded knight would yell loudly. Ser Coster Sinclair, the second-born of Lord

Asher Sinclair. The prone knight was inching back, dragging his right leg along with him as

he pushed himself across the ground. He had taken a fireball in the battle, which left much

of his skin charred and burnt. A dagger in the back ensured the failure of one of his lungs,

the collapsed muscle struggling to inflate and causing him burning agony. A few cuts from the

blades of House Whytewynd men would leave him marking the wet dewy grass beneath him

scarlet with his blood. An arrow to the eye ensured a crippling injury to the knight, and a gargantuan

ballista bolt had torn away almost the entirety of the area around his right knee, which

caused him to end up in the vulnerable position he was in now.

Two Whytewynd soldiers laughed as they walked towards Coster. The sounds of battle rung

in the distance. They were positioned in the northernmost ruined castle, Castle Star, and were

part of the few remaining soldiers sent to wipe out the House Sinclair forces at the establishment.

Now, they had gotten themselves lucky by managing to find the wounded child of a lord ripe for the

taking. One of them, a much shorter and rounder man, would snort as he drew a curved dagger.

The other behind him would heft his polearm, the lengthy and skinny man struggling to hold

it up, almost comical in nature.

"Yer a dead man, Sinclair," the large one threatened as they got

closer to the prone knight.

Coster Sinclair desperately hung onto life through sheer will and anger, growling as he threatened

the two with unintelligable words. The man with the knife didn't seem to mind, lunging forwards to drive the

steel weapon into the noble's heavily damaged chestplate. The man landed on something else, though,

the greatsword of Coster driving in through the man entirely. Coster let out a loud groan before tilting

the greatsword, allowing the man to slide off just as his fellow moved in to stab the Lord. However, the agile

Coster managed to rear what remained of his legs back in order to dodge the fierce stab, which ended up

lodging the soldier's polearm into the dirt. He struggled to rip it free, turning and calling for help. As he turned back,

he would gasp as a sharp, piercing, yet quick pain shattered through the front of his skull, the edges of the sword

reaching the very ends of each eyesocket.

The knight had grabbed onto the polearm when the Whytewynd soldier wasn't looking. Pulling himself

up with its support, he managed to muster enough strength to drive his mighty large greatsword into the

man's face as soon as he turned back and noticed him.

Now, Coster would fall back onto his rear, groaning in pain as the man's limp body slid past his polearm

and landed atop of the greatsword. He'd look back down at his wounds, before suddenly eyeing an approaching

figure in the distance...​
 
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[border]Aurora Norok

90cb79f9c97c272cf7eb474473f7c4a7.jpg





There was no telling how long the woman sat there in the same stagnant position. Surely anyone would of left and gave up on the matter, but not Aura. She was determined to meet the man who struck fear into the hearts of the towns people, the man who shook the very Earth more than the average person. Yes. This is what kept her here..bound her to the castle. It was surprising that no guards had come to remove her, but she was fairly certain they had thought she was asleep when in fact she was not. Aura had been meditating so long that she was in utter bliss and tranquility. It had been too long since she got to have a moment to herself. A moment to relax.


Aura was at peace with herself and the world around her, it wasn't until she felt the low rumbles of vibrations that she knew he was coming. She could tell from afar that he was approaching, and at a steady pace too. Aura did not move nor did she even flinch at the though of the giant coming closer and closer. Others may fear him, but she did not. His vibrations only worsened as he neared her and as he came closer, she could smell the faintest tinge of blood on him. Aura could almost guess that it was fresh since she could smell it so well, even with man only a good few feet away.


As she felt him stop before her, she did not move or waver from her position, not until he addressed her. It was then that for the first time in hours that she moved. Aura was careful to disrupt her meditation as her reached down and grabbed her staff then untangled her legs. From what she could make out, Asavar would be only a mere foot or so from her and he would likely be looming over her.


"I have been expecting you, Asavar."


Aura's voice came out as though it would normally, melodic and gentle, but this time it held tones of curiosity and confidence as well as a slight playfulness. By the sound of Asavar's voice, she could tell he was likely a very grizzly man. His voice sounded deep, but not a disturbing deep..more of a tone she had not heard before and was original to only him. Aura's glance would travel up him, stopping at his chest as she thought that's where his head was but in actuality..it was not.


"My name is Aurora Norok. You may call me Lady Aura or Lady Aurora." She stated, it being he polite way of telling him who she was since she knew him. As a formality from what she had learned in her travels, she stuck out a partly gloved hand toward him as to shake his hand. If he were an observant man, he may notice that Aura did not fear him, nor did she really know where his hand might be. Another thing he might see was the fact that she wore a slight grin across her lips after introducing herself. Take that in anyway he may, it was only playful and not meant to make a bad impression.


"I am a Seer and I seek refuge at your castle." She said rather simply, the grin she once had now gone as she was serious and her hand still extended should she choose to shake it. As for the smell of blood, it was much more pungent now that he was closer. Any person who wasn't blind might not smell it as much as she did, but to her it was quite the smell, regardless of if he had tried to clean it. She did not care if it got on her hand. Blood was blood. No big deal at all.

@Cosmo[/border]​

[border][/border]
 
She watched him, her eyes lightening with hope, just a tad, before she closed them and sighed.


"Thank you." She murmured, and allowed him to do as he would, following silently as the wounded, hopping bird she was. A stupid, silly bird indeed. Little did she know, a small pair of eyes were watching her, along with quite a few of the older maiden's eyes. A living martyr it seemed...


@KillThemAll
 
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