Allaria - Capturing Freedom

[Rilla]

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(OOC)

Chapter Two
Capturing Freedom

Port Jinn
Broken Men

Ivan had successfully broken the former rock of their friendship. Abbar now lay in a heap off in the corner of his stone prison. He hadn’t spoken since he discovered the treachery of Ivan and his use of the Skin Beast Denelii. After a couple of weeks, Ivan had not even ventured down to see the man anymore - his job was done, all he had to do now was make sure Abbar didn’t commit suicide. Gray eyes danced over the broken body of Abbar, and a creepily toothy smile burst out across his face. He, and Eclava, had settled this place in the past month and had offered it to the Apotheoses wholesale. Of course, it had been accepted and their grasp over Allaria had become complete. They were now the judge, jury, and executioners, and with a powerful army at their beck and call, they were nearly unstoppable. But something had angered Falden, he knew there were still concentrations of escaped remnants of the towns they had conquered, he knew they were plotting and preparing for war. Ivan could do nothing about this of course, so he did not pay much attention to the angering messages that were sent.

The Healer swept from the room in theatrical fashion, there were more pressing matters to attend to than watching the body of his former friend lay off to the side of the cell - unresponsive but alive, breathing, but dead inside. Had this been years ago, he might have tried to heal the man, but now he offered no such mercy. His former friend had chosen his side and that side was not to the right of Ivan - Abbar had refused to become the right hand of the healer, making Ivan one of the two Apotheoses Council people without a right. This was seen as an honor within the ranks, only Falden did not have a second, and he was seen as leader. Ivan was tabbed as leader after him, but Ivan was far to loyal and had no intentions of overtaking Falden for his position. While effectively immortal, leadership aspirations only extended to his current position where he answered to no one, barely even Falden, and commanded hordes. With slow, methodical steps, he came to the streets of Port Jinn which now showed the effects of war, still, after a month of occupation. He had seen no reason to fix what he had broken, aside from aesthetic purposes. Today was set to be that day.

“Denelii,” Ivan whispered. “Rise.”

From his back, the sheathe that held up his legendary Claymore, started to shift and change. After a moment or two, a tattered Skin Beast formed itself to his left and remained crouched over - absentmindedly drawing with his free hand on the ground. Through it’s back was the Claymore, obviously causing the beast no more discomfort than its current position. “Yes, monsieur,” the beast said in a slow, deliberate voice.

“What have you heard during your nightly jaunts through town?”

“Well, monsieur, some of the slaves are planning a revolt. Under the guise of a captured vermin,” he nastily inhaled, as though something was caught in his throat, “they brought me into their plans. They gave me no time table of their revolt, but they way they talked of this plan, it seemed they had been working on it for days.” He inhaled again.

“Very well, go now.” Ivan commanded, as he started to venture off towards the centre of town - masses of captured enemies, shackled together being drawn out into streets like animals. When he finally came to a stop, he was atop a broken building. “Well, fellows of the dungeon below, since you’ve all grown to love this small island town, you will now rebuild it. The Apotheoses will not accept anything less than the best, and this town is now in shambles after the war which gained me this land.” He let his words sink in before he continued - as a charismatic speaker, he knew when to stop, where to stop, and how to stop during his speeches. Words were not effective if those who heard them had no time to digest them. “If you work diligently you will not be killed, but if you fail to work hard, then I shall kill you. If you attempt to assault one of my army, they’ve been instructed to kill you on the spot. If you attempt to escape, you will be killed on the spot. Any otherwise fraternization will be dealt with accordingly, do I make myself clear?”

His eyes danced from each of the people below to his men and women. There were rising murmurs, angry stares, but none of this fazed the Gray, quite the contrary. The small, bony hands of the man brushed across the air, the order for them to work.

“Ivan.. Oh Ivan!” Came a sing-song voice, it was high, shrill even - recognizable. “Ivan… Oh Ivan! Such a lovely speech you’ve given!” The voice continued, Ivan knew whom it belonged too.

“Yo--,” the Healer started.

“No words, most revered Healer - simply listen to the words my master passes along.” Ivan found where the voice was coming from, just behind him - hiding from view - a Hellequin sat, a freshly plucked eyeball in his left hand. The Healer turned to the man, and stepped forward, disappearing into the confines of the building to discuss the matters with the peculiar messenger. Things were about to pick up in Allaria and this man seemed to know it all. “Dear Ivan, the prepa---,” the voices faded off. Ivan came out of the building, a curious smile on his face and the high, shrill voice still in his ear.

Port Jinn Dungeons
Threads of an Uprising

They had let him go - let him fall to the ground with a sickening thud when they had sufficiently broken him. Having seen his father only once, a month and some days ago, the boy had become easier to break. Feelings welled up, and while he did not reveal any important information, he was a lot more responsive to the pain they were forcing him to endure. The string boy was different now, his face was horridly scarred, almost to the point of complete disfigurement. His once brown hair fell over his face, whatever they had done to him, drained the color from it - leaving it a ghastly white. The frail man’s bottom lip quivered, truly , he had become broken and now, for the first time since the Battle of Jinzaga broke out. Whomever was down here once, was here no longer. Had Ivan ordered them all killed? Had the man who he used to look at like an uncle ordered the deaths of all those people? Johic shook his head, his grimy hair stiffly flinging left and right. No, Uncle Ivan couldn’t do something so sinister.

He crawled forward quickly, having caught sight of a puddle of water. It looked clean, useable, so he cupped his hands and extracted some. Instead of drinking it, he splashed it on his face and stared at the reflection in the puddle. By flickering candlelight, he could see the effect his hair was having on his face - it was hiding the deformities. A tear dropped, or perhaps it was some remnant of the water he had just tossed on himself. Johic moved back and pressed his back against a wall, his knees brought to his chest and his arms wrapped around them. There he sat, shaking, bits of string from around the dungeon moving slowly towards him and rising into the air. As he sat there, the strings started to weave in and around each other, forming some type of facial apparatus. The boy still did not move, for it was his doing - he simply sat there and shook. Johic and Abbar had both, truly, been broken.

Gods
Spiraled Depression

‘ He still did not stir, transfixed for what would amount to a Allarian month, the Human God was a statue. None would ever know what was going through his mind, though they had come close to figuring it out. Yet, they had more important things to do, aside from worrying about a sulking God, especially one as powerful as Michael. El’I had often come back to check on him, but he still did not stir - Lloth had come to pester and provoke him, though that had no effect as well. They all tried, except the Dwarven God, he left him to his peace and Michael silently thanked him for that. There was a battle going on, within him, and he could steadily feel himself losing - bit by bit.. What would happened if he lost? If he became more of a shell that he already seemed to be?’

/ Her ploy had failed, and now she suspected something was going on between the wolf and the healer, yet she could not pinpoint what, exactly, the pair had plotted. Had this been their doing? Had they been cohorts for far longer than the Drow Goddess realized? Oh the juicy possibilities sank into her thoughts as she paced back and forth in her chambers. She never really slept, she just kept the room for things of this nature - appearances given. They all had their own little special place they used to get away - to focus on what they had heard or seen, to plan accordingly. “I know something is going on,” she mouthed to herself as she peered from her door. Movius and Asclepius were together again, chatting eagerly. Asclepius seemed the most thrilled with whatever they had talked about. The suspense was eating her up inside, perhaps they would revisit and reveal their plan to, at least, her. For now, she did not approach or try, too hard, to eavesdrop on the conversation - because all would occur in due time. Instead, she went back to the confines of her dark room, and thought about what was occurring in the world below. It seems enough had transpired below in the past Allarian month that, the world was worth paying attention too. She, however, did pay attention to one place in particular - Rocoa, where the Drow Bitch, Eclava, was set to return today, after a campaign took longer than the four days ascribed to her. |

* Asclepius was giddy, a human emotion that he had not quite go under control. In hushed tones he told the Wolfen that, he had met with him, and had set forth their plans. There were still some things that needed to be found, the Healer explained, but hand-waved it with, ‘Worry not, I have it all under control.” And this was, surprisingly, not far from the truth. The Wolfen seemed okay with this, as he did not offer no more than the occasional, loud, snarl. “The man was rather accommodating and offered us something very special. I will reveal what it is soon, but I am afraid there are prying eyes and appearances are to be kept.” His head motioned towards the room Lloth occupied, which was met by the gaze of a chain-bound Wolfen. Asclepius had contemplated bringing Lloth into the plot, but he could not trust that bitch. She had nothing he needed, had been his rationale at the time. No, he ultimately decided, it was best if it was keep it between him, Movius, and the man he had managed to meet with secretly. It had been hard, but it was done. The Healer did feel bad, but he offered no condolsences for what he had planned. Soon, all would come to fruition and he would sit pretty. No longer bound to the planes of the God’s, no, he was promised to walk the land amongst those who worshipped. *

Rocoa
Void Execurtioner

Fananatu had lied to her, but not entirely, he was not expecting there to be a small militia out in the area he had sent her, nor did she expect them to be prepared to have a month long war with a fanatically trained army. During her departure, he was left in charge, and he used to this his full advantage. His stow-aways were offered the chance to train with the army, though he knew it would not ultimately amount to much. Whatever skills they possessed would be hampered in training as to not give themselves away to the smarter of the Apotheoses’ members that stayed behind. As they tolled away on the training grounds and were offered the town, he slaved away in the library and in his chambers, making mandatory visits to the world, just to make sure people knew he was still alive and in charge. They did not question his leadership, they obeyed almost immediately. The group he had given refuge too, however, perhaps did not - though no word of suspicion had gotten back to him. Perhaps they skipped it and went straight to the middle man, but there was something more important at hand, and he could not be bothered with ‘Perhaps.’

At times, he ventured out into the wild and cloaked it in his magic, as he prepared runes, they were of the utmost important to him. When he ventured back, one night, he was surprised to see what awaited him. Eclava’s chambers, oft dark and used by him in her absence, did not have the presence of empty when he entered it. Had the Mistress returned without notice? Nay, she was not expected for another night, at least- but whom had so willingly entered the room without his permission. Magic flared up in his right hand, as he stepped into the room. “Whom dare enter the chambers of Mistress Eclava without permission?” He called. But he heard nothing, and thus he stepped forward - his magic illuminating the dark. The candles, commonly lit, were snuffed out - behind him, the door shut without his urge.

“Ssso carelessssss, Fananatu,” a voice hissed. Whomever it was had to have been fast, and quiet - for when Fananatu turned around, there was no one there. “Ssss, slow…” the voice came again, this time, closer, almost against his ear. His hand reached out, magic sweeping across the room and igniting the candles in a powerful, torrent of flames. But what he saw, was much to his dismay.

Wrapped around his body, not enough to tighten or alert him of it’s presence, was a powerful snake body. He recognized it now, Sarahix had finally arrived at Rocoa - a day before Eclava was due to arrive. She was early! Damn it! “Sarahix, the new right hand of our Mistress, when did you arrive?” He asked, sweet of tongue.

“Only minutes before you did, the men could not find you so I decided to wait.” She swayed back and forth, taunting the man, steadily drawing closer - drawing around - constricting.

“Release me,” he commanded - but the women did not listen. He saw the look in her eyes, Dragoniods got in when they were transfixed on a kill, when they were prepared to take a life with no remorse. “I said Releas--,”

“Release him, my love,” came a sultry voice, one Sarahix immediately obeyed and approached. Fananatu looked towards the door-way to see Eclava, a sickening smirk on her face. She had been there for a minute or so, watching the engagement between the two, distant, kin. There was something in the eye of Eclava, she knew more than she let on.

Fananatu bowed to his Mistress and informed her of the on-goings, to which she curtly waved her hand, dismissing him. He wasted no time. He quickly gathered the refugees, which he found in differing places.

“Eclava is back, and tomorrow we are going to have to execute our plan. Early. I am going to sneak you into the viewing area, where your friends will be forced into a very disturbing situation. There is where we will have to free them. I have helped you thus far, but afterwards, you must help me. My studies are not yet done, but will be tonight, but I shall not have time to complete the seal. I have a way to take down Eclava, but I need more time. So you may have to cause a distraction.”

His voice was hurried, and he warned them to stay away from Eclava; do not attack under any circumstances. With that, he vanished into the darkness of the library. Things were about to get deadly. He knew there were still some, deep in the dungeons, that now plotted to escape - he did not inform Eclava of this bit of information, thinking it was too important. He did not know what they planned, exactly, but he would attempt to fit it in his own plans.

[mdk]

Word of Eclava's return, and of the acceleration of their plans, was dreaded news indeed. Landon had, of late, made it a habit to curse his awful fate, but this time it was an especially heartfelt endeavor. That murdering witch, here.... And tomorrow they were meant to confront her! To swipe her most cherished prisoners, his own captive companions -- no doubt an impossible task. "Surely there are no gods," Landon concluded quietly, "or they would have killed us by now, out of mercy."

Faanatu retreated to his library. Landon would have followed, but for the work ahead of him tonight -- he had spent much of his time among the bookshelves, poring over ancient texts and maps, filling his mind and his journal with anything he could get his claws on. Often the exercise brought troubling information -- stories of waylaid travelers, struck by marauders in the wilderness and mutilated, their bodies found in pieces and on stakes or hanging from trees..... invariably the stories lay directly in the party's path of travel. Landon felt a tiny bit more doomed with each passing day.

Appropriately, he spent most of his passing nights in what passed for a bar, the Tinker Tank. Their specialty was a watery lager, whose miserable alcohol content was still the highest around. What the Tank lacked in libation, it made up for in display -- the dancers were always beautiful, often naked or at least well-undressed, and talented. At first Landon wondered why the Apotheoses would allow such activity, but as the days dragged on he realized the genius of it. The dancers were perfect for morale -- distracting, pleasing, and as sure to make you forget your troubles as the strongest drink, at a fraction of the cost. And in the morning, there was none of the lingering unpleasantness of a hard liquor. The men could go straight to work.

And work they did -- most of them. Landon spirited away to the library whenever he could, as he didn't see another Wolfen anywhere and he didn't fancy being remembered. But on the days he ventured into the archery range, covered head-to-toe in a cloak and hood, he was always shocked at the intensity of the training. One day he drew a bow of forty pounds for three hours -- pull, release, pull release, with scarcely a break. He thought his arm might collapse. The marshals here were intent on technique rather than accuracy -- the party might have fired at targets once or twice, in the days Landon missed, but while he was present they only ever drilled for volume-fire. The Apotheoses were training armies, brigades, and units -- not marksmen. It was just as well -- Landon was a terrible archer, but at least his arrows tended to blend in with the volleys they sometimes fired. It was something.

Some nights, Jarod would come by and show him the hand-to-hand techniques he'd learned during the day. Landon saw less and less of the healer, and felt the absence of his company, but there was little they could do about it. Jarod was human, and so was in a position to take advantage of their situation. Landon did what he could, studying and shooting... but the truth of it was, the only thing he seemed to have a knack for here was throwing back shitty beer and watching the girls dance.

Naturally that talent wasn't going to help anyone tomorrow. Then again, Landon was going to be small help anyway -- like always, he was all teeth and no bite. Still. He needed to be ready to do his part. Tonight he would squirrel away as much food from the mess as he could fit into his cloak. When the fighting broke out, his role was to carry the party's essential gear ahead. He was to make ready their way out -- meeting no resistance at all, he hoped. He briefly considered throwing himself on the first sword that was drawn, but memories of their fallen friends spurred him towards determination. Landon was clumsy, but he was not going to be a coward. Not tomorrow.


Of course, in light of all the gallantry the day would require, he decided that relaxing tonight would no doubt be important. Vital, even. Critical to their mission. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that it was his DUTY to his companions, to their cause, to the GODS THEMSELVES -- he had a responsibility to rest tonight. And he knew the perfect way.

When his preparations were.... MOSTLY done, he found his way to the Tank for a pint. For the cause, naturally. The dancers were out in force -- Cersei, a golden-haired and slender native of Rocoa mounted a pole by the window. Her every move was provocative, and she brought in the crowds. But the center stage belonged to Dandelion tonight. She wore white lingerie over a supple body. Her hair was auburn and her eyes bright, and what little was left to the imagination was certainly spectacular. She looked less the "Dandy" and more the "Lion" when she danced, her moves fierce and energetic. Landon had spoken to her once, which carried a measure of accomplishment in this crowd. She had seen that he was Wolfen, smiled, and said nothing of it. Tonight, though, she scarcely seemed to notice him in the fury of her dance. It was just as well -- he would be leaving soon, and if they spoke again he thought he might become attached.

[Foxes]

To put it quite frankly, Kayless was in a spot of trouble.

Something about being home bothered him immensely, if Rocoa could even be called “home.” During his travels he had met many men, and for every man he met he became acquainted with yet another view of the world. “Home is where the heart is,” said one. “Home is where you sleep at night,” said another. Another, a man with a reputation for teaching the art of virtue he met in a small town called Nausee, had not told him one way or another, but had simply asked him, “if a man’s bed is empty, is it truly his bed?” Kayless had not entirely understood what he meant, but in any event being in close proximity to the area in which he had spent his childhood made him entirely uncomfortable. It filled him with a particular itching that he found quite difficult to alleviate, even by the most fervent metaphorical scratching.

He had never really liked Rocoa. Granted, he had grown up there. He knew the streets well enough. The city itself had a certain, indescribable pulse to it, an aura and certain air about it that felt Rocoan. The air was Rocoan, the streets were Rocoan. But Kayless had been outside the city, had traveled across the hook as a mercenary. The world had been his oyster, and being back in the shithole he grew up in was rather disappointing. Also of some importance was the fact that he was currently in a dungeon, held prisoner on the grounds that he was a very, very guilty murderer.

It was an open air jail, if an open space underground could be considered “open air.” The prisoners were allowed to mingle, and spent their time conversing and exercising. It was here that the prison gangs flourished, Kayless knew. Prison was a culture, its own little society away from the world, and in Rocoa, where oppression was an art, most of these men didn’t expect to ever leave this dungeon. Kayless wasn’t even sure of the name. All he knew was that he was here, these people were here, and he needed to get out.

“I need to get out.”

“Huh?” Dove was in his late twenties, older than Kayless and two years into his sentence. Kayless couldn’t remember if it was six years or nine. Either way, the thought that Dove would be gone in four (or seven) years while he would be imprisoned here for the rest of his life didn’t sit well with him. Dove was also less intelligent and, if Kayless was any judge, less attractive than him. Of the injustices that came with imprisonment, Kayless found one to be the most egregious.

“I need to get out of here. I’m not going to die in here,” Kayless growled. They sat against the wall, sharing a hand rolled cigarette. Kayless took a drag and blew a cloud of smoke into the air. Dove smiled. Dove always smiled.

“Everyone says that, Kay. Everyone does. No one gets out of here until their sentence is up,” he replied, taking the cigarette from Kayless and taking a drag of his own.

“Yeah, well, hell will freeze over before Rocoa decides my sentence is served. Which means that I don’t have a whole lot to lose, yeah?” Kayless looked Dove in the eye, and for the first time since his imprisonment eight days ago, broke into a broad, sly smile typical of rogues, con artists, and women marrying wealthy men. "Besides, Dove. I have a plan."

[Grif of Hearts]

Mirya had tried her best to rest. To get some sleep. To clear her head. But stone floors made poor beds and every position felt more uncomfortable than the last. The room stunk of rot and damp, and every few minutes she could hear the scurrying of rat's feet across the floor. She shuffled around for another moment, stretching out her legs and laying herself back, resting her head against a slightly raised part of the stone floor. Her eyes closed, having forced them shut. Mirya rested her hands against her stomach, and tried to relax. If she could not sleep, the best thing she could do was to simply calm down.

Fairst was the reason she had landed herself in this Apotheoses dungeon, which she knew very little of. She was trapped, that much she knew for certain. The prison cell was far too sturdy to be broken out of with nothing but brute force. She had already tried that, if only the one time, and the solid door hadn't moved an inch. The window was barred, and the gaps between them were far too thin. Honestly, Mirya doubted she would have been able to fit through there even if there weren't any metal bars. That meant that, as far as she could tell, simply trying to tear herself out of this cell would cause more harm to her than it would the room, which meant she needed to play it more subtly. This was something Mirya had never been good at. A key, perhaps? She wasn't going to find one loose in this prison cell, even she knew that.

She clenched her teeth and twiddled her thumbs, trying to guess what the prison outside of the cell would be like. The Apotheoses had quite possibly the largest and most powerful army Mirya knew existed, and they would almost certainly have a large and powerful guard force to keep the Apotheoses' enemies where they wanted them. Even once she got out, brute force wouldn't help her.

There was still some hushed whispering outside. The minotaur tried her best to ignore it and carry on with her trail of thought. It was difficult though, and more than once did she considering clambering up and slamming herself against the door in case there was anyone outside. Mirya hadn't the energy though, still feeling slightly uneasy on her feet. Whatever Fairst had done was more than just a flesh wound. She wasn't sure what it was, but no mere blade did that. And now she was repeating herself. Mentally, granted, which wasn't quite as bad as wording it, but she was still repeating her previous trails of thought.

Something jabbed her in the chin. It was a fly, or rat, or something else that had . Mirya didn't feel it worth wasting the energy to find out, and instead raised an arm to try and bat it away. It responded with hushed squeaks and taps against the stone... no, it responded with whispers and light footprints. The minotaur's eyes sprung open, and her arm swung out, fingers just grazing against a trouser leg.

“Great, now you've made it angry!” yelled a voice from outside Mirya's cell to the figure that stood inside. The figure appeared human, and probably barely out of his teens. He was clearly quite terrified though of the once-sleeping minotaur.

He quickly leapt through the cell door and out of the room, and by the sound of his footsteps he was sprinting down the corridor. Another set of footsteps followed suit, although they were slower, and accompanied by a similar voice murmuring to himself. Soon the sounds had vanished, and it was much quieter... wait, how had they gotten inside?

Mirya glanced to the side where the door once was. It had been opened. Left ajar so that anyone could enter or leave, whether they be prisoner or guard. She scrambled to her feet, hurried and impatient, hooves rattling against the stone floor. Her head leaned out, peering down one direction and then turning to see down another. She was not the only prisoner to have been let out, it seemed. A few others had too, and many of the doors were left open. Some strolled down the corridor with quite but silent steps, while others sat or stood against the wall, chatting amongst themselves. They were free, almost. They were allowed to travel around the dungeon it seemed without restriction, and unless one of them had tried to break into Mirya's cell, she wasn't confined either.

She turned, gazing back out of the window. It was darker now. She must have drifted off to sleep thinking of ways to escape. Now that she had woken up (or been woken up, rather), one of the barriers had preventing her escape been removed. Mirya took a few cautious steps outside, a hand resting against the side of the door helping her to balance.

The dungeon's most recent prisoner began to stumble down the hallway, still using the wall to both guide her and aid with walking. This prison really was filled with all sorts of bizarre people, all of which had offended the Apotheoses in some way. Mirya walked past men and women, humans, dwarves and wolfen, soldiers, merchants and sailors. Every kind of person under the sun was in this dungeon. They were all such a mismatched people from all across Allaria. Mirya bet that some of the people in here hadn't done a cruel thing in their lives, and the Apotheoses just thought that they might become troublesome. Then there were bound to be some others like Mirya who had been, for lack of a better word, tricked into being captured.

This carried on for a few more weeks. A month, maybe. It was hard to keep track of time in a prison cell. Mirya's strength returned, sort of, and despite how much she resented this entire facility, life here was growing easier. Even the stone floor had started to become vaguely comfortable. While many of the prison members had formed their own gangs of sorts, composed of a few close friends, Mirya had had little social contact with the others. A conversation here and there, but she would hardly call anyone in this hell-hole her “friend”. It was alright though, in a way. She could make do. Now though, walks down these damp and dingy corridors had become something of a sad hobby. Something to do to pass the time. Most of the time it was just to listen into the conversations of others, though, even if it was just following gossip.

One small group she passed, smoking and chatting between themselves. The words of one seemed to suggest that he was panicking, although his tone said otherwise. He wanted to get out – as if not everyone else in this prison wanted to. He did say one thing that caught Mirya's attention though. He had a plan.

Mirya raised an eyebrow as she passed, or at least, the closest she could get to one. Plans had yet to go well for Mirya, but it would not hurt. Carrying on walking for a few more seconds, she planted herself down against the wall several metres away. If the plan turned out to be anything more than ridiculous, she may inquire further, but for now, she would listen as best she could from afar.

[Rilla]

Port Jinn
The Masked Demon

They had been worked all day without reprieve - Ivan did not want them to have a moment to rest, he knew what they were capable of. A captured rat was likely to bite the hand of the captor if given half the chance. No, Ivan would want to prevent that, so he worked them twice as hard as he should have, though he cared little for their well-being - his team had won. And so, those who lost had to work, had tor ebuild the place they once called home, a place that Ivan, himself, once called home. They had managed to rebuild a couple of the smaller shops, and had started work on the mayor’s building before the night claimed the land. Like Rocoa, there was no single-inhabitant cells in the dungeon, well, none that were in use. They wanted to cause tension between the people, so, like Rocoa, they let them be in commune. This lead to the formation of Prison Gangs, and this was deadly in the dungeon world. As they were marched in, they all segregated to their personal gangs, or to a place where they could, in theory, be alone and talked amongst themselves. Food would be down soon, they reckoned, they had to feed them right?

Surely enough, the food was brought down by a platoon of Apotheoses soldiers who held no qualms in tossing the food out onto the floor and having them fight for it like rats. They were cruel that way. Soon, they came around the corner to the area that Johic had situated himself. He was grimy, dirt covered his scarred face, which had been hidden under his scraggly, now gray, hair. "Hey this is Abbar’s kid, Ivan has been keeping close tabs on both of them, well that was until Abbar broke down and revealed information to Denelii.” They had a grand laugh at that, one even walked towards Johic and mocked his dad. “Hey, hey, kid, how does it feel to know your dad is the reason your final line of defense is going to be captured and killed? The proud Abbar, reduced to ratting out those meant to save the world?” Another round of uproarious laughter. They gave him the food next, tossing it towards him and along the dirty ground. When they turned to walk off, they heard Johic whisper something.

“What did you say?” One asked, his head turning towards the young man. “Hey, where did you get that mask, punk?”

Johic had held the mask in his hand when he turned around. He was looking down at them, when the men heard him whisper. His head cocked towards them, brown eyes dancing over each of their bodies as he whispered again, “Splitting Strings.” There was something odd in his voice, something scary, but the guards didn’t pay attention to it, instead choosing to ignore it and attack him. They didn’t make it far, however, as the flickering candlelight alerted them to the presence of numerous, slowly falling, strings.

“Hey, what’s the meaning of this?!”

Johic’s head tilted the other way, and his hands pushed the mask up to his face, the strings seeming to wrapped around his head and attach to one another, securing the apparel. “Die,” he commanded, the strings that floated down seemed to snap tight and slice towards and through the men at varying angles. It was not enough to kill them, no, he wanted them to die slowly. The strings then moved up and wrapped around their neck, hanging them from the ceiling with impressive strength. “Die,” he mused again, this time rising from the ground and walking past him. Blood splatter coated him now, and he truly looked like a murderer. Slow methodical steps brought him around to the rest of the prisoners, as two thick ropes snaked towards him and wrapped around either shoulder and his back. The prisoners did not know that the man in the mask was Johic, the marks on his face had obscured that knowledge from them - nay, they thought it was a prisoner simply gone mad.

None approached the newly formed killer, instead they parted for the man, as he made his way towards the dungeon doors. Soon thereafter, they heard a scuffle, and then silence. Johic had vanished into the stronghold’s upper floors.

Ivan was alerted mere moments after and swept towards Johic’s likely location - the room that held his broken father. It took him less than two minutes to reach the room and peer inside - the black room held no light any longer and Ivan did not get the sinking suspicion that another now occupied the room. He pushed open the door anyway, and walked towards Abbar, stopping short four feet. His slow hand slid along one of the trap strings left by Johic, and burned them away. The faint light illuminated the room as each string was slowly burned, it cast a peculiar hue over the body of Abbar. “Your son has been here, yes? Then you know he escaped, I figure you will not tell me where he is headed, though I am sure I already know.” Ivan reached down and grabbed the man, dragging him throughout the stronghold and down into the dungeons where the bodies of his men hung, and the prisoners crowded.

“This man is the father of the child who escaped! Tonight, he is sentenced to death as the punishment for his son escaping the dungeons. I will make an example! I will not stand for the common man vanishing into the night after killing my men and making an attempt on my life! I will not stand for such insolence!” Ivan was enraged, they could see it in the eyes of the oft calm man. All eyes were now on Abbar, who had a slight smile on his face, he was not afraid to meet death head on, such was his way - but he was proud, whole, now that his son had managed to get away. Slowly, his body began to rot, his screams ripped through the dungeon and echoed around, even in the slight murmur. Those who could not look, could only hear the gut-wrenching pains of a man whose body was aging swiftly, and whose intestines were now decorating the floor. Ivan stood, as rigid as a board as the man died in his hand. In fact, he kept his old friend alive for two hours during this ordeal.

Rocoa
There Is No Escape!

(No tables, more medieval)

The room was set, the lights danced in the candlesticks and the men and women permitted to watch this spectacle were all present. Some had, unfortunately, been left to patrol the streets and dungeons to keep any that were now under their control in check. Eclava had been informed in the early hours of the morning that the son of Abbar had escaped into the night, and might be headed towards Rocoa. She was also informed that there may be some of the wanted ‘saviors’ lurking in, or around, Rocoa. Eclava didn’t mind, she was not afraid the man that some had dubbed the String Demon, nay, she welcomed the young man to come to her new abode, she would make his life hell - the Healer, for all his sociopathy, was incapable of making the decisions needed unless angered, or so he demonstrated, he could very well be a stone-cold killer when the time was right. Hopefully, he would not have to show that on her, before she found the secret to immortal life.

As such, he sat on her throne - the broken statue that once belonged to Lloth, and called to attention those around her. In her tight, black leather attire, that was not entirely difficult - in fact, if she had of uncrossed her legs, one could probably have seen straight up the short apparel. “My soldiers, all this work you have been doing has been grand!” That garnered a cheer. “So today, I have invited you into the Rocoan Hall to witness the festivities of today. My faithful, beautiful love, Sarahix shall be conducting several executions and I have a very special treat for you all.” There was a hushed murmur along the crowd; they had heard rumors, something to do with the minotaur and Eclava’s inclination towards exhibition rape. This was much sought after, the sexual spectacle not only kept the men in line, but showed they had dominance in this world - more than a few had thought of Eclava being in the woman’s place and being used by some, if not most, of the stronger, more well endowed of the men and beasts. Such thoughts were entirely kept one’s self in fear of being on the wrong end of one of these exhibitions.

Her pupils danced over the crowd before her hand rose and fell with exquisite grace. Sounds of chains proceeded shortly after, as several, perhaps ten or twenty men, women, and various beasts, were led into the Hall. Clothes turned to rags, once smug grins now expressions of sadness. They all knew their time was coming, even the Minotaur. They had been shackled an hour earlier and forced to stand in unison just outside the doors. The cramped space did nothing for their morale, and the eerie darkness compounded their personal feelings on the death they were about to face. Was it going to be swift? Would it be slow? Would they be tortured first? Offered a chance to be forgiven for whatever crimes they had been charged with? They doubted it, the stories of Eclava were plentiful and none much different from the others - she was not merciful, she did not believe in that word, she killed slowly, painfully. And so, when they walked in, they were slightly perplexed at the fact she was sitting on the broken bits of a statue. Scare tactics?

Lined up in the center of the room they listened as Eclava detailed their crimes, many of which were something as minor as going against the Apotheoses - but some, some were much worse. “..And next we have Kayless, a ruthless assassin who was sent to murderer one of our own. To his left, and the attraction you’ve all been invited to witness, we have Mirya and Fairst. Many of you remember Fairst, an experiment of mine, once favored but turned traitor and aligned with this creature, Mirya, to conspire against me. Luckily, Ivan captured them both and sent them back to me. A present, if you will. Tonight, you will see Fairst rape Mirya, viciously, until such time as one of them passes out or dies, personally, I’m hoping for the latter.” Another uproarious laugh from the crowd, they were rowdy, ready - they did not care about the murderers, nay they wanted to see the sexual content. They were trained to be sick like that.

“Let the festivities begin.”

The charged were ushered off to a back wall. One was released and brought to the center of the room, where he immediately fell to his knees to beg for forgiveness. Eclava did not bat an eye, nor did she move - he thought all was forgiven. He stood and brushed off his ragged clothes and turned to walk away, only to come face to face with Sarahix. Her head swayed left and right, slowly - she was going to hypnotize him. The man started to back away, but was quickly caught with the midway point of the long bodied Naga. He sought to scream, but found his mouth filled with the thick tail of the serpent. Such deepness, such a slow death; the sexual sadist was enjoying this. This type of death was her release. In fact, she yearned for it, so for the next ten or twenty minutes, she choked him to within an inch of his life, and removed her tail, just a bit, so he could breath, before it was forced back down into his mouth. Finally, he died, and Sarahix slid her tail from his mouth slowly - almost savoring feeling something immaterial leaving his still warm body..

Another couple of people were killed, in fact, half were murdered in similar fashion. Slow. Methodical. Sarahix got the same satisfaction each time. It was now time for her to take a break, and so, she curled up before Eclava and rested her head in the Drow’s lap. Mirya and Fairst were ushered forth slowly. Eclava never took her eyes off Mirya, she was preparing for this; she waited, she yearned, and ultimately, she would get. “Go now, Fairst - either you do it and have a chance to survive, or you don’t and you both die.” The woman said. That’s when it happened - that’s when Mirya struck. She launched towards the Drow Bitch with powerful legs and soared through the air. But she did not go far- something hopped on her back and pierced her shoulders with two metal blades.

Fairst.

The man was deceptively strong and brought the minotaur down, full force, to the ground and the exhibition started. Without warning, the man was inside the minotaur. Such hollering and yelling, such screams, such sick smacks of flesh and flesh, and laughter had never before been heard in Rocoa. With each passing moment, they only grew louder - even Fairst seemed to have snapped - he was taking the minotaur with all intention of keeping his own life. He did everything, jerked her head back, slapped her, choked her, even pulled her up so Eclava could see the agony the minotaur was going through - at one point, a blade slid out and danced slightly across her neck. Fairst was enjoying this, one could see how much more dominant he was becoming through this ordeal - how much more savage. She fought - but it was to no avail, the man’s strength kept her pinned to the floor and each movement only amounted her to bucking against her rapist; when her face was pressed to the ground, her tears could be seen forming beneath her. A guttural yell ripped through his lips as more of the metallic blades curved from his back and cocooned Mirya. Blood could be seen seeping through small splits in the metal. This would have displeased Eclava, but she could still see the look on the woman’s face. A slow smirk crossed the lips of Eclava, as the screams of Mirya died to, first a whimper, and then silence. Fairst finished a minute or so later - the entire ordeal had encompassed fifteen minutes. The blades slowly curved back into Fairst’s back, taking with them a dose of radiation that had caused Mirya to collapse.

He rose and ejected the blades from her shoulders. He took two minutes to sratch into her back, the word “Mine.“ Another man moved to her side, and ran his fingers over the words, magic pouring from the tip and searing the word into her back - this ordeal took an additional five minutes, but was as painful as having a jagged knife gouging into one’s back. Now naked, he walked towards Eclava, and bowed before her, licking the blood from his blades. “She is still alive - but will now carry my seed.” His breath was heavy and his blood started to leave his lower region - he was now back at the side of his… master, like a perfect lap dog.

Fananatu had witnessed this, as he stood with the ones he had helped enter Rocoa - he had not expected it to be so brutal, nor for one of their own to turn back to his side. Such things were not expected, but did not interfere with his plans. He held his arm out to keep them from rushing forward. “Not yet.”

Kayless was brought up next - Sarahix had chosen to lop his head off with her favored weapon - a whip. She circled the man, occasionally looking at Mirya who had been drug back to the wall. That Minotaur had attacked her mistress, her death would come shortly. With full attention back on Kayless, Sarahix started to sway - and with the decent amount of space betwixt the two, she slung her whip. But alas, something stopped it before it caught the man in the back. Sarahix looked around viciously, tugging at the whip as the light caught the glisten of the string that had stopped it.

That’s when things went down.

Johic landed in the middle of the room, “Silk Trap - Vicious Lines of Death,” he called from behind the mask he now wore - none would recognize him, not the ones that were with him initially, if they didn’t hear him. A web of strings danced and ripped through the metal of the shackles, and even knocked some of the Apotheoses off their feet. Eclava, however, did not move - she didn’t have too. Johic hadn’t gone for her, despite both knowing he was there. Now embroiled with Sarahix, he would surely meet his end or retreat - either way, Eclava was safe and this man would lose. She watched as he avoided a strike, but was systematically getting closer to Sarahix whom had not moved.

CRASH!

Johic was slammed against the back wall, Sarahix having knocked him back with her tail. The rest of the hall was in disarray, it was now or never.

“Now, now, where will you go?”

[Foxes]

Kayless was numb.

The bloody, bestial rape was horrific, but more intensely agonizing was his impending death. He counted off the seconds in some idle part of his mind, and touched his fingertips together. Nothing he had touched ever felt so vivid, the colors and sounds never seemed more vibrant and alive. He felt sick, he felt as though he were going to vomit. And then something altogether strange happened. He wasn’t sure who the man was, why he was here, or what his goals were, but he was here, and he was proving an excellent distraction. The guards went down as the man shouted something aloud, a spell that came with a silken web and knocked over the Apotheoses. Kayless watched as something two feet long and silver skittered along the ground.

A sword.

It was not even ten feet from him. He could have his hand around the hilt in a heartbeat. All eyes were off him. No one was concerned about the prisoner. No one watched as he forced himself to move and dove on the blade. No one noticed a thing until the glittering steel blade was in his hand. At that point, a guard did notice. He drew his own blade, a similar short sword, and rushed Kayless. He died first.

Kayless dropped into form with liquid fluidity, his weight on his back leg, his front foot ready and waiting for the shift that would come with the counterattack. The guard struck, a diagonal slash that would have rent Kayless from shoulder to hip across his chest if he had let it. His foe’s blade only met the flat of cold steel, and in a simple but effective riposte Kayless shifted his weight, turned the blade with a push of his off hand, and drove his sword into the man’s wrist. No sooner did the blood gush from the new wound did Kayless bring the blade back and thrust it through his throat. There was that sickening sound of air escaping from somewhere other than the nose or mouth, and the light faded from his eyes. The next guard died with more flourish.

He made the mistake of announcing his presence with something of a battle cry, a primitive utterance reserved for cave men and savages. His sword occupied elsewhere, Kayless unsheathed a dagger strapped to the dead guard’s still standing body with his free left hand and caught the incoming sword with the steel of the yet-to-be-bloodied blade. As soon as the sound of steel-on-steel rang, he tore the short sword free of the dead guard’s throat and made his second kill of the day, the blade biting through the guard’s leather armor and piercing a lung.

Had he not been terrified of dying, Kayless might have realized that what he had just done was pretty fucking sweet.

With eyes between Kayless and Johic, the former decided it was time to get the hell out of there. He ran to the back of the room, the iron door to the prison’s depths looming gloomily before him. Another guard stood before it, and came between Kayless and his target. The guard attempted to catch Kayless in the stomach mid-charge, but the convicted assassin turned the sword away with the dagger and drove his short blade through the man’s chest. As the man lay wounded and dying, Kayless dropped to a knee and cut a ring of keys off his belt. There were many, but only a few he figured were large enough to be candidates for the prison door’s lock. He picked one and, for the first time in a long time, prayed.

“Oh thank the gods,” he said, relieved, as the lock clicked on his first try. He heaved the door open, and suddenly the prisoners were no longer so secure. He handed off his most recent felled foe’s sword to one of the men who emerged, and watched as the room descended further into chaos.

Only for a moment though. As soon as he felt secure that enough of a diversion had been created he started looking for an exit.

But he was distracted. In the back of his mind he vaguely noticed a prisoner's face being opened by a guardsman's blade, but he was distracted. A butterfly, with orange and blue wings, fluttered and floated in front of his face for a just a few moments, and then vanished into the sea of blood and slaughter's maw that was opening where once there had been rape and execution. It was as like a great yawning, as what Kayless could only imagine must be a hundred prisoners dove into a brawl with the guards armed only with improvised weapons and what they could wrest from the Apotheoses. He snapped out of it at some point. He wasn't sure how long he had remained next to the open prison door, watching prisoners spill out to join the fray, but as soon as he realized that now was the time to escape, he did.

First thing was first, however. Good boots, pants, and so on and so forth were hard to come by, and he was dressed as a prisoner. His tunic was fine, but he took the hard leather cuirass the guard had worn, as well as the trousers and the leather combat boots. As he struggled to pull the pants off, someone addressed him from behind.

"Lootin' the dead ain't polite, kid." Kayless didn't need to look to remember the voice. The man had been rather infamous within the prison, known for his violent tendencies and quick temper. Dirty Jack or John or something or other. Whatever his name was, Kayless didn't answer. He turned and, drove the dagger into Dirty Jack's bowels, and returned to pulling the pants off of the dead guard as the former prisoner's intestines flooded with blood, all without leaving a crouching position. As Dirty Jack fell, Kayless figured he should take the guard's belt as well. Carrying an unsheathed blade through Rocoa, or any city, wasn't a good idea.

He put on the belt, boots, and cuirass, but something about being in an executioner's hall and without pants seemed inappropriate, especially so given the situation, so he simply carried his new pants out as he followed a hallway on the left side of the room down to what he hoped was somewhere in Rocoa.

[mdk]

in a stunning display of RetCon powers, Jarod was waiting for Landon when he returned from the Tank.

"What are you doing here?" Landon demanded.

"Waiting for you," the healer replied. "There's been a change in plan." Landon twitched nervously. "You're going in with Damian, not me."

Landon choked at the words. "Why?" he managed.

"Mirya might be hurt. Damian's worried that she won't even be able to walk."

His mind was racing, looking for a way out of the terror. "But I'm no healer. You..."

"I'm not a magician, Landon. It takes time -- time we won't have. And I can't carry her." It was a fair guess -- Landon had at least fifty pounds over Jarod, and Mirya was heavier still -- but if either of them were able to manage the task of lifting a damaged minotaur to safety, it was likely the wolf. "You're going to be fine, Landon."

"We're all going to die," he replied, dejected. "I might as get it over with."

"Just keep your head down, and stay close to Damian. He'll keep you safe."

Landon didn't believe him.

Landon was physically frozen when Mirya and Fairst were called out to the center. He begged his body to look away, but his eyes were locked, his arms and legs tensed, his tail straight. It was a picture of absolute terror -- every muscle, every nerve, every fiber and liquid in his body wanted to run away, run and hide at the first sign of danger. But he couldn't. He had to stay -- they'd kill him if he tried to leave the hall.

They'd kill him anyway, of course. But in the immediate sense, he had no choice.

When.... it... began, Landon finally managed to wrench his eyes away, only to fall to the floor on his knees and vomit. His leavings stank of the Tinker Tank's cheap ale. Lovely. Still, he found it less appalling than the display on the floor of the hall, and kept his place on the floor. The stench filled his nose, and it was almost -- almost -- enough to drown out the sounds of the.... and of the crowd, jeering, drawing some sick satisfaction from the mutilation, the ravaging, the..... Landon threw up again, this time unexpectedly, spilling some onto his hand. Reflexively he tried to wipe it off on his shirt, and it worked -- so now he had vomit on his shirt, too. "Nice thinking, champ," he muttered.

His stomach seemed to settle after that. His ears pricked up every time Mirya screamed, which was often. This was monstrous. Like never before in his life, Landon saw clearly what needed to happen -- the pure fucking evil of it all turned the walls to glass. She had to be saved. He'd known it all along, but never had he known it like this. His fears were melting into something more pure..... rage, maybe, he wasn't sure. The certainty of death mattered less with every tortured moan. until finally, there was only one thought, one crystalline notion in Landon's head. He vocalized it.

"Fuck this, huh?" he said, wiping his mouth and standing slowly. "Let's go." He put his hand on the shortsword he'd been given, and stormed towards the door.

Faanatu raised an arm, restraining him. "Not yet."

Landon was -- disappointed? He had not expected that. Primal juices were flowing inside him now. For the first time in a long time he felt truly Wolfen, itching for violence, ready to meet sword with sword and force with force. But waiting here, watching as the guards cleaned up after the scene.... the feeling gave way to logic. You are weak. You are useless. Even Mirya was helpless, and you are less. Jarod's words, the plan, echoed in his head. "Just keep your head down, and stay close to Damian." And save her.


Some other asshole was dragged out for execution before Faanatu finally lowered his arm. Landon sensed -- it was time. A strange figure crashed through the roof... or a window, or.... he rained down into the center of the room, followed by wispy, glimmering lines of total destruction. Guards fell in pieces, weapons broke in two, and the prisoners were set loose. It was chaos.

The fear was creeping back.

"Now!" Faanatu declared. "Go!"

Landon wasn't sure what happened next, even as it was happening. He kept his eyes on Mirya, slumped on the floor where the prisoners had been chained up, bleeding visibly. He heard sounds of battle everywhere, and he knew that Damian was nearby -- at intervals behind him or ahead, and to either side. There were strings everywhere, flying, ripping what furnishings the hall had, splintering wood and wall hangings all around. Landon had his sword out as he ran, but he never used it -- between the riotous prisoners and the mysterious intruder, everyone seemed occupied, and since Landon wasn't actively stabbing anyone he apparently took a low priority. He did as he'd been told -- he kept his head down. Before he knew it, he was standing over her. He discarded his unused sword.

The wounds were worse than he'd imagined, or at least, they looked that way. Landon bent over to pick her up by the arm, which brought a groan -- Mirya's shoulders were streaming blood. "Sorry, sorry...." That must have hurt, he thought. He looked for another way to lift her. Without pulling her up by the arms, he did the only thing he could think of. He straddled over top of her -- trying not to imagine Fairst as he did so -- and wrapped his arms around her chest.

"Come on, biggun, we gotta get you on your feet!" If she heard him, she made no effort to help. Landon grunted and cursed, straining his back, desperately trying to pull the hulking creature off the ground, but it was no use. Breathing hard, he let her down softly and looked about. "Damian!" he shouted. He couldn't see the fighter at first, and a profound sense of alone-ness swept him like a storm -- but there he was! Damian was alive and.... and very busy, it seemed, with the guards. "Son of a bitch. Alright."

He rolled Mirya onto her back, eliciting another groan. "Damn it..... hang on, I got you," he said desperately. He scooched her feet up so that her knees were bent and pointing towards the ceiling. "This'll only hurt once," he promised, sidling around to her shoulders, oblivious of his own poor bedside manner. "Do me a favor and don't pass out, okay?" With all his might he pushed on Mirya's back, doing his best not to agitate the stab wounds, letting out a quasi-war-cry of his own, pushing her up so that her chin at last fell between her raised knees.

Landon's hands were wet with Mirya's blood. "Are you alive?" he asked. "Kind of a wasted effort if you're not...." She grunted something, he couldn't tell what amidst all the noise, but her arms were wrapped around her legs -- so he took that as a yes. Scanning the room, Landon thought for a second he saw Fairst watching them -- but on the next glance, he was gone, Landon knew not where. Damian and some of the prisoners were making short work of the guards left standing, and the strange intruder with the mask was battling the strange snake executioner -- but it wasn't going well. There were torches and voices outside -- they didn't have long. "Mirya, if you can hear me, we gotta go. We gotta get out of here, now. Alright? I'm gonna stand you up, and then we're gonna go. Do not fall down." He was practically out of breath already. "Okay? That's important. Don't fall down. You're too fucking heavy."

Landon crouched behind her, arms wrapped below her shoulders, getting a little cooperation from her now in the form of arms moved this way or that, centering her balance. She was coming around, or so it seemed. Her blood was soaking through Landon's shirt. He lost patience for the pleasantries and rested his snout on her right shoulder, dipping his neck-fur in the open wound. If it hurt, she didn't seem to mind. "One two three GO!" Shouting and straining, Landon pushed up with his legs, staggering back a bit as her weight shifted higher, but keeping his balance just barely. It was like trying to lift a fucking house. But Mirya helped, or seemed to, getting her feet under herself and pushing with what strength she had left. As she came up, Landon had to shift his head and his arms -- she was taller than he'd expected -- and hold her tight. It took several long, agonizing seconds -- but they did it together, and finally, Mirya was on her feet.

Not a second later, one of the guards appeared seemingly out of nowhere. He had a spear, and he was charging Mirya head-on from the front. He had only two seconds -- less than five steps -- before he skewered them both. At once, Landon's roaring victory of raising the Minotaur vanished, replaced by the terror of death.

He cowered behind Mirya, instinctively, reflexively, using her as a shield.

[mbl]

*I usually don't backtrack but this seemed like the best place to start*

Damian click his tongue at the root of his mouth. He had just managed to learn the names of the captured members of the party a few hours early, which is why he was able to understand that the two creatures having a fuck-session in front of him were in fact Mirya and Fairst, two of the member's of this supposed holy quest Jarod had told him about when they first met. A mutant, apostheoses freak who seemed to have a taste for rape, and a holstaur slut... why would the gods have given some holy quest to the likes of this; as Damian thought he realized that the other members of the party were a healer, a cripple, and a coward. Why did he ever believe Jarod's tale, but then why did the butterfly take have him escort these people here...

No matter how little respect he had for the beast, Damian felt sorry for Mirya being raped... He had watched his own mother raped many years ago and seen the rapes of several other women before he was able to save them; he did not enjoy the sight. This freak seemed to have played on her and the rest of the group's faith and most likely was the reason the beast was captured... Fairst, I will punish you for what you have done someday... Perhaps Damian would get the chance tonight.

Damian waited and waited for the plan the lizard had spoken of to take action... But it was not until he was about to assume that they had already failed when the masked man enter play. Just as Damian had noticed him, the man began his assault. That must have something to do with the plan... Soon the prisoners were rioting and the room was in chaos. Prisoners were running through the hall and guards were slaughtering most that they found. Damian quickly moved to where the largest grouping of guards was. While he had just lost faith in the rebels' cause, he had gotten in to this mess and wouldn't leave empty handed... Those people were enemies of the apostheoses and, thus, worth saving.

Damian had not brought any ranged equipment with him, it did not seem right for the task at hand, so he was forced to move in close and draw his blade. The guards had what Damian would barely consider moderate training and he had been working on his swordplay whilst waiting for this event to take place; he sound found himself having killed two guards without thinking. But as he looked on he could see a group of eight still approaching him and the prisoners around him. He took a moment to concentrate... Lloth give me strength. He felt the effects of his magic soon: his mind was sharper, he could read the movements of those around him easier and his senses reacted noticeably more fast than they normally would, and his body fight lighter and more agile, he could move intelligently and quickly with ease.

He moved on the eight guards with great speed. Opening with a jumping downward-slash, he sent one of the guards staggering down whilst the others moved in. With grace, he blocked or danced through the attacks of the guards around him and got a slash in whenever he was able. Soon four of the guards were dead and the others, who had surrounded him in the battle, were backing away in fear. Male prisoners soon rushed in and grabbed blades of the dead guards and began to fight off the others on their own. Damian watched as the remaining nearby guards were torn apart by groups of armed and unarmed prisoners. Perhaps it was this distraction that allowed someone to get an attack in.

Suddenly Damian felt a surge of pain as a blade dug into his shoulder. He turned to his attacker to find it was a prisoner, one of the people he was helping. Whoever they were, they were untrained... It was obvious to Damian that where he was hit at could easily have been a lethal blow if enough force was put into it. The prisoner shrunk back in terror that Damian was still standing after his attack, he let go of the sword, which hung in Damian's wound for a few moments before falling to the ground. "You stupid fuck!!!" Damian didn't care why the man had attacked him nor did he bother to ask before he made a quick and powerful slice with his bastard blade. The prisoner's head rolled on the floor. In the chaos, none of the people around him seemed to notice the attack.

Damian clenched his shoulder wound tightly. Fuck that hurts!!!. The fighting had moved on from his immediate area so Damian took a moment to recover from his wound and look around... In the chaos, he saw Landon holding Mirya in some... awkward positions. Is the bitch in heat or something? Every beast in this city wants a fucking piece of her. He noticed the approaching guard at about the same time as the wolf... he made his way to them, watching as the Wolfen used Mirya as some sort of giant meatshield against the attacker. He succeeded apparently, moments before Damian could reach them the jabbed his spear into the cow's hide. Luckily she her skin was strong so the attack barely broke skin. With a quick downward-slash, Damian sliced the man's spear in half. Simply for insult, Damian moved forward and kneed the guard in the balls; as the man shrunk away, Damian planted a thrust in his gut.

"Will you stop messing around, wolf?!! We need to get moving!" Damian looked around for a way out, the most obvious way was the way Damian had come in... through the front door, it wasn't like he knew the building so he just moved towards the only exit he knew of. "Follow me!"

They reached the entrance to find it a battleground between a large group of guards and all the prisoners who were smart enough to head for the entrance... It seemed like the prisoners were losing. This won't be an easy exit... Damian thought, he wasn't sure of where to join the battle or even what to do. Suddenly, he heard a mad howl coming from behind him. He turned to find the freak, Fairst, running around in a psychotic rage, killing both prisoners and guards left and right. He watched as the mutant turned in his direction; his eyes were filled with a crazed bloodlust that Damian had never seen in an intelligent creature... the only thing he could compare the look to was one he saw in an encounter with a rabid wolf. The freak lunged in Damian's direction in a strange tackling motion. Damian easily moved out of the way, but that didn't stop the thing; Fairst crashed into the mass of guards and prisoners fighting for control of the door. He smashed through the door, crushing almost all those who got in the way. "Well..." Damian and most everyone nearby were in awe of what had just happened for a few moments... But soon those prisoners who had escaped tackle were rushing the door and escaping out into the city. Damian moved to follow.

Outside the building was just as chaotic as inside. There were a few guards outside but most had already moved inside the building, the area was mainly filled with confused prisoners who were unsure of where to go next. The mutant laid passed out atop a pile of broken wood and corpses near the entrance.

[Grif of Hearts]

The attempt to escape had been short lived and futile. It was an action brought on by desperation and fear, not careful planning and logic. Mirya was surrounded by guards of the Apotheoses, many of which would be twice the fighter that she was. Even Eclava, who sat all high and mighty upon her throne of stone, created from the broken statue of Lloth as if to insult the goddess, could probably bat Mirya away with an eyelid if she wanted to. She may have been a partially crazy, insecure and power hungry bitch, but she certainly wasn't someone you'd want to look the wrong way at. Her soldiers would slaughter Mirya if she tried, which she had, and the only reason that she hadn't been killed by them was because of Fairst.

Two sharp pieces of metal had sunk deep into her back, piercing through flesh and scratching at bone. It had dragged her down, throwing her to the ground and searing her flesh. It was the same blade that she had been wounded by back out in the battlefield just over a month ago, and the scent of burning flesh left the same bad taste in the minotaur's mouth. It was vastly overshadowed by the sensation of blades thrust into her back though, which felt just enough to kill her on the spot. It would become the least of her worries, in due time.

She was thrown to the ground, and the rape that Eclava had threatened took its place. At first, Mirya struggled. Anybody would. But Fairst was ridiculously strong, especially for a human. Mirya's arms were left weak and painful, the wounds that had dug deep into her shoulders leaking blood down her arms and back. The beast kicked, but hit nothing, and it only seemed to anger Fairst even more. The pain was excruciating. Sharp blades cocooned her body, slicing at skin with even the gentlest of movements, and the sheer heat of the weapons bombarding her body even without contact. It was not long before she simply gave up, unable to resist and unable to fight back. She did not want to give in; to let Fairst win, but there was no choice. Mirya was too weak to move.

For a moment, Mirya swore she had passed out, lying unconscious in a pool of her own thick, scarlet blood which clung to her fur and matted it together. She awoke to loud noised though. Louder than the cheers of joy at Mirya's horrific demise, and louder than the battle cries of the Apotheoses soldiers. Sounds of screeching and clashing metal, heavy footsteps and deep yells. Mirya's ears rang with each whisper, and her head felt as if it was being thrown against a stone wall. And then she felt herself moving, nothing down to her own free will, however. Someone was trying to move her, and it felt as if her skin was being peeled straight off of her flesh. Mirya hadn't the energy to respond though, nor that to scream in pain. She just had to let it happen and hoped for the feeling to be short lived. It was not, and frequently Mirya felt herself be thrown to the floor, dragged across it for a few moment, leaving a trail of hot and sticky blood across the stones, before being picked back up again.

This continued for a few more moment. Flesh bruised and bones battered. She murmured a few groans in response, trying to force it to stop, but it was to no avail. Mirya could almost hear some responses, although none were particularly legible.

She forced her eyes open. Little by little. Even that was exhausting. She spotted a familiar face. A wolfen. One of the ones who, like her, had been chosen to help destroy the Apotheoses. Lan... Larry. Landon. Something like that. The wolfen man who barely looked strong enough to carry his own weight around with him. He was the one moving her. Trying to drag her along the floors. Mirya's eyes fell shut again, but she felt slightly more comfortable knowing that it wasn't one of the guards dragging her back to her cell. Unless Lan-something had recently been drafted into the Apotheoses, she at least had some help.

While the woman still felt weak, and movements were still painful, it spurred her on, somehow. She tried to force her limbs back into action, purposely trying to flail and kick around. Any movement she could think of to bring life back into them. Mirya had little success, but piece by piece, she felt the tips of her fingers to tickle and buzz, blood rushing back to them, feeling finally returning. She tried quite desperately to plant her feet firmly on the ground, but all she achieved was a light scraping of hoof against stone. Landon must have tried to lift her though, pulling her up. He may have dug right into her shoulders, the pain of which almost made her collapse in itself, but he was trying to help.

Finally she stood. Mirya's feet quivered and shook, but she seemed to be holding at least half of her weight up. Landon did an admirable job of keeping her balanced, though. Up until the point that Mirya felt herself tossed to the side, Landon moving behind her but still holding the minotaur up. Eyes flicked open slowly, seeing the glint of iron and steel a few metres away. It was a guard, armed with a spear and moving with enough momentum to slice right through her.

Mirya had had enough of spears today.

She tried to move, although whether it was to dodge or deflect the blow she couldn't remember. It ended up being nothing more than a weakened flail. The sharp point thrust towards her, but the guard had gotten the angle wrong. Instead of thrusting upwards towards Mirya's heart, it glanced off her stomach, tearing at the skin but mostly hitting air. The weapon then fell to pieces in his hands, blade slicing the wood clean in half. Another person here to help. He swiftly slew the guard with a single stab, and the three of them moved along. Mirya didn't recognise this part of the building, but she hadn't seen much more of the prison. Landon was still supporting her, although little by little her legs kicked back into action.

Stumbling along, using Landon as a crutch, they burst through a doorway and outside of the building. The biting wind woke Mirya up, if only slightly, but only sought to bring the huge battlefield ahead to her attention. There was no way that they could head through uns- a figure burst into the middle of the warzone, and began to tear down prisoner and soldier left and right. Anyone who walked in his direction.

It made Mirya's blood boil. Her hands clenched, and her face screwed up into a horrific expression of fury. One that she had seen many other minotaurs bare but one that she had rarely shown. Mirya pulled her arm away from Landon, shoving him off of her with as much force as she could space. She slumped over for a moment, before finally forcing herself back to her feet. If one of the other tried to help her back up, she would have forced them away again, with a little more force. And so began her slow but determined storm forward. Each step was slow and shuffled, having to change direction with every one of Fairst's sudden movements. But each step became slightly easier. Only slightly. Each one still made her want to empty her insides, but walking on her own became vaguely possible.

Fairst continued to slaughter the prisoners and guards, and he could take down Mirya far quicker than any of them. She knew that, but didn't care. Fury fuelled her movements, and despite being unarmed and finding every movement physically painful, she stumbled on anyway. She screamed Fairst's name, trying to draw his attention. To bring him to her instead.

This was going to end horribly...

[Rilla]

Old Council
The Cut-Off Point

Often times Shla’Rak was the quiet one of the Old Council, new to their ways, as Asclepius was to the God’s traditions. This would continue of course, because the Dragoniod councilman had little to say. Elevated to his stature to Ouroboro’s influence and his own inclination for diplomacy. They all now sat around a table, none daring to be the first to speak on the current situation that they believed was going to be the end of them. Shla’Rak’s voice humbly slid into the fully grown silence. “What do you we, old ones? Do we to go war? Atak, ember’s, kack’d?(Attack, Burn, Die?)” he slipped back into his native tongue, the thrill of war entering his mind; it was a natural instinct for one like him to want to do battle with those who sought to claim his livelihood. There was no greater disrespect than for another to come into a creature’s home and seek dominance, to seek command of another, to seek a seat at the head of another man’s table and force him to sit with the lesser’s of society. Shla’Rak’s people thought this position, one in the Council a disgrace, for a Dragoniod was expected to fight, and to fight hard, not use words to settle their feuds.

“There’s nothing much we can do,” spoke Gabriel. “The God’s have placed us here and have restricted our access to the lower world, it is both a blessing and a curse. We are unable to directly effect the lives of those below, but we are also not subjected to their laws and customs. Instead we are our own people, subjects of the God’s above and God’s to the ones below. Like you, I’d rather be out there fighting, waging war with those who seek to cast down my name and the name of my Lord, but alas I am here. We must do the best we can to circumnavigate the wall that the Apotheoses has put up and give orders to our troops below to gather, congregate, and go to war with those who now hold them down!” An impassioned speech, but Gabriel knew the score. This was a losing battle, they would not make it through to victory, but he wouldn’t go down without a fight, or at the very least, a speech to rally the troops he had around him.

“We’ve tried that method, remember? Even had a mole, high up in the Apotheoses army.” This voice was soft, it belonged to Adenna. “Hetherii was one of my most loyal followers, and they found out about him. The allowed him one last prayer, they made a mockery of him before those who were permitted to watch before the Black Snake executed him. It was brutal, all throughout the killing he prayed to me. My heart wept, I felt what he felt.” A stream of tears fled down the length of either side of her face.

“Oh, quit your crying.” Her cousin spoke, the Drow. “That is the problem with you surface types, too touchy-feely. I hate to agree with the human, and even less so, the lizard, but they have the right mentality; I’d much rather be down on the battlefield waging war with that bitch of a cousin of mine.” He nearly spat the words at his saddened cousin. There was never any good blood between the two.

Valgar
War of Bones

War.

It was all they believed themselves to be prepared for. The inevitable realization that their rocky peace would need to be cast into a perfect union in order to combat those who sought dominion over them. They were the undead and the living sought to command them - to remove them from the pinnacle of their own godhood with false prophets. A number of their own had been converted, went to be mercenaries for the enemy, but those who remained loyal to Aledit saw through the deception. The Apotheoses were not an instrument of war, but instead an instrument of their own destruction. No, Aledit would not let such an atrocious army walk upon his lands, wield a weapon he desired, and destroy the only man he prayed too - despite him not being a god. Those who remained in the Bone City had begun training, and only a month in, did they see the fruit of their labor. They were stronger, fear was ever present in those who sought to pass though the lands.

The Bone City would raise against the Apotheoses - and they promised to bring them to their knees.

Rocoa
The Awakened Chimera

The streets were in an uproar, the prisoners had escaped, some masked demon had penetrated the Cathedral and attacked Sarahix, there was a revolt in the streets, and more importantly, Eclava’s kill had escaped. She wasn’t entirely too saddened by the turn of events, in fact, this provided her with just what she needed to make an example of someone. But of course, that would come later - for now she would watch how Sarahix handled herself in a real battle situation, especially against one as skilled, and obviously demented, as the masked boy before her. She even ordered Fairst away from her - but he too fell in combat, not to death, but to his own foolishness. The radiation had taken its toll on him and now he lay on top of a pile of dead guards, passed out from the poisoning. He would be fine - he always was. That was why she had chosen him, after all, that and his extremely capable skills as a messenger - he made the perfect experiment. Such durability, such personal talent, the mailman had been perfect - and now that he was a nearly unstoppable killing machine, he would play the perfect second to Edan-Es, after his entire ordeal was over.

Johic rolled from the wall, and popped up, slicing another string towards the naga beast that attacked him. “Shit,” he mused, ducking beneath another well-timed, whip-strike. “Whomever trained her, trained a killer.” He breathed to himself as he leapt into the rafters. The steady hiss of the ebast reached his ears, and from behind his mask, he furled his eyebrows. There was no way the beast was going to perish here, nay, the beast would live because he was not yet strong enough to finish her. Thus, his eyes turned to Fairst - he couldn’t believe that the man did what he did, only to go and side with Eclava right after - perhaps he had been a spy all along - perhaps he passed on the information to Ivan and Eclava. Another flicker of his eyes and they were on Eclava, whom sat nonchalantly as the carnage took place around her. She knew something that he did not? Had she known he was there the entire time? Was she that cocky? No, she couldn’t have been - there was no way - he was careful! But no attack would come to her, he was outnumbered and powered - if he attacked, he would be dead.

CRASH!

He fell to the floor and rolled towards the door, just as a powerful tail slammed into the rafter he was situated on. Sarahix was fast and his underestimation of her nealy cost him his life. “Blanket of Webs,” he whispered, as his arms shot outward. A plethora of strings manifested and fell over the place, trapping those whom were still left in there - there. Even if they were meant to be saved.

Only the weak survive.

Fananatu did not stick around to watch the occurrences, instead he rushed back to his work area and set out placing the last of the runes. Doubt was starting to set in on the historian - he still did not have the Manifesto of Runes - the beast would not be subjugated to his power - he was still too weak. But that boy, he recognized him, his movements the runes on his mask; they were said to be located in that book. Could that master of strings have it? What was that man’s name? Jinzaga? He had an island named after him and was said to have relatives that lived to this day. Could that boy be the descendant of that man? One day he would have to find out - but for now, he had to make due with what he had.

“Fananatu, you seem… rushed.” It was his spirit animal, he had manifested and took place upon the center of the rune. “This is definitely not your best work, even with almost a month of extra time to work with. What frightens you so?”

“Nothing, Jadik, now get out of here, I am not in the mood for your patronizing antics.”

“But alas, you know you are. If you do this now, it will be horrendous.”

“Then so it shall be.”

Jadik vanished and Fananatu took his place in the centre of the runes.

“Rocoan Chimera.
Rise from the Black Depths.
Rise from the slumber of 1000 dreams.
On the back of the Winged Beast, come
Back into this world and give your loyalty
To me.

Rocoan Chimera.
Bring back your power
Become my tool
Rise from the locked Depths of the world
Break free from these runes I have placed upon your hallowed ground.”

The runes began to crack and pulse with a faint black hue; that wasn't right - it was supposed to be red, yet Fananatu didn't notice. His eyes had rolled to the back of his head and now pulsed with the same hue. The darkness started to overtake him, covering the rune and the practitioner in a ghastly light. When the veil finally dropped - Fananatu's eyes were a mix between their original hue and the black that had formerly held them. A sinister smirk lay over his lips, the third phase of his plan was about to be unleashed.

Deep within the darkness of a underground cavern - the land shook and a red eye pierced through the darkness.