A savage, toothy grin formed behind Morgan's loose mask as he descended on the blue-clad woman. The fear, the rage - all of it was to be satisfied with one grand blow as the vampire leaped from the building's side, the hunter's body almost flying through the air, time apparently slowing as he began to wind up his staff in a powerful, overhead attack.

Morgan hadn't thought about a possibility though. The possibility of being seen or heard - the hooded mercenary was to be his distraction, the pawn in which Morgan could deliver one and final blow to the light wielding woman that had caused him to cower. Though neither person would see it, the sniffer's face was one of shocked surprise as his target moved her weapon to deflect the aerial attack. For a moment, Morgan saw a glimpse of despair through his veil of red - he was in a terrible position. He was vulnerable and open to practically any sort of attack, thanks to his wrathful actions and hasty decision.

Luckily, it would be the mercenary that would cause her to instantly jump out of harms way, dodging both his and the vampire's attack. Morgan's instincts would take over as he saw the deadly karma whizz over his head, dropping low as soon as he smoothly hit the stoned ground. Swift action would be taken as Morgan heard the hooded man's chained weapon yank backward with rattling clink, instantly vaulting himself into the air with one hand and the aid of his sturdy weapon. His legs spread into a T-shape as he balanced himself almost expertly on the tip of his erect weapon. Before the retracting blade had touched his weapon, the sniffer would pull his sinuous body into a ball before re-positioning himself on to his feet with a transitional flip, both his body and weapon barely avoiding the chained blade's keen edge.

Masked gaze would meet masked gaze, if only for an instant. The vampire's violent actions almost swapped targets, instinct screaming that the blade-for-hire was attempting to attack him. However, Morgan's enraged focus would snap back to the blue jacketed person, who had managed to put a decent distance between both men. Morgan's mouth would twist into a feral snarl as her words reached out over the empty space of the alley:

"Would you say that these are 'desperate circumstances' for me?"

Morgan was about to chase after her, but something suddenly, rudely grabbed his attention. It was all too familiar, in its sour, metallic smell. However, simultaneously, it was (and always would be) a sudden jolt to the vampire. 'Blood.'

His crimson eyes could see it, pooling underneath the ever reddening splotch that had somehow formed on her right side. A normal warrior would have taken it as a sign of growing weakness - a wound that could be exploited in the violent moments to come. But to a vampire, who was already close to an animalistic fury: it would be the last straw.
A vicious, delighted mix of a hiss and a laugh issued out from Morgan's mask as his world became engulfed in red. He had been a vampire for three years, but even so - the smell of blood was too strong to resist. The sniffer took one step slowly, then another in a completely different gear - somewhere in the distance between her and him, his unnatural speed would reach its peak.

Morgan was charging headlong to the iron-smelling source of his sustenance, his staff occasionally spinning and eventually winding up in a true baseball hero's style to deliver a punishing blow from his unchecked strength, the metal studded weapon aiming for the right side of the bleeding woman's rib cage...

"No," Crone said sharply when Jillian made an attempt at answering Salas' question as to their location and the outcome of the Battle of Anaxim. Gerald himself had turned on the rock he was sitting on entirely, facing away from their campfire now so that he could more easily watch the unfolding events that appeared to now center around Crone. "If everyone important had been spared the embrace of death, not a soul in our fair forest would have passed on at the hands of the villainous intruders. Everyone is important, naught is expendable."
Somewhat taken aback by how fiercely this ancient and powerful woman defended a pointless and idealistic philosophy like that, even in this situation, Gerald's eyes narrowed as he struggled to understand the inner workings of this character. She had been rather distant with him when he had visited her in the forest and spoken about little else than his own abilities and how they could use them against the Swallower of Worlds; she had seemed so rational back then that the warlock had assumed she was like him, a person whose focus was always the end objective at any cost, but her words now suggested differently... Really, how could someone this old be so naive? But then, she had taken part in planning how to deal with Hazzergash and the Crusader's Guild, albeit briefly, as she left most of it up to the other guardians. She had known that many of her subjects would die, he was sure of it. Perhaps it was less about idealism and more about hope? To desire something even though one knows it is impossible to achieve? It was possible.
"And to declare the battle decidedly our loss would be to do our achievements injustice," the huddled figure continued, her way of speaking starting to slightly irk Gerald. "As you truthfully noted our enemy failed to obtain what he sought, and furthermore he lost all but a handful of the followers he brought to our forest alongside himself. I would label it a mutual defeat, if an evaluation had to be made in terms of victors and losers."

When the witch inquired about the crone's identity, however, all the old woman did was to shoot what seemed like a weary look at Renold, slowly nodding her head at him once before she lowered her gaze once more and seemed to lose interest in the situation and sort of just stared off into space.
"She calls herself Crone, and not even Anaxim itself knew her by any other name than that, little one," the green dragon began to explain, still lying down but with his head held high on his serpentine neck. "Of us the Guardians of Anaxim she is the oldest and most powerful, even though she is a little one like you, a human. She was our leader, and she wields all schools of magic, from the divine magic of Reina to the sinister witchcraft of black magic." The dragon chuckled to himself, looking at Jillian with eyes that gleamed with humor. "But she is a secretive sort, friend; I've known her for the better part of a millennium, and that's all I've really learned about her in that time. She's old, wise and powerful, even more so than myself."
"There exists no requirement for you to discern my nature more closely than that," Crone said, apparently deciding to rejoin the conversation once the subject of her identity was over with. Quickly muttering something under her breath she suddenly waved with both of her hands, flinging one in the direction of Gerald and letting the other sweep over Jillian's body from toe to top, white light shining from her palms as she did so that - much to Gerald's surprise - immediately banished all symptoms of magical exhaustion from their bodies, healing them both completely. All so nonchalantly and swiftly; the warlock could barely believe how powerful this woman was!
Having done that Crone looked at each of the three non-guardians - Jillian, Salas and Gerald - in turn before speaking again. "What bears greater relevance to all of us is your intentions, you who came from the outside to defend our home. What is your next objective?"

---

The woman watched the curious acrobatic endeavors of her second opponent with calm interest once she had removed herself from immediate danger - presuming that the Fixer did not teleport to her, of course, or aim another ranged attack at her from his perch - trying to estimate the abilities and manner in which this new adversary moved. Analyzing her enemies' skills and powers was almost a necessity for her to stand even the slightest chance against these two; with one being able to teleport effortlessly and attack from range and the other apparently being capable of quite remarkable feats of agility, guarding against the attacks of both could prove impossible.
She did gain one bit of valuable insight simply by observing the others during her moment's respite, though, which came from the way the second, unknown enemy stopped to presumably glare at the Fixer for a brief time after having evaded the deflected weapon. Though this character's face was hidden behind its strange mask its body language betrayed its momentary hostile preposition towards her primary target. It seemed that whatever alliance bound these two together was much looser than she had first assumed, if they could be pushed to the verge of turning against one another by such a small accident as what had occurred between them. At best this could mean that they were really not together at all but just both viewed her as an enemy for some reason, but at worst this was but another clever deception on the Fixer's part to make her lower her guard a little. Maybe they could be made to target each other instead of her? No, that would be unlikely, seeing as they had worked with the common purpose of defeating her thus far; it was more likely that they would fight each other after she had been killed only. At the very least this should mean that they were not accustomed to cooperating, which meant that it was less likely that they performed any coordinated maneuvers. It could still happen, and she needed to beware of such, but the chance of such a thing to result in an inevitable defeat for her was not as great as she had feared.

And indeed it seemed that just an instant later the two reached accordance with one another anew, for as the Fixer spoke menacingly to her in response to her question his staff-wielding comrade turned his fury away from his fellow mask-bearer and rushed at her, automatically taking the higher priority since a threat to her person was inevitably more urgent to pay attention to than the words of another. She tried to listen to the speaker as she prepared to deal with her attacker, but she could not let herself be distracted; she wanted to hear their evaluation of her situation. She needed the evaluation of someone else, as she was not allowed to make that estimation herself.
Those movements are not within human ability, she thought, admittedly surprised by the sheer acceleration demonstrated by this masked character, not to mention the inhuman speeds he achieved at the end of that acceleration. Even though she had only removed herself from her enemies by a couple of dozen feet this man ran towards her at speeds that could probably compete with that of a galloping horse, if not beat it altogether. And the way his staff moved as he swiftly approached her... she could tell just by looking at it that there was a strength behind it that was disproportional to the build of its wielder. He is not only agile and can somehow hide from my magical detection, but also possesses unnatural speed and strength? Were these properties obtained through the Grand Master as well?
There was not much that the woman could do against this man's fierce attack; he was moving too fast for her to be able to properly dodge a weapon with the kind of reach his staff had, and if she estimated the force behind its movements correctly it would easily be able to break her guard if she tried to block it with her sword. If she tried either of those things the best she could hope for was for her to be left open to a follow-up attack and probably finished quickly, although it seemed more likely that she would be fatally wounded by this attack alone. Ordinary fighting with her level of ability would not be enough to handle this attack...
Luckily she was not an ordinary fighter, and although the speed and strength of her opponent's attack was certainly impressive to say the least, its movements did telegraph how and where the blow would eventually land relatively clearly, allowing her to anticipate it. Raising her empty left hand as though to block the attack with the naked palm of her hand, she moved her thumb back up to the side of her index finger, as she had when first engaging the presumed Fixer... and rubbed against it, erasing energy-changed the sigil she had drawn there.

When her enemy's blow landed it was met not by soft flesh and fragile bones, but by a foot-wide circular magical barrier centered on the middle of her palm. Hard and rigid the colorless and translucent shield absorbed the impact of the strike, preventing it from reaching her in the first place, but then immediately shattered like glass and dissipated; she had only stored enough energy in the Protect-seal to take one blow of that caliber, so she had to make sure not to give this man the chance to get in a second. With any luck having a swing that powerful blocked completely would stagger the masked man briefly, although with his strength and speed chances were that he would recover quickly. She had to act even faster... only she realized too late that she would not be allowed to.
Only then did she realize that the pattern of the Fixer's speaking - pausing in mid-sentence for emphasis as he did - suggested that he was about done talking, and the threat in his voice would have reached her even if she had not listened to his words with half an ear, absorbing enough of the other's mutterings to understand his assessment of her circumstances. The Fixer had stressed that her circumstances were not desperate in his eyes, but the reasoning he presented this by was flawed, based on a different view on the situation in general and different principles from the ones she was taught to work by. He had said that her circumstances were not desperate, but he had also emphasized that he considered her defeat - her death, even - a certainty. If victory for her was extremely improbable to the point of impossibility, and defeat practically inevitable, those circumstances seemed within the parameters of how 'desperate circumstances' had been described to her. The Fixer had disapproved of her taking desperate measures into use, but his justification of this was faulty; his continued attempts to intimidate her had provided her with appraisal from another source than herself to justify taking those very same measures into use.
He did not give her a chance of doing so, however; the moment he had finished speaking she sensed the now-familiar burst of energy that marked a teleportation, and it only took some very basic tactical foresight and a quick redirection of her magical senses to confirm that this wily warrior was now behind her. She moved as quickly as she possibly could, her entire body moving in coordination as her left hand dropped away from her crumbling barrier and to her right hip, grasping for the hilt of her second sword there with its demon skull-guard grinning evilly as though in anticipation of finally being unleashed from its scabbard. Her right hand swung to the side, the blade of her runesword held upright in her hand to guard as large a portion of her wounded side against a possible horizontal swing, all while she turned her body to halfway face this new immediate threat against her and moved to what had previously been her left, hoping to evade a possible attack that was not a horizontal swing. Judging by the weapons she had seen the Fixer use thus far it seemed unlikely that he had anything suitable for thrusting, but a vertical or semi-vertical slash was still a possibility. And through it all she muttered arcane words under her breath, forming a verbal-only spell in the midst of combat.
Once again her runesword found the chain of the Fixer's weapon and interfered with its trajectory... but this time she could not fling it aside quickly enough. All catching the chain of the weapon served to do was to make the object at its end strike her chest instead of her throat; it was fortunate that the object attacking her now was not the bladed end of the weapon, or she would have died. As it was she probably broke several ribs, but hopefully she escaped lethal damage.

I need a direction, she thought, drawing her second sword with its bizarre twin blades wrapping around each other in an extremely tight spiral that gave them an integrity that was actually stronger than if they had been only one, without offering sacrificing any significant amount of cutting-capacity. Embedded into the two blades, distributed along the cores of each of them and placed so that the sword remained symmetrical, were a total of twenty-six little oval stones, black with a metallic gleam. The demon skulled sword was brandished in the direction of the staff-wielder, and while her left hand did this, her right hand flicked her wrist to send the chain caught on it and the weight at its end towards the ground and to the side. Words still formed on her lips, incredibly swift and barely audible; casting spells this quickly with only the verbal component was very dangerous, but the situation was desperate. Every direction is obstructed except... up.
She finished the spell while still encircling herself with her dual sweeping blades, and the magic responded to the instructions of her mind immediately. For an instant a faint white aura wrapped around her legs, then rushed downwards and converged below her feet... then a flash of light originated from there, and abruptly the woman was propelled skyward at blinding speeds. The next second she found herself in the air some thirty feet above her enemies' heads, her velocity having died as instantaneously as it had been gained and leaving her about to plummet back where she had come from, into the waiting hands of her opponents.
If she touched the ground again she was dead, at least while both of them were fighting at full capacity; if she hesitated for too long, even if she could stay in the air, the Fixer would teleport to her and kill her, presuming of course that her flinging the weighted end of his weapon away did indeed prevent him from throwing it towards her while staying on the ground. She had hit him with the light-beam earlier, as he had dodged it rather than teleport; his teleportation had limits. If she was quick enough, acted unpredictably enough, she could hit him before he could react. She had no time, she had to act instantly... They were directly below her; releasing the Lightning-seal on her runesword in their direction should hit them both. There was no way they could evade that.
She jerked her runesword downward, even as her two-bladed demon blade was raised high above her head, ready to slash. She began forming the syllables that would unleash a devastating bolt of lightning upon her target and his accomplice...

Pain. Hot, searing pain. Incomprehensible pain. Her chest and back felt heavy. Her entire lower body ceased responding to her will. A wicked metal spike protruded through the front of her coat, at the middle of her chest right beneath the collarbone; a metal spike that penetrated all the way through her torso, measuring a little more than thirty inches from its point along its curved-conical beak-like length to where it connected to its hilt, which was a three-foot long pole of steel.
She could not speak... her hands lost their grip on her swords. In a spray of blood her upper body jerked forward with the force of the weapon that had just punched through her. She did half a somersault on her way down, then hit the ground hard with her shoulders and head first, then falling onto her back, pressing the weapon even further into herself with her own weight.
"Fin'ly she drew it," a male voice called from a nearby rooftop as her vision faded, sounding amused and happy. Her swords clattered to the ground near her; her enemies would be very close. It did not matter. She was defenseless. Defeated. Dead. "Di'n't wanna hav'ta save 'er. Easier this way.
One down, eleven to go."

The quick reactions of the woman had annoyed Ixion greatly. When the man went on with his attack, she instantly reacted with a magical barrier to prevent the staff weapon he utilized to damage the wound that the assassin created. The only thing that had surprised him with that attack was the sheer speed of the man. His scarred face didn't reveal the fact, but that was something he appreciated. The one thing that the man did, however, which he didn't appreciate was stare at him after he dodged his stray weapon. It wasn't his fault that the man decided to attack the woman while being directly below him. It was as if they were afflicted with an animalistic behaviour, ready to switch targets of more danger. While their attention turned back to the woman before commencing that swinging attack, the assassin knew that he would need to keep his eyes on him in the immediate future, especially after this little fray is over. Who knows if this person was one to hold grudges and to act on them once the immediate threat is dealt with.

The woman's quick reaction also annoyed him because she had reacted to his own attack on her. He had to admit, with his own ability and looking at it after the fact, it was a fairly predictable attack, now she had an inkling of an idea on how his modified kama was used. With that attack, if the chain had wrapped around her head or neck, he would have utilized that chain to his advantage to hang her from her neck with an overhead beam. It was only then she would have the full glimpse of him and his eyes as she died. However, this was not the case and he would have to settle with the chain around her sword and a few broken ribs.

Ixion was on the move already, charging towards her with uncanny speed, especially since he wasn't 100% fit to begin with, the speed in part with him tugging the chain with all his might and him going at full sprint. It was during the tug that he had loss the use of his arm for the rest of this battle, his left shoulder slumping down as he ran. Despite this, his right arm was poised, the kama following his forearm as usual. During this brief couple of seconds of trying to reach her, he thought about what he was going to do. As that tug hadn't affected the position of her weapon, attempting to slash her with the weapon would make him vulnerable, especially if she counteracted. Instead, he decided on throwing his entire body at her, the tip of the weapon thrusting towards her. This way, if she decided to counter attack him and dodged the attack, then slashing would be an option to parry and, possibly, injure her further.

During that time of charging, the assassin witnessed the woman draw a second blade. Unlike the sword she was using, beautiful and serene in appearance, this one appeared menacing, the twin blades looking like grey serpents, the stones on the inside giving it a dark tint to the blade. While this weapon was poised at the second person attacking her, this changed the tactic completely. She would be able to react to the attack, block the weapon while attacking with the other, which would presumably kill him. He decided to carry out the attack anyway in hopes that the other person did the same thing.

This was not the case, however. While he didn't initially notice the aura at her legs, he noticed the flash at her feet. He immediately halted the attack and skidded to a stop as the woman launched herself into the air. Then, he took a look at his surroundings, making sure that if she decided to use a magical attack while in that position, he was ready to teleport above her and deal with her in the air. He was probably more suitable to aerial melee and ranged attack than being on the ground, which was why he was effective in damaging her with his kusarigama in the first place. Pointing her runed sword down towards their general direction only verified his assumption. He was ready to teleport, but his at-the-moment ally was still in the firing line. “Look out!” he roared at him, his voice breaking as it done so. The number of times he has spoken, especially at length, was damaging his voice even more. He would have to be more careful in the future, but for now, that little order was enough to get his point across to help them get to safety.

However, the attack never game as a wicked-tipped pick-like weapon drove through the woman's back, cancelling whatever attack she was about to use. The sudden appearance of that weapon shocked Ixion as he was left stunned, looking at his opponent in the air. Thoughts ran through his mind as she was launched in the direction the pick was travelling, her swords slipping from her hands. Who was this person that had finished off this woman? How long was this person watching them fight? His eyes trailed the woman as she hit the ground, puzzled over the numerous questions that ran through his head. Without thinking about it, he walked towards her fallen body, the pick digging further into her as she came to a rest. From the distance, he knew that she was dead. The tip of the pick would have pierced her heart as it stopped initially.

"Fin'ly she drew it. Di'n't wanna hav'ta save 'er. Easier this way. One down, eleven to go."

The voice, clearly a man's, rang out to the area of battle from above. All the while, Ixion carried on looking at the woman. Despite being my enemy, he thought, kneeling down and closing her eyes. You certainly did not deserve to die in such a coward's way. You were certainly a brave soul and have fought valiantly and for that, I will try and make sure that the scum that struck you down will face justice for his cowardice and that your body is returned to the Duke for a proper burial. If there was one thing he was certain of, it was that he would honour his word until it is fulfilled. It was the least he could do for such a worthy opponent. But at that point, he pondered on the last sentence that the man had said. One down, eleven to go? Was she one of the Duke's elite guard and that this person was going after the Duke, taking his guard out first. Even as a person under the Grand Master's contract, he had his own codes to follow, which suited what his needs were. The Duke must be warned, he concluded. He knew that if he did this, then there was no going back for him for his actions to the merchant he killed for a contract within the past couple of days if he was arrested. For now, she would have to wait for the time being as he faced the coward and stall him long enough to keep his image in mind for later and be able to describe the man to the Duke's court.

While kneeling down, he placed his left hand with his right to prop it against her shoulder and rolled her onto her side. Then, with his weapon placed onto the ground, his right hand reached for the base of the pick's tip and tugged, pulling the weapon free from the corpse. While changing the hand which the weapon was in, moving it from his right hand to his left, he picked up his own weapon and teleported to the roof. He was unsure where on the rooftop that the man was. Once he was there, he stood up, stabbing the pick in between the gap of the brickwork and turned around, ready to face the unknown force. “Well done,” he jeered at the man, eyes scanning for them. “I never knew cowards are brave enough to attack someone, despite the fact that you attacked my opponent from behind.”

Salas listened to Jillian’s story until the old woman, who had healed him of his wounds, spoke sharply. He turned his green eyes upon her instead to listen to her tale. She spoke of the residents of the Anaxim Forest with great care and consideration. While she spoke, Salas was lost in his own thoughts as he tried to remember the battle that had brought him to this point. He remembered the wave of heat and then blacking out. He couldn’t remember what exactly happened though. He still had all of his gear, so that was good, and the ancient Anaximite had healed him of all ailments, except for his tongue; that was a wound no one could heal no matter how powerful the magic they possessed.

He was brought out of his thoughts by the rumbling voice of the great green dragon, who was talking about who Crone was, which didn’t really shed any light on her identity. If anything it left more questions unanswered than before. When the dragon was done speaking, Salas looked to Jillian, remembering her question, and stood up. He walked over to her and leaned in close, almost as if he were going to kiss her, but he stopped short of that and merely opened his mouth wide enough for her to see where his tongue should be. After this was done, he turned to Crone and focused his magical energy once more, causing a small gail through the clearing and once again the wind began to speak for Salas.

”I followed the tracks of the ones who attacked the forest and came to Anaxim. Once there, the forest led me to the battlefield. I have no other objective now. I am merely a sword waiting to be pointed.”

Once the wind died down, Salas walked over to the nearest tree and sat against it.

A terrible growl would rip from Morgan's throat as the blue coated woman yet again avoided his onslaught, the magical barrier knocking him back with incredible force. While there would be small satisfaction at the ward breaking under his mighty blow, the vampire's rage would only grow. 'How does she keep blocking me?!' The ricocheted blow did cause the vampire to stagger back a pace, but the sniffer's reflexes acted fast. The vampire did not fight the force that pushed him away, but instead rolled with the repelled energy, using the momentum to take a second chance at landing a bone crunching blow upon his prey.

But yet again, the vampire missed, the agility of his opponent forcing his weapon to swing at empty air. A scream of rage split the air as Morgan took a step back, wary of the second sword that seemed to magically appear in her hand, the sinister, almost demonic blade's tip pointed in his direction. Recklessly, he would bat away the weapon, attempting another swing of his studded weapon, but she was too quick. With this third miss, Morgan cast his weapon aside and went at the woman with his bare hands, the lust of blood overcoming any sense of logic that would have warned him not to do otherwise against an opponent that was obviously skilled in the art of battle. It would be too late for the vampire to notice the light forming at her booted feet and wrapping itself around her legs as he managed to grab the loose "tail" of her coat. However, the sheer force of her upward descent would cause Morgan to fall flat on his face as his gloved hand lost its grip and sent the vampire sprawling into the dust. With another rage-filled scream, the sniffer would claw that the empty air above him as scrabbled to his feet, red-filled eyes never looking away from their target. "I will taste your blood, demonspawn]!" Morgan would gather his staff in hand, already making his way to the alley wall to find his first hand hold, but something broke his fury-filled pursuit, if not for an instant, "Look out!" The warning was hoarse, loud - it grated the vampire's ears. His head would snap to look over his shoulder, the source of the injured throat coming from the sellsword. Morgan sneered )(though the expression would be lost behind his mask) and was about to spit an insult at the hooded man when the audible sound of flesh being punctured filled the air.

A rain of blood spattered down on Morgan as instantly looked upward to see his quarry plummeting down to the alley floor, landing heavily on a spike-like weapon. There would be a brief moment of silence from the vampire, red eyes watching the sellsword inspect the once alive-and-fighting woman at their feet. Morgan had been cheated of his kill, and he knew it. Smoldering eyes were already scanning upward, accusingly glaring at the walls, the crevices, any place that an unwanted fourth party had taken his prey. Suddenly, a voice provided an answer to the angry vampire:

"Fin'ly she drew it," a male voice called from a nearby rooftop as her vision faded, sounding amused and happy. Her swords clattered to the ground near her; her enemies would be very close. It did not matter. She was defenseless. Defeated. Dead. "Di'n't wanna hav'ta save 'er. Easier this way. One down, eleven to go."

"Who do you think you are?!" Morgan would shout to the unknown figure, a gloved hand shaking in the direction of the male voice, the leather clenched in anger, "Taking the life that belonged to my hand?!" Red eyes would be cast upon the fallen woman, and now the sellsword, who had leaned the woman her side, removing the spike as he did. A frustrated hiss issued from Morgan's mouth as he looked skyward once more, his mind becoming more clear that his prey, for better or worse, lay dead at his feet. 'He took my satisfaction, my revenge... son of a tarke..

Morgan began to turn to the sellsword, to ask a question of anger and to take the spike that he had removed, but the hooded man had vanished. All that remained was the cooling corpse of the blue-coated woman. "Well..." the vampire would remark, a dark smile forming behind his mask, "...I did say I would taste your blood, demonspawn." Grabbing the woman by her coat's collar while simultaneously lifting the bottom part of his mask, Morgan could feet his pupils expanding as jaws wrapped around the woman's neck, feasting in full swing.

The blood was warm and oozed in and around the vicelike grip his jaw was providing. A smile behind the bloody opening began to form. The pleasure behind the oozing sensation was one that could never be replaced, the feeling would be soon mixed with skin searing pain at his jaw. The jaw remained stubbornly clamped however, as skin began to peel and burn, the hunger called to him. Or was it more than that? The demand of satisfaction, of demeaning the woman that had made him feel mortal fear, an emotion he hoped he would never have to feel again. 'Curse this woman's soul... Morgan would think bitterly as his closed his eyes in attempts to ignore the evergrowing pain that was quickly absorbing his jaw's flesh. But the vampire would quickly realize no amount of draining of the surprisingly bitter blood and no amount of punishment wrought by the sun's rays would bring him the full satisfaction he had craved when he first attacked. Casting aside the corpse like an unwanted play thing in an annoyed manner, and slowly painfully lowering his mask with his through clenched mouth, Morgan's dilated eyes refocused on to the rooftop's edge that towered above him. 'Perhaps he can provide it... The vampire began to climb, a familiar voice echoed in the narrow space, his words reaching the ascending vampire's, hand climbing over foot:

“Well done,” he jeered at the man, eyes scanning for them. “I never knew cowards are brave enough to attack someone, despite the fact that you attacked my opponent from behind.”

If Morgan positioned himself correctly, the vampire would eventually emerge from the alley, crawling over the roof top's edge, (hopefully) opposite of sellsword and the mysterious male. All senses would be opened wide, attempting to read both men and their energy as the pre-duel banter continued...

'Coward', the teleporting fellow said. What defined a coward? As far as he had understood the word, it referred to a person who lacked courage, and he supposed in that particular interpretation of the word it was an accurate label for him. Although, he also had the impression that others took the word 'coward' to mean someone who easily gave in to fear, who was quick to become afraid and flee, and in this sense the word was as far from a fitting descriptor as it could possibly be. Would a man who was afraid not simply have killed his opponent and then fled, rather than speak out and make not only his presence, but even his location known to those who remained alive? And would a fearful entity not have concealed itself, whereas he faced the spontaneously appearing masked man on the rooftop out in the open, making no attempt at hiding himself, with no cover and no obstacle between himself and the others. Had Blue just turned her head his way she would have seen him, and likely been able to survive his warpick. That would have been bothersome... because then Ixion would have tried to kill her, and he would have had to stop him.
The man who stood on the rooftop did so brashly, 5' 9" tall and of a seemingly normal build, his feet set a short distance from each other on the wooden shingles below, his left leg stretched to the lower part of the slanting surface while his right one was bent at the higher part of the roof, close to the ridge. He wore simple moccasins on his feet, just barely visible past his curiously roomy trousers, the legs of which seemed to become wider and wider the further from the waist they descended until they seemed fitting for extremities at least ten times the size of those actually inside them where they ended at the ankles. They were held up by a leather belt that was tied in a knot at his left hip rather than secured with a buckle, with an empty leather hoop attached to it at the right hip and a scabbard hanging from its left, containing an exotic sword that appeared to be nearly identical to Blue's demon sword. Most of his upper body was clad in a coat just long enough for its lower rim to reach beneath his pelvis, buttoned up from its halfway standing notched collar to just beneath where one would suspect the navel would be, below which it was open and revealed that his midsection was wrapped in what appeared to be strips of cloth. He stood casually, shoulders relaxed and elbows to the sides, with his hands in the pockets of his trousers. All of his clothes, and even the strips of cloth that hid his abdomen, were a uniform very dark red, so dark that they almost appeared black; even the buttons on his coat, curiously matte as they were, was the same color as everything else.
He was facing Ixion, but like the assassin himself this man, too, was masked. His coat had a hood, but this was lowered at the moment and revealed the man's ruffled snow-white hair, shining in bright contrast to the dark colors that otherwise shrouded him. His face was covered by a simple matte black ceramic mask, the only holes in which were for the eyes. Aside from this the uniform black was only broken by a rough upwards-curving line that went nearly from one side of the mask to the other, about at the level where the mouth of a person would be, as though it depicted an unrealistically wide smile... a smile that very much looked like it had been drawn with a finger in now-crusted blood.

"Tha's a mighty strange thin' for an assassin to say, innit?" the man chuckled, amused and apparently unworried. "Ye're either a big ol' hypocrite, mate, or real bad at yer job. 'Sides, be'er I kill 'er than you, eh?"
Chuckling to himself, the man pulled his right hand - clad in a thin glove that was the same color as the rest of his clothes and long enough to prevent even a gap of skin from showing past the hem of his sleeve - and reached for one of his coat-pockets, from which he pulled a small book bound in black leather.
"Would ya wait a minute, eh?" he asked, looking at Ixion through the eye-holes in his mask with very visible and strikingly violet eyes. "I'd like to finish givin' ol' Blue 'er gift... I don't real have an' business with ya." His gaze shifted, moving straight to the vampire at the other side of the alley. "Either of ya."

Morgan's lithe form smoothly pulled itself up and over the edge of the tiled rooftop, just in time to hear the... accented voice make an observation of the red hooded man that stood across the two, three storied buildings. As the vampire dusted his right shoulder, eyes on the imaginary soot that had formed itself on the green cloth, he couldn't help but wonder the same question his newest opponent posed. For an assassin, wouldn't honor be out of the question? After all, it's all just business. Unless it is, or became, something more...personal...' Shuttered eyes turned slightly towards the blade-for-hire, more questions arising. So far, no amount of emotion had truly risen from mercenary. Yes, tempered feelings of anger or maybe even annoyance, but no blatant exposure, no sudden outbursts. 'Cold, stiff, like his steel.' A realization dawned upon the sniffer as his thought process continued, 'Or perhaps, maybe like myself at one point.'

Crimson eyes shifted back towards the blue coated woman's killer, eyelids shutting ever so slightly in a suspicious manner. This man, was odd. His clothing was not in the form of a universal shirt, but as if he was wrapped for burial. But then, it transformed into something socially flexible, something casual, relaxed. Such attire was confusing, sending mixed messages, and causing Morgan to give this masked man a up-down look, taking as much detail as could. Irises locked onto the man's unique blade, 'Similar, but different?' The sniffer thought slowly, attempting to make some connection. However, he couldn't place his finger on it, for another thought came to mind, 'He could just be any assassin. After all, if Ms. Maggot-hatchery was an employee of the Duke, she could have many wanting her blood for something' Morgan would snort gently from his nose, amused by the given nickname. It may be too soon for some for such amusement, but Death had been pleased. Through this, Morgan was pleased. But an emotion of happiness would turn to an unsettled frown as he contemplated further, 'But pleased by some other hand.' Suddenly, the sniffer's thoughts were interrupted by the newest adversary:

""Would ya wait a minute, eh? I'd like to finish givin' ol' Blue 'er gift... I don't real have an' business with ya."

Morgan's grip tightened around his knobbed weapon, his mouth becoming a thin, firm line as the man continued, "Either of ya."

Morgan's eyes slight squint of suspicion began turning to a flash of scorn. If his face had been not clear, a dark cloud would have begun to brew on the otherwise emotionless face. As he observed the nonchalant killer, the roots of hate slowly burrowing themselves into his heart. 'This masked man's mannerisms and speech... It's almost as if he enjoys killing.' Morgan could not help but observe. But then again, why had it taken him so long. Perhaps this man felt an affinity with death, wrapping himself in lines of cloth, like the dead, and painting his 'face' with blood in a gruesome, comical way. Suddenly, Morgan would expertly spin his staff twice with his gloved right hand before planting the butt of the weapon sharply against the stone tiles with crushing *tack!* 'He has no fear.' The vampire thought, the right corner of his mouth would then lift ever so slightly as a spark of grim amusement stirred in his chest, At least, not yet. The sudden action was to attraction attention, demanding the floor for speech and thought. There would be no backing out, and Morgan knew there would be very little chance for surrender.

'He has strong magics' But how couldn't he? This darkly clad man had sent spear length's pick spike through someone, who was obviously skilled both with blade and magic than Morgan could ever be, as if he were merely brushing the dust from his shoulder. Ambush was a key factor, of course, and things may have ended up different if the bandaged man did not have the element of surprise, but Morgan's senses warned the vampire in a most dire manner. 'This assassin - he is no thug, and he more than likely just as powerful as her... if not more so. The vampire's eyes wandered towards the man's weapon once more, and there! Morgan had seen it before but he did not know why it took him this long to make a connection: the demonic looking blade was very similar, if not exactly, the same shape and the same craftsmanship as "Blue's." Their power must be the same. 'It must.... Crimson eyes refocused themselves on their target and looked eye to eye (if such a thing had been possible between two masked faces).

Anger was beginning to well up inside him once more. But one thing was clear as Morgan attempted mentally steady himself, 'I cannot lose control again. She was powerful and I was fortunate that my reckless actions did not kill me. A steady, silent breath issued from his mouth, hand again clenching his weapon with assurance, confidence, 'To be Death's hand, I must be like him - cold, precise - without emotion.'

"But that is where you are mistaken."

Morgan would bound forward, speed increasing dramatically with the three, four steps before leaping over the alley's space. While his speed would be nothing that of what had been displayed towards Blue, it would indeed be a pace that would be breathtaking, particularly in such a small time frame. Once across the gap and landing on the occupied rooftop, the vampire would immediately spring into the air, planting his staff into the tiles with a tremendous crunch. Using the momentum of his unnatural speed, Morgan would springboard himself up into the air with his right hand, rolling into the action with a side flip, left glove balanced on the top of the now erect knobbed weapon.

The vampire's body now fully air bound, he continued his offensive action: Morgan's left hand would swiftly yank the weapon from the rooftop as his body moved forward in a cyclone of flying metal and wood. In a flourishing manner of spiraling destruction, the sniffer would make his move. Somewhere in between the whirling display of acrobatics and impossibly smooth landing, Morgan would be able to use his free hand to swiftly retract and wrap the long, attacking end of the weapon around to the opposite hand, transforming an overhead aerial attack into a sweeping motion. Hopefully (and with a little bit of luck), the staff's blow would at best, break the joint between upper and lower leg, or at worst, would send the smiling mask head over heels to the ground. Either way, if Thrainsson managed to get the enemy on his back, the vampire's weapon would whirl around and above to smash its butt into the man's left shoulder, attempting to brutally smash the blunt end through flesh and bone, in order to wrap a spare hand around the darkly clad man's throat.

All of this would be just as Morgan wanted: cold, calculated, precise. He was to bring souls to his only master. And if all of this was successful, the sniffer would speak to his pinned prey, "You denied me a soul for him, his hand." Morgan's gloved hand clenched tighter as he spat the last part of his sentence through clenched teeth. "Perhaps, it's fate though," A twisted smirk tugged at the right side of his face, words from moments ago trickling from his memory, as he continued to speak, "Better I kill you than her, yes?"

Jillian winced for an instant when Crone so sharply negated her view of the battle's aftermath, just long enough to let a shiver run down her cold back. But was it because of the old woman, or due to her miserable condition? She did not know, but suspecting the former, she got even more annoyed, not wanting to feel threatened by this ancient hag, no matter how powerful she might be.

"Oh, come on! It's a bloody battle, people are going to die," Jillian shot back, sounding dismissive a little aggressive. As if she were in the mood for lectures right now! She would stand by that everyone important had made it, except perhaps Lailonsaire who, barring personal feelings, was still little more than another pawn on the board. Really, who cared if some forest dwellers got caught in the cross fire? They gave their lives protecting what they loved, they knew what they signed up for when they saw what was coming for them. If they truly had been inexpendable, then they would not have died - just how Gerald and herself had made it, or Crone for that matter. But as it stood, somebody had to die so that others could live, and the least important drew the shortest sticks.

Still, that was not all of it! Crone saw fit to continue explaining why Jillian's words were apparently inappropriate, or not doing the situation justice, as if any of it really mattered at this point. She had told what had transpired in concise form, her personal judgment of the outcome should not be relevant to the woman. Still, she at least made a better case for herself this time, Jillian noted, and decided not to dwell upon this any longer than necessary.

"Fine," she stubbornly muttered, shrugging uncaringly. What she wanted was not to discuss the battle or their feelings on the battle, no. She wanted to know more about this Crone, and not even so much about her, but about her power. It was that which drew Jillian in, like a moth to the flame. It seemed she was destined to meet mages of great power, and cursed to appease them to drink from their wisdom. One day, she dreamed. One day she would be the one that others will seek out, desperate to learn her dark secrets.

Only, when pressed for knowledge, the elderly magus entirely distanced herself, not just from Jillian, but reality itself it seemed. She merely elected to delegate the task of speaking to Renold - as if the old dragon was required to be her herald all of a sudden! - and stared at nothing in particular, seemingly lost in thought. With a brief pang of guilt, Jillian had to think of Vincent who also liked to do so, when she wasn't looking; or when he thought she wasn't. She never thought about what might have been going on in his head during those moments. Now was not the time, however, as the grand dragon took over speaking for the elder woman.

Keeps her name secret, sure, why not. Is the... oldest? Older than a dragon? Huh, well that was odd. Human too. Now, Jillian had heard of people living to venerable ages before, certainly, but this sounded downright unnatural. And she wielded all schools of magic? All?! Surely he must be either exagerrating, or not know what he was talking about. A misunderstanding perhaps? This was preposterous! She had shown an aptitude for the arcane, as well as invoking the divine powers of Reina. That was two, and according to the dragon she was at the very least also adept at black magic. If she really was as old as he claimed, then she was willing to not only believe this, but also assume that she must have unlocked the greater mysteries of necromancy to remain alive in the first place, much like Delian Gilmah did for instance, only different, perhaps. That in itself was an impressive array of magical knowledge - to add onto that elemental magic, the art of the warden, and summoning was stupid. She refused to believe that until she would witness it. Not that it mattered (all that much) at the time. If she truly was a witch, then she was very likely to know things that Vincent and she did not, and that meant she had to probe that knowledge from her at any cost. She felt a certain antipathy for Crone, but had to put aside her feelings in favor of the "greater good" for the time being.

Jillian had been listening silently to what the dragon had to say, perhaps cocking her head questioningly at times or raising an eyebrow, little more. She was about to thank Renold for his exposition, but Crone saw fit to rejoin the conversation and cut any reply short with the statement that there was no need for Jillain to know more about Crone's persona. For some reason, the little witch picked this up as borderline threatening, but put it off as misinterpretation. Besides, she was right - there was no need for her to know anything about the old hag's background. She had no interest in it, only her power.

"True," Jillian affirmed neutrally, originally intending to speak her mind but ceasing to do so when she saw the old woman go about using her magic again for... whatever it was she was planning to do. The Zerulic instinctively withdrew and pulled a corner of her blanket over her mouth, as if trying to shield herself in a futile attempt. Fortunately for her, she was not beset by forces of destruction, but a more benevolent kind of energy that replenished not only her magical reserves, as she positiviely noted, but also appeared to cure her of her drowsiness and feeling of discomfort that typically precedes sickness. Jillian's heart was torn: naturally, she was inclined to feel happy, and she did, but a part of her began loathing the woman for being so powerful. It wasn't right, and it wasn't fair! This part of her wanted to go back to the little girl she had been ten, fifteen years ago, to yell at this hag until she gave up her prize, or until someone's parents came and made it right for her. It seemed so pointless to go on doing what she had been doing so far, when people like this existed. She struggled to keep certain spells under control, and two or three of them were enough to almost render her unconscious. Crone, on the other hand, conjured what were almost miracles seemingly at will without batting an eyelash. She would never measure up to this in her lifetime, unless she too discovered the old woman's secret by some event of chance. Was there a chance, then? The witch's poison green eyes curiously stared at the elder as this one began to ask about the future plans of hers, Gerald and Salas. The latter, meanwhile, had risen to his feet, all but cured of the wounds he bore mere moments ago. The first thing he elected to do was to approach the others, heading for Jillian specifically. Her gaze betrayed mistrust and caution, and when he got dangerously close, she also took slow steps backwards, hoping he would stop in his tracks. Alas, he did not, and when he leaned in on her, she pressed her right hand against his chest to keep him at bay, her visage now visibly disgusted and aggravated. Salas made it a point to show and not tell her about his condition, and when she peered into his tongueless maw, she violently shoved him away from herself before exclamating a nausteated "Gross!".

Having put some distance between herself and Salas, she quietly glared at him while he returned his attention to Crone, deciding to be the first to answer her question with that unique voice of his that danced like sylphs on the evening wind. If what he said was true, then he had no stake in any of this, which Jillian found fitting in a way, as she could also not recall him having any sort of impact on the battle either. Indeed, he was just another pawn, she thought, one of those that Crone deemed so 'indispensable'. Jillian could not see why the old woman thought as she did; such views were more common amongst the naive city population, those that had been spared the horrors of war, and who lived in blissful ignorance of the harsh sacrifices that had to be made in order to achieve anything in this world. Mere weeks ago, she too might have been like that, but she learned quickly. Crone, strangely, seemed to hold onto her unworldly views in spite of what were allegedly centuries of experience. Surely she must have understood by now that if not even she, with all of her wisdom and power, could not save them, then there were no miracles to be had? Such was the domain of Spirits, gods and demons, unfortunately.

After explaining himself to the elderly forest guardian, Salas took shelter by a nearby tree, sitting down against it. Was his condition not healed as well as it appeared to be? Or was it just some leftover fatigue? Either way, Jillian appreciated the fact that he was at a reasonable distance once more and, feeling emboldened by that fact, she took the initiative next to answer.

"I'll be honest, Crone," Jillian began, emphasizing the word 'Crone' in particular, much like she dwelled on the name 'Glass', "I'm not here because I am some type of idealist. Don't get me wrong, I understand the threat that Hazzergash poses, and I'm as much against him as anyone here, but my interest is in learning magic. Originally I sought Gerald's necromancy, but, well... I am even more interested in learning what you know about black magic. We're amongst ourselves here, no reason to be hush-hush about all these oh so forbidden schools, yes?"

As she spoke, the witch stepped forward again until in arm's reach of Anaxim's eldest, speaking and walking with confidence. When faced with the hunched-over lady, Jillian was surprised to not be the shortest person in the gathering, for a change, even if they might have been somewhat similar if Crone were standing upright.

Unbelievable, Gerald thought to himself as he heard the two other outsider volunteers for the defense of the Anaxim Forest state their current goals, trying to decide whether he wanted to laugh or cry. Jillian really does only want magic for magic's sake, and the other one, Salas... he doesn't even have that much. Does he have no mind of his own? Hopefully he can at least follow orders, or he might prove completely useless.
Externally he showed little of his disdain for his companions' cluelessness beyond donning a small frown and rolling his eyes at each of their replies. Crone did not seem all that appalled at their lack of purpose though, merely listening to each of them in silence, although she did raise a wrinkly eyebrow at the end of Jillian's statement.
"I do not even know your name, yet you see fit to beseech my mastery of forbidden magic?" she remarked, sounding half amused and half surprised. She shook her head with a smile. "You must truly yearn magic if you are willing to go so far. I am willing to share with you some of my knowledge as you ask, but I will only teach you about black magic itself; you will obtain no new spells from me, for knowledge of those is better left unspoken until it dies with me. I will show you the path of mastery to walk yourself, but no more."

Having dealt with that bit of business Crone turned to Gerald, her ancient eyes betraying an infuriating pity for him.
"And you, Gerald the Thrice Named?" she asked, addressing him by a weird title that he did not even know how to interpret himself, one which he was pretty sure he had never been known by. Thrice Named? Does she mean how I originally had no last name, then was Remdal and now am Glass? "I know that you require an imminent end to the Withering, and if you insist that this is still your primary purpose we will keep our promise and share with you the location of one who has delved further into the darkness within souls than anyone, and who may very well have possess the clues as to cure the soul disease of which you have revealed so much to us..."
"I expect no less," the necromancer snapped, growing increasingly impatient with Crone and this entire business. "Then tell me and I'll be on my way. The Withering has to be stopped." He pulled the chain over his head and off his neck, holding it for the age-old woman to take. "At any cost."
"I beg you to reconsider," she said, actually sounding genuinely desperate. She did not take the Demon Prison from him, but let it dangle from his hand, emitting its ominous glow. "I understand your haste, but upon purging the plague from yourself the power of soul-stealing will almost certainly be lost. Hazzergash is vulnerable now more than ever, but even if he restored himself to the peak of his strength, sealing him back in his prison is much more likely to succeed with the aid of your unique ability."
Gerald sneered, but did not immediately respond to Crone's request. Crone, being as old and knowledgeable as she was, must have realized how much she was asking of him... he had explained his discoveries concerning the Withering to her, after all, and told her of just what dying to it entailed for its victims. Never mind the fact that he was quite likely to die a horrible and violent death at the hands of Hazzergash or his minions if he went along and helped trying to reseal the demon lord, but it would take valuable time to do so... time he was unsure just how much of which he had. He had used the Withering to move energy between entities far too many times today, and although the external symptoms actually seemed to have receded a little, he could feel it pull on the remainder of his soul even more ravenously than before. He had to end the Withering before it ended him, or everything would have been for naught... none of his goals would ever come to fruition. He had to focus on the bigger picture, and the Withering was ultimately a greater threat than even a rampant demon lord... was it not?

Then, for reasons he did not even completely understand himself, Gerald turned to Jillian. "What do you think?" he asked, surprising himself by sounding very tired just then, and somehow much older than he actually was. "Should I go?"

Perhaps fortunately for Gerald, his dismissive expression escaped Jillian's otherwise watchful gaze; surely, she would have begrudged him for it. As for Crone, she seemed mildly amused by the witch's plans and request. Yes, why wouldn't she be? In hindsight, it was quite brash of her to outright ask to be taught, having known the old woman for less than a matter of minutes. She was getting ahead of herself, but who could blame her? This Crone was, without a shadow of a doubt, the most powerful creature she had ever met. Perhaps even the most powerful creature in Rodoria? No, sad as it was, probably not even.

"I do not even know your name, yet you see fit to beseech my mastery of forbidden magic?" the ancient woman noted with a hint of both humor and surprise. She was right, and Jillian immediately felt regret and, in turn, mildly surprised by the fact that she had forgotten to introduce herself. Normally she would never have, but the situation had been anything but ordinary. Still, it was no way to behave for someone who insisted so strongly that others part with their own names.

Before Jillian could muster an apology and share her name, Crone continued, offering to indeed teach Jillian something - although not quite what she had imagined. Truth was, Jillian did not know what to imagine at all when the old woman spoke. Being taught about black magic itself? The path to mastery to walk by oneself? She would happily pick up on the offer, as the subject was intriguing in its own right, but the prospect of not learning any new spells was disappointing, to say the least. Still, perhaps when the time had come, she could tickle out this or that spell from the old woman, if she played her card right. That had to wait until then.

"You're right, I do yearn for magic. It's all I have left, I guess," Jillian replied, her voice betraying a tinge of disappointment, "Whatever it is you are willing to teach, I am willing to learn it. Thank you for sharing as much, at least. And lest I forget: My name is Jillian Veldaine, and I hail from Zerul," she did a short, courteous bow. "Or I once did. I'm sorry I forgot to introduce myself; I got ahead of myself."

After having dealt with both Jillian and Salas, the ancient woman turned to face the third in their midst, one who had yet to speak a single word: Gerald. Jillian, too, now turned to face him, her eyes narrowing slightly at the sight of him. Merely looking at him was enough to make her feel upset again, and it was as if she was merely waiting for him to make a mistake at this point so that she would have an excuse to lunge at him.

"And you, Gerald the Thrice Named?" Crone asked him nonchalantly. Thrice Named? Well, well, now. That little remark was almost a princely feast for Jillian with how much potential information it contained on the dark necromancer. Could it imply that Glass was not his real name? Or Gerald? Maybe both. It might even imply that whichever name he had before that was a fake as well. Why would he have to change his name so many times? Granted, he was a necromancer from Zerul, she understands the need to mask his identity in the city while still living there. She herself was quite lucky to have gotten away for as long as she did. Either way, she was sure to remember this, and ask him about it later. Yes, this knowledge would play out in her favor sooner or later. A small part of her wondered if Crone had said that in order to provide Jillian with a clue, or if she really meant it as an innocent title for someone she knew well.

"I expect no less," Gerald shot back at Crone, who offered to reward him with the location of someone who was learned on the subject of the Withering. How boundlessly rude of him! This time it was Jillian's turn to frown at him, her viridian eyes almost burning holes through the necromancer's face. Had he not pulled out the demon prison, they might have, but as soon as the red crystal tainted fresh air with its hellish glow, her gaze was drawn to it. It was natural to look at it, but for Jillian, it was almost an uncomfortable compulsion to stare at it, as if the demon lord himself commanded her to. The sight of it brought back shadows of memory, glimpses at the towering monstrosity from her fever dreams, as well as the unfortunate incident with Brand. And last but not least, the sight of Kevalorn, his mortal vessel. Jillian shivered for a moment, enough to tear her eyes from the crystal.

Crone refused to take it back. On the contrary, she seemed almost desperate for him to keep it, urging him to reconsider his quest. She had a point: if Gerald indeed succeeded in curing himself of the Withering, he would lose his ability to transfer souls and their energy between receptacles, an ability that had already proven to be massively useful. Not only could it be used to replenish a caster's reserves almost instantly, albeit at the cost of somebody's life, but as Crone pointed out, could also be used to seal the demon lord into his prison. There likely was nobody else in Rodoria who could do it this well. Of course, on the other hand, she could clearly understand Gerald's hesitation. He was dying, quickly. Every day that he lived was a blessing, and he had all reasons in the world to make haste and get rid of his disease before it was too late. Crone was asking of him to become a martyr, in a way. Jillian did not envy his position. Little did she know that he would put her in his shoes just then.

In a move that she would never have anticipated, he turned to her for help. "What do you think?" he asked her, almost beseeching her to make a choice for him. "Should I go?" He sounded oddly exhausted and worn, much more so than earlier. This nature was so very familiar to her, she could almost see Vincent in front of her when he spoke with a voice that sounded as if he had not slept in weeks, and were decades older than he was. Jillian wanted to be wicked towards him, but seeing her deceased lover in the necromancer, and feeling pity for his situation, she could not bring it over herself to coat her tongue with poison.

"I... I don't know, Gerald. I'd like to think that, if I were you, I'd do the selfless thing and take the fight to Hazzergash. But I might not. I might have done the selfish thing and save myself, and if your cure works for everyone, you would save a lot more than your own hide."

Jillian appeared evidently uncomfortable and uncertain of herself up to this point, feeling the weight of Gerald's decision on her shoulders. She stared at the ground for a while, in silence, before lifting her gaze again with renewed spirits.

"Wait, I have an idea, if you'd like," she exclaimed, clearly more lively than before, "We are fast, are we not? We have a dragon's speed. We even have teleportation! Can't we do both? I obviously don't know what the cure entails, but we could seek out this person and hopefully learn enough to devise an antidote to the Withering. We could prepare it, and with it in tow, we could then seek out Hazzergash. If we're quick enough, we can seal him before the Withering destroys you, and you can use the cure immediately after - or at any other point it threatens to consume you. It's better to be safe than sorry, and I'm sure there are alternatives to defeating the demon. He was first sealed before the Withering ever existed.

...How about that?"

"It's all I have left, I guess," Jillian said, a small sentence that managed to elicit a small response from Gerald in the form of a slight start and a tightening of his lips. There was no denying that the words had an impact on him, though the feelings they provoked were somewhat mixed. On one hand he could probably relate to her some of the way; he, too, had been exiled from Zerul after all, having been discovered as a practitioner of a forbidden art and nearly killed by his own stepfather, losing the career and life he had built there. Not that there was much of a life left, as even before this he had lost his wife and unborn child... indeed, there was a time when magic was all he had left as well. He recalled the feeling of futility from then, of soul-crushing depression and desperation; magic had been his refuge, the one thing that remained precious to him, and thus he committed himself to it with all of his heart. It was only later his desperation rooted itself more deeply in him and turned to resolve, leading to him contacting the Black Tribunal and learning the art of necromancy that would eventually lead to his second loss of everything except magic.
But that was the thing; while he could relate to the feeling of having lost everything but magic, he also knew that he had moved past that, and that Jillian could as well. Magic on its own was nothing, it required a purpose to function optimally and finding a goal for which to use magic was an effective means of fueling its mastery much more effectively than sheer dedication to the arts. He pitied her, but he also felt disdain over her weakness for resigning to her fate and accepting her situation. Yes, he had been broken once as well, but he had rediscovered his purpose; she could too. She had to... or magic itself would inevitably consume her.
The rest of what she told Crone was mostly uninteresting formalities, though the warlock could not help but to feel amused at the witch's apparent regret over having not introduced herself to Crone or Renold... or Salas, for that matter, he realized. He did not recall introducing himself to the latter, either, but that could wait. What was ironic about this particular situation was the fact that Jillian seemed to think that she owed the ancient human an introduction despite the fact that Crone had not introduced herself either; Renold had done that for her, and then only by an alias. Of course Jillian was the one of the two in a disfavorable position, being the one to request something of the other, but there was little doubt that Crone was only offering the lessons she was because she wanted something from Jillian, too, namely the extra manpower to make success in capturing Hazzergash more likely. It was almost like being back at the noble court in Zerul, having to navigate that accursed maze of intricacies, formalities and intrigues, trying to find the exact right nuance to paint one's words as to not insult the other but not put the one in a favorable position over oneself either. Gerald had hated that; there was a similar dynamic among the instructors at the academy, but nowhere near as bad as at the noble court he had become involved in because of his stepfather.

He noticed the reaction of his fellow exile when he said that he expected Crone and Renold to help him, but he did not pay too much attention to it simply because Jillian did not know the whole story. His helping in the defense of the Anaxim Forest in the first place was mainly due to them promising to share this information afterward, and he had fulfilled his part of their deal even if the outcome of the battle had not been entirely in their favor. He expected to be given this information because it was what he had been promised, and to express anything less than absolute confidence in his right to it would place him beneath the two guardians, in a position where the terms for his receiving this information could be renegotiated. Had he reacted differently, and had Crone been insidious enough, they could have used a simple turn of phrase like that to hold the information hostage and force him to go after Hazzergash with them.
Kreshtaat take the Zerulic noble court and all the trickery that was necessary to survive in it... but at least he had learned a few things that could potentially be useful. It did not matter if he came off as rude as long as it achieved results.

Finally when the time came for Jillian to give her opinion on the subject the necromancer could not help but to crack a small sarcastic smile at her first words. Do the selfless thing and go after Hazzergash? The demonic Lord of Fire could not obtain his full strength without the Demon Prison that was in their possession, on top of which he was likely weakened even further now upon straining his host's tolerance for immortal energy too far. How dangerous was he really at the moment? He had the Crusader's Guild, certainly, but their forces had probably been nearly halved after the battle in Anaxim, and the ducal armies far outnumbered the cultist soldiers of the Guild. How many lives could they take without making themselves a target to the dukes? A hundred a week? Two hundred? The Withering claimed that many every several hours and would continue to do so until it was stopped. He could see how stopping a demon lord might seem the more urgent of the quests to complete, especially since they only had a small window of opportunity before Hazzergash returned to Cave Bear's Keep and gained the protection of another two thousand men, but in the greater scheme of things ending the Withering was a matter of legendary importance. The selfish thing? Yes, he would save himself, but he would also save untold millions of others.
The rest of what the witch had to say did, surprisingly, make a lot more sense than he would have expected from her. Naturally he never intended to simply let Hazzergash be, even if he went in search of the cure, but her suggestion did seem to be about the best compromise they could hope to achieve. He had not counted on the guardians actively helping him in his search beyond simply telling him where to go, but chances were that putting things like this would actually force them to help and ultimately make the search all the faster.
"So," he said, offering Jillian a pleased smile and a nod, "how about it, Guardians of Anaxim? If you can help me..." He stopped, looked back at Jillian with a look of surprise as he actually comprehended one little detail of what she had said, then looked back to Crone. "...us find a way to end the Withering, I am willing to help resealing Hazzergash before actually doing so."
Renold and Crone looked at each other, concerned expressions on their faces. "The expert I speak of is an acquaintance of mine that lives deep within Jevog Denûm," the Green revealed after a moment. "I can't teleport..."
"And I have never been there," Crone continued regretfully. "So I cannot teleport to such a destination either. At most you could ride on Elder Renold's back, which would shorten the journey to about a day or so, but faster than that it cannot be done. Presuming that Hazzergash does not obtain other means of traveling for himself and his surviving underlings than by foot, it should take them approximately two days to reach the Etlonian border and an additional two before they can seek shelter in the depths of Cave Bear's Keep. We are willing to help, but you need to be back before then, lest another legion of soldiers stand between us and our quarry. The longer it takes, the greater difficulty our task will entail, and the more likely it will be that Hazzergash has found a way to protect himself."
"I'm fine with that," Gerald shrugged, realizing that getting all the way to the inner Jevog Denûm would probably have taken weeks on foot. "As soon as we have a cure, we will return to stop Hazzergash."
He turned to Jillian and Salas. "Presuming that everyone is willing, of course."

Salas sat under the tree, and he listened and waited; that was all he could really do in the current situation he found himself in. The old one questioned the warlock of his intentions just like she did the witch and himself. The warlock, however, seemed to be at a loss, as he turned to the witch for advice, something that seemed out of character for him judging by the witch’s reaction. The choices laid out before him seemed to be go after this demon lord or to heal himself of the Withering. Salas continued to sit and listen, thinking and pondering all the while. He had said that he was merely a sword to be pointed in a direction, and the more he thought about his statement the more true it seemed, as he did not know what he wanted out of this life. He really was just waiting to be pointed in a direction and set down a path by someone other than himself.

He noticed the small courtly habits of the witch, and this intrigued Salas as he too used to be involved in courtly doings of nobles growing up; idly, he wondered how the witch came to be here from the courts of the nobles. He made a note to ask her this, but intended to keep his history with the courts a safe guarded secret; it had taken him long enough, but he had finally rid himself of the small courtly habits he had been taught growing up in that world. His new companions intrigued him very much indeed; the ancient witch who called herself Crone most of all, though she seemed to marvel all those present except for the great green dragon. And in that moment, Salsa decided he was going to accompany the warlock on his journey to find a cure and stop the demon lord, in exchange for the knowledge of wind magic. He knew enough to whip up a wind to speak for him, but he sought to use the wind itself as more than just a voice; he sought to use it as a weapon as well. He stood at the warlock’s question and stepped forward to stand amongst the group. He summoned a wind forth to speak for him once more.

“I will go with you on your journey if you teach me to use the wind as more than just a voice. In exchange for your knowledge, I will supply my own knowledge of the use of a sword.”

The wind died down once more as Salas broke his concentration. He waited for an answer from the warlock, having chose to address him over Crone because he was likely to get the same reply from her as the witch had, and he needed to learn spells, not just the concepts behind the magic. He thought of the endless uses the knowledge he sought could have; he would be able to sue the wind itself as a weapon. He could strike his foes down with the invisible hands of the breeze and gales. He would more than just a wind-speaker, he would become a lethal wind.

The assassin remained motionless, his slate-grey eyes glaring at the man that stood on the other roof top. The first thing he had noticed was that the man was taller than he was, though the distance would make the difference difficult to deduct. Instead of the size, which wasn't going to be a big factor should these two figures fight as he often came across individuals who are larger, he concentrated on the details of the man's apparel. The first thing that he noticed was that the man was covered completely from head to toe, bar a partition that revealed that the man had snow-white hair on his head. He deducted that the man had a similar role in society; an assassin who would fight on the other side of the law for another person's gain. The only thing that he didn't know was who that other person was. The there were two things that gave clues as to who this man worked for, if he was indeed an assassin. The first group would be related to the colour of the uniform, which was a shade of dark red that was almost black in colour. Could he be a person working for one of the other deities? If that was the case, then perhaps provoking a confrontation would be beneficial, especially if Ixion was the victor. The other clue; the convenient timing that this man appeared and killed Blue during the battle that happened before. She was most likely able to have found him with the presence of the Grand Master in him, so wards. Whether the man had killed her in order to save someone under the Infernal Lord's contract was another possibility. Is is also a servant?

"Tha's a mighty strange thin' for an assassin to say, innit? Ye're either a big ol' hypocrite, mate, or real bad at yer job. 'Sides, be'er I kill 'er than you, eh?"

The man's words didn't faze Ixion one bit. It was something he had a knack for while he was on the streets as taunts were a common thing for those useless thugs to use. The one thing that he had noticed during the man's conversations in the corner of his left eye was what the other man, his temporary ally, had done with Blue's body. He had reached the woman's body, placing his head in the area where her neck was. It was when the man's head had made contact with her bare flesh did a lot of the pieces of this man's puzzles fall. He is a vampire, he thought, his head and eyes didn't move one bit. That explains why he was unusually quick and spoke the way he did. As the man left the woman's body and climbed up to their level, the assassin made a mental note to especially keep an eye on him should they remain companions in the future. Nothing would ruin his day or night than having sickle-sharp fangs pierce his neck. But that note will have to be dealt with at another time. For now, this newcomer was his first and foremost item on his agenda. And he still has to respond to the retort. “At this moment of time, I'm just another sword-for-hire. Besides, there is only one difference between you and me: I don't leave witnesses. As for if it was better, she would have suffered a fate worse than death if she was killed at my hand.” He became more cryptic when he spoke the last sentence. After all, it was related to how he obtained his teleportation in the first place. Once he had finished and the vampire had reached their level, the man spoke again.

"Would ya wait a minute, eh? I'd like to finish givin' ol' Blue 'er gift... I don't real have an' business with ya. Either of ya."

During that little speech, Ixion noticed that the man pulled something from inside one of his coat pockets: a small, black leather-bound book. It was then when he noticed a sword on his hip. The sheathed blade looked very similar to the second sword that Blue had pulled during their confrontation. While he did not see the weapon that both she and this man had, he had deducted that it was more powerful than the blade the he had seen from the Duke's servant. The assassin was certainly curious as to what was inside this book and had been tempted to try and obtain it. But even then, he didn't know if there were any 'hexes', if things that that exists, on them to prevent anyone else from using the book. He first must observe this man use the...

"But that is where you are mistaken."

Ixion's trail of thought on what was going to happen was lost as the vampire spoke, breaking the silence that hung in the air like old cloth on a line. Before the assassin could think or say anything, the man was already in motion, leaping into the air to the rooftop that the newcomer was on and begun to grapple with them. While he did admire the vampire's speed, Ixion certainly did not appreciate his rashness and, in his opinion, stupidity. None of them had seen this man fight, so how would he know if that sort of thing was something this person enjoyed the most. No, he certainly had to do something about that, especially as he spoke. "You denied me a soul for him, his hand. Perhaps, it's fate though. Better I kill you than her, yes?"

Ixion had to act now, especially if he wanted to see what importance that book had and, more importantly, to save this fool. Not wanting to launch a full-bodied attack against the vampire, without facing that bloodlust's speed, he decided another tactic. At that point, he decided on his chosen method, muttering a chant he used before.“Kalreth dreth haav rwethw pleed menrirl idrith cabr saadrai." The illusion spell was instantly sent to the vampire. If it was successful, the vampire would see a shadow apparition that was exact in his shape, size and detail, launching a kick to his head, forcing the vampire to avoid the attack. Out of breath, the assassin decided to move, getting himself into a defensive pose in case the vampire attacked, his kusarigama in hand. “You idiot!” he roared, his piercing eyes now focused on the vampire in anger. “This very moment in time is not the time for those stupid actions. Besides, you inserted yourself in my fight. You didn't deserve the right to kill her.” His slate-grey eyes then focused onto the man's violet eyes. “And neither did you. You do what you need to do, but you made it my business when you got yourself involved.”

Morgan's plan of attack was to be flawless. It was sudden, alarming, acrobatic - everything needed for to turn this black humored assassin on his head and gain the upper hand. But when Ixion's illusion flew at the vampire, practically appearing from no where, Thrainsson's attack was altered with alarming speed. Just as the vampire's flipping form pulled his legs over his head, peripheral vision warned Morgan of the dark form's foot, causing the sniffer's eyes to widen under his mask and forcing Morgan to go on the defensive.

The staff that had been whirling over head was brought down, as if the vampire were trying to make his weapon a flagstaff, his fully covered body brought to a smashing kneel as the butt of the knobbed wood planting itself firmly at an arm's length in front of Morgan. The red bandaged man would not be in danger of the initial blow, for the moment, for Morgan's speedy assault had abruptly ended, the vampire rising up speedily into a defensive stance, staff brought before Morgan's face, his empty hand spread before him as his legs bounced into a crouching position. The robed sniffer had placed himself at an angle, so that his crimson eyes may watch both assassin and mercenary, though his shuttered eyes were focused on the red hooded man and his stinging words:

"You idiot! This very moment in time is not the time for those stupid actions. Besides, you inserted yourself in my fight. You didn't deserve the right to kill her."

Morgan's blank face began to turn into a deep frown as the blade-for-hire turned his attention to Morgan's intended victim, continuing his words, "And neither did you. You do what you need to do, but you made it my business when you got yourself involved.”

"Your fight?" Morgan monotone voice called out to the red hooded man, possibly interrupting the red clad assassin, "Your fight became my fight the moment her magic blinded me." A gloved hand pointed accusingly at Ixion, the vampire's voice now grating behind clenched teeth, the pitch of his lashing words dropping an octave, "I have every right as you to claim her--" Crimson eyes gleamed from behind his mask's concealing shuttered eyes as Morgan's attention refocused on his original target, "--and him as my kill," Morgan's finished his retort with venom, gaze redirected back at Ixion, "filthy demonspawn."

Morgan's gloved hand tightened around his staff as he prepared to whirl around onto the red assassin, but something tugged on his mind. Yes, this man stole Blue's soul from his delivering hands, but why go to the trouble of burial rights? At least, this is what the vampire could only assume from such a small book. Unless it was something else… Maybe this sellsword was correct in his logic - ask questions now, spill the assassin's blood later? Attentions again redirected at the bloody, smiling mask, Morgan looked at him, and then his book. What secrets lay on its pages? Yes, burial rights was indeed an option, but what if it were a spell of destruction or something else that bid ill for the vampire? 'Is it a risk worth taking?'

Tension was rising, a decision was to be made. But the brief pause between talk and violence was enough for anything to happen...

Oooo, so scary! the murderer thought to himself, smiling amusedly behind his even wider-smiling mask. This Ixion was a lot more talkative than he had expected him to be, though; as far as he knew the fellow had hurt his throat or something, so it hurt him to speak. Should he be flattered, then, that this usually taciturn assassin - or, apparently, 'sword-for-hire' as he had just reclassified himself - pushed through and said as much as he did now? Although... he had said quite a bit to Blue, too, and her performance had been somewhat underwhelming. Like, really? Come on. It was just two-on-one; even if one could teleport effortlessly and the other possessed superhuman speed and strength, and even if Blue was one of the less combat-oriented tools, the fact that she let herself get wounded and driven to the point of desperation was disgraceful.
And then the oblivious bastard went on to hint at something bad that would have happened if he had been the one to kill Blue... Hey now, I don't appreciate you making Blue look even worse by saying stupid things like that. That one annoyed him a little; obviously his own statement about it being better that he killed her than Ixion should have revealed that he already knew what would happen if in that event. He knew all about Ixion Echtalion, from his beheaded fisherman of a father to the dirty little deal he had made with the Ancient One. Not only was he making Blue look bad by seeming too dull to catch such a clear confession, it also completely ruined the awe it was supposed to have inspired. He loved seeing people's reactions when he did things like that; that moment when they finally came to realize that there was more to him than met the eye, that he had been studying them from the shadows, that they stood before an opponent more terrifying than they had ever faced before. It was a rare pleasure, too, considering how infrequently he actually met other people face to face... and even when he did, they almost never survived long enough for him to have any fun with it.
Because that was where the good Ixion was mistaken: he did not leave witnesses... normally, that was. Some people he let go, which was how word of him had started circulating among those invested in that kind of business. Only people meeting one of two certain criteria were allowed to survive laying eyes on him, though: either they seemed like they could be fun given time, or the boss said to let them live.

And then the other one spoke... yes, the other one. Said some nonsense about him being wrong and that he was going to kill him, and leaped across the alley and initiated an attack aimed at him. The violet-eyed man did not react outwardly to this at all beyond his eyes betraying a certain degree of annoyance and impatience; his left hand remained in his pocket and his right held his book calmly in front of him. He did not even change his stance in the slightest; he just stood there in what one might interpret as incredulous awe, but was really just a result of indifference. Who was this other one, though? He had not made a bargain with the Ancient One, that much was clear... yet he exhibited superhuman speed and strength. A Warden, perhaps? No... ah-ha, now he saw why Blue had had so much trouble with that one; focusing his magical senses, which were admittedly nowhere as sharply honed as Blue's, he realized that this man did not give off an aura at all. How come? A Warden would be unable to conceal its own soul like that. Speed, strength and no aura... a Harvester? Now that was a prospect that would have gotten him excited, had it actually been likely and not immediately dismissible as it was; the man had showed plenty of emotion, after all, and had neglected to massacre Ixion, which was not what a Harvester would have done. What then, what then... curious how he had covered himself up so completely. Would hide... tattoos. Sniffers did not give off auras, but they did not possess the other powers this one had demonstrated either. Hmm... upon thinking back, he had moved a lot differently when he had attacked Blue than he did now, despite apparently being angrier now. He had been faster then, and more direct, telegraphing his attack clearly in advance and not employing any of those flamboyant acrobatics he was displaying now. Almost as though he had been enraged, somehow... or frenzied. Ixion had wounded Blue immediately before all of this, he recalled; could this other one be a vampire? Clothes that blotted out sunlight, speed and strength, frenzies upon seeing blood; seemed likely. Ha. A Sniffer vampire... that was a new one. Really reaffirmed his decision not to kill him before he could react to Blue dying.
He had still not moved beyond his eyes unconcernedly following the Sniffer's movements, and the other had not yet reached him. Even people who he deemed worthy of fighting rarely came to realize why he had achieved the position he had, why the boss valued him so, and the most important reason that he was one of the most dangerous single men in Reniam; he was a man of many strengths, but none could really rival the sheer scope of the processing power of his mind. Nothing was faster than his thoughts. No one could outsmart him. And in the end, no one could really entertain him beyond the satisfaction of killing them.

Just when he was about to actually consider doing something to avoid having his legs broken by the Sniffer's staff Ixion interfered, though, casting a spell that he was not familiar with, but which he could deduce from the incantation was probably an illusion spell of sorts, in this case targeted - surprisingly - at the Sniffer. And then they... well, what do you know? They were actually fighting over who had the right to kill Blue, and apparently also who was entitled to kill him, although the latter question was so ludicrous that he could not help but chuckle to himself. As if they were so certain that they were superior to him that they were convinced that they did not need each other as allies in fighting him, but could take him on individually. Ha! They would barely even make for a distraction even if they both fought him at the same time. Ixion was on the boss' no touchie-list, though, and the Sniffer... although he was painfully inept now, his instincts told him that he could have the potential to one day make an interesting opponent. He was too weak now, though... no fun at all. The Sniffer would die without even making him use both hands.
Despite how close both of those who had declared themselves his enemies were to him, the man's stance remained relaxed, his left hand still in its pocket while he turned his attention to the book in his right, using his thumb to open it and turn the pages. It was a thin book, containing less than thirty pages, and the lettering in it was rather large; he had written every word in it himself. There also was an inscription on the spine of the book, difficult to see though it was on the black background since it was the same dark-red color as his clothes. It was written in the Human Cipher, but in Kirkinian rather than Rodorian; not a significant complication to someone trying to decipher what was written, since those languages were considered mutually intelligible, but it would probably be enough for someone not to immediately realize the meaning of a word just from glancing at it. The word on the spine, though spelled a bit differently in Kirkinian, read "Necrology".

"Look," he said, turning pages in the book as he spoke. His impatience showed in his voice, as did his disinterest in their quarreling. "So'y I went 'n' ruin'd yer fight wi'h Blue 'n' stuff, but can't we just, y'know, not fight? The boss-man'll be right mad wi'h me if I went 'n' kill'd one of his 'investments in continuous profits', Ixie, 'n' I real don't wanna kill whoever yer mate is while he's still this weak. What'd'ya say, eh? We just walk our separate ways, eh? No one gets hurt, eh?"
How annoying. He could have let them kill Blue - in fact the boss would probably have preferred if Ixion killed her, considering the circumstances - but he did not personally want Blue to lose her soul to Ixion's bargain like that, and he wanted to make sure that she died while her Dirge was drawn. If the Dirge had been sheathed when she died it would have self-destructed, and he wanted it. If it had not been for how obsessively reluctant the tools were to draw their Dirges, he would have killed Blue days ago; she had gotten way too annoying with those wards she had been setting up all over the place. Was getting in the way of business in Zerul City, which was unforgivable. He was a lax man in most regards, but he could not allow someone to become a nuisance... even if that person was a tool.
If the Grand Master gave an order, he had to obey; those were the terms of his contract. He felt no compulsion to do so, and the boss allowed him a lot of freedom on accord of him being the boss' right hand and strongest servant, but he was determined to keep his end of the bargain. It mostly involved killing people anyways, which was fun, so it was a win-win situation.
And the Grand Master of Evil did so cherish having his own private broken tool... his very own Fixer.

The pages turned. It registered in the vampire's mind, even as his eyes shifted between the two present men. The red clad man's book had been perused (which Morgan could not read - the script impossibly hidden into the color of the book), the holding hand moving with same nonchalance as the annoying accent or even as the actions of Morgan's target - or lack there of. If doubt had been worming itself into the sniffer's mind, it had fully seeped done so now. 'He hadn't even flinched. This man, he just kept reading his book as if nothing were even happening. Morgan's stance stiffened in an attempt to keep his reaction sharp, if need be, but his judgement that had been once so firm in the belief that this man needed to die, here and now, now had been moved to the point of heavy hesitance and growing hatred. 'How can he be so arrogant? He has two battle-tested beings before him, and yet, he stands there like--' Morgan's thoughts were interrupted by the assassin's heavily accented speech, the tone of his voice hard pressed, as if he were growing impatient, or even bored with the whole situation:

"Look, so'y I went 'n' ruin'd yer fight wi'h Blue 'n' stuff, but can't we just, y'know, not fight? The boss-man'll be right mad wi'h me if I went 'n' kill'd one of his 'investments in continuous profits', Ixie, 'n' I real don't wanna kill whoever yer mate is while he's still this weak. What'd'ya say, eh? We just walk our separate ways, eh? No one gets hurt, eh?"

'Ixie?' Crimson eyes darted over towards the blade for hire and then quickly back to "Red," 'These two know each other?' The vampire's weight shifted as took taking the information in as his thoughts continued to whirl, 'So, he won't hurt the sellsword... but won't fight me because I'm...' The space between his eyes tighted, furrowing into lines of anger, but only for the briefest of moments, struggling to finish the thought, 'Weak?. But how could he be weak? He was a vampire, a feared creature in all of the Planes. After all, stories of attacks were not whispered among the frightened people for no reason. On top of that, Morgan was a sniffer! Trained in the art of hunting peoples of magic and helping eliminate them! 'Thus, the question remains: who does this arrogant son of a tarke think he i--'

Suddenly, a singular fact hit Morgan like a pile of bricks. Perhaps it was the sole purpose of revenge that had blinded him to it, or maybe puzzling manner that this assassin had portraying himself in, but this fact would slowly bring the sniffer out of his defensive stance to one of normality, eventually causing the vampire to appear without threat, even to point of being relaxed. Red was something that Morgan knew, without a shadow of doubt, that he could not face, at least not alone. 'Maybe not even together.' the vampire thought doubtfully. The smilng mask's light soul flowed as smoothly as a breeze, but as violently as a tornado. The amount of this man's magical capacity was tremendous, even impressive. Only once or twice had Thrainsson felt such a presence in his days of hunting for the Secularian army - these souls had left an impression on Morgan's memory, and such memories were far from pleasent.

In his chance of stance, however, Morgan struggled to issue words from his mouth. The want, the need to kill this man was one that would not be easily set free. He did not want to say it, but if Ixion had not stated something other than mutual agreement between time it took the vampire to shift from his defensive stance to his relaxed stance, Morgan would feel forced to to spit out the following words, his voice grating over the air as his staff ground into the roof's tiles with audible crunching, "Agreed - we walk our seperate ways."

However, if Ixion decided to make a move against Red, the vampire would be able to shift his stance swiftly...

Ixion's gaze kept on the new target, still trying to work out who he is and his allegiance. His peripheral vision had witnessed that his illusion magic had worked on the vampire, causing him to, acrobatically, avoid the illusion. He made sure that the spell wouldn't last as long as it needed to as it would wear him down a lot, which wouldn't be helpful in the case that either or, thinking worst case scenario, both the newcomer and the vampire attacked him. He muttered another phrase to dispel the illusion that was still lingering about. Well... the assassin thought, his eyes now concentrating on the vampire. Just as he hoped, the vampire had remained where he was and not immediately attacked him. Even as he spoke the same droll as for his reasons to fight Blue. He pointed straight at him in an accusing tone, something that Ixion had seen plenty of times before. He would have ignored the vampire completely and continue concentrating on the new man if it wasn't for the last thing that was spat in his direction.

”... filthy demonspawn.”

Even as the man was the main concern of his, mentioning the term 'demonspawn' and directing the insult at him was something he didn't tolerate. While it is now common fact that the assassin had signed a contract with the Grand Master, he was certainly no demonspawn. At least, for the time being. He was still human on this plane, still fragile to be damaged or killed. His poise had remained where it was, determined to not let the vampire know that he was riled up. But now is not the time to charge in to attack the person who had insulted him. There was still another presence in their company. Instead, she gratingly spat back at the vampire, his voice weakening with the prolonged use. “I am as human as your past self had been, you damned bloodsucker.” He let his knowledge on what his temporary 'ally' 's race was. Despite throwing the insult back, the man in front of him had finally spoken.

"Look, so'y I went 'n' ruin'd yer fight wi'h Blue 'n' stuff, but can't we just, y'know, not fight? The boss-man'll be right mad wi'h me if I went 'n' kill'd one of his 'investments in continuous profits', Ixie, 'n' I real don't wanna kill whoever yer mate is while he's still this weak. What'd'ya say, eh? We just walk our separate ways, eh? No one gets hurt, eh?"

It was the first time during the past hour that his stance faltered, taking one step back. It wasn't the fact that the man had been so calm up until this point, with the impatience apparent in his voice, or the apology that he gave to both of them for killing Blue. It was the fact that the man had called him by his name in a pet form. The words had apparently stabbed him like the war-pick had done with Blue. No one had called him by that since his father, all those years ago. How did he... he thought, his mind now in a panick. Apart from the woman with the rock-lizards earlier in the day, there were few one in the land that had seen him or heard his name for contractual purposes in the underworld. No one knew of his contract with the Grand Master as well as the pet name 'Ixie'. This man had known both. And it had worried him.

Suddenly, when re-analysing the words that the man had said did all the pieces of the same puzzle collapse in place. It was then that the assassin knew that he could not kill this man. The man had also signed the contract with the Grand Master, striking the man out of of his hit list. This practically ended all hostilities towards the man as Ixion replaced his kusarigama back on his waist, looping the chain in the little strap on his belt opposite to where the kama part was. But that was not the only thing that was revealed to him. If it hadn't been for the sole reason why Blue had confronted him earlier, the reason why he had been in a temporary alliance with the vampire during the fray. He had heard of a person who had signed one of the Grand Master's contracts, but it wasn't until then that the person was called the Fixer. From what he had heard wherever he had been, even if the assassin had the teleportation ability without the contract, any fight with the Fixer would have been futile, possibly would have ended his life. The possibility of both the vampire and him joining forces would have made things difficult on them.

Once he had relaxed on the ground he had been on, his right arm crossed over, his clenched hand resting just below the shoulder line, bowing his head at the same time. “So the rumours are true. The Fixer is real.” He relaxed, examining the Fixer in detail again. The only thing that was worth noting that he hadn't noticed the first time was the sword that was on his hip. It appeared to be crafted by the same person who crafted who crafted Blue's second sword, from the colour that the weapon was right down to the detail of the skull hilt. Thinking back on the past scenario, it wasn't until she had drawn the weapon did the Fixer strike her down. He must have wanted that weapon she had, he concluded. He grabbed the war pick that was embedded in the roof and threw it back to its owner. “We will not be bothering you any further. Do what is needed so that you can also obtain the sword.”

While he spoke, he also had heard the vampire speak, also agreeing to leave the man alone to do what was needed. He also noticed the vampire had relaxed, as if he didn't want to confront the Fixer at all. Whatever the man had said or if the vampire had felt, it was strong enough to put down the frenzied urge that he had. Good move, he thought, his eyes shifting between the Fixer and the vampire. If the vampire had decided to carry on attacking, the assassin would have to interfere with the fight, much like what he had done. Not to settle any tensions between the two, but to save the vampire. Despite all of that, Ixion was still curious about the book itself and its purpose. His gaze returned to the Fixer, waiting to see what the book does.

"Great!" Fixer chirped delightedly, lowering his book a bit at the same time as he straightened into an even more open stance than he had been in since the two others had noticed him. His eyes smiled at them through his mask, happy but not relieved; he had been scolded by the Grand Master and had needed to kill potential future challengers before, and it would not exactly have bothered him to have killed these two either. He was glad that he did not have to, but his lack of relief only confirmed how unafraid he had been of the prospect of fighting them. Still without taking his left hand out of his pocket he adjusted his grip on the Necrology, maneuvering it in his right hand so that the open pages faced into his palm and wrist, held there by his pinky and ring finger. With the freed up middle-finger, pointer and thumb he nonchalantly snatched his war pick that Ixion had thrown to him out of the air and, in one continuous fluent motion, hooked the weapon in the empty loop in his belt. "Now we can all be pals!"
Truth be told his words had had an even stronger impact on the assassin than he had expected them to have, particularly, it seemed, the use of Ixion's name. At first Fixer thought it was weird that the other would be more shocked that he knew his name than that he had signed a contract with the Grand Master and knew what the contract entailed, but it did not take long for him to realize that it was just too improbable that Ixion would react like that just because of his first name being known. No, perhaps it was more specifically because of the way he had said it? He had no idea that 'Ixie' had been a pet name he had had before, let alone that it was one that would have a significant impact on Ixion to hear; he had simply called him by the pet name that would be the most obvious to derive from 'Ixion', which to him was 'Ixie'. Lucky. Hopefully Ixion would have had the sense not to engage in a fight with the nefarious Fixer even without it, but every little bit of emotional manipulation helped.
It was mildly surprising that Ixion had heard of the Fixer, too, let alone the fact that he could deduce that he was the holder of that title; it was usually a well-kept secret among the lawgivers of the land that there was an agent of a demon lord wandering the lands who was harassing them every now and then whenever they bothered the Crimson Dawn too much, and even within the Crimson Dawn people were usually hesitant to speak of him if they had heard of him due to the fact that he was also the one who disposed of them if they became a liability to the Lord. That a man independent from either of these - one who had made a deal with the Grand Master without being a member of the Crimson Dawn, like the Fixer himself - could recognize him was rather impressive. It certainly did Blue more credit to be wounded by a man with that kind of deductive skills than one failing to make obvious conclusions as he had before.
"I don't real need'a do anythin' to get the sword," he admitted merrily as he calmly walked between the two who had just seconds ago been fiercely determined to brutally murder him, heading to the edge of the roof that overlooked the alley in which Blue still lay. His unusually roomy pant-legs swished lightly with each stride, flowing around his legs like sails. "The ones tha' made the sword di'n't real protect the sword itself; the protected bit is the scabbard. It'd destroy the sword if it's still in it when it's wielder dies or it's stolen. I ha' the sword 'ready; this is for Blue."

He did not even slow his stride when he reached the end of the roof but just stepped indifferently into the thin air, letting himself fall the thirty or so feet to the ground, rolling forward as he landed to better absorb the impact, all without changing what his hands were doing. Once he was down there he stood, then stopped moving as he faced the bloodied corpse of a woman he had once known as an ally. He paused then for a moment, just taking in the sight of her... smiling behind his mask. Finally she had reached the stage all of them should logically be in with what had happened to them; finally she could start to discover the truth and escape the shackles that bound her very mind and soul, enslaved her will and killed her emotions. She was not like him; none of them were like Fixer. He was broken... they had to break, too.
"Once upon a time, thirty-two years ago," he began reading aloud from his book, dropping the fake Kirkinian accent in a show of respect of what he was doing, "a woman named Rebecca in Nemhim City had a daughter. Rebecca was lowborn and had no last name, and conceived this daughter working as a prostitute. There were a number of potential men who could have sired her, but considering the time and appearance of the girl the one most likely to be her father was a goldsmith named Wendell, who was never even told that he had a daughter in the first place. The closest thing to a name Rebecca gave the baby was 'shitstain', although Rebecca's sister, Reilly, frequented the labels 'precious' and 'honey'. Rebecca did not want a baby, however, and so she went out in secret one cold springtime night and abandoned her daughter in a secluded alley of the city.
Here little shitstain should have died, victim to the cold chill air, lack of nourishment and the vermin of dark places, but fate would have it that she was found by one of the resurrectionists. He stole the infant from the embrace of death in that alley and brought it to Corpse Forge, where shitstain was now called 'twenty-seven'. Corpse Forge did to twenty-seven what it did to all the children that were brought to it; subjected her to monstrous things and made her commit equally inhuman acts, brainwashing her until they had erased all of her humanity. Dead now in spirit, twenty-seven was no longer a person; she became a tool, forged to perfection, and as she was discovered to have an affinity for both magic and combat she was first named a candidate for and later chosen as the Blue Tool.
Sent away from Corpse Forge now that she was a finished tool, Blue was sent to Zerul, as many holders of that name had before her, and came to serve Duke Marcus Zerul. Marcus was a kind master, however, one who was never willing to view Blue as the tool she was and insisted to treat her as a precious subordinate, something Blue could not even appreciate due to her being dead inside. The other nobles were not as merciful as the duke, however... she was used by them in many ways, to kill and spy and give them pleasure. One of these nobles, Count Aldor Weiss, sired Blue with a son, who was never given a name by either of his parents, but who is now 'fourteen' with Corpse Forge. Blue wept for the first and last time since taking that name when fourteen was taken from her by a resurrectionist; she proved that she was not a perfect tool after all."
The Fixer lowered the book and looked at Blue directly. "I can respect that. So now, mother of fourteen, Blue Tool, twenty-seven, treasure, precious and shitstain, remember who you were, and know who you are. You have your freedom at last. You are a tool no more; rejoice, for now though your body is dead, your spirit can live. You are the first tool in two hundred years to become a person again."

Closing the book and putting it back in the pocket of his coat, the Fixer went to her and started unbuckling her belt to free the scabbard of her Dirge. "But you will not be the last."

Ixion's retort had mildly surprised Morgan. However, the surprise was due to Ixion's reaction, rather than the red hood's confession of knowing his opponent's race. After all, Morgan had feasted in broad daylight. This one has fast eyes, I see. But something else brushed aside the now known fact about himself: The vampire's insult had actually struck a chord. At least, this was the conclusion, judging by the sell-sword's body language and his spirit's sudden change of energy. It was heated by anger, edged with personal hurt? The corner's of his mouth lifted in minor amusement, despite the circumstances that lay before Thrainsson. Well, well - looks like he does have emotions If a vampire could purr, Morgan would have, if the following events had not soured the mercenary's reaction.

The sell-sword did not make an offensive move against Red, much to Morgan's displeasure. Perhaps, he too does not wish to tangle with someone so powerful…. At the moment, the sniffer was feeling disappointed, angry, and maybe even a little betrayed, but so had the chips fallen. Someday, your soul shall be delivered for the one you stole, assassin. Morgan vowed. Clearer thoughts began to pour into the sniffer's mind as he attempted to pay attention to conversation unfolding in front of him. Now that he knows… things could get… messy. To those who would die quickly, Morgan made no attempts to hide his real self: a vampire. But to those who would walk and live to tell a tale: This needs to be contained. Morgan gave a subtle, small nod to himself. This "Ixie" needed to die. Unless some sort agreement or professional courtesy was bestowed on the vampire, which Morgan highly doubted. The sniffer was no mercenary, sell-sword, or assassin - just a creature of the night driven by his hunger, his need for blood. But then again… Honor is a strange thing.

Any other rapid fired thoughts were halted but the mention of Red's true identity (at least it was assumed to be true, as "the Fixer" did not deny the title). Indeed the rumors are true. While Morgan was more than likely less informed about such an individual, the passing whispers among people, in the market space or tavern had reached the sniffer's pale ears in passing. If the stories were true, Morgan was actually relieved he had not chose to fight the red bound man. Soon… The thought echoed as The Fixer pushed another theory away. His purpose was unclear, at the moment, but it was to be undoubtedly revealed in the next few moments.

The Fixer plummeted from view, as if he were taking a stroll through a beautiful park. Morgan's light feet padded to the roof's edge, observing The Fixer's next actions with a growing interest. The accent is false. A fact stated in Morgan's inner workings. There was no surprise, no other reaction than a factual statement, as if a schoolboy was stating a learned fact. In fact, it was somehow not surprising that this man did not seem to be who he was - already, such things that were assumed true had been false, such as how great his power was, or his initial response to the two threats that were before his person.

Blue's story was sad - terrible even. Despite his predisposed lack of emotion, the sniffer could not help but have one or two heart strings pulled at. Cursed to be a slave of some cause forever. Morgan's mouth frowned deeper as The Fixer went into the details of Blue's life, Once like myself. Roots of a deep set hatred began to gnaw at Morgan's psyche as his mind turned these facts over and over in his mind, Both of these men work for the Duke? A side glance was cast at The Red Hooded before refocusing on the scene below, And they stand for this system?

The Fixer closed his book, more or less the burial rights that Morgan had assumed before hand. The added personal note gently brushed away the rage that was beginning to cloud Thrainsson's mind, refocusing him to a new task. The Wanderer freed her, as he freed me to do his bidding. Morgan's eyes hardened, reflecting like polished rubies as he realized his next mission from his master, Those who imprison the soul should be dealt with, such my captors and the many others - the hand of death will guide them - all of them - to their fate. The sniffer's grip tightened around his weapon, but he knew that this was not the place, nor the time to smite these two in the name of The Wanderer.

His face would return to normal, as The Fixer reached for Blue's scabbard, and yet another question popped into his mind's eye. Wasn't it strange for Blue's murderer to give her burial rights? It was practically almost a ceremony, complete with her history and the killer's own personal thoughts about his now dead prey. Was he too trapped? Was the man on the same roof as Morgan in the same position? Perhaps Death would avoid punishing the tools that lead to Blue's demise (and more than likely all the other colored numbers similar to her path of life), but as the questions began piling, Morgan would not be deterred from his original thought.

Soon. Soon you will meet my master.

At first, Ixion just watched with curiosity at the Fixer, who skilfully replaced the war-pick back into its strap while walking and holding the book with ease. ”Great! Now we can all be pals!” he said, his stance now more open than it was before. An ambush would have been good now, but the knowledge he knows now about the man would say otherwise.

With the tension disappearing like a receding shoreline, he concentrated on himself. The first thing that he noticed was that the problem he had before was nothing but a residual. This was especially good as that means that was one less thing for him to think about subconsciously and make his mind sharper. But that was when all of the pains that he had came to light. His left shoulder was still in agony after Blue's light beam attack had hit it. Looking across at it, the armour looked damaged, but there was no blood coming from the injury. As he took the pauldron off, he was pleased to see that the wound itself looked cauterised, but he would need to get it looked at. But that was to be at another place as he cannot return to the Church of Reina that he retreated from beforehand. He also concluded that he would need a new set of armour, though not because of the damaged piece. Right now, too many people had seen him, making it easier for the Ducal guards of any region to pick him out. Once this is resolved peacefully, he thought, discarding the pauldron into an empty crate in the alley below him. I could then get the money that is owed to me and get a new set. He thought back to the contract that he is technically still under, thinking back to what the payment was and what he could try to buy in order to get rid of the apparel that he was currently wearing. Of course, in order for the issue to resolve peacefully, that would mean he would have to deal with the vampire. After all, there had been an unresolved tension that was between them, which was not helped with the illusion magic that occurred just a moment ago.

The assassin observed as the Fixer dropped down to the level which Blue's body was. However, the words of the mercenary had been interesting to think about, being able to think about it was a sharper mind. "I don't real need'a do anythin' to get the sword. The ones tha' made the sword di'n't real protect the sword itself; the protected bit is the scabbard. It'd destroy the sword if it's still in it when it's wielder dies or it's stolen. I ha' the sword 'ready; this is for Blue." When the Fixer had admitted that he didn't need the sword, Ixion was puzzled. If he didn't want the sword and already had one, why would he attack Blue at the moment the sword was out and not beforehand? This was certainly something that gave Ixion more questions than answers. However, one of those questions he had was to be answered shortly after the mercenary had arrived at Blue's body, reading from his book.

Whatever the contents were, it was all about the woman that was in front of them all. The first thing that he noticed was that even the Fixer had put on a full accent while reading from the book. Ixion couldn't place the accent and he had heard a majority of the accent. Was it Rodorian? No, putting the accent to the language didn't feel right with the assassin. Kirkinian? That had a better ring to it, but not having heard of the Kirkinian accent in real life would have made it difficult for him to verify. No matter what the language or accent, what was being spoken was easy enough to understand.

The story that was given was a sad one. Abandonment, torture, being stripped of all humanity. This woman, it appeared, had faced it all. Ixion portrayed no emotion at all to those he was with. He had seen, in his opinion, a lot of himself in Blue. While the situations he had faced were miles different from hers, but the core values of them were the same. Whatever family he had left on this world, they didn't retrieve him once the news of his village was destroyed, the news of his father's death coming from that as well. He certainly faced torture, but that had made him more emotionally resistant. Some of that torture resulted in his disfigured face. As for being stripped of humanity? While he was still human, the contract on his soul could technically be classed as that. It wasn't until the part of the sad tale where her son was taken away from her and brought to the very place that had tortured her and stripped everything human that was in this person. The one name, Count Aldor Weiss, lingered in his mind. She was free from this terrible man's vices, but only at the cost of her life. Dare he think about what she would face if she had returned from that confrontation, especially the scar that he himself had given her. There is a special place for men like you, he thought. I'll be more than happy to send you there in person.

As soon as he thought that, he pondered on the thought. Perhaps he still had some humanity left in him, avenging Blue for all of the wrongs she had faced. Honour that he had felt beforehand when confronting the Fixer was still there. He concluded that he would still honour her, but not fighting the Fixer. If anything, the man had liberated her from the suffering. His mind focused and stored the information about Count Weiss and the Corpse Forge, keeping them so he can learn more about them or if any contract turned up that mentioned those two things. Other thing to the list that he would personally target. He thought about this while the Fixer grabbed the scabbard. He also considered his options for the future, deciding on what the next best course of action was.