Scouti's mouth was slightly ajar from the sight in front of her now. It was partially the grand size of the towers of this ruins, they reached upward to the sky like the hungry spires of the Krendsaw from her homeland. It was daunting. How did people live in such a place on top of each other. But those thoughts fluttered away as the utter number of possibilities ran through her head. She dared to hope...quickly she grabbed a vial of metal flakes suspended in distilled water and drained the contents.

To most this would seem strange, but then Scouti was strange. She was an Allomancer, one of her heritage that gained special abilities by consuming metal. Currently there were only sixteen known allomantic metals, but with any luck she would find more on her journeys. The metal reserves hit her stomach, wrapping her in the all to familiar heat like a warm fire after a heavy supper. Picking the metal she wished to burn, she slow burned iron flakes.

Instantly transparent blue lines began to just from the iron in her stomach to the myriad of other metal in the area that only she could see. Her heart began to swell as if a new playground had been opened just for her. Her frantic smile must have spooked the nearest local slum dweller as the cloaked figure gave her a wide berth. She paused to account for her appearance as well.

She had no less than sixteen throwing knives visible on her person, glimmering in the bath of sunlight between the towers. Her dull red banded leather armor did also bear the Redwolds mercenary mark. They were not well known for their upstanding nature. A steel chain belt around her waist also appeared quite strange to most she assumed. Her hair was still an odd purple hue from the nircosil she had attempted to burn. That alloy was not to be trusted, the strange dreams and sickness was awful.

Working on her tip form the last hot spring she had stayed, a new allomantic metal was supposed to be in the large tower in front of her. Taking in the full view once more she began her journey to the monstrosity.

It always surprised him just how much blood there was. It transfixed him, holding his gaze selfishly when so much else desired his attention. The paleness of the skin, the hollow coldness in the eyes as one escapes their mortal coil. The last, dying, breath. He wished to give these things the attention they deserved. But blood was just so bright and vibrant and there was just so very much of it. When it came to cause and effect, there was nothing as satisfying as bloodletting, nothing so morbidly beautiful as watching crimson liquid pour from the wound one has inflicted on another. So the man thought, even as he wrenched his wretched blade free of flesh and turned before the corpse had time to slump to the ground. It was a theatrical gesture, but when one decides to go about his business dressed in what looked like the stage clothes of a nobleman, topped off with a red velvet cloak and a white operatic mask, it’s hardly surprising to find them succumbing to drama. The scene would have been perfect, except for one small niggling issue, the screams of the victim’s partner were of a horrible octave, and truly the woman had no gift for stagecraft. Did she not know how to mediate her voice so that she embodied the raw fear and passion of the scene without grating on ones nerves? No matter, he would work with what he was given.

“Do you know what it is that makes the sudden demise of you and your partner so sad?” He asked, his voice was hollow and raw, as if he had spent the day straining his vocal cords, perhaps with screams of his own. It was a bitter voice, but unmistakably that of a man. He of course was mostly wasting his time, as his audience of one and a bit were too far gone to really appreciate his words. Perhaps she screamed just an inkling higher, some small semblance of understanding passing through the slum-dweller, recognising the implicit threat in the man’s words. The bloodied swordsman, pistol at his hip and a melancholy mask on his face, looked down at her for a moment, his head turned at a slight angle as if waiting for her to figure out the answer to his question.

“It is not that you will be missed, my dear.” He almost choked up then, as the great realisation of one of life’s saddest realities broke down upon him. Not that this was the first time he had thought about it, but he was a sensitive soul. “It is that in a place such as this you will not be missed. No one will mourn your passing, you will be forgotten among so many… souls.” His blade thrust through her breast and her screaming turned to coughing, bloody gurgling, more of the liquid pooled down at the man’s feet, almost reaching the puddle of the woman’s partner. It stretched and stretched, but the two pools did not meet. One salty droplet of water ran down his neck. The man turned away.

“But do not fear, for I at least will weep for you.”

---------------------------

The Weeper had just left the great tower behind him with two extra corpses keeping it company when he spotted Scouti. There was something about her curiosity, her drive, and the sheer life within her, which called to him. Called to him to extinguish it. There was a hidden importance to the Weeper’s sadness in ending the lives of two shanty-dwellers, and that was that the life he had extinguished had inherently less happiness in it. Not so much that to take their lives was a kindness, for had it been then he would have gone to lengths to instead preserve the lives of the two. But enough so that if one regarded his murder as some sort of necessity, as if he fed off the misery he wrought, then they had hardly served as appetizers. What a depressing thought, for your death to be even be unsatisfying to the one who had taken it, even that final purpose ripped away so that even by dying you fail to save the life of another. What a meaningless death.

His sword was drawn and bloodied, the Roman Gladius known as the Weeping blade, twin specks of red marked the otherwise creamy white mask on his face. These two things alone would leave Scouti with little room for misinterpretation. This was a dangerous man waiting for her in front of the building she wished to enter. The man stood there, watching her silently, unmoving.

As Scouti made her way towards the tower she stopped in place. Her eyes flickered to the figure that stood not to far away. He wore a mask with little detail, a blade of some length was covered in blood. The mountaintop of enthusiasm the young Allomancer had been riding was quickly replaced with a sense of gathering dread.

Was he a Hazekiller, some one specialized in killing Alloamcners, from another mercenary company? Something at the core of this figure was unnerving. Focusing her attention on the brandished weapon her heart fluttered. It was treated to resist her abilities, the thin blue line blinking as the connection was connected and reconnected. This one was dangerous, unmoving, and in the way.

She pulled another vial of metal flask and hastily swallowed the contents. A new group of metals flooded her stomach as burned tin. The smells of the slums hit her like a physical slap to the face as she forced herself not to retch. Her eyes concentrated on the figure, taking in the keen details. Shallow breaths could be heard from behind the mask, only adding to his shudder some aura. The sheathes of her throwing knives came into focus as she felt their weight, calming her if only slightly.

The scrap of two throwing knives grinded in her ear as her right hand drew the dual weapons.

"What is your business here? What do you want?" she tried to project the confidence that her training should give her.

If not for the eccentricity of his appearance and the sinister aura he exuded, the man stood before Scouti could very well have been considered mundane. He was of no great height, under six foot, and his blade looked as if its edge was rusted and it was no fine work regardless. A tool of a forgotten Empire, one that knew the value of practical things, but one that lacked an eye for the aesthetic. Behind his mask, lank brown hair hung to shoulder height, brushed back behind the slightly shoddy velvet cloak. It was the mask really, only the mask. Porcelain white, except for the soft marks of red, but with the face of tragedy. The eyes upturned and the mouth likewise showing the image of one distraught. It was not overly detailed, the brow was ridged to accentuate the hopelessness of the expression, but other than that it was plain. The face behind it was shrouded in darkness though. Which was enough so that one may even begin to doubt if there was a man inside the mask.

However, his interesting new plaything had apparently already tested him. Tentatively, but with some form of power she sought to manipulate the Weeping blade, and found herself rebuked. The weapon was tied to his soul, it was not something easily taken from him. However, the attempt alone was enough to draw his ire, had he not already planned to extinguish her life that alone would have sealed her fate. She readied herself for a battle, wisely so, but her preparations did not escape the eyes of the Weeper. He simply did not fear them.

“I am afraid, my dear, that my business is with you.” He sounded genuinely remorseful as he went on, taking a single step towards her with each pause. “I am but a lowly servant you see.” Step. “Who finds himself the receptacle of so much misery.” Step. “Such that I simply cannot bear it.” Step. “And so I share it among others.” Step. “You look as if you could withstand the pain I offer.” Step. “Would you please take it from me?”

What...why...I didn't... chilly daggers stabbed at her heart.

Fear radiated through her body sapping warmth as it went. With each of his steps forward she took one back until the last. This was crazy this feeling of dread. Her chain belt jingled driving memory's of her late mentor to her mind. No! Was he a Rioter, able to amplify a certain emotion? Surely this was the source of the crushing panic that threatened to bend her will. She would have none of it!

Digging down to her metal reserves she started to burn Brass, the power of a Soother. With a small burn it could dampen certain emotions. She instead sough to eradicate them. Flaring her Brass in her stomach the powered increased tenfold at the expense of burning the stockpile much quicker. Her mind was a little foggy as result and her stomach radiated heat.

Stomping her foot down fear drifted from her like a stubborn fog meeting the heat of a sun blaze.

"Stop! You lunatic" She bellowed, fire in her eyes returning as her stance become more aggressive. "You will not halt my progress."

Anger drifted upward now as she burned steel throwing the knives through the air. Once they reached about a foot away she pushed, throwing her weight against the left projectile causing it to move much faster than it's twin. The intent for the left to speed forward to strike the foe somewhere in the midsection as the right moved further to the right of the foe in case of a dodge to the right.

Hoping that was enough of a distraction her hand fell into her front pockets gathering goodies for this maniac.

With a flourish of characteristic drama, the Weeper ripped the cloak from his shoulders with his free left hand just in time to drape it before him. The motion was practiced and quick beyond belief, the surprisingly tough fabric forming a barrier for the knife that allowed him, not unlike a matador, to turn his body from the threat. If not for the strange acceleration of the object he would have likely relied upon the fabric alone, instead, his body turned anti-clockwise and the knife pierced fabric and clattered to the ground behind him, leaving him unscathed. The second would have been caught in the same act, but a quick glance had told him it was not on target, and he was eager to be on. So very eager.

“Halt your progress?” He asked, simultaneous to his cloak fluttering to the ground rather breezily. His masked face fixed her, watching her as his left hand was obscured by the cloak, his right pointed the sword towards her in a common act of stage-craft. Time passed in a bubble of sorts as the cloak fell and the Weeper moved, the speed of his actions beyond that of a human, but not beyond the super-human perception of the Allomancer. All the better, she would see what he was capable of. Then she would know to fear him all the more.

The velvet cloak draped to the ground, leaving the Weeper in his off-white ruffled shirt. More importantly however, it also revealed the click of the hammer dropping on his pistol, as he fired it from the hip. As luck would have it, the powder ignited first time, the sudden crack of the explosion startling, though the Weeper was unperturbed. He had shot the deadly metal ball across the front of his own body, showing remarkable courage considering the unreliability of such a weapon. The projectile flew true, hurtling through the air towards the Allomancer’s right hip.

“I suppose I mean to do just that.”

The weapon was back in its holster almost as quickly as it had appeared, and the Weeper was moving. Advancing on the girl, giving her small chance to recover from the sudden assault by projectile, his sword was hungry. Twenty feet stood between them, but for how long?

Her eyes caught the flamboyant scene with a sense of awe. The movements were well practiced an with such grace she had to appreciate the display. The first of her daggers clattering not a foot or two behind him the second to his right side about three feet off target, putting up a few desperate sparks before rolling to a stop.

The fabric dropped to ground in a near slow monition style as audible click of metal was heard. She had only a moment to allow her eyes to dart down to his other hand a weapon! Her eyes went wide as a deafening -CRACK- tore into her eardrum like a company of drummers on either side of her head struck in unison. She tensed unintentionally as a streak of blue came speeding towards her!

Should couldn't dodge this attack, her head still splitting from the explosion of the shot. She did what any coin shot would. Faring the steel in her stomach the heat increased in her stomach, the metal burning at a frenzied rate and pushed forward at the projectile. Her full weight multiplied by the expended metal slowed it, but the weapon had stopping power and she wasn't focused.

Pain erupted from her side as she let out an audible cry. The metal ball lodging its self slight upward from its intend target, making its way through the leather armor with little effort. Balling her fists she extinguished the Tin and was rewarded with a slight drop in feeling. Her legs wobble adjusting to the new numbness as she heard his threat.

He wanted to kill her.

The masked maniac was moving closer. She had to respond, before he attacked again. She ended the tap on her steel, nearly gone from the burst. Resolve flooded her as the pain in her side pulsed, she reverted back to her training. Find the Pewter in her stomach she mustered a grim smirk as she lit it aflame.

Should he notice her stance altered, her natural balance altering to the pinnacle of her being. Her muscles screamed with unused power, begging to be used as the slight fatigue of her travel washed away like dirt amid a thunderous downpour. Little could he see the healing that started to take place. She was no Steel Inquisitor, but Pewter could turn mortal wounds non-fatal. Refusing to allow the fear digging at the back of her mind purchase she instead flung herself forward in an eight foot leap that she normally would have had not business being capable of, much less with a wound.

"I am a survivor.." she muttered, almost more to herself than the masked man in the air.

Landing in a moment's notice she withdrew her hand. Her right hand opened as she flared the remaining steel in her stomach. As result a fist full of sharpened coins launched out like improvised grape shot with intents of tearing into the man like a ship's main mast. With the steel now gone she now had only iron, tin, and pewter in her system. At the same time she focused on the weapon that had harmed her with laser focus. Reaching out to its "metal line" she pulled with a vengeance, not so much as to destroy it, but pull with all her weight and some to throw of his gaunt. He might find that dodging with an additional one hundred and sixty pound to be troublesome as the coins shot forward.

Keeping her left hand in its pouch she watched on.

It was time for the harvest. The Weeper did relish it so when the unfortunates came to him.

Twenty feet separated the two as the masked swordsman had finished shooting and made his approach. Twenty feet was a pittance of distance to the Weeper, his stride was not so great, but he moved with an unnatural speed that belied that of a predatory cat. His measure was not so impressive with a short-sword in hand, but he would be upon her as she landed, darting leftward on his left foot with his left arm covering his body and face. He naturally stooped as he sent the Weeping blade plunging forward hungrily for her flesh just as her feet touched the ground. An ideal time to strike, in truth, for her options for evasion were terribly limited by her own airborne manoeuvre. She could even be carried into the point of his sword by her own momentum, which struck for her right shoulder.

He had expected some other form of long range assault from the girl, she had shown an aptitude for it already. However in truth had he not been upon her his options would have been limited for dealing with the coins. Fortunately, his blade would serve in that regard. She could not easily commit to throwing those objects at him if she wished to avoid feeling the blade of misery cut a neat path through her shoulder. If the point of his blade did not serve as sufficient obstacle to the launching of the coins, he would taste pain himself. Perhaps enough to stop him onslaught for the time being.

"Foolish, never let your foe catch you in the air!" Clubs words ringed in her head, as a quick memory of that terrible hunk of wood swatting her in the chest.

The maniac was fast. Perhaps not a Pewter-arm, but damned quick. She hadn't anticipated such quick movements with that blade in his hand. They were on a collision course and she had coins, where he had a rather long and sharp looking blade. Her steel couldn't push the blade away, not with the small amount she had left.

Touchdown.

He was upon her, the blade ready to take her in the shoulder. What sweet hell did that blade contain to be able to resist allomancy? Doing the only option with her limited supply of metals, she instead diverted one coin downward into the ground let the others remain on their course, sharpened sides ready to dig into whatever presented itself in their path. Once the coin hit the ground with a ping it was no longer her body weight pushing on the coin, now it the world pushing against her. She kept the burn going until the steel was used up, sending her upward at an angle as she pushed off with pewter powered legs.

The blade was too close she knew it would strike, but now maybe she wouldn't be run through. Instead a long slice among her side or leg might be the result. Hand darting back the withdrew yet another vial and gulped it down before letting the glass tube drop. He prepared for the pain to tear into her once more, hoping that the blade didn't have a paralytic effect should she drop to the ground form her steel jump like a stack of bricks.

Whatever magic the girl used was certainly coming in handy. The Weeper had committed to his thrust and his blade was likely to slash across her arm regardless of her efforts, testament to the last second nature of her escape. Better than being impaled, certainly. That same magic was apparently used to super-charge her projectiles, like the knife before, the steel pellets or whatever they were that she threw at him crashed into his left forearm and across his stomach. Luckily for him perhaps the objects seemed to lack mass, and at such proximity they had little time to accelerate, they weren’t like being shot point-blank with a shotgun at any rate. Two of the coins cut neatly through the ruffles on his sleeve and stabbed into his forearm, two more cut across the front of his shirt and left bloody cuts that quickly spilled out onto his shirt, dampening it with crimson lines. From the Weeper, no sound emerged. If he was perturbed that his thrust had earned itself only token damage and he himself had been harmed, it did not show.

Instead, he turned with remarkable agility in the direction the girl had launched herself in. She had her back to him now as she sent herself skyward and began plummeting back to the ground, he would exploit that ruthlessly. Perhaps she would begin to fear, his aura saturated the area with its insidious purpose, heightening the strain of battle that pushed down on her. The Weeper had a life to claim and he would claim it. The sound of his running footsteps were the only indicator that the reaper himself pursued her, his blade had a taste for her blood already, but it was yet to be satisfied.