"I must admit these setbacks are annoying. They seem to have found their resolve. Yet to face me directly is death. I will meet them, drunk on their victories as they are, and burst their bellies."
The fireplace crackled softly in the plush apartment; the orange light flickered against the pair of comfortable chairs and the red rug. A heavy figure suddenly hit it with a hard thud, echoed right after by a much smaller one. Gunnar's roar of agony was thankfully contained within the room -- it would not too well to draw attention. Blood soaked the carpet as he reached up to clutch the stump where his arm had been.
He had used too much. He'd begun to take Loops for granted, and had just been shown how dependent on the boy he had become. The blood crystallized slowly. Too slowly. It was almost unbearable, and coupled with a panic upon the realization that he didn't have Loops to heal him quickly. That bastard had managed to hold on to him just a bit longer than he'd calculated.
For the ignominy suffered, Gunnar craved retribution. In the moment, however, he was desperate for aid. End was gone. Levin was gone. Loops was Gone. Oda was gone. Armstrong was unavailable. He would have to wait, and heal on his own. The thought incensed him. The old man swore then that he would cast every last one of them down to the seven hells.
Seated at a dinner for two with a wealthy associate, the old man suddenly looked up from his goblet to stare ahead.
Upon the plateau above the Cloud Sea in Abalathia's skull, the monk started from his meditations to look forward, eyes wide.
In deep in the back alleys of Ul'Dah, the homeless child playing with his makeshift toys suddenly lifted his head to gaze intensely in front of him.
Two Hellsguard Roegadyn. A seated male, familiar in a sense -- another behind him, recoiling. A darker skinned female. The red-haired Highlander, the younger Armstrong, staring in horror...and in the corner of it, barely visible...a woman? Hyuran for sure. No more than that was discernable. Behind them a large building -- oasis. The Goblet. Again familiar to one of the three observers...but that was all. Armstrong's fist came down--
Gunnar flinched and spilled his wine, prompting his partner for dinner to ask after his wellness.
Ronsen flinched, and let out an irritated noise between his teeth. "Idiot..."
Loops flinched with a yelp and scrambled backward -- he clutched at his left eye as if to make sure it was still there. It was.
Gunnar cleared his throat and smiled at the Roegadyn across the table. "I'm fine. Sometimes my ah -- socket -- tends to remind me that it can still register pain at times. Come -- continue your account, I _must_ hear what happened next."
The tombs within the Lochs were frigid at night. Frequent sharp, cutting and howling breezes passed through the myriad passageways, sweeping dust in their wake. To add to the inhospitality of the area, spectres and bhoots roamed the halls and descended upon many a man who thought to find his fortune among the dead Ala Mhigan kings. Yet, Gunnar Bloodblade traversed it effortlessly; the spectres and bhoots paid him little mind. In fact, when he drew near enough to them, the wayward spirits moved away. It made for a quick journey through the catacombs to the room where he was supposed to meet his comrade.
He found the monk in a cold, square room, sitting in quiet contemplation. The room was empty saved a raised dais in the center that had at one point held a stone coffin. Within the coffin had been much gold and precious gems, buried with their owner. It was safe to say that was the reason it was no longer present. The men were dressed similarly, in modified attire that called back to their days within the Fists of Rhalgr, but varied enough to make it clear that they had long since moved on. Black wraps about the torso resembled the tantra chestwrap...but it was there that the similarities ended. The dark gaskins and wristwraps were of another design. Neither of them wore shoes -- and for the time being Gunnar had opted to forego the farce of his eyepatch.
Gunnar eyed the other man for a moment, then made his announcement without ado. "Levin is dead."
While the news did not surprise the other monk, it did clearly interest him. His broad, scarred shoulders lifted -- even for a Highlander he was large, though none had yet dared to accuse his blood of being mixed with that of a Roegadyn's. "Oh? Not so much a shame. His usefulness was long spent, and it was only a matter of time before he ran out of gullible fools to hide behind. Berrod and his friends saw to that."
"Time that we have made good use of," Gunnar pointed out.
"Indeed. There was wisdom in your mercy toward him, I won't deny that. But now the layer of obfuscation that he provided has fallen away," The monk murmured. He let out a sigh, and got to his feet. The difference in size between them was almost comical. While Gunnar's blood ran thick with the legacy of the Highlands, he was a short man, almost to Midlander measurements. The thick musculature that wrapped his sturdy bones was more than enough to mark his clan, however.
"I still remain unsatisfied that we gave him the name I wanted to take on for myself. I still haven’t thought of another that I like more. What now, then?"
Gunnar approached the other man -- though he spared a moment to look around the little chamber. The decor of it was exquisite, even though it crumbled some. Red stone from the quarries of Ala Ghanna, hewn and polished by masons of exceptional skill. What precious metals and gems that had once been laid within them had been long since stolen away. "We have, both of us, achieved power that rises above mortal ken. We no longer need to sit behind our masks. Let us approach the rest, offer them one last opportunity to ascend with us. They have all fought well. They all have heart...and they are, many of them, our legacy. They deserve the chance, at least. If they refuse to take it, that will be their choice."
"Ever merciful, Master Gunnarson. Your patience is the stuff of Legend."
Gunnar lifted a brow at the other monk -- rare was it for his actual surname to be called. "No more masks," The other monk reminded with a shrug. "Though I think we need to leave them in ignorance for a day or two. Were you able to retrieve Levin's body?"
Gunnar nodded, and made rapid gestures with his hands. From nothing a massive Hellfrog appeared; red, quivering and far too large for the cramped space. Fortunately, it simply spit up the Roegadyn's corpse onto the dais and vanished again in a blast of white smoke. When it cleared, the other monk looked down at it. Levin had been yet another example of the physical excellence that monkhood often provided, accentuated by his Roegadyn heritage. Still, the observing monk seemed to have nothing but contempt for his paling, lifeless husk. "He vexes me still, you know. A weakling, posing at strength, depending on his pupils to shield him...and relying on my power whenever he had to make shows of might. I'll never forget that day in the Sagolii. It was Berrod and Autgar against him and his ilk. Those two were more than a match for this bastard and his cronies...so I had to intervene and incapacitate them."
"The farce served its purpose," Gunnar reminded gently.
"So it did," The other monk grunted, "And his flesh will serve a higher purpose than it ever did in life."
Even as he spoke, a blue glow flickered on the wall. An aether-gnarled spectre emerged from the red stone and made its way toward the corpse. Lanky, near loping and faceless, an echoed whisper of unintelligible lamentations surrounded it. Both men almost lazily observed its jerking, lumbering journey, then stood at the ready when it drew near to the newly-dead flesh.
It was an odd thing -- two men dressed in monk's attire performing rapid hand motions of eastern origin. When they were done the spectre lurched, spasmed, then swept into the corpse with a brilliant scintillation of blue. Another series of gestures from the monks saw several arcane patterns sealed onto the corpse -- they remained with a blue glow, a consequence neither of them could help. A moment of odd silence followed...then the body twitched.
"It's done," Gunnar announced. "I'll leave the rest to you, Ronsen. Here." From his gaskins he produced a small, yellow crystal. "This should make things easier. His killers were so busy fleeing that they forgot to take it."
Ronsen Armstrong's eyes remained on the animating body, but he moved to take the crystal. "Good. This will save much time. Will you be leaving then, Master?"
The old man nodded. "I will. There are things I need to do before the veil falls away. We are so close. So close. Our old order wished to reach the Destroyer. We stand on the cusp of not only reaching Him -- but destroying and surpassing Him. And from our place on high we will lift mankind into a new era...one where we are not struggling and adrift at the mercy of the Astral and Umbral tides."
"One where your indiscretions will be lost to history, I imagine," Ronsen added with a pointed look.
Gunnar shrugged as that nasty grin of his stretched his lips. "Nowhere is it written that reshaping the world cannot be fun."
How far things had gone. How far things had come. A tale told time, and time again; corruption, in search of power. Nobody had much reason to visit the Burning Wall. Why would they? Aether crystals spiralling out of the ground in jagged spirals, a fragment of Dalamud looming over the horizon like a bad omen...nobody came here. At least not for a good reason. But the road to hell is paved with good intentions, and the thing that now prowled the Burning Wall was one such creature who'd walked that road. A dreaded thing. A tragic thing. Armor fused to its body, aether crystals growing from veins that ran red with near-volcanic blood. It scrapped together a pile of aether crystals by its side, huffing through its nose in displeasure - not much it could do in the way of vocalization beyond that. Its jaw was sealed shut, crystals long since having grown over part of its mouth. In a petulant fit it smashed a crystal, openly weeping at just how far it had fallen...even if it didn't remember just how noble it had once been. The tattered Lominsan flag draped over its back was its only reminder. The only thing, arguably, that kept it whole.
In the sickly orange glow, the old man took his time and hiked along the bridges and archways made of fused crystal and earth. The Burning Wall was a corrupt place, deadly to those who remained there for prolonged periods of time...if they survived the host of coblyns and loosed Allagan monstrosities that wandered the fold. Gunnar had no problems with any of those. So insignificant they were to him that he rather enjoyed the exercise, though by the time he approached his destination he was huffing slightly. The hike had taken its toll. At least, as much of a toll as he'd wished. Immediately his eye roamed onto the abberation -- specifically the flag upon its back. The baleful weeping was music to his ears, and set a disgusting, smug smile onto his lips. "Well, well, well."
The creature could hear. It could feel. It could remember, tibdbits here and there. A blank gaze slid towards Gunnar, before its eyes lit up in furious rage. If it could scream, it would have - apocalyptic anger washed over it as it lumbered to its feet, unsteady. All it could do was pound its chest - the only display of force it could manage, considering it couldn't yell obscenities. It stared at Gunnar then, taking deep, rumbling breaths in through its nose as it waited.
Gunnar sauntered closer with an air of confidence...to a point. He left a few yalms between them in the end. "This is a more beautiful circumstance than I could ever have hoped for, my friend." The old man bent forward and tilted his head in scrutiny. "You found out, didn't you? You found out and you tried. Wonderful. Wonderful!" He laughed, reared up and clapped his hands like a delighted child, "But no, my good man. Such power does not treat the undeserving well. It takes decades of preparation before one can harness it properly. Though I suppose I should commend you on surviving it. It speaks well of your resilience. You were always too tough for your own damn good."
The lumbering menace rolled its left shoulder, grunting its displeasure as it reached down and hefted the axe over one crystal-laden shoulder. The words made sense, but the knowledge wasn't parsing. It could scarcely remember. It held the axe before itself gently, a hand reaching to touch at something red, forcefully embedded into the head of the axe. When its fingers alighted on it, everything made at least a touch more sense. It could remember more, just how far gone it was. It stared. Eyes, pained. Beneath the crystals covering its mouth, it ground its teeth in fury, moving to hold the axe at the ready - an unspoken challenge.
The old man very carefully removed his tunic in response; beneath the gold-trimmed cloth his pair of deadly Khanjars sat on his waist, both of which were quickly drawn. "Ah. Forgive me," He murmured rather sincerely, "I ought to speak to you in a language you can understand." And so he stepped forward to close those last few yalms between them in order to engage. There was no aetheric complication just yet -- just a pair of knives screaming to converge on the hulking husk of a man.
He devolved so quickly. Even as each knife met his form, slicing into his armor, he barely reacted. It had suffered worse. It would always suffer worse. It simply raised its axe high, the crystals on its body shifting and cracking from the strain, before it brought it back down slamming towards Gunnar. But it was slow. Not even a shade of the same skill or speed it once possessed. Only anger. Only rage.
The Khanjars went up in a crossing guard. The Highlander's muscles had tensed, ready to compress and absorb the blow. So it did with a hard, scraping clang -- though there was a note of astonishment in that silver eye. Like oil he slipped from the follow through of the guard and aimed a whipping, spinning kick toward the side of the brute's crystal-encroached head.
It raised its axe again, as if to once more do the same attack, before Gunnar's kick caused it to stagger to the side, the axe lowering in response while it tried to right itself. Lifting the axe high with its left hand, it did a broad sweep towards Gunnar's legs, the armor fused to its skin groaning in response to the sudden exertion. Though mighty in stature and strength, the brute was still a brute. No plan it could remember, no martial skill it could recall. A rampaging beast.
He landed lightly and pushed back to just avoid that horrid slash. Gunnar skidded back slightly on the grassy floor, then stopped. "I see," He murmured. The knives were quickly set back into their holdings, allowing his hands to move through a rapid series of gestures. When he clapped the final one together his form wobbled and shimmered into a female figure. The transformation was perfect, down to the clothing he had recalled from a fateful day that seemed like ages ago. The familiar figure was meant to hold much meaning -- and test to see how much of that meaning went through.
The axe slid to a halt in the dirt, the beast pulling it back up and preparing for another mighty swing before it stopped cold at this new sight. Its opponent was gone. Replaced by a mirage that was all too familiar. It stared for a moment with blank eyes that had lost their fury with Gunnar's disappearance, before it clicked. It clicked all too well. The beast stomped its foot. It clutched at its face, teeth grinding, crystals cracking before the ones around his jaw shattered and he was finally able to roar his displeasure to the heavens. The only vocalization it could manage. The furious roar quickly devolved, however, into abject sobbing as the pitiful thing dropped to its knees and let its axe drop to the dirt, now holding its face in its hands as it simply wept as the reality of its fate set in.
The woman Gunnar had become tilted her head curiously. She clasped her hands once more, and with a wobbling flicker, the old man returned to his regular appearance. Slowly, calmly, he moved to pick up his tunic and don it again. "What a wretched fate," He murmured solemly. With pity in his eye he approached the hulking thing, bold enough to reach out in a bid to cradle its face. The pity very nastily shifted to wicked regard, satisfaction, and almost erotic relish."I'm so glad I let you live."
It didn't move save the heaves of its body as it sobbed. As soon as Gunnar touched it, however - a hand shot for the axe, and a shockwave of aetheric energy exploded outward from it as it once more roared. The wounds inflicted by Gunnar's knives began to heal, stitching themselves together as it tried once more to lumber to its feet. It could remember. Even having suffered such denigration, it could remember its original goal; kill Gunnar. At any cost.
Gunnar stagged back, his eye wide with shock. The shock quickly turned to delight, wild and mad. "Ah, so you've some fight left in you, after all yes?" As the massive aberration clambered up, he closed the distance between them again -- though this time it was to aim a bare fist at its center of mass. It was in that moment that Gunnar intended to remind the shell of a man that underneath all the eastern trickery and Ul'Dahn fineries, he was a monk -- and no fledgling one at that. The fist bore forward with the force of a charging aurochs.
It had no time to stop it, even as in its fury it raised its axe - the fist collided square with its gut, sending it flying back into the crystals behind it, leaving a slight dent as it fell to its knees, gasping for breath as the mere touch of the crystals was enough to once more begin sealing the ones around its mouth again. With almost drunken-like swaying, it got to its feet, hands still gripping its axe...it had to...it had to...keep...
The old man observed the crystallization...but he still approached with that fist at the ready. His intent was so obvious it nigh radiated off of him -- he intended to pummel the poor, suffering thing. There was no end to his cruelty. "You belong to me," He declared calmly. The fist swung again, this time for the crystals forming on its face.
The fist collided with a solid SMACK, shattering the crystal around his jaw once again and causing it to reel, barely able to recover. With its mouth free once again, it roared at Gunnar - but there was that blank, unfocused gaze, filled with rage and...nothing else.
"Granted, ownership means I should put you to use," He mused, "Where, though...? Perhaps loose you upon the Grindstone's line...how many would you kill before they put you down, I wonder? Or perhaps a gift for the Arbiter himself? Hmn. No that would be a waste. I don't want you cut down quickly. I'm still very fond of you, you know. I'll think of something..." He rubbed at his fist and sighed, "Until then I suppose I can leave you here."
It couldn't remember anymore. All it knew was an unending, ceaseless ocean of anger. Raising its axe with its right hand, it took an unskilled attempt of a swing at Gunnar's torso, seeking to cleave the man in two. It didn't know why. It just knew Gunnar was there. And he hated them. It couldn't remember anything. Just hate, and rage, and nothing but the inner beast consuming all.
Gunnar took a quick step back -- but it wasn't quick enough. The axe sliced an ilm into the meat of his chest, and elicited a spray of blood which immediately hardened into red crystal. It was an awkward portrusion, but it was rich with aether. Slowly it began to crackle and compress, returning to the wound from whence it came. "Good," He grunted, "Maintain that."
Gunnar had taken that step back, and it was enough. He simply raised his axe again, threateningly. A mindless beast, devoted to its territory, posturing - demanding the interloper leave.
The red line on Gunnar's chest vanished, and the old man looked up at the posturing beast -- amused. "...very well," He conceded. He took another step back and fussed with the tunic. The trimmings had been sliced. A shame. "I'll see you soon, old friend. Be well in the meantime." Boldly, he turned his back to it and began his hike back.
It grunted beneath the solid formation of crystal around its mouth, lazily letting its axe drop once more to the ground and turning its back on Gunnar. Seating itself, it once more swiped at a nearby pile of aetheric crystal, staring longingly, attempting to find its own reflection. The tattered Lominsan flag draped across its back fluttered gently in the breeze, as it tried to remember once more who it was, and how it came to pass that it had suffered such an ignominious fate.
(Evening Fist) Evening was kneeling by a rather grisly sight. Dead in cold blood, presumably. And he didn't like WHERE, either. He'd come to this place out of...some misguided sense of nostalgia, for a fight hard won. And here was a dead monk. "Last time I was here, killed one'a'y'buggers on this spot...seems lightnin' likes to strike twice..." He got to his feet, rolling his shoulders as goggled eyes looked up to the raining sky. "...hrm." He took a few cautious steps away from the body...he didn't want to be victim to that exploding corpse trick a second time.
(Gunnar Bloodblade) Out of the curtains of rain he came; first a vague sweeping, then a silhouette, and then a phantom. As he drew nearer his form grew clear -- Gunnar, soaked to the skin in his usual tunic, traipsing about without the pretense of his bodyguard. His arrival was far, -far- too convenient. His silver eye dropped down to the body, and then looked up at evening. "...ah."
(Evening Fist) The roegadyn looked over towards Gunnar's almost trepidatious-looking arrival. But he knew better. This man was a deadly weapon, and then some. "Well ain't this awful fuckin' funny. I go back to where y'last sent a monk to kill me, and what do I find but another dead monk. See, last time I wasn't worried; was just business, after all. But I learned real quick it ain't ever that simple." He turned fully to face the aging highlander, resting a hand on the eastern blade on his left hip."Catch y'at a bad time?"
(Gunnar Bloodblade) He inclined his head at the man. As ever there was a deadly calm to him -- though his usual secure smugness was absent. He was here on business, it seemed. "So it wasn't you who did this, then..." He murmured, "I suppose that's a relief. It would be a waste to have to kill you here, I rather enjoy you." His chin tipped down at the corpse, "That's one of mine. He was supposed to report to me a bell ago. Unfortunately he's not been the first. In fact -- he's about the twentieth. My men are being slaughtered."
(Evening Fist) "Damn shame, that. I'd reckon they deserve it, servin' a man like you are. Now, much as y'know I ain't your biggest fan, best we can do is be civil. So. I'll be civil." He raised a hand, placatingly. "Though I ain't gonna get into how you wouldn't find me the pushover I was last...time." A pause, first. A realization, second. "Y'ain't walkin' around without a bodyguard? Dangerous for a man yer age, Gunnar."
(Gunnar Bloodblade) There it was. That smug confidence that translated into a half-lidded sneer on his lined face. "What, will I have to push slightly harder now?" He jeered, "That aside, if civility is what you want, I will respect it." He drew closer, his frame like oil on polished tile. His interest seemed more in the body than Evening's proximity. "Bodyguards tend to get in the way if something happens. They're so -slow-. Good for show only."
(Evening Fist) "Don't think you got a hard enough push." He takes another step back, gesturing with a sweeping hand to the body as if to say 'be my guest', while he strolled around it, keeping the body between him and Gunnar. "Any clue what did him in? Couldn't see any identifyin' marks. Seven hells, I even thought it was YOUR doin'." Evening's tone turned slightly jeering, at that. "It gettin' under your skin?" He was, truthfully, anything BUT civil.
(Gunnar Bloodblade) Gunnar adjusted his tunic and sat to inspect the corpse. Battered, as was the wont of any man who fought fist to fist...but no particular intentifier regarding -who- did the battering...though by the look on his face, he seemed to have a clue. "I have recently lost custody of a rather petulant...guest. I can only assume this is his doing. It would seem he aims to erase my forces in entirety. An...effective and irritating tactic, so I suppose yes, it's getting under my skin a little. I don't enjoy having my assets destroyed." His eye flicked up to evening, "I don't suppose I could interest you in a contract? What with your -alleged- improvement and all."
(Evening Fist) Evening stared. "...I'll at the very least be polite enough to hear y'out, but don't expect anything pleasant, warnin' you now."
(Gunnar Bloodblade) The old man took some time to bite down on his finger -- it drew blood, and like a diligent child he made smeared red markings upon the corpse -- markings that the rain did not seem to erase. "I'd like a man and his family killed. Four men in total -- and their house burned. They live within the Goblet, so you'd have to be discreet."
(Evening Fist) "An' what, in the flamin', deepest depths of the seven hells, could you POSSIBLY give me to convince me to do that."
(Gunnar Bloodblade) The old man stood and licked his finger clean -- the wound was gone. "I don't know. What do you want?"
(Evening Fist) "I want a lotta things, Gunnar. I want outta this rain. I wanna keep buildin' myself up, be one of the best damn samurai all of Eorzea ever did see. You dead, but that's obviously not on the list. So I want a lotta things, Gunnar. 'n iffin' I'm bein' honest? I don't think you can give me a damn thing I want."
(Gunnar Bloodblade) He huffed a chuckle. "I see. Unfortunate." He brought his hands together as he glanced down at the body, "I think you'll probably come around someday...but I won't push for that today." With a blast of smoke, the corpse was gone. When he looked back up at Evening, it was with a very, -very- pleasant and warm smile. "I won't force the issue -- I've things of my own to attend. With this business done, I can afford myself some leisure. Namely, partake in the holiday activities. It's one of my favourites, you know. All the little ladies, seeking out brave and true Seneschals." The pleasant smile transposed only slightly -- but somehow the subtle motion gave birth to an expression most unsavoury, "...and I do so very much enjoy obliging."
(Evening Fist) He stared him down. The stare didn't falter, even as the body disappeared, even as those disgusting, foul words rolled out of his mouth like poisonous gas. He was calm. Was it time, he wondered. Was it worth it, he mused. Aim true, ye vengeful. "You're a sick man, Gunnar. A greedy, poisonous man. You treat men 'n women like stepping stones 'n the world like it's your favorite ball of yarn. An' I'm sick of obliging that. Make peace with whatever god you're beholden to - you're about to meet 'em."
(Evening Fist) He wasted no time once he was finished speaking, his right hand flew to his blade's hilt, drawing it and slicing in one motion, the very air frosting before the blade's path as he slid towards Gunnar; one smooth motion. One cut. He knew he could do it. He'd behead this bastard and they'd all be done with it. No bodies to swap to, no shadows to trick him - he could end it here.
(Gunnar Bloodblade) The bastard didn't even -flinch-. He looked forward blandly and raised a pair of pinching fingers, ready to intercept as if he was about to capture a wayward piece of paper. Something at the last second riled his caution, however -- a shocked stare flung across to the Roegadyn, and with a quick flick of his hand he presented one of a pair of khanjars in his defense. While it was enough to have him keep his head, the clash of steel wasn't nearly enough to stop the gash in his chest from opening up. It was raw, bloody, and left a splattering trail as the man flung back into the tree behind him. No shadows. No way to run. He sat slumped there, his tunic reddened. "...ah."
(Evening Fist) Just as quickly as he'd drawn, he whipped the blood off the blade with a smooth flick and drew the blade back, running his hand along it. "This ends." Surging forward as if borne on the wind, his blade wreathed in aetheric energy, he aimed to simply jab the blade through Gunnar's forehead, the air whistling behind him. Evening's true calling had evidently not been the axe. But even as he rushed forward with the force of a tidal wave, he had to wonder; would it be enough?
(Gunnar Bloodblade) Gunnar grunted -- he wasn't afforded time, and was left no choice. There was irritation there, but the necessity of survival left him little choice. The blade struck his forehead and sliced at the eyepatch. The leather fell away, but his flesh may as well have been cermet. The blade did not penetrate at all. As the patch uncovered his other, closed eye it was evident that there was...nothing wrong with it. The structure of his brow and cheekbone had spared the eye itself from being cut by whatever had left that nasty scar. Slowly, he opened it to offer a binocular silver gaze toward the Roegadyn. Aether -welled- from him. Waves of it -- bands of it, it -radiated- from the man like light and heat would off the sun. Thirteen brilliant seats of it roared and roiled, even as the blood gushing from him suddenly crystallised. Crystals began forming from the tree, in the land, and even hung in the air around them. "You want me to make peace with my God?" He murmured. The man stood, his presence oppressive despite his much smaller stature. "I -am- my God. And yours." A slight smile. "Will you bow, run, or die?"
(Evening Fist) He took one step back as Gunnar rose, blade still at the ready. The shockwave that had travelled up his arms from his blade clashing with the cermet-like skin had been nothing compared to the feeling the aetheric waves rolling off of Gunnar gave him. Another step back, though it was not a retreat - he needed space. Think. He could hardly think, with that overbearing presence, weighing on him. For the first time in a long time, Zirnaren Skarnbhalnsyn felt fear. Though it was not for himself he feared, but for another. Many others. How confident was he, in his skills? In his abilities? Did he fight here and perish? What example would that serve? A forgotten corpse, likely used against his will. 'Aim true, ye vengeful' he had thought. He HAD, and it wasn't enough. The aetheric energies had yet to dissipate from his blade however, as he affixed Gunnar with a steely gaze. "I don't bow to madmen." He had an idea. And it involved speed, and precision. With a stubborn grunt, he resolved, inwardly...-aim better-. He whipped back in, slicing for Gunnar's left arm - he didn't seem to care if he hit or not, as he immediately withdrew the blade and came in for his right. Again. And again. And again. Cermet skin be damned, he would strike.
(Evening Fist) Left, right, left, right, stab, left, right...
(Gunnar Bloodblade) Gunnar...disregarded him. It was the ultimate show of disrespect; the old man set his attention to idle on some odd shrub in the distance as those strikes came. It turned out that the floating hunks of blue, glittering crystal that had formed around him were no random anomalies. One instantly intercepted the strike. Its form bucked, crackled and ground into a vague shape that shattered before the blade. The next did the same -- and the next, and the one after that. It was about the fourth or fifth one that truly showed the shape the crystals were taking. Small arms, slight torsos, round faces with vague crags for features. Children. They took the shape of children that leapt before each strike to take the blow for him. The aether about him diminished, but the difference was slight. Slight...but not negligible. Even as he paid attention to the shrubbery, Gunnar reached up and broke off a chunk of that crystalline blood from his chest, red and glimmering. It crackled and extended to a long blade...a blade that he simply held in waiting until the next strike...then unleashed with a lazy flick in the general direction of Evening's torso.
(Evening Fist) His blows were furious, yet not frantic - he was utter calm, embodied both in his arm, and the extension of it in his blade. Making leeway. Albeit too slowly for his liking. His eyes behind the goggles flicked to the display of crystalline blood even as he continued the assault, before he whirled about to face it - there was no time. Falling backwards, he used his blade to prop himself up as he practically limboed under the bloody crystal, which sheared narrowly past his face. Close enough he could make out the whorls and patterns in the blood. Launching himself to his feet and a few yalms away, a lock of white-blonde hair drifted down between them. If that had connected, Evening realized darkly...but he was making headway. Very, very slow headway. Tightening the grip on his blade, he spoke, some distance away. "What, still makin' others take the blows for you? What happened to that skin-trick y'had goin'?" Regardless, it was clear that while Evening Fist had his own strength, his wellspring of aether paled in comparison to Gunnar's sheer, endless expanse. This could very well be a battle of attrition. And Gunnar would win.
(Gunnar Bloodblade) Gunnar was silent as he held the blade out in the follow-through of the motion. It crumbled and shattered into brown scab-like flakes. He reached to his chest again, but to remove the torn tunic. The injury from where he had prised his self-forged blade was nowhere to be seen. "I'm not one to abandon caution to power. You know as well as I do that you tailored those strikes to cut through even that." He sighed, "I am -fond- of you, Evening. Very much so. It would sadden me to erase you before you can truly see your grand place in this world. Will you not stand down?"
(Evening Fist) The grip on his blade tightened. Evening Fist wondered if he alone could truly make any headway. But, deep inside...Zirnaren had a plan. "Sixty ticks. You give me sixty ticks to prove to you you're not as godly as you think. And at the end of those sixty ticks? What happens is up to history." He took a step back and held his blade aloft, allowing the tip of it to drop into his now outstretched left hand. "You wanna show me my 'grand place', Gunnar? You got sixty ticks to do it."
(Evening Fist) "You ready?"
(Gunnar Bloodblade) Gunnar did something that many had not yet seen him do; the old man raised his fists. "Don't think to highly of yourself. I needn't be anything near as Godly to deal with the likes of you. But I'll take your challenge. Come."
(Evening Fist) He returned his blade to his two-handed grip, having conserved his energy...what little he had left. "In sixty seconds, you'll change your tune." Evening was calm. He had to stay calm. Once more he surged forward, another attempt, another flurry of blows - each strike precise in equal measure.
(Gunnar Bloodblade) The old bastard was -fast-. Even with his bare hands he parried the blade with the back of his hand and his forearms -- though he did well to dodge the -stabs-. Those he seemed particularly wary of. That confident, smug grin was there, growing nastier by the moment -- and then, a twist of Evening's blade caught him off guard. His forearm parried it at the wrong angle...and a red line drew upon it at once. Blood flowed in thin lines, and the old man frowned. Still, it didn't stop his tempo. With a flick of his arm the blood extended to a crystallised pata, the blade of which wrapped around his fist for a stabbing strike toward the larger man's gut.
(Evening Fist) Zirnaren made mental notes. What worked, what didn't. Fast was -right-. But he could manage fast. It was those damn blood weapons that threw him for a loop, and he was immediately on the defensive, swinging his blade down and to the side, pushing against the bloody blade and stepping back in the same motion. Gunnar could afford as many blows as he wanted. Evening couldn't afford one. But Gunnar and Evening would both feel it - each strike of his blade, however true, was minutely weaker. He was flagging. So it was Evening brought his plan to fruition - a quick strike to his cermet-skinned left arm, dead on. No chance of cutting. Another. Another. Each blow caused him to reel back harder, the recoil evidently getting to him, his hands beginning to shake. But something changed - on his last blow, he changed the trajectory - ever so slightly - to sweep past Gunnar's arm and into a drawing position, whereupon he once more sliced out in one smooth motion. Only this time, he aimed for Gunnar's elbow. Regardless of whether his strike connected, followed through, whatever - as soon as he'd met his mark (or surpassed it, as was his hope), all the energy from his blade faded, and he was left with his master's sword once again. Sixty ticks were up.
(Gunnar Bloodblade) Gunnar seemed...entertained at first, to say the least. The blood pata shattered easily, and he laughed as the blows glanced off of his skin. "Losing your touch, I think!" He jeered. And then came that slice. He'd been in the middle of a retaliating punch -- the blade swept his arm wide and arced -right- through the elbow. While it didn't entirely sever the arm, it sure as hells left it hanging by a thread. The old man's eyes went wide with shock...just as a massive, fanning burst of aether and blood erupted from the wound. It immediately crystallized into a macabre pattern of red and blue -- almost like a wing. Shock had given way to fury, and that silver stare displayed killing intent. The crystalline formation from his wound crackled and molded into the shape of a man -- Gunnar himself. It rumbled, cracked and snapped in Evening's direction, seemingly intent on seizing the Roegadyn by his throat.
(Evening Fist) Plan worked. Time for a quick escape. With his last gasps of aether he launched himself backward with another swing - no intent to hit anything, simply relying on the force to send him flying backwards and out of reach of those grabbing, crystalline hands. Sliding to a halt many yalms away, he kept his blade at the ready, even as he began to back up. This was information. THIS was his weapon. And if he died here, now...no one would ever know. So for once, he skipped the jeers. He skipped the retaliatory taunt; he simply turned and was off, launching himself ten yalms forward at a time, zigzagging out of the Wellwick woods as fast as his last sparks of aether could take him per leap.
(Gunnar Bloodblade) ...He had been had. Fury flickered on his face -- all the remaining hunks of crystal around him mirrored it, twisting and cracking into silently roaring visages of rage...and then they stopped. With a few deep breaths, the old man stood straight and allowed the crystals to return to him. It was a slow process -- perhaps painful by the way he winced at intervals. For certain there was much -less- than he had started off with. The glittering blue formed a cast around his arm that sank in and left it as good as new...or so he thought. Eventually the man was left standing there, staring. "Impressive," He murmured, "Exilarating. Infuriating. Frightening. Erotic. Very well." And so, the madman stopped to gather his bloodied tunic and his damaged eyepatch. He would need to recover. Perhaps not physically, but the unstable slate of his already twisted mind had been shaken...and it would take time for it to settle again.
This knife. This gods-damned bloody knife. I wish he hadn’t given it to me.
It’s all well and rutting good to say that I asked for it, because I did. Made myself clear, and he understood precisely what I’d asked for. The mistake wasn’t his for taking ruthless advantage. It was mine for not phrasing my request in such a way as to safeguard my need against his schemes.
Went to him moons ago and asked for a design. Pattern, more like. A sequence of geometries, I’ve learned, can be employed to coax aether into just about any shape or form for myriad purposes. The effect which I was after was beyond my paltry skills – I’ve no talent for what I’m learning – but I knew that they were beyond others’ skills, as well. The energies involved are staggering, and the one arcanist I’ve known to handle them almost killed both of us in doing so. So I approached someone else… the cleverest of them, and the most devious.
Mountain’s Shadow gave me the knife not long after I made the request.
That’s not to say that he reneged on our deal, or that he subverted the terms. Gods, no. He gave me the pattern on a slip of parchment… but he knew that the odds were good that I might require more than the one schematic to work off of, and that in the heat of the moment I would be too hard-pressed to produce more geometries on my own. Right there in front of me, he took this blade and he cut himself with it. From the wound slipped a sliver, and by that sliver he pulled forth the parchment.
I suspect that there’s no ink involved.
There’s the crux of the matter, then, the heart and soul of the reason for which I have delayed. The knife has been in my possession for several fortnights, now. Though I’ve not had it looked over for fear of treachery or at least the betrayal of my intent, I have no illusions about the design, the parchment, or the knife. Somewhere in here is advantage for him.
The most obvious plot is the siphoning of the energies which I intend to steal. It cannot have been said before that the Strength of Rhalgr cannot breach Mealvaan’s Gate, for one art is ancient and slept for a time, while the other is young and has yet to be tested. But, as mentioned, I’ve… personal experience with the matter. This isn’t theoretical. It’s more a question of whether the application is practical. My concern is that there might be instructions hidden within the geometries for the egi involved. Thirteen chakras’ worth of aether is no laughing matter.
The less obvious and more subtle machination has to do with the blade itself. Is the intent the collection of blood, or is the knife’s secret purpose to mark those it cuts by way of the introduction of some agent? Both possibilities chill me to the bone, but I cannot know for certain without consulting others. That I haven’t done so… there’s no good excuse. The bad excuse is that I am avoiding the usual objections and arguments which might follow, the indignation thrust into my face though they know full well and would admit, were it anyone else other than that man, that they themselves lack the knowledge, the skill, or the strength to fashion me the weapon I need.
It’s not that I’m keeping secrets. It’s that I don’t trust others to pick which leashes we should wear, which demons with which we should bargain. Hammersmith is right, after a fashion: I choose violence because what I want is the power that comes with it. Can I suffer breathing in the ash and come out the other side alive, or will I be burnt for my insolence?
Thing is, I’m also right: danger is coming for me now, whether I run to meet it or turn aside to flee. I’ve not kept a low enough profile, and everyone knows how vulnerable a man with wife and children can be.
‘Everyone’ includes Gunnar Bloodblade.
How much has Ulfarr told him? How much does he know? When and how will he apply pressure? That he will isn’t a question, it’s a certainty. I know this because that was how I used to think when I was Problemsolver.
One more problem to solve, one more hand to feed, and I might just emerge unscathed with everything I want.
Loops' knock on Gunnar's office door was always distinct. For one, it rapped from far lower than many of his usual non-Lalafell visitors -- though the old man could always tell it wasn't a Lalafell due to its somewhat feeble impact. Feeble or no, it distracted Gunnar from his work of perusing several proposals and business plans to expand his mercenary wing of the company. They were all neatly laid out on the dark wooden desk before him like tiles of parchment, each one ready to be picked up and looked at at a moments notice. Gunnar had to admit to himself that the view of the crackling fireplace only a few yalms from his desk inspired some rather rash impulses. Nevertheless, he bid the boy enter.
Loops was less than impressive for a boy his age in terms of looks. He was Hyuran, that much was sure -- and very likely of Highlander stock, given his three or four ilms' advantage over other boys. No more than thirteen summers of age, he stood with a head of dark, scraggly hair that fell on either side of a smooth face that was often flat with melancholy. His eyes showed interest in few things, dull save for the spark of intelligence behind them. Usually he was dusty, and dressed in loose, dusty clothes -- but today he seemed to have bathed and put on a set of tattered but laundered trappings. The shirt was a bit too big, where the sleeves went a few ilms past his fingertips and the lower hem skirted his knees. The trousers seemed to fit fine, though below them he wore no shoes. The boy made sure to close the door behind him before addressing his host. "Hello, Mister Gunnar."
Gunnar himself was dressed in a casual tunic of Ul'dahn style -- though today he eschewed the shirt underneath to leave his arms bare. With the densely packed, scarred muscles and his eyepatch, he looked quite a bit more like a desert bandit than a businessman. It was an intimidating thing, likely presented on purpose. His silver eye moved to the boy. "Welcome, Loops. I didn't expect you today. I'd have had your favourite meal catered and brought here had I known. Please, come sit." He gestured toward one of the two plush chairs before his desk. "To what do I owe the visit?"
Loops scuttled to the chair and climbed into it with enthusiasm that betrayed his age. It was a bit of a scramble, concluded with a wiggle that situated him properly in the comfortable cushions. He offered a polite smile to Gunnar before his face settled back into the default, yet harmless melancholy. "I saw you walking in Ul'Dah with Ulfarr yesterday." There was a distinct attempt at avoiding an accusatory tone.
Gunnar leaned back in his chair and set his arms on the rest. His head tipped to the left as he regarded the young boy. "And so you did," He confirmed, "What of it, then?"
While Loops' face betrayed naught, his hands did root from the over-sized sleeves to find each other and wring amidst the loose cloth. "You're enemies now. Did you kill him?" This time the waver in his voice was there, as was the tension and apprehension that took his small frame. Fortunately the latter was mitigated by the absolute sheet of a shirt on his back.
Gunnar remained placed for a drawn out moment, then sighed, "I did not kill him." Loops seemed to deflate with relief, though Gunnar continued to speak, "We have in fact reconciled our differences, and allowed for bygones to be bygones. While he is not in my employ, I have invited him to remain as a companion -- and will work to make sure that his family's interests and safety are also taken care of."
Loops ended up with his mouth open, and his rickety torso leaned forward. He had not the mindset to try to hide how happy he was about what had just been said -- though a wariness took him before long. "...are you deceiving him? Is it a trap for him, or the others?"
Gunnar's laugh made the poor boy jump, and he had to offer a soothing apology before he responded. "Not at all, my boy. It -is- part of a design, but not a trap. You like, Ulfarr, no? You've become fast friends, if I'm correct."
Loops grimaced and embarrassment both scrunched and reddened his features. "I don't like-like him," He established firmly, "I don't like boys like you." He didn't like girls, either, but that was neither here nor there. Other people were nasty. "But yes, he's my friend, and if it's not a trap then I'm glad. I don't want him to die."
"I'm well aware of that," Gunnar noted, "Which is why, when all this is over, he will join us, and you will be able to build on your friendship. By extending my hand to him, I have ensured that you will suffer no loss. I know you've been agonizing over it. You no longer have to be caught between us."
Loops' melancholy had absolutely evaporated -- he leaned forward with both hands clutched on the edge of the desk, eyes and mouth wide in a smile of wonder and adoration. "...that's really wise of you, Mister Gunnar -- I'm -- I'm sorry I started talking to him without your permission --"
"You can speak to whoever you like, loops, you are a free man."
The boy 's chest swelled, he was called a -man- of all things, freedom be damned. Joy burst from him such that he lunged, scrambled over the table (and sent a few of the documents flying besides) to tackle the older man with as crushing a hug as his skinny arms could manage. "You're the best! You're the best! Thank you, Mister Gunnar!"
"Please, Loops, I only --"
"No, I mean it! This is the best thing that has happened in a long time! I promise I'll repay you for it! I'll use Bobo and Lobo to do whatever you want, no matter what it is!"
Gunnar lifted a hand to give the boy a few pats on the back, and was glad that the lad could not see the savage satisfaction and triumph in his nigh bestial grin. "I would like that very much, Loops. Very much indeed."
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