[Open] The Battle of Blackwood Tower

[paradigm]

---

Blackwood Tower

---

---

{Parameters}

I. [Status]Open
II. [Combat]T1 Story (assuming combat occurs)
III. [Length] Short-Moderate Term (Possibility of Long Term Rp, pending on events)

[paradigm]

They had gathered their flocks, they had preached that the end was near, that absolution lay just beyond the horizon, that their Utopian way of life was to fall; none of them truly knew how right they were. Ironically when ‘The End’ had befallen their land the priests of the tower had rejoiced, for out of the ashes would come life, or so they had believed. However, it wasn’t long after ‘The End’ that the religion preached by the ministers of the tower was ousted by the occult. Bush Sorcerers and Shamans had come out of the woodwork and manipulated what was left of the flock. So it was that they had united their small congregation in a ritual to bring an end to this apocalyptic age. They had become desperate and in their desperation had come to rely on a power they did not fully comprehend. He had come from the sky, bathed in fire, upon the day of their ritual. How could they not view him as a divine being?

His arrival was announced with destruction. His descent, a horrid mass of flesh and fire, had ripped the spire off the tower before scarring the earth. They had collected him, that he was alive was a testament to his immortality, or so they had professed. None of them had thought to question the origin of their ‘gift from the heavens.’ It would prove to be their final mistake.

~*~

THE STONE SWORDS
There had been a massacre the likes of which he had never before seen. Body parts lay discarded, most of them in entirely different rooms from their respective owners. Lieutenant Veit of the Stone Swords closed tight his eyes and prayed that when he opened them he would be back on patrol with his men and that the macabre scene before them was nothing more than a trick of the eyes.

“Sir.” Corporal Hargraves said stepping over the shattered remains of a stone door.

“Report”

“The other floors are the same, Lieutenant Veit. There were no survivors.”

Veit nodded, a sad smile tightening his lips. “I’d thought as much.”

“What sort of men could hack up innocent civilians into pieces?”

“Man.” Veit corrected him. “Our attacker worked alone...and he didn’t use a blade.”

“How-“

“The limbs,” Veit explained. “At the base, the pieces of ragged flesh, they’ve been torn off, Corporal.

Hargraves knelt down to inspect as the Lieutenant had instructed and brought a gauntleted hand to his mouth. “What sort of monster are we dealing with, Sir?”

“I don’t know, but we’ll be going after it. Alert the men and see to it that a messenger is sent to Commandant Burna.”

“Yes sir.” Hargraves saluted before trotting off to carry out Veit’s orders.

Brushing pale locks from his brow, Lieutenant Veit steadied his hand and rested it upon the hilt of his blade. Would steel even prove effective against this beast? Was he leading his men to their deaths? Regardless, he had little choice in the matter. Whoever had caused this destruction would be brought to justice. They had all sworn oaths upon enlisting with the Stone Swords; each and every one of them had touched his lips to their god’s weapon and gave their allegiance. A beast was running rampant and they would have to stop him or die trying.

“Either way,” Veit whispered “Death comes for us all in the end.”

~*~

MARTEL

Like a shooting star, Martel rocketed towards the earth. The winds, battering at his body, did little in the way of killing
off the flames. Despite his half-giant heritage, Martel’s skin was blackened and damaged. There had been more than magic in the mage’s fire.

With a deafening ‘thud’ Martel crashed into stone, his massive frame knocking free the spire of an enormous tower.

The flames that had not died out on their own after the airship’s explosion were battered out by Martel’s collision into the earth. With a groan, the mercenary rose to his feet. Martel Bloodsbane, had survived.

---

Broken and beaten, Martel pushed on. His ribs had been cracked and his skin looked to have been peeled away; the pink flesh underneath was slimy and pulsating in pain. The pain, while capable of sending lesser men into shock, served only to push the giant onward. Locks of dirty blonde hair fell across Martel’s face, hiding his pain filled eyes from the world.

He wanted to stop, gods how he wanted to stop, but he couldn’t. For he knew that the moment he stopped to rest, SHE would find him. The lady Yazu, child-like in her supposed innocence, was the most monstrous being Martel had ever encountered; his fear of her ranked higher than his fear of the Witch Queen. The things he had seen her do…his pain was nothing compared to the pain she could make someone endure. Gasping for air, Martel continued on.

“…blood…blood…peel the strips…rip the skin…rip the strips…taste the flesh…the strips…the strips… the strips…the strips.”

With a grunt, Martel fell into darkness.

---

Peering through the telescope, Martel chuckled softly to himself as the soldiers moved out of the tower. They looked soft; his would be captors wouldn’t have stood a change against Martel’s Mercenaries of Vorane. Separate them and slaughter them.

His burns had since healed; the salve provided to him at the Tower had made quick work of his pain. His shattered ribs had been mended thanks to a great deal of sorcery that had drained the temple’s mages of their power, Martel’s giant blood made even the most basic of healing magic a chore. Yet, in the end it was what had made his escape that much easier. Having exhausted themselves on his injuries they’d had no strength to put up a fight, allowing Martel a chance to enjoy himself.

If the soldiers were blundering idiots they would see the tracks he’d left and be upon him within the next few hours, but Martel wasn’t worried. What were a few insects to one such as him? Even unarmed Martel felt confident in his abilities to overcome the soldiers. Grinning, Martel crouched down and awaited their arrival.

“Come and get me.”

[Nayt]

And where there was Death, there was the Reaper.

Reapers, Reapers . . . soldiers of Death. If you were living, you'd never know they existed. Chances were you'd never know, too, even in death. Reapers worked quick. They were efficient and thorough. You die and you come to somewhere else, be it your own little chunk of Paradise or your own personal Hell. You see them on the streets day after day and you never think, "hey, look at that guy, I bet he exorcises ghosts as a night job." No; no one does that. If they could, and they somehow did, then clearly the Reapers weren't doing their job, a possibility which went completely against the basic and advanced training required of these men and women on the field.

They all had jobs to do.

And they weren't easy jobs, either.

At one point, though, it actually was an easy one. They had pseudo-machines that kept them up to date on the passing of souls into the dead lands--the transition world, Purgatory, and all the names people had come up with over the thousands of years that philosophers bickered back and forth about the potential for life after death, ghosts, and the spiritual worlds. Nonetheless, those pseudo-machines, run entirely by the same life-flow that cycled the world, allowed the Reaper to know where someone passed, and devices attached to the same recycling spirit of the world allowed them the opportunity to go to that wayward spirit and move it on.

That was an easier life. That was a life of comfort. Between moments of servitude there were always moments of rest and relaxation. It was a better life . . .

But all those comforts and conveniences were gone, now. The End took all those away. It was, perhaps, as if they never existed at all.

Now, there were no ruses. There were no comforts. There were no conveniences. You couldn't just slide in and out of the dead world as you wanted. You were in the living world or you weren't. You were alive or you were a ghost. Ghosts--they had it easy. They didn't have to sneak around the regulars, they didn't have to bother figuring out if they were just seeing living people or wayward ghosts. If they saw something, it was a ghost or a living Reaper, and it was that simple. Reapers on their last leg were better off.

And this Reaper was not on her last leg.

She stood with her back pressed loosely 'gainst the stone makeup of the broken tower, her head tilted to the side, and eyes watching through an adjacent gap in the stone as soldierly clad men took their leave of Blackwood Tower. She waited with the utmost patience, for every last one of them to pass. It was imperative. She had to stay where she was, on the rear side of the structure, where patrols had since concluded. To go anywhere else was to risk being seen--and, considering the situation, a stranger lurking about and suddenly revealing herself, by accident or on purpose, was an exercise in suicide.

Hers was an exotic appearance, something one might expect in her line of work--and yet, truth be told, she was still kind of a rarity even there. The Reaper had to be no older than fifteen. She was a Cizokian girl and an inheritor of one of the rarest of Cizokian heritages, a genetic defect in her family that, over hundreds of years, simply became an accepted genetic trait: fair skin, physically incapable of withholding a tan, scarlet eyes that could near effortlessly disconcert the weak willed with an idle stare, and hair that was dark, nearly black in the night, yet took a defining azure tint in the light of day. The girl's hair was long, tied back into a long ponytail that was cut short between her shoulderblades and her bangs were intentionally kept shifted over the left side of her face. Her attire, visibly, was simply a dark robe--albeit not an Algerothian or Xexorian one. This Cizokian robe was tailored more for a martial artist more than anything else, but was long, tied at the waist by a thin belt, and did not call for the necessity of pants--making it both comfortable and practical.

After another moment, the Reaper checked the gap again to see inside, and kept her ears open for sounds in the distance. She needed the soldiers to leave--and had they? Yes, yes, it seemed they were all but clearing out, now.

Good. It was time to get to work.



Offtopic: Edit: added the image above. Original image by a Japanese artist named Utsuke.

[Paroxysm]

For a while now, the giant of a man, this beast, Martel, had been unknowingly followed by another force, just as monstrous as himself, albeit; in a different way. More damage was done to those killed by the man than he knew about, despite his methods, they would not get any solace, even in death, as their souls would not be very likely to move on, having been devoured--consumed by the entity that stalked through the shadows near Martel. It had no qualm about being a scavenger, it didn’t care about the fate of its victims, because it didn’t understand what it was doing, it fed because it was hungry, because that was what it had always done, and sometimes; sometimes it felt different when it gorged, when it was well-fed, but it had no words to describe the feeling.

It couldn’t remember when it had started to live like this, but it often felt drawn to beings such as Martel and the destruction left in the wake of these types. Before this, though… It remembered some things, confusing things, like bright lights, loud noises, and faces. It remembered faces, why it remembered faces, it could not say, but it remembered them.

Slowly, the creature peeked from the darkness it cloaked itself within, it felt as though it would feed again, soon, but when; it could not say. Truthfully, it did not need to eat, not anymore, at least; but it hadn’t learned that quite yet. It enjoyed it, though. Eating, that is, and would not shy away from a meal--especially one as appetizing as Martel often presented it with, against his knowledge and consent, of course.

And so the creature crept back into the confines of its shadowy stronghold, its world that only it saw, that only it could retreat into, and it continued to patiently wait for such a time that it could venture forth and eat its fill.

[paradigm]

The scene that awaited the Reaper within the Tower was a massacre of monumental proportions. Truly it was only at the hands of a human that such cruelty could be exercised in the world. For even demons had motive to their slaughter, but this was unprovoked, merciless death. The souls of Martel’s victims screamed their lamentations. Why? they begged, for what have we died!?

---

THE STONE SWORDS

Standard protocol could not be followed, leaving men behind to secure Blackwood Tower would have been an exercise in futility and Veit had neither the manpower nor the time to waste on such an endeavor. Luckily for his men, the monster did not seem to bright and had left sizeable tracks in its wake.

“Looks humanoid sir,” Hargraves said walking back to the Lieutenant’s position. “Foot pattern suggests human, but size and weight suggest something more.”

“A troll perhaps? Or an Ogre?” Veit postulated, resting his hand upon the blade at his hip. “One would think that such creatures wouldn’t attack without just cause.”
“What are your orders, sir?” Hargraves asked, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. His nerves far past frayed.
“ Proceed with caution. Let the Mage Cadre take the lead. Obliterate the target on sight.”

With a salute, the Corporal jogged off to issue the command to the small group of Mages. Peering off into the distance, Veit muttered a prayer to the god of justice.
“I’ve a bad feeling about this.”

---

Martel

Watching the soldiers approach from a distance, Martel grinned. He had misjudged the distance and would now have to wait for their arrival, something Martel was loathe to do. Crossing muscular arms at his chest, the half-giant rolled his shoulders.

While he was not oblivious to the power that had taken an interest in his exploits, he was unconcerned with its presence. Martel was a simple beast. He thrived on destruction, those beings that chose to latch to him did not warrant his attention, not until they stood in his path.

With a feral grin, Martel awaited the arrival of the soldiers, prepared to wreak havoc upon this land.

[Nayt]

The Reaper made use of an open ground floor window to get in, situating herself within the confines of the tower's back room. The place was a mess--and the whole tower was probably just the same, too. There was blood on the walls, the floor, and even the ceiling in some instances. Whole bodies were optional. Whole limbs were optional, too. A torso in the room's corner, festering in a sickly red soup of future decay, was torn at the shoulder, leaving the right arm completely separated, yet setting next to the body--and also torn in of itself, ripped in half at the elbow. Lower, the hand was also crushed. In the next room, she could see trails of blood leading to a stairway . . . or perhaps they were leading down the stairway. Maybe even both. Although her job required a complete neutrality towards the dealings of the average living soul, this Reaper could not help but feel sorry for these poor people.

Most of them were unidentifiable. If they weren't torn to shreds, other wounds and splattered blood made it impossible to discern even the slightest detail beyond the barbarically shed excess of gore. The Reaper could not figure the age, sex, nationality, or even the height and weight of the average victim.

She reluctantly investigated the first room, but not without first lifting her right hand to her nose. She squinted her eyes and held back a sudden rush of tears. The smell was awful. It stung her nose so harshly that she found difficulty in keeping her eyes from at least watering. In only a few seconds, she felt a growing thrumb within her skull. In all her time as a Reaper, having seen bloody massacres, entrails spilled and limbs split, heads broken and spines torn through--having even committed similar massacres herself, as obligation when the mission required it--these images and the raw smell of death never failed to make the Reaper feel nauseous . . .

. . . and unfortunately, to complete her mission, she had to stand the sight of it all, at least for long enough to quiet the spiritual activity in the area. This might call for her to actually touch a body or two, which was an extremely disconcerting thought. It prompted an immediate want of a bath--and truth be told, that was usually the last thing she wanted to do.

There was something extremely wrong about this, though. There should have been lingering spirits here. For there to be such a recent battle, the spirits not only should have been lingering, but they should have been close to their bodies. Granted, while these spirits should have not been fully aware of their situation yet, the obviously traumatic means of their demise may have left them well aware of their deaths, and thus conscious to what would otherwise appear to them as a flood of achromatic mist--the mist which filled the colorless land of the dead. It was possible, but would they have really moved out so quickly?

The Reaper, again with the utmost reluctance, made her way up the stairs, conscious of the layers of blood thick upon them, and insistent that she only step upon clean surfaces, even if she had to strain to reach her leg up two or three steps ahead to avoid a completely covered step. When she reached the second floor, she was greeted to an image just the same as the downstairs. There were bodies--but no souls to account for them. Cautiously, if only to fulfill a suspicion in the back of her mind, the Reaper crept to the front of the tower, still walking only on the scant few clean surfaces available, to crouch before a similar window to the one she got in from. This one, however, was situated upon the front of the tower, and looked out to where the soldiers from before were heading.

No spirits amongst them. Odd.

To evade the potential of being seen by any soldier who might happen to look back, she removed herself from before the window just as quick as she got there. Sometimes you had to enlist the help of the living under the guise of a well thought out lie, but ninety percent of the time, it was simply best to avoid them entirely. Crouched next to the window, the Reaper held her hand over her nose again and thought strongly on this situation. There should have been souls here. Even if they were aware, they'd not have been able to get out of her sight so quickly. She wasn't around for the battle, but she was for the aftermath . . .

There were numerous possibilities to account for. One of which entailed that someone or something did something with these spirits. That, however, would have been a serious conclusion, one a serious reaction--and also a personal report to her superiors. Sometimes, the latter could have actually been a little more dangerous than a threat itself. This was the last conclusion she wanted to make, and so the Reaper took to the rest of the tower, hoping, perhaps, to find the spirits holed up somewhere here. Even if they were gathered together, aware of their circumstances, and (therefore) extremely dangerous for the potential Reaper that needed to send them on their way, they'd be much less of a threat than something that could manipulate them--if that even was the case.

There was a worse case scenario than that--the worst case scenario, in fact. The Reaper didn't even want to think about that one, though.

[Paroxysm]

The creature seemed to whimper to itself from within the dark, inaccessible confines of a shadow. It hadn’t expected to wait this long for food and so it fancied the thought of once again finding Martel, if he wasn’t going to go kill someone, then the creature could perhaps taste him, it was sure that the man would taste well, but… It also knew the danger of the man, after all; it had witnessed his brutality first hand.

It would be less than a minute of deciding what to do, that the creature would be brought out of its thoughts, it had already started to double back to the tower, moving instantly from one shadow to the other, until the tower was within sight, the tower, and the smell of the battle that had taken place just recently. The creature remembered well the screams that had filled the area, the blood and bile that spewed from the putrid mess that Martel had made, and it also remembered that it had fed quite well during the battle; leaving not a single spirit or soul.

And so it went without saying that, when the creature got a whiff of something coaxing and delicious smelling, that it was somewhat surprised, had it really left something behind? That would have been such a treat, a mouthwatering tasty, one that it had not been prepared for, when coming back. At most, it had hoped to find something small, that it could hunt without worry, but this, this was nice.

A shadowy streak moved up the tower, it wasn’t a pre-existing shadow, however; this was the creature, itself. It scaled the walls effortlessly in one fluid motion and stealthily slipped inside a room, red eyes vanishing into the darkness last, as the thing moved out of the room, and into another; the one that the delicious smell, for lack of a better term, emanated from. It was cloaked within darkness, as was its typical hunting practice, hiding in the shadows of the room with a natural skill that could not be explained.

It would be upon entering this room that the Shadeling would become truly aware of the girl, however; the young reaper would not be awarded this same advantage. There was no way to describe how the reaper appealed to the thing that stalked through the room, in secret. Perhaps it was the time that she had spent in purgatory, as all reapers had done, before the end, or perhaps it was that the girl surrounded herself with the souls of the living and the dead on a daily basis, or maybe it was just the girl’s own natural prowess that set her apart, really; there was just no telling what it was, but the reaper was simply irresistible to the Shadeling.

A mass of darkness slowly crept up from the shadows behind the girl, a fanged mouth opened wide and crimson eyes narrowed, the creature slowly descended, as if it were going to attack the girl, all it would take was a touch, a literal death-grip, but…

The creature faded once again, altering no one to its presence, especially the reaper, who would, at most, have only a feeling that she was being watched, but by who and what, well; that would be unknown. The thing didn't want to attack just yet; it didn't want to startle its prey, regardless of hunger. If it could get more for its buck and not risk getting wounded, then that was preferable. It would not let her simply leave, however. It would follow her to the ends of Dystopia, if it was required.

[paradigm]

Their blades might as well have been made as stone for all the good they did them. Hacking swings of sabers and broadswords had naught a chance of damaging the half-giant’s thick skin. They were as cat scratches to him, none serving to draw blood. A flurry of mage fire battered against his flank, but to no avail.

The enemy greatly outnumbered him. However, a trifling thing like numbers would not be enough to stand in the way of Martel's victory. He would win for the glory of the Witch Queen, Lady Zirel, for the glory of the Lady Yazu and for the glory of the Empire of Vorane. Despite the difference in numbers, Martel was confident that he could win, was certain he could win.

Peeling his lips back, the massive soldier let loose a vicious roar as he delivered killing blows to his enemies. With no blade Martel was forced to use his hands, it wasn’t as unpleasant as one would think. With his hands, Martel could feel skulls crush beneath helms, tear limbs out of sockets and rip open throats.

The semblance of order the soldiers had presented was long since gone. Men clambered atop corpses, trying desperately to put an end to Martel’s fury. None would succeed. Muscles clenched and Martel’s arms worked like pistons, methodically and rhythmically landing blows against the Soldiers. It was not long before the monstrous screams of rage had turned into dark, terrible laughter.

For you, my lady! Claim their souls in the name of Vorane!

“AH HA HA HA HA HA”

THE STONE SWORDS

Breathing heavily Lieutenant Veit fell to a knee. His men were being slaughtered and there was nothing he could do. A wave of helplessness washed over him, leaving a hole in his gut. It was as though the world itself had abandoned them, content to watch as this monster wreaked havoc. The sounds of the massacre filled his head. Men screaming in pain, metal tearing, blades shattering, sorcerous fire blazing, the monster roaring…roaring…roaring. Oh Habeus, I can’t get it out of my head! It was only then that Veit noticed the beast standing above him, a massive fist preparing to batter his face in.

From the mass of injured Stone Swords, Hargraves immerged throwing himself into the monster’s wake. Shoving the point of his blade into the creature’s stomach, Hargraves let out a roar of triumph, but it was shortlived. Veit watched in horror as two massive hands closed on Hargraves helm. Metal crunched and fluids oozed.
Drawing his own blade, Veit prepared himself for death. He could see the tower just beyond the hill; the Blackwood Tower, it had been the undoing of them all. Habeus…

No.

There was no god…what sort of god would watch on as his children died with his name upon their lips.

“Fuck Habeus, fuck his tower.” Raising his blade, Veit bared his teeth at the monster. “And fuck you!” Veit met the monster head on, and the world shook from their impact.

[Nayt]

There was another presence there in Blackwood Tower. It was extremely faint, though. The Reaper could feel it, but it felt like little more than the traces that there were once spirits lingering here. It felt just like the souls that once inhabited this tower. Unfortunately, there was a very good reason for that--and thus, the Reaper failed to notice it. It was there, and its presence remained around her to the point that it felt like commonplace. Perhaps it was a sophomoric mistake? Perhaps she should have recognized the difference?

No--that type of creature . . . it was rare. One in a thousand Reapers might ever catch wind of something like it--and one in a thousand of them might actually recognize it.

During her investigation of the tower, the Reaper failed to notice that, in the distance, another battle began. Eventually, there were shouts and screams, and sometimes they even distracted her from her investigation, but until she checked ever inch of the tower, she couldn't bother to check the window. It wasn't until she heard a powerful clash and felt a subtle wane of the tower itself that she finally gave it her full attention. By that point, however, she'd checked the last room at the top of Blackwood Tower, and just as she was beginning to suspect, there wasn't a spirit in sight.

The Reaper could see a glimpse of it from the top floor window. The fighting seemed to be coming to and end, and not in the soldiers' favor. She couldn't see it that clearly, not from this distance. She could see blood and movement, and one particular body that was massive compared to the one it clashed against. And bodies. She could see the bodies. Again, there were piles of them, all very recent kills . . .

Perhaps it was imperative to pass those souls soon, then--lest they find their way back to civilization on their own, like those amongst the tower had before them. By this point, though, she was beginning to doubt that hypothesis. Or, rather, she'd doubted it long, long ago, but was more than capable of living in denial whilst she searched every nook and cranny of the tower. Sadly, it was becoming very evident that she might have to worry about the worst case scenario: that the spirits weren't here, not because they became aware and left, but because something was done with them.

Indeed, it was important that the fallen of this battle not experience the same fate. The Reaper turned from the window, and whilst she contemplated her course of action, she started down the stairs, to the lower floors.

She could have also opted to stay nearby the battle and wait to see if something or someone came to investigate the spirits after the fact, though. But, of course, to do so would potentially sacrifice those souls, if the worst case scenario really wound up being true. That was far too great of a risk. No empathetic Reaper would have taken it--and while this particular Reaper didn't entirely feel the same level of empathy for the dead as a normal human being would have, she did feel especially for those that hadn't the chance to pass on. Those spirits that were devoured, absorbed, tainted, and destroyed . . . they couldn't move on--they couldn't exist. That was the fear of all men and women when they did. Would their spirit go somewhere? Was there life after death? To permit those fears to become a reality was utter cruelty.

And so, the Reaper departed from the tower. She took the front entrance, and followed the footsteps of the since slain soldiers. The battle was up ahead. She may not have planned to get involved, but the girl was perfectly willing to find a safe place to hide while it concluded, and attend to the spirits as soon as soon as the battlefield was clear--if, of course, there were any safe places to hide up ahead . . .

[Paroxysm]

The sounds of battle had grown common place for the creature, but that didn’t mean they were ignored. Actually, it was just the opposite, the creature now connected those sounds to the proverbial dinner bell, and it was hungry; it seemed to work up an appetite faster and faster, every time it did anything outside of the darkness…

Still, this thing would stay near the reaper, following within the girl’s very own shadow, occasionally slipping into another, if just such a thing was needed, but remaining very close by as to not lose sight of the deceptively delicious, azure-haired girl.

Even as the thing stalked the reaper, however; it started to work its magic, so to speak. It couldn’t actually absorb anything without leaving its safety zone, but it could begin drawing the souls to itself. A compelling, maybe, or a literal attraction. The creature hadn’t ever thought of what it was it did, it just did it, it worked, and food was had. That was all there was to it, really.

As there was no thought put into the action and the creature seemed mostly indifferent towards the presence of the reaper, this guide for souls, it hadn’t actually occurred to the thing that the prey it considered the main course, would be put on alarm by the sudden movement of the souls, as they slowly started heading, almost randomly, in the same direction. Despite this, no physical appearance was made, the creature never left safety, and so the reaper would be oblivious as to what was happening--why the souls of the living were now heading away from the battle field, they wouldn’t get time to fully leave the field before the reaper arrived, of course, but they’d still get a good, noticeable distance.

There was no evil intent behind the actions of the creature, despite what happened to the souls after it devoured them, in fact; the creature needed to feed, at least on something. If it didn’t, there was no telling what would happen to it, after an extended time. It was different in that, when it became something physical, it actually lost mass, and as it lost mass--it lost energy, energy that it gets from devouring life.

Regardless, the reaper would probably not see eye to eye with the creature, if she ever realized the presence that was stalking her and that, that could lead to trouble. Luckily, it usually preferred not to play with its food, unless it wasn’t starving and, at the moment, it really was starving.

When everything was in range of each other, at least; in so much that the creature actually thought about range, it would strike and attempt to eat. If things worked out, today would be a very, very good day.

[paradigm]

Where this sudden burst of energy had come from, Veit had not a clue, but he would not squander it. In one fluid motion, Veit pulled free the knife at his hip and threw his sword, blade first, into the ground at his feet. Continuing his forward charge Veit darted left and committed his position by placing the full force of his weight on his leading foot. While it seemed a poor attempt to outmaneuver the massive warrior, Veit had a trick up his sleeve and the Monster took the bait.

The warrior was foolish, but not more than any other man who had chosen to face Martel head on. He was unstoppable, he was a god, he was the perfect killing machine, and no one who stood in his path would prevail. Hurling the dead warrior’s body to the side, he let out a frightening laugh as yet another soldier charged him. Mid-charge the warrior pulled his knife, but he was a fool if he thought a puny pig-sticker could do Martel any harm. To Martel’s confusion, the warrior cast his sword to the ground and moved left. So, he was attempting to dart left, most opponents would attempt a dart right afterwards to break through a warrior’s defense, but Martel’s defense was his body, such tactics were pointless against him.

Martel threw a fist at the warrior’s head, but his knuckles would taste nothing but air. There was confusion and then pain.

The moment the Monster moved his arm, Veit hurled himself at Martel’s feet. His blade poised Veit rammed the pig-sticker into Martel’s foot, the sharp steel passing in between the bones and pinning the beast’s foot to the ground. Immediately hurling himself backwards, Veit rolled into a standing position, blade in hand.

In truth, Veit had not intended to place his sword in the exact position he would roll into, it was a matter of dumb luck, and had he not been fighting for his life, he might have stared in awe at the act he had just committed.
Had Veit cared too, he would have noticed the awe he felt painted across the Monster’s face.

Instinct; it was a primal thing that had seen Martel through thick and thin. It was his monstrous instinct that allowed him to barrel through scores of opponents with ease. It was his instinct that guided his every move, but today his instinct failed him in more ways than one.

At the pain that erupted within his foot, Martel’s instinct was to pull away, but this only caused more damage . The pain controlled him for a split second, but Martel knew that with this pain would come an adrenaline rush that he could utilize to crush the nimble swordsman. Unfortunately, for Martel, the soldier would not give him that split second.

Veit saw his opening and leapt for it. The Monster’s muscles twitch as his body instinctively reached for what had caused him such pain and Veit hurtled forward, blade raised intent on burying the steel in the beast’s throat.

Veit bellowed his own cry of rage and triumph as he saw the very tip of his blade dig into the Monster’s flesh and blood trickle down steel.

“For Hargraves!”

[Nayt]

The girl evaded the battle entirely. She crouched down and moved behind a large brush when she was almost in their sight. It was only a second later that she slowly, carefully, made her way forward, hidden behind the brush which soon lead into a small yet dense collection of trees--a gathering of flora no more than twenty yards from the battle itself.

The collection of trees and shrubs wasn't a particularly expansive one, but it was more than enough for the Reaper. She was a fairly small person, after all. She was two inches shy of five feet tall and stick thin. If anyone could duck down behind a thick mass of shrubbery and hide away with a nearly flawless effort, it was her. She crouched down and stayed low to the ground. It was best that she remain as hidden as possible, and completely unmoving. if she so much as breathed wrong, she might alert the two warriors on the battlefield to her position--and that wasn't her job. It might have been nice if she could assist the soldier, who seemed the more moral of the two warriors, but that just wasn't her job.

In fact, it was more dangerous for her to get involved than it was for the soldier Veit. Veit could lose his life, perhaps, but it wouldn't also bring about a shaking of an already shaken organization. More than ever before, maintaining the Reapers' neutrality with the living was important. The End didn't treat them well, and the last thing they needed were stories about misplaced heroism. They all just needed to do their jobs and play their parts until they all recovered.

That, however, didn't mean a Reaper couldn't help out a living person if it were relevant to the protection of the dead. That, of course, had to be done under the convincing guise of a normal person; since the End, they were all required to learn how to lie better, among other various trade skills that would have them condemned to lock-down until they mastered. Still, it was possible. The circumstances had to be perfect, though. The Reaper didn't know if these circumstances were or were not.

First and foremost, it required the dead to be involved somehow. Secondly, it required the living to be connected to the dead in a way that suggested foul play, or a connection, somehow, to foul play. If spirits were harming spirits, then it was a no go. If the living were harming or hindering spirits in any way, then a Reaper was practically allowed to go in guns blazing. One just had to be able to prove that their course of action was absolutely correct, which could be difficult sometimes, especially if one wasn't too sure about it. But still, protecting and assisting the dead into the next life, whatever life that may be, was their job. All of this, of course, was circumvented when a Reaper was not on the job. Then, he or she could go be as much of a vigilante as he or she wanted. But when it came to behavior during the job itself, there were rules, and they were obligated to Death to follow them.

Though, there was something odd about this. As much as she wanted to keep looking through a small hole in the brush to watch the battle, perhaps even witness the final outcome of the soldier's attack, she couldn't help but feel something. It made her kind of . . . sick. It was subtle, but it was all around. She could practically feel the spirits of the slain rising. They weren't--they weren't aware yet, but it almost felt like they were slowly becoming aware, and they were being drawn to her.

She'd never experienced that feeling before.

This was extremely troublesome.

[Paroxysm]

The creature, still hidden within the shadows; was almost at its wit’s end with wanting to eat. This was odd, since it wasn’t actually hungry, it was, but it wasn’t. It made no sense and yet, it did. One would have to have known the creature, personally, to understand it. Regardless, the souls of the dead were still advancing; they were almost within range, so that they couldn’t put up much of a fight, if the dark-thing had started attempting to absorb them, at range.

Slowly, the creature finally crept from out of the darkness, this was the first time it had ever done so, with others still around, well; that wasn’t entirely true, either. But those others had been weak, tasteful, but weak. This prey was the opposite; it just felt so … Different. The reaper was something entirely new and it was simply irresistible.

And so a crown of white hair ascended from the darkness; the hair, itself, ended just at the creature’s knees, and its skin was a black as pitch. Crimson eyes peered from underneath the hair, two horns helping to part the hair at its face, and a fanged mouth seemed to smile in anticipation.

A pink tongue licked at the sides of its lips, it towered over the kneeling reaper, but its presence was still somewhat murky. Oh sure, the girl would without a doubt be aware now, but not right away. In fact, the first thing to give away its presence would be a drop of liquid, almost water-like, in consistency, but darker; black, in reality.

The drawing of the souls would become faster, a powerful tug, a pull, really; they couldn’t help but move, now. The weaker of the souls were already disappearing and being absorbed, broken down before even nearing the creature, the second it appeared in the open. That was its ability; it wasn’t offensive in so much that it was subtle. Even the reaper would be subjected to it, although with her being far different than a simple soul, it wasn’t nearly as oppressive.

But the creature wasn’t even remotely interested in testing that, that it could draw the reaper’s spirit at range, that was too risky, and so, before the reaper had a chance to get out of her little hiding spot, she would be descended upon by the monster that had been stalking her ever since she left the tower.

First and foremost, it would attempt to wrap itself around the reaper, its body was more liquid than solid, but it was also strong; with enough force, it wasn’t impossible to break its grip; however, this was dependent on breaking contact as soon as possible, the more of a hold that the thing had, the harder it would be to break. Once the limbs were effectively locked down, that was it. Likewise, the creature, upon contact, would begin drawing on the reaper’s soul, her spirit; attempting to drain enough to cripple the reaper’s actions, instilling a sense of exhaustion in the girl.

[paradigm]

Steel had pierced his flesh. His blood had been spilled. The world would know his rage. Had it been a swing instead of a stab, the half-giant might have escaped unscathed, but a direct stab to the underside of his throat was another matter. Before the blade could sink deep , Martel wrapped his hand about the base of the blade.
“You’re mine now” Martel said, with a dark smile. Maintaining control over the sword, the mercenary reached down with his free hand and pulled the knife out of his foot. The hilt barely reached across half of his palm, it was useless to him. Martel flung the weapon away and launched an attack at the Veit.

Unfortunately for Veit, his blade stopped short before it could do any serious damage to the Monster. The moment Martel’s fingers wrapped around the blade, the sword locked into place. Realizing the futility in struggling against such an opponent, Veit released the blade and leapt backwards to avoid yet another massive fist aimed at his forehead.

Veit knew that his men could only hold out for so long. The reinforcement couldn’t be too far behind. Surely his fellow Stone Swords had seen the cadre mages’ magic blazing throughout the sky. He needed only hold out a little longer, he was sure of it.

[Nayt]

Wait--these spirits were walking? They became aware so quickly! The Reaper had never seen something like this before. She narrowed her eyes as she stared, barely able to believe what she was seeing. She could see their hollow bodies dragging themselves up from within the cortex of each corpse, a vision neither of the warriors battling around them would see--right? The Reaper could never be sure if other people could see spirits sometimes. She didn't investigate it, though. It always ended in tragedy.

Nonetheless, they were all standing and--

They are coming to me?

That was the least believable part about it. A mass collection of spirits becoming self aware (or somewhat self aware; they didn't actually appear to be looking around or exploring their condition) at once was completely out of the question, but not nearly as out of the question as all those spirits coming towards the Reaper that was searching for them. Granted, that would've made her and many others' jobs so much easier, but at a horrible cost. The old fashioned way was better. That one wasn't cruel.

It was when she saw one spirit on the brink of disappearing that the Reaper came to the conclusion that something was seriously wrong here. No, it couldn't be her--could it? Spirits passed on automatically just by being in the presence of Death, but he wasn't here, and she wasn't a deity of any sort, let alone a god of death. No, that wasn't it. That spirit didn't pass on. It went somewhere else. She could still feel it. Only one disappeared by that point, and it would be the last to disappear entirely. This, the Reaper would make sure of. She had no plans on even discovering the source yet. First and foremost, she needed to send these souls on.

To the eyes of the creature manifesting behind her, the risen spirits would be filled with an azure light. It hit them one by one, effecting those closest to the Reaper. It was a flash of light, a quick, subtle azure illumination that was gone as quick as it came, leaving no spirit behind. This was the process of passing a spirit. Rookie Reapers needed to touch them to pass them on. More experienced Reapers needed only to concentrate on passing them, and the wayward souls in the vicinity would pass eventually. Hardened veterans, on the other hand, didn't need to worry about passing spirits. They just needed to be nearby.

Next-- next-- next-- she kept going, with her eyes shut and fists clenched tightly in the midst of concentration. By the time the creature let the first droplet of darkness upon the Reaper's shoulder, the final spirit of one of Martel's victims was encompassed in a shimmering azure, and faded from view. In total, only one spirit didn't make it . . .

Though, by the time the creature made itself known, the azure haired girl had just depleted herself from what felt like hours of concentration--but was only, in reality, a few seconds worth. Still, it was almost sort of painful. Passing spirits on with touch was less taxing than this, but this seemed to be an urgent situation. Chills ran down her spine when she felt a droplet of moisture seep into her robe. Part of the girl's mind told her to run for it right then and there. The other part demanded that she turn around. Slowly, the girl turned her head and shoulders--

And she saw it. Its eyes. Its face. Its position above her, looming, threatening, seeking nothing more than the girl's flesh and blood--and probably more than that, too . . .

With wide eyes, she panicked, if only briefly. Martel and Veit might catch this part, first and foremost. It was the first sound in the bushes: a struggle, however brief it might be, followed by a sudden rush of heat. Even at their distance from the brush, the heat would be felt--and with a roaring intensity, for that matter. For a second, that was all there was, before a body flung through the brush, leaping backwards in a sudden moment, preempted by a wave of heat, yet extremely difficult to expect, regardless.

On one knee, she landed behind Veit, but neither Veit nor Martel were the object of her immediate attention. Rather, it was the creature in the brush, the creature that had the Reaper's right cheek stained with a lash of oily blackness, and the left shoulder of her otherwise black robe stained just the same.

It was sloppy, but it was unavoidable: the Reaper's presence was at last official.