Warning: Some body horror.

Xant strolled down the corridor from his study, enjoying the warm sunlight flooding from the wide windows on his left; some rays of light caught the decorations of his tunic, forming shifting designs of reflected light on the ceiling and right wall. The air of the deserted courtyard below was filled with the song of dozens of cicadas, which almost completely drowned the footfalls of Tanila behind him. The armored woman showed no signs of suffering from the heat, proving once more her flawless training and manners.

The smile who had spread on Xant's face in this fine summer afternoon didn't falter when a smiling young man emerged from the relative darkness at the end of a corridor, his lavish clothes an almost hypnotic vision in deep purple and black constellated with gems and polished gold. A rich courtesan, maybe a noble scion, or the son of a wealthy merchant. Xant took a moment to consider how to address this unannounced visitor.

"Well met, Your Holyness, I hope you had a delightful morning," the young man greeted genially after a shallow but impeccable bow, which clashed with the blatant breach of etiquette.

"Good evening to you, son," Xant replied, a hint of steel in his voice. "Pleased as I am by your visit, my day is very busy. How can I help you?"

The young man didn't answer. His smile had an edge to it as he took a purposeful step forward, the sharp sound clearly audible above the cicadas. "It took a while for me to start appreciating your backwater of a realm, "Your Holyness", with your prudish mores and reluctant admiration for the bold." Another step forward, taking the man away from the direct sunlight. The sudden lack of reflected light made him almost disappear. "I've built a place for me here. It wasn't easy, but the fruits were worthy of my labor." Another step forward, and the sunlight revealed a coronet made of solid darkness on the top of his raven-haired head.

Tanila stepped in front of Xant, her hand on the hilt of her sword. "The Shadow Prince." Her stance was confident, but Xant noticed the seed of dread in her voice.

"My reputation precedes me," Amaruo replied as he bowed deeply, his coronet slipping from his head and shattering on the ground in many wisps of black smoke. The smile was gone from Amaruo's face when he addressed the older man again. "I have come to know about your plans for Fisecaric, Xant," Amaruo warned with distaste. "I won't let you ruin the results of my efforts, you senile usurper. I'm here to see you die."

Xant hoped the disappointment in his eyes hid the storm of questions in his mind - Who was this conceited upstart? Where did he come from, to talk down to the Realm of the Sacred Spear? How did he know? How could Xant extract information from this "Shadow Prince" without raising suspicion? - but in the end there was no reason to act outside the norm. "Tanila, let's escort the delusional young fool to the dungeons. I'll speak with him in the morning, when whatever substance he's on will have run its course."

Tanila's nerves seemed to benefit from Xant's confidence. "You've heard His Holyness," she warned as she cautiously approached the young man.

Amaruo raised his hands in apparent surrender. "You already proved your loyalty and courage, Tanila," he spoke with a pleading look, "and you seem smart enough to recognize true power. You don't have to do this."

After a moment of hesitation, Tanila spoke loud and clearly. "I don't have to follow the Church's orders. It's my duty and my privilege to do so."

Amaruo closed his eyes and hung his head in resignation. "Very well," he sighed, and clapped his hands.

The sudden darkness seemed almost absolute to Xant and Tanila at first, but after blinking a few times they adjusted to the dim light. A thick black fog covered the floor, clung to the walls and even to the ceiling. The little light who filtered through the shrouded windows reminded them of a moonlit night, and even the temperature seemed to drop. The song of the cicadas was no more, replaced by a silence broken only by barely audible whispers speaking of guilt and fear. Xant frowned, worried by the young man's casual display of power, but easily ignored the faint voices. Tanila unsheated her sword hastily, her shoulders rising and falling in shallow breaths. She brought her free hand to her ear, her face screwed up in the effort to block out the voices and her sword leveled blindly in Amaruo's direction. "The prophets spoke: "No matter how dark the night"..." She started to recite. "No matter... how dark..." Tanila panted, cold sweat running down her neck. "The night..."

"It matters how dark the night is," said Amaruo, not unkindly. Tanila's sword clanged against the floor, both her hands pressed against her ears, tears trickling down her cheeks. Her legs buckled, and she fell on her knees. She whimpered, her stout physique shaking with silent sobs... the black fog gently reached upwards, shrouded her hunched figure, and claimed her. Tanila's lifeless body just slumped forward when the fog retreated, almost in a pose of prostration to Amaruo.

"Such a cruel fate..." Xant commented. "Her loss will be mourned tomorrow, but her service is not over yet." He opened his arms. "Rise, Tanila."

Amaruo let out a disgusted hiss when Tanila's arm crawled forward to grab her sword. Her corpse listlessly rose to her feet, the point of the sword scraping against the stone floor. Amaruo snapped his fingers, and a will-o'-wisp lit up above his finger; he blew on the marsh-green fire and it split in a dozen ghastly flames, their light hiding Amaruo's frame.

"Kill the intruder, Tanila," Xant ordered, and the zombie's shambling gait turned into a charge. Xant's hand made a cutting motion and a dozen wisp of silvery light escaped from the green flames. The will-o'-wisps flickered and died, deprived of their essence, as the zombie heedlessly dashed through them. Amaruo jumped back, but not fast enough to avoid the attack completely; the left sleeve of his expensive shirt was ripped open and quickly stained with blood.

Amaruo's only concession to pain was a moment's grimace. He made a throwing gesture, and a black projectile shot from the darkness behind Amaruo to hit the zombie in its vacuous eyes. The solid shadow immediately shifted to become a blindfold, and Amaruo easily sidestepped the next wild swings.

"No matter how dark the night, the eyes of the faithful will always see the light of true salvation," Xant recited, and a circle of bright candle-like flames appeared around the zombie, which seemed to stand straighter. The next blind slash seamlessly turned into a masterful lunge that got Amaruo in the shoulder.

Amaruo staggered back, new blood soaking his lavish clothes. He conjured a torch of black fire in his hand and tossed it toward Tanila's corpse; the zombie easily swatted it aside, but the black flames clung to the blade and spread to the rest of the body in a split second, quickly consuming the dead flesh. As the spark of undeath contained within the zombie was extinguished, the levitating candle flames died one by one. Amaruo made a dismissive gesture in Xant's direction, trying to keep any sign of suffering from his expression with steady breaths.

A tiny, hunched and above all sin-ugly shadow demon appeared before Xant's face. "Very noble of you, negating her deserved shut-eye," snickered the imp; Xant haughtily swatted it aside, but another took its place. "Just fabulous, my dear," the second imp shrieked in adoration, "your arrogance goes so well with that garish tunic! And that hypocrisy! You have to tell me where you got it!" The first imp howled with laughter. Xant's mouth became a thin contemptuous line, and his hand fetched a knife from the folds of his tunic. A third imp gasped in mock fright, to the obscene delight of the first two.

"Enough!" Xant barked. He slid the blade on his palm, holding the bleeding hand high. "I request your assistance to smite this villain, Our Most Revered!"

The corridor was awash with sunlight when the six-winged angel appeared, a bright halo hiding her eyes. The imps shrieked in true terror and dove low to hide in the black fog. Xant hung his head and joined his hands in prayer.

"I will assist you, Xant, but don't think I'll forget the foul power you used to summon me," admonished the mighty angel, ignoring Amaruo. Her silvery hair floated peacefully in the air in contrast with her stern visage. Her golden wings spread to brush against the confinements of the corridor, no more necessary for her flight than her sword was to smite the unworthy.

"I pray for your forgiveness, Most Revered, for I know I have sinned. My scholarly curiosity led me to dark studies," Xant explained in contrition, even as a voice in his mind scoffed at the archangel's closed-mindedness. "I would have never used such unholy magics if not for this dire necessity, and I will accept any punishment you find just."
The angel nodded, satisfied. "So you sha-"

A black spike blossomed from the angel's chest, swiftly followed by ten more lances of darkness piercing her wings and limbs. The angel's acknowledgement turned into an outraged scream, which was cut short by a twelfth spear through the throat. Xant's eyes widened in horror. The black spikes turned into tendrils, wrapping around the struggling angel and lifting her until she was pinned against the ceiling, where her movements stopped after a series of sickening snaps.

"Did I interrupt something?" Amaruo asked with calculated innocence. The angel's halo shattered in a shower of sparks and the darkness resumed its reign over the corridor. The young man's hands were clasped behind his back to hide the shaking; he was thankful beyond belief for the archangel's overconfidence.

Xant stared, gaping, at the broken angelic body. Four imps rose from the black fog, three dancing and shrieking with manic glee around the dead angel as the fourth flew to her face and took her chin with both hands. "You did this to me," the imp mumbled in a mockery of the angel's deep voice, moving her jaw out of time, "why did you do this to me?"

Amaruo didn't lose time to gloat: as soon as he had gathered enough mana he conjured a multitude of sharp spikes, which stood in wait in the fog around Xant, and summoned his strongest shade. The spirit rose from the black fog, its black hair floating like a dark reflection of the dead archangel's, a threatening violet glow pouring from the eyes and the mouth of its spiky bone mask.

The shade's approach shook Xant from his horrified stupor. The old cleric's face was transfigured by rage, and he leveled his open hands at the shade with a wordless angry scream. The shade reached with its clawed hands, but Xant proved faster. The spear of blinding sunlight that shot from his hands disintegrated the whole upper half of the shade and scorched a long scar in the ceiling.

Amaruo raised his eyebrows, surprised by Xant's fury, and tried a slightly different approach, summoning a weaker but sturdier shade. Its somewhat feline head emerged cautiously from the fog, its skin resembling a black panther's fur and its eyes glowing a dull orange.

Xant made a grabbing motion and ripped half of the shade's soul out of its body with a jerk of his hand. The shade's eyes flickered as it slumped back into the fog, but after a moment their glow returned steady and the shade's head emerged again. Xant blinked, exhaustion catching up with him, and summoned a translucent wall of golden light. The waiting spikes sprung in groups out of the fog, biting into the wall and ripping it into shreds like an army of ravenous, disembodied mouths. The four imps descended in a circle around Xant's head, jeering and screaming their despise at the top of their lungs.

Amaruo conceded himself a brief smile seeing his trap stripping away Xant's defenses, then cast his mind through the Eternities to tap his mana bonds with a dozen places of polite and civilized corruption. He gathered the resulting stream of mana and channeled most of it in his shade, whose physique went from wiry to towering in a split second, and kept a little for a last trick.

The shade pounced from the fog and hit Xant with a long, clawed arm, sending him flying against the wall. Xant tried to keep himself upright and his eyes focused, reaching for the last slivers of energy left in his body, when he heard the cathedral's Passing Bell. In his clouded mind formed the surreal but undeniable certainty it was tolling for him, and with that thought Xant let his resolve and conscience fade to black.

“I am sorry to interrupt your walk, Your Majesty, but I would like to introduce Lady Sharaka Tharnak Kozuti.”

Kahr-ret-Taris instantly turned to face the intruders who had appeared from thin air, hand on his moorent.

The one who had just spoke was a hairless blue humanoid, who regarded Kahr and his retinue with a serene smile. Their face was covered in black tattoos, whose lines seemed to converge toward the creature’s closed eyes. Their clothing was simple and baggy, but from what Kahr could see of their physique he immediately concluded the creature was no fighter. Not like the other one.

The other one – “Sharaka”, judging by the other one’s presentation - was a draconic humanoid, with iron-like scales and dull green eyes. Sharaka wasn’t as tall as Kahr, but still towered over his guards, and despite the stump the creature had for a left arm Sharaka’s burning stare told in no uncertain terms they were no infirm. The half-dragon only wore a padded jacket, and their right hand leisurely balanced a great-axe over her shoulder. “Very ladylike, am I,” Sharaka chuckled. Her young voice had a low growl to it.

“Your insolence is noted,” Kahr replied. There was no doubt they were planeswalkers. He had to stop his thoughts from wandering in Lukas’ direction… but no comrade of his sweet friend would address Kahr like that. Emissaries from the Rulus, maybe? “What is your name, blue one, and why did you come to me?”

The blue humanoid pressed a hand to their chest, apparently surprised by the question. “Me? In this instance, Playwright might be a suitable name. As for the reason? Someone suggested a meeting between you two might be… productive,” the Playwright mused, turning their head slightly off to the side as if to meet that someone’s gaze with their closed eyes. Kahr’s heckles raised, but he couldn’t sense the presence of a hidden onlooker. The blue humanoid must have been mad, which, unfortunately, didn’t make the danger less serious. Kahr was reminded of Huinn’s rabid assaults, in the righteous but bloody campaign for Arbagoth’s revenge, and steeled his mind against a magical assault. The Playwright’s head snapped back in Kahr’s direction, as if they had sensed his thoughts, and their smile warmed with amusement. “Beyond that, Sharaka has been eager to meet you since I told her a few things about you.”

“Things like you got your throne by birth instead of merit,” Sharaka sneered. “That you sacrifice your slaves to restore your health and youth-”

“They’re not slaves!” Kahr lashed out in outrage. His guards made to step forward, but Kahr held them back with a gesture. “The Devout willingly offer their lives to the Pyre! Their honor can’t be understood by a dragon’s mongrel like you!”

“Dragon’s...” Sharaka’s upper lip raised in a snarl. “Willingly? Rich from the one holding the torch to toss responsibility on the back of those who never knew other light,” she spat. “You’re raised in a cradle made of your subjects’ skin, with everyone praising your name just for existing. You’re surrounded by people trained to kneel before they can walk, blind to the concept of judging by your skill to rule-”

“The great god-king proved his leadership time and time again against calamity and insurrection, you-”

The outraged cry of the youngest guard stopped abruptly by a gesture from the Playwright’s… four hands? Kahr’s retinue crumpled as one on the ground, their stare glassy. “I apologize for the interruption, Sharaka, I should have done this sooner,” the blue creature said, revealing their eyes for the first time. They resembled black opals, and emitted a violet light.

“What did you do to them?” Kahr shouted, unsheathing his moorents and preparing for a mental attack.

“Don’t worry about me, they are just… turned off, for a while,” the Playwright said, as if that explained things.

“There you go,” Sharaka sneered, her weapon ready. “Swords out before you know what’s going on. Maybe I shouldn’t be too hard on you…” She tilted her head, sizing him up. “After all, you’ve been trained to be just as blind as them to your own flaws. No wonder you have to “prove yourself against insurrection”! And just how many calamities have you caused through your ineptitude, you walking disgrace? You know how to lead, but do you know how to rule?”

Kahr knew he shouldn’t let her words faze him, but his righteous anger took a pause nonetheless. “I’m the rightful ruler of Skavlakor, son of-”

Sharaka barked a laughter. “Born from the right womb? That’s your-” She turned the following word into a fire bolt, spat right at his face. Kahr blocked the sudden attack with his swords on pure instinct, closing his eyes for the resulting smoke. He jumped back, and Sharaka’s axe traced a red line across Kahr’s thigh instead of lopping the leg off. Kahr threw a fire wave at Sharaka as he uncrossed his moorents, but the half-dragon just blinked as she dashed right through it.

Kahr blocked the following attacks, but Sharaka kept advancing exploiting the longer reach of her weapon. He knew he was the most experienced fighter overall, but the snake-fast lunges from Sharaka’s tail forced him to be cautious.

When Kahr noticed the lunges were getting slower, he slashed at her tail, but its end twisted at the last moment and the blade skidded against the bone tip. Sharaka tried to hook his other moorent and twist it out of his grasp; Kahr shifted his grip and used the locked weapons to shove the axe’s head upwards, kicking Sharaka in the knee in the opening that followed.

Sharaka stumbled back, bringing her axe down in a wild swing that Kahr easily ducked under. He felt his opponent’s fear as he brought both moorents toward Sharaka’s exposed flank -

- and saw his death in Sharaka’s eyes.

The back of the axe hit him in the face at an absurd speed, and only the instinctive use of fortifying green magic prevented Kahr’s neck from snapping like a twig. He rolled with the hit, using its force to get well away from Sharaka.

When he stood again, mouth full of blood and a few broken teeth, Sharaka was holding her weapon well behind her back, as if preparing to throw it. Kahr frantically cast a quick celerity spell and dove to the side, ready for the worst. The axe’s blade buried itself in Kahr’s left shoulder, where his head had been a split second before; Kahr summoned a thick fog even as the force behind the hit sent him to the ground a second time.

Kahr allowed himself a single hiss as he yanked the blade out of his shoulder, and rolled to his feet before Sharaka could pursue. The half-dragon proved more cautious than he had assumed, leveling a stream of fire where he had fallen and keeping out of the fog. Kahr used the much-needed reprieve to stop the bleeding from his shoulder.

“You can’t hide, fraud-king!” Sharaka laughed as Kahr felt some strength returning on his arm. “I can smell your **** healing magic!”

A fiery light cut through the fog. Kahr dodged, shielding his head with his wounded arm as he cast the most powerful celerity spell he knew. He stumbled, and the flames caught him in the hand, causing a searing pain he rarely felt. He was a pyromancer! What kind of fire did she wield? Kahr stared at his left arm through watering eyes: the shoulder was still damaged, and the last three fingers of the hand were charred to the bone. He healed the bare minimum to make pain manageable, angrily tossed aside the bloody axe and reached down with his good arm to find one of his moorents. He cast a last spell and charged out of the dissipating fog, a battle cry on his lips.

“Nice arm! Now we’re… even…” Sharaka’s nasty smile faded before Kahr’s increased size; she spat a cone of fire to blind him and dove out of the way, but he dodged the flames easily and opened a deep gash in her side. The half-dragon couldn’t keep up with Kahr without magic, and he saw the realization dawn in her eyes as she fumbled for the long knife strapped on her back. Sharaka barely managed to block Kahr’s next strike, and her arm was shaking afterwards. Her knife started glowing a dull red. Kahr covered his own weapon in fire and went for a mighty downward slash, meaning to crush Sharaka even if she managed to block the blade.

Kalit’s moorent exploded when it hit Sharaka’s blade. The god-king staggered back in surprise. Sharaka’s legs were trembling, her knife half-buried in the ground, but she raised her arm in a shaky guard. Against all odds, the loss of his weapon sharpened his rage, returned him to reason. Sharaka wanted him to come closer, probably to pull off some other trick, so he wouldn’t. Kahr raised his hand, gathering the mana of Skavlakor’s moors and swamps, and channeled decay into Sharaka.

He was surprised when Sharaka immediately broke down. “N… not again… spirits… enough...” She fell on hands and knees. “Spirits, please... just end me… no…. n… no...”

Behind her, Kahr saw the Playwright raise a hand with a thoughtful expression, as if pondering whether to cast something, but their hand retreated in the long sleeve of their jacket as Sharaka’s mumbling started to get louder.

“You had enough… Reaper...” She raised her head, meeting Kahr’s eyes with a feverish stare. Despite Kahr’s spell, Sharaka seemed to regain strength. “You took my arm.” She slowly stood up. “You took my life!” She screamed, tears streaming down her jaws. She was shaking with rage. “I WILL TAKE YOURS!”

Kahr was hit by something he could only describe as physical heat and fury. His spell was broken, and Sharaka let out a scream of mad defiance.

Sharaka charged him like a rabid beast, all training and magic forgotten. Kahr swatted her claws aside and kicked her in the ankle. He heard bones break. She snarled.

Sharaka clawed at Kahr’s thigh as she fell, frantically trying to hang on him. He grabbed her wrist and snapped it. She whimpered.

Sharaka bit Kahr’s forearm, but there was little strength in her jaws. He knelt and brought her head against the hard ground one, three, seven times, until her last remnant of strength was crushed. She let out a faint hiss.

Kahr slowly rose to his feet. Everything hurt. He walked to where he had tossed the axe. Sharaka watched him approach with unfocused eyes, staring upward at the axe’s blade.

“Sorry… Mama...” She cried through broken teeth.

* * *

Sharaka disappeared. Kahr looked around. His celerity spells were still active, but he was in no condition to face more foes.

“A clear victory, I am glad,” the Playwright commented with satisfaction.

“Where is she?”

“It does not matter, it does not matter. It was interesting, I hope? Brutal, admittedly, but interesting.” They spoke again to the people only the Playwright seemed to see. “If nothing else is asked of me… Until next time, my audience.”

The Playwright summoned a somewhat familiar powerstone with a wink. They snapped their fingers, and that reality stopped to exist.

Suurak grinned like a maniac as he twisted and turned through the undergrowth. With his left hand, sun-baked and scratched up, he clung to the reins of his moa. In his right hand, he clutched his lance, which he had crafted himself during his rite of passage into manhood a scant four months earlier. This was Suurak's first warpath, and he and the rest of his pack had been whipped up into a bloodlust frenzy by the rest of the Horde for months.

Suddenly, his moa burst through the underbrush and into a large clearing. Just a few steps ahead of him was one of those pathetic cat-things that had barely even put up a fight back at their village. The laughter bubbled up from the deepest parts of him as he leveled his lance directly at the thing's back. His moa, sensing the coming kill, put on a burst of speed, and Suurak thrust his right arm forward just as they reached the cat. She, the pathetic cat-woman, screamed in disgraceful pain as his lance took her life, and Suurak's laughter rose to drown that scream out.

Suurak reveled in his kill for just a moment before his well-earned joy was stolen by confusion. At the far end of the clearing, a large form stood staring at him. It was something the rider had never seen before, a massive, grey form completely clad in metal. Suurak thought for a second that it might have been a statue like those cowardly mountain folk made, but those were carved from stone, not from hard metal. Besides, once the thing moved one arm up to touch the horn on its head, it became clear that it was alive.

His instincts told him to charge, as whatever this thing was clearly was not part of the Horde, but something stopped him. It wasn't fear - no, never fear - but something else. Curiosity, probably, he thought. The metal animal thing was huge, as tall standing as Suurak was astride his moa. It had a long snout, vaguely similar to the catfolk yet completely different, but Suurak had no other point of comparison. None of the cats had hard, hairless, gray skin, and none had two horns sticking out of their face. This one was also holding a large, white shield painted with leaves and vines.

Strangely, the creature seemed to grow larger and then started moving into the center of the clearing. Suurak took this as a challenge and kicked his moa into a charge, leveling his lance at the creature's face. Another laugh started to rise out of his throat as he closed in, but surprisingly, the metal-clad creature did not flinch. Instead, it simply raised its shield at a slight angle. Suurak's lance deflected off to the side, and his eyes widened as he nearly collided with his enemy. Fortunately, his moa was quick, and followed the point of the lance rather than barreling into the creature.

Suurak rode to the edge of the clearing and wheeled around, but the creature was still standing in the center, watching him silently. Suurak's laugh turned into a growl of rage, and he kicked the moa into another charge. Once again he leveled his lance, and the creature in the clearing raised its free arm and seemed to brush some dirt off of its horn. As Suurak reached it, the monster, moving faster than his size should have allowed, reached out and grabbed the lance, pivoted, and pulled. The thing was so strong that it ripped Suurak right out of his saddle and sent him pole-vaulting head over heels. Luckily, he had the good sense to let go, and he hit the ground with a roll, coming up in a crouch and spinning to face the enemy.

In the middle of the clearing, the massive animal-thing held up its arms in triumph, its shield in one hand and Suurak's lance in the other. Then, almost dismissively, it tossed the lance away, landing all the way at the edge of the clearing, near the body of the cat-thing. It locked its deep, black eyes on Suurak's. It drew in breath, and Suurak could almost feel the air empty from the clearing.

"I am Dorn, of the Path of the Majestic Storm! All Human vileness will shrink before me!"

The creature, Dorn, apparently, started forward at Suurak, and for a moment, the rider froze. It was not from fear - no, never fear - likely some sort of magic from the creature. Whatever the reason, Dorn was nearly on top of him before Suurak's moa leapt in to save its rider. The bird launched itself at the metal-clad monster, distracting it long enough for Suurak to sprint away toward his lance. Dorn held up his shield on instinct, and crouched down so that the entire weight of the massive bird above him. Suurak risked a glance back in time to see Dorn push off, sending the usually flightless bird flying into a nearby tree.

Suurak grabbed his lance just as he heard the pained cry of his moa. Suurak cursed, both at his foe and at the disgraceful cry of his mount, and then rushed forward. Dorn was distracted by the moa, who was broken but not yet dead, and Suurak took advantage. Dorn turned as Suurak drew close, just barely moving his head out of the way as the metal of the lance's point flew by him. But Suurak, being smaller and not nearly as strong as the monster, pressed his brief advantage, twisting his body to smack Dorn in the snout with the lance's shaft.

Dorn staggered back a few steps, likely more out of surprise than pain. Suurak was in no position to complain, and as a warrior of the Karrin Horde, he would not allow himself to lose or retreat. He brought his lance around, pointing it straight out behind him like a tail, and darted straight toward Dorn. As massive as the creature was, its legs were short, but Suurak allowed instinct to guide him. As he got to the discombobulated Dorn, he slid feet first between the monster's legs. The move surprised the beast-man, who looked around for his quarry, but Suurak was already on his feet behind Dorn. His lance, though, was still mostly between Dorn's legs. Suurak then threw all of his weight into the lance in one direction, forcing it into the back of Dorn's right knee at the same moment it pressed against his left shin. Dorn dropped hard to one knee with a metal clank.

Suurak roared as his bloodlust boiled over. He pulled his lance back and ran, leaping up onto Dorn's knee and using it to vault upward. In midair, he thrust his lance down, trying to drive it into Dorn's right shoulder. Unfortunately, the metal of the monster's armor was too strong, and the lance glanced off of it toward Dorn's front. Even before it touched the ground, Dorn grabbed the lance and slammed it, along with Suurak, down to the ground. The rider's air left him, and in the same instant, Dorn snapped off the point of the lance with one hand and slammed it down into Suurak's shoulder. Something somewhere gave out a disgraceful scream.

Dorn stood up and over the fallen Suurak, who was pinned to the ground by the point of his own lance. The monster roared in rage, and it shook the forest around him. As Dorn raised his shield high, Suurak, four months into manhood, began to shake, not from fear - no, never fear - but from something he had never felt before. And then Dorn's shield was moving, coming closer. And then there was darkness.

“You though you could get away with it, Vash?” Called a deep voice from the other side of the alley.

Sharaka sized up the motley band of vicious wretches Idiot had scrounged up; that explained the reek of sadistic excitement. She had named the minotaur Idiot two weeks earlier, when he had approached her with other three hare-brains – as she was minding her own business, drinking a surprisingly good bourbon and chatting up the barmaid – with a terribly corny you-looking-for-trouble speech. Picking up the biggest Idiot as if he was a doll and slamming it through a table with one hand proved enough to avoid a full-fledged brawl that time. That display had also been greatly appreciated by the barmaid, though not by the bar’s owner.

“Looking for a rematch already?” Sharaka replied with a naughty grin, noticing that none of the three hare-brains had joined Idiot this time. She made a look of sizing up Idiot’s forces to examine the surroundings better: dry ground, good moonlight, the wall on her left was featureless, there was a window on the one to her right. “There’s no tables to break your fall this time, you could get hurt.” Four of the six wretches looked at each other, confused; the exceptions were a wiry scarred human man at Idiot’s left and a foxfolk waif to his far right, who kept looking at Sharaka with a worrying sheen in their eyes. Always keep an eye on the scrawny ones casually hanging out with burly vicious thugs, Sharaka reminded herself. You never knew how they made up for their lack of muscle.

“Really funny, Vash, really funny,” Idiot drawled, picking up the crowbar hooked in his belt. “Let’s see how you laugh with a mouth full of broken teeth.” His band put hands to a variety of improvised weapons; the foxfolk wielded a kitchen knife and a cleaver, while the scarred man just flexed his fingers. Worrying.

Sharaka stepped back in a wide stance, laying her hand on her knife without unsheathing it yet. “Come on guys, I’ve nothing against a good old brawl to blow off steam, but put those weapons down or things will get ugly.”

Idiot smirked. “That was the plan. Get the Vash.”

Sharaka dashed at the two wretches on her far right, unsheathing her knife point-down and keeping it low. The two lowered their weapons to match hers. She spat an arc of flames at their faces, dove past them and through the window knife first. Sharaka landed rolling and started channeling mana into her weapon, silently approaching the point of the wall closer to the manic cries and the familiar agonizing croaks of a burned throat.

“You dun tell us the Vash’ a ‘slinger, Gore!” A very nervous voice. Sharaka shifted to mirror its position.

“She’s scared! Just follow!” Idiot-Gore commanded. What a stupid order, mindlessly following a supposedly terrified prey in an enclosed space. Sharaka shook her head and prepared to break their shaky discipline further. Her knife softly throbbed in her grip.

Sharaka punched, and a big part of the wooden wall turned into a wagon-sized volley of splinters. “What should I be scared of, exactly?” She asked, stepping past the woman choking on her singed lungs and over a man who had probably passed out from the experience of being turned into a torch and a pincushion in less than a minute.

A third wretch lied face-down on the ground, his arms over his head, shaking visibly. A fourth took a good look at his odds and fleed; unfortunately for him, he ran straight into the foxfolk, who knifed him in the stomach for his trouble and started hacking him in a chilling silence. Sharaka forced her gaze back to the other two foes right in time to face the scarred – and now splinter-full – man charging her.

The man grabbed her knife by the blade without hesitation with his left hand, Sharaka’s snout with his right and headbutted her. She grunted, reeling. The man kneed her on the groin and let go of her snout to elbow her. Sharaka bit on his forearm before he could, freed her knife and buried it in his eye.

Sharaka leveraged the scarred man’s body on her right on blind instinct, intercepting Idiot-Gore’s crowbar with the man’s skull. She poured red-hot fury in her weapon, turning the rest of the scarred man’s head into a fountain of gore. Idiot-Gore staggered back, cleaning his eyes, and Sharaka’s tail hit him hard just below his breastbone. The minotaur fell on his knees wheezing, his crowbar forgotten.

Sharaka turned toward the foxfolk, who had been three steps behind her with her blood-soaked weapons held high. Sharaka could bet she saw respect in those wide eyes, deep below the blood-craze.

“Think you can take me?” Sharaka asked evenly, gathering mana.

The foxfolk blinked. She looked at the minotaur, who was still on his fours, then back at Sharaka, and lowered her weapons. But not her bloodlust. Sharaka’s tail darted, faster than the foxfolk could see. The waif crumpled on the ground, her forehead bashed in.

Sharaka cracked a few of Idiot-Gore’s ribs with a kick, then walked to the human still cowering on the ground. “Run, lion-heart, it’s your lucky nigh,” she said, nudging his foot with the point of her tail. The man scrambled on his feet and set on a dead run without looking behind, whimpering all the way.
“Kill me then… you monster,” Idiot-Gore wheezed. He had his back against the splintered wall, a hand on his side and the other holding up a shaking crowbar. He smelled of fear and deep hatred.

Sharaka easily hooked the crowbar’s end with her knife and yanked it away from the minotaur’s hand. “Monster? You set two killers and four wretches at me and you expect me to what, disarm them and persuade them away from their wicked ways?” She dislodged his kneecap with a kick. “The first time you saw me I put you through a table, blasted idiot! What made you think I was a preacher?”

The seething minotaur fell on the ground without a sound, his loathing eyes still fixed on hers.

Sharaka shook her head. “You aren’t really listening, are you?” She sighed. “You had decided I was the enemy from the start, and anything I do only gives you more reasons to hate and belittle...” She spat and just walked away, her coat dripping blood and small bits of brain. It was true, than.

The flaws you hate the most in others are the one you can’t stand in yourself.