Blood and Ashes

[insaney]

OoC: Good luck Selah, and HH!


BiC:

Ashes to ashes...

Black clouds were swept into whirlwinds, specks of dark dust visible within the swirling dance and motions. The dust settled on the streets of an old, blackened town. Charred remains and corpses strewn about, as well as old metal, medieval weapons; swords, axes, spears, hammers. All ancient, rusted or blackened from the ashes that had covered this place in it's stifling darkness. An old well stood firm in the center, it seemed to be the only thing not fully burnt or broken to pieces. The vampire made his way over to it, as, underfoot, the ashes seemed to give way, like a black snow that layered the land. Eyelids held shield over golden irises, against the attacking black ash that took to the air with each breath of wind.

His gloved hand reached for the rope of the well, the bucket down below, out of sight, clanging against the stone walls. The echo emerged from beneath the darkness, the creaking of the old pulley becoming no more than a sound in the backdrop. Seraph kept pulling on the seemingly limitless rope, and after a few minutes the rope ended, the final creak of the pulley announced the emergence of the wooden pail. Rain tipped it slightly, expecting water to flow into an open hand. But what flowed out was more ash than water. He squeezed the gray slush in the palm of his hand, letting go of the bucket, turning and looking around. There was no slight instance of smoke rising from any part of this area. The ashes cold, signifying that what happened to this town, and all it's people had happened some time in the recent past. But still, curiosity lingered.

What happened here...?

A cawing crow flew overhead, smashing the silence like a hammer to a mirror. It came crashing down, the eyes reflected movement out of it's corner. Up until now, there had been no obvious sign of life here besides the vampire and that crow, whose cawing faded well into the distance. But something or someone else's presence here seemed to be felt. Rain took a step towards the movement of charred bushes, an attempt to walk. The wind would not allow it, it crippled his movement by causing a swirling cloud of ash to block his path and blind his eyes temporarily. Staying put was the most plausible decision for this brief few seconds of time.

A crackle.

Someone had set their foot down, most likely on an old twig that had been burnt along with the rest of everything around here. And then, a ... voice? Rain couldn't discern, the wind had picked up. The slight silhouette of a person was glimpsed until an overwhelming blast of grating sand and ashes tried to burn and cut into his bare skin, forcing a slight parting of lips and showcasing of vampyric canines. The freak sand-and-ashes storm quelled, allowing the vampire to see the full physical of the once silhouette.

[Halcyon Hero]

Elric looked up from the small pouch of rubies to the hooded figure sitting across from him. Now, as always, came the important part. When hiring on as a bounty hunter for a single client, there were always important details that had to be taken into account. For instance, was the proposed client adequately justified in the hunt of their chosen target? It did not do to hire on for a cruel and evil lord after peasants escaping from his tyrannical grasp. It was bad for the reputation.

Also, did the proposed client have a reliable source of money? Too often were gullible amateurs taken in by magical money that disappeared in sixteen hours. And did the client hide their face? This was one of the points of lesser importance, but one that should still be taken into account. It was not uncommon for clients to wrap themselves head-to-toe in a black cloak, shove a bag of gold in your hands, whisper a name, and slip away. However, it is considered—among professional bounty hunters—disrespectful for a client to hide their face from you. If they wanted to keep their business secret from everyone else, that was fine and dandy, but one should always show their face to the man they wished to hire on. A bounty hunter always needed a name and face. Otherwise, how else will they properly fill out the receipt?

Another important point in considering a proposed client was their intelligence. Contrary to popular belief, the best clients were always the ones with average intelligence. They weren’t stupid enough to make any potentially dangerous mistakes, and they weren’t clever enough to—successfully—pull one over you. No, the ones with average intelligence were always the best. They didn’t do anything stupid and were easy to intimidate. Work was always easier when the client was too scared that you would slip into their bedchamber and torture them to death. The payments were usually better, too.

It was with these—and many other Bounty Hunting Rules of Thumb—thoughts in mind that Elric considered the offered job. That was another common misconception about hired on bounty hunters. You didn’t hire them, they hired you. And as far as Elric could see, everything was in perfect order. Too perfect. The client—though hooded at the moment—had fully shown Elric his face and given a name, which had come up clean when Elric later looked into it, had a reliable source of payment that proved real to several tests, and was a fairly intelligent man. He didn’t seem stupid, nor did he seem overly clever. Of course, a clever man could hide the fact that he was clever, but Elric had a lot of experience in these areas.

No, the client’s proposition seemed excellent. Which was why it was so suspicious. In Elric’s business, there was no such thing as a perfect job. But despite his every attempt to unearth some dark secret or trap, Elric couldn’t find a thing—overtly or covertly—wrong. Even the target and payment ratio was perfect. Which, of course, made it all the more suspicious.

But, Elric thought, reaching out to grab the bag of rubies and the face-down photograph. In these types of situations, what can you do? Besides, he liked rubies.

<====}=0 – 0={====>

Elric lounged in the third story window of a stone church. The window—like the rest of the church—was completely stone, and devoid of any fittings or glass. Which was why it made such a perfect place to lounge. Well, that and the fact that it looked out over the entire town. And what a town. Everything was ashes and dust. Elric—arriving several hours ahead of the target like any good bounty hunter—hadn’t seen a soul since he had got here. Except for crows. There was a hell of a lot of crows. Elric hated crows.

It was from the open third story window that Elric watched the man—no, the vampire—enter the town. Elric didn’t need to see the creature’s face to know who it was. Always the professional, Elric had thoroughly researched the target, his background, where he had been, and where he was going. Which was why he was able to arrive ahead of time and set up as many traps as he could. Preset traps always made things fun. For the bounty hunter.

Elric took out his revolvers and examined them in the gray light for a moment. Indeed, they had served him well, and he suspected and hoped that they would continue to do so. Releasing the catch, Elric pivoted the barrels downward simultaneously. Switching both handguns to one hand, the bounty hunter carefully selected a number of bullets from his belt and held them out in his open palm. After inserting specific bullets in a well thought-out order, the man snapped the revolvers upwards and closed. Twirling them around his index fingers for a moment before sliding them home in their holsters, he turned in from the window and made his way down the church stairs.

As Elric stepped out into the gray light, a sudden wind picked up, giving rise to a whirlwind of dust and ash. Glad that his goggles were firmly set over his eyes, the bounty hunter continued out into the storm towards where he knew the target to be. He stopped when he estimated the vampire to be about ten feet in front of him, resting one hand on a revolver and one on Fang. Let the fun begin.

[Selah]

OoC: Using Mencha, btw.

BiC: I have no motive, and shall never have one, though I live to see a thousand years and pass a thousand days beyond that point when—if humanity still thrives—my time shall be called antiquity, when those who remain to whispers life’s dirges shall look back upon my time and see only the ills, the clotted terrors, the shadows of hidden places built within the creases of the earth’s sulking brow, the shrines marauders have desecrated with wanton foray, battering their marble limbs and fragile breasts, razing these sacred points as though in challenge, defying gods that will do naught to revenge themselves. The ancient texts—ah, yes, they speak of vengeful gods, but though this time in which I dwell verges upon the primordial, still those great, celestial powers of myth and sacristy have vanished from the earth, and hidden their faces among the clouds—ever do their mortal creations fall, and ever does mortal blood steep the earth—and still, the gods do nothing. I am losing my belief in deities, just as I have lost my faith in the solidity of Man—Man is no more solid than the vapours of sultry dawn. I stand, now, without faith, without motive, guided by nothing but my aimless tread, scoring a path through the very flesh of my world. My universe had shrunk, and with it has gone all quixotic vision. Everything about me has become unaffected—I have lost all sweet, child’s illusion—I have passed centuries, in the realm of thought, upon this gloomy planet, and so has the gloom become instilled within myself. Surprise holds nothing for me, and I have forgotten the jolts of shock—perhaps I am dead, and Death has forgotten to take my body when it has already snared my soul.

Or perhaps I have merely accustomed myself to a shaded heaven and clouds of black birds, wheeling where the spires of ancient buildings once wallowed in their pride, and still exulted even when the iron fist of merciless men beat them to dust. Their spirits are frozen; they exalt still, and there is something consequential in these black ruins, though life has been ravished, expunged. There is eloquence in these broken stones, where there once were walls, something expressive in the shattered vestiges of dreary life. This town, crushed beyond all recognition, still throbs with some uncanny life, as though that life were only just torn from the cocoon of existence, and flung into the wide, frosted plain of death. Pure, unsullied death. Yes, death has been here: it has been in the houses, and blown them apart; it has been in the wells and poisoned the waters; it has sprinkled ashes, like rice and flowers sprinkled at a wedding feast upon the bride and groom, for death has taken life into its embrace—Hades had spent Persephone’s breath, her vernal will, again, here, in this broken, battered town.

I am the forced companion of a mule, who follows me with hooded eyes, whose rusted coat is like a dying lamp against this lifeless setting.

She has borne my armour, some sacks of food, and a change of clothes over many furrowed roads. I purchased her for ten doubloons, half a day out of the Dome—I quit that place for a month’s time without real motive, for despair—so settled upon my shoulders that it no longer reeks—has stripped even that kindness, that purpose, from me. I purported to wander; I required a beast of burden—her owner was happy to sell her to me. She was intractable, he said, would do nothing that she did not wish to do, even when whipped. Unlucky animal. She will go for ten doubloons.

The mule proved opposite of her master’s accusations. I took her, having paid, and laid my things upon her back. She took the bits of food I offered her, followed, not with obedience, but with a glint of something else—perhaps preference—in her dew-beaded eyes. It was then that I realized she would not leave me even if I had wished it; I tested my hypothesis at the first town we came upon, and lo, she came tramping after me as though everything had been planned—I had not truly wished to abandon her, only to see.

For when one has lost utter faith, one still wishes to see—even if we are convinced that life is false, we cannot turn aside.

It was with this mule that I came upon this dead town, and perceived the specters that caused its withered heart to continually beat.

It had not been the most expedient of days, for there had been rain, rain which left my path sodden. I passed into lands over which the shower had expired before it could drench; still, the sun remained hidden, the way clouded. This was the first ominous proof that I drifted into something rather amiss. I did not attend to these indications, however.

It was as the sun had relinquished all pretense, and left the veil of clouds deep and boiling for its slumber, that we came upon the town.

I descried it at a distance: the befouled stumps of buildings, the shriek of crows, the hoary walls. We were upon it ere I could consciously make a decision to enter or avoid—but when one has lost one’s faith, there is something deliciously morbid in encountering these ghastly scenes. Ah! to think I had lost faith—my viscera roiled. It was at this backward notion—this danger of reverting, of realization, of all the horror and anguish and pain that is bound up in questioning—that I plunged forward, the mule at my heels, into the town.

I must not think, when all about me is still liquid, still fragile—a drop of colouring, dispersing in a pond of water, pervasion—encompassing.

Instinct warned me forward—into the shade of a wall—reach for my pistol.

All these things I did.

My relapse into righteous horror had only been a brief flash, and I threw my concentration, my energies, into the scene before me. From around the corner of the wall, with my face pressed to the warm cobble, I saw two figures, both tall and plumb and motionless—one dressed in black, sweeping about him on death’s lingering, eddied breaths, the other in a novel array I had only glimpsed here and there in the timeless halls of the Dome. They stood among the smoke and ashes, the choking currents, in breathless silence—or perhaps it was I who was silent, breathless, attributing my actions to them. My finger curled behind the trigger—pebbles bit into the hand I had set upon the ground, on which I balanced my crouching form—there was smoke in my nostrils, haze in my eyes—I blinked, wrinkled my nose—my heart was pulsing with violence, and still I crouched, without consuming fear. I could feel the smoke creeping up through my nasal organs, into the cavities of my skull—too deep a breath would fill my lungs with pollution; I dared not attempt it—

And then the mule moved, first with lethargy, then with haste: I cannot say what called her from the dead town, what jerked her lead rope from beneath my feet and sent me toppling from my perch. I had leant too heavily upon the lead; I came crashing down, feet scrambling in the powdered rubble. My finger was behind the trigger, and for a moment, as I realized this good fortune, I concurrently cursed my stupidity—had my hand been anywhere but, I might have wasted a perfectly good shot.

I did not stop to wonder why I concerned myself with shots.

I was a confusion of motion, staggering upright with a hand upon my sword, my flintlock dangling from between my fingers. I had broken the silence and awoken the two figures from the trance of my own creation. It was likely they had never been unmoving, but I had made them thus. The mind is a powerful thing, whether it is used wisely or not. It had blinded me, and given me something else to see—

And then I was standing, not unobserved. My ignominy had been witnessed, and it would be stupid to anticipate departure. As always, be I with faith or without, I would always seal my own doom.

I drew my sword.

[insaney]

Twisted and twined, the swirling mist of ash grazed against skin and cloth. The dust bit into the bare skin, clinging and scraping, microscopic parasites in abundance. Once again eyelids had held shield against the unrelenting weathering of sand and ash. The slow and steady footfalls approached, denying, opposing the force of the wind. The silhouette fluttered through the filter of flying sand.

Then it stopped.

The sounds of the footsteps on the ashes halted, and now only the wind held it's omnipotent volume over the current scene. In screams and whistles, it hovered over the only two recent inhabitants of the dead town. It also held an almost fully opaque curtain between the two. The town was the arena. Rain and the person behind the curtain, or arena 'gate', were the gladiators. The burnt and dead; the hushed audience. The silence that weighed heavenly upon them and seemed to be brought on by the shear strength and abilities of both combatants. The undecisiveness of selecting a sure winner from the two was next to nauseating.

The wind snapped. Waking sleeping thoughts and bringing attention to itself. But it's greed needed to be fed, it wanted more. Cursing, snapping, growling, screaming, picking up and thrashing violently. A final snap, and it's hunger was fed. Then, in it's own foreign tongue, it seemed to let out one dying whisper.

"Lower the gates..."

And it was done.

The air's invisible blade seemed to rip a hole in the curtain. It parted, revealing the opponent.

A man, slightly taller than the vampire himself, stood no more than nine or ten feet away. The flare of his orange-coloured hair alone dimmed the goggle-covered eyes of deep blue. An average length nose pointed the way down to lips slightly curved to give the appearance of a wicked snicker. His neck led to a jacket, puffed slightly with concealed weapons. His belt held his revolver, where his hand rested, ready to draw at any sign of significant threat. Layered over his belt, there was an eternal number of bullets leading to a queer weapon that hung down. The serrated edges seemed to be 'teeth' of a sort. Under the belt, a gray, thick cargo trousers lined down all the way towards a solid, weather-worthy pair of boots. Seemingly laden with weapons and ammuntion for each, he made the appearance of an ideal bounty hunter, an experienced professional, no doubt.

A... bounty hunter?

The vampire's mind guessed. But, somehow knowing it was correct, it sputtered out another thread of thought.

Another one.

Rain was not so disappointed as sick. Sick of dealing with his share of vampire hunters and bounty hunters. The silence of everything else had begun to pressurize the surroundings under the weight, the temperature rose because of it. Rain stood still, but yet the bounty hunter did not draw his gun. What was he waiting for? He was -supposedly- standing right in front of his target! His open target. No shield or any obvious protection, why not just shoot now and get it over with? In truth, Rain wanted him to shoot. The bullet that held it's bloodlust would not have it fed. It would be a feather in the wind. Dodging the first bullet, and then attempting a ferocious attack that would knock the bounty hunter out or scare him off seemed to be a failing plan.

Both stood unmoving, making the seconds put on a masquerade as minutes.

Rain sighed through slightly parted lips.

Fine then. If you're not going to speak or move, I'll just have to do it myself.

He began to twist his foot first, his leg turning after, an attempt to turn around and walk away.

A sudden crash from the right - his movement interrupted.

Rain need not turn to know that someone was there. The figure that scrambled up had been listening to their silence. His ear caught the unsheathing of a sword, a scraping sound that he had heard too many times, it could not be denied. Out of the corner of his eye, the girl gripped the handle firmly, ready to defend her interruption. The bounty hunter glimpsed her, distracted slightly.

It was a moment that was waited for.

The following scene happened in frames that skipped. The vampire had pressed down on his one right foot, initializing his unparalleled speed, moving himself out of the line of normal eyesight. The sand and ashes kicked up behind him in waves, forcing dust clouds to once again inhabit the air. Elric drew his revolver, at the sign of Rain's departure into the unseen. Reflexes forced him to pull back the hammer.

But he was too late.

An elbow jammed into his stomach, under his ribs, intending to force it's way upwards, behind the bones. The vampire came back into blurry visibility, his eyes locked with Elric's.
The bounty hunter's stunned eyes was accompanied by the loosening of his grip. The revolver began to slip out of his fingers as Elric was thrown backwards from the severe impact of the blow.

The revolver's hammer clicked as it set itself.

[Halcyon Hero]

Elric could barely think as the air was driven from his lungs, his whole body going temporarily weak. The bounty hunter hit the ground hard, tumbling over backwards into a tan plaster wall. He clutched at his chest with one hand, but quickly released the clasp on the Jaws of the Wolf with the other, his body partly working on inbred habits. The fallen warrior brought his left arm to bear, snapping Fang forward with a flick of the wrist. His mind and the magic did all the rest. The magical contraption weaved through the air, snaking its way towards the vampire.

Metallic jaws opened wide as they bore down on the dark-haired being and closed on . . . nothing. Rain was already gone; borne away by unholy speed. Elric struggled to his feet, his eyes darting around the wind-blown square from behind his thick lenses. A glint caught the bounty hunter’s eyes, his gaze drawn to his fallen revolver. A quick flick of the wrist sent Fang after it, the serrated jaws diving down to scoop up the gun. The chrome-like jaws dropped the weapon in Elric’s waiting grasp, the long chain hovering around his body in a shining spiral. It amazed Elric how Fang could shine with a magical light, even in a gray, dreary light such as this. It was as if the weapon was possessed of a life of its own, a sliver sentinel being shining with a mystical inner light.

A wave of dust and ash to the bounty hunter’s left alerted him, but even still, Elric could only just barely drop to one hand, his foot rising to catch the vampire in the stomach. That was too close, Elric thought grimly as Rain fell back, the force of his own speed driving Elric’s foot almost through his own abdomen. I cannot hope to win by trying to match his speed. Elric lowered his foot and sprinted in the opposite direction, towards a low stone overhanging supported by a single wooden beam. Rather, this shall be a contest won by cunning alone.

Without even looking, the bounty hunter raised his revolver over his shoulder and fired twice. The first bullet erupted from its chamber in a flash of bright red light, a burning missile. A weighted whistle followed the flare, the high-pitched screeching combining with the bright flash of light to caused the vampire to yell out loudly enough for Elric to hear him over the whistle. That’s two. And it ought to buy me a little more time. The orange-haired man slid the revolver home, reaching up to bring Wolf to bear instead. One hand still clutching the end of Fang’s chain tightly, the bounty hunter spun around and held the lupara out at arms length. As he spun around, Elric could see Rain sprinting after him, one arm held up over his eyes and the other covering one ear. Elric smiled triumphantly at the way the vampire’s mouth was set in a grimace of pain and frustration.

Leveling his shotgun, the bounty aimed not at Rain, but at the wooden beam supporting the stone overhanging. Many hours before, he had removed two of the three, leaving the single middle pole to bear the stone weight precariously. More than that, he had sawed away at the base of the beam, narrowing it down to a two-inch width. The bounty hunter dropped to one knee, resting Wolf’s barrel on the other. Rain was only a meter or so away from the other side of the overhanging. His timing would have to be perfect. Quickly estimating Rain’s speed and the distance from him to the overhanging, Elric fired. A single slug exploded from the lupara, blasting completely through the base of the support beam just as the vampire came under it.

The beam collapsed, the stone blocks falling with it. The stone hit the ground with the force of an elephant, giving rise to a mushroom cloud of dust and ash. Elric shielded his nose and mouth, bringing Wolf back up to a vertical position. As the cloud cleared, a heap of rubble was revealed, a pile of stone chunks and wooden splinters. The important question was; was the vampire under it?

An agonizing blow to the side of Elric’s head answered that question. The bounty hunter bounced along the dirt square—this time keeping a fair hold on his weapons. Rolling with the momentum and coming to his feet, he looked up to see Rain, his left hand clutching his right shoulder, blood oozing down the length of his black sleeve. Elric grinned and threw forth his left arm, Fang snaking forward. So, the trap hadn’t been wasted. It hadn’t gone exactly as planned, but things seldom do. Successful or not, the bounty hunter had many more tricks in store, all of them lethal.

In a flash, Rain was gone, Fang once more closing its jaws on empty air. Elric chuckled. Let the vampire play hide and seek. It only gave him the advantage. A flash of folded steel caught the orange-haired man’s attention, interrupting his speculations. A short bark of a laugh escaped the man’s lips as he viewed the woman across the square. A woman, eh? A friend to the vampire? Elric reached inside his jacket, pulling forth a blue gem the size of his fist. It matters not. Placing the jewel firmly on the ground, the bounty hunter uttered a single, short word.

“Kiba.”

The sapphire flashed a silver and blue inner light, the magic blazing to life. Silver smoke poured forth from the gem in a spiral, arcing outward to the ground before the bounty hunter. As the silver smoke dissipated, there stood Kiba, strong and proud, as always.

What is it this time, O Mighty Master? The giant wolf inquired, its gigantic head turning to regard its master. Elric laughed inwardly at that. He was no more a master to Kiba than he was to the king of . . . wherever he was.

“A Hunt, O Mighty Hunter.” Elric replied smugly, looking straight into the wolf’s glowing yellow eyes. “As always. Now, why don’t you go play with our little female friend over there? She’s interfering with work.” Kiba gave a short nod of his huge head and bounded off, his gray fur disappearing in the ash-bearing wind almost immediately.

“Now then,” The warrior turned a slow circle, scouring what he could see for any sign of the vampire. “Where are you, my little fanged friend?”

[Selah]

Smothering terror struck me mute.

Where have you fled, O spirit of self-assurance; why have you withdrawn your embrace from my soul, and left me in abysmal circumstance, where all hope for the future is expunged? Dust and ash creep in swells of gray all about me; I am blinded by cinders and suffocate upon the burnt, rotting remains that death has scattered and left behind. Something hinders my steps—some horror clasps me near—I am paralyzed, petrified, abandoned by all complacence, stripped of all confidence. Feeling surges through my fingers, as though I had gripped the hilt of my espada for an age too long—it is pain multiplied, it loosens my grasp. My sword clatters to the ground.

I blinked, for introspection had conveyed me some distance, and forced all attention back to my own body, to the world about me. I felt light of head; I burned with the restoration of consciousness to the present. Stooping, I plucked the sword I had dropped upon the rocks. My heart throbbed, snared in my throat; the burning had extended, and prickling sensations stole through my veins. The two figures—they were battling. What had provoked them? Was their combat deliberate, the object of long contemplation, or was it spontaneous, and if so, was I in any chance of being caught up, of being carried upon a tide of arms and forced to raise my sword in defense? I had drawn my sword automatically; I had no wish to employ its fatal edge against anyone. But would I be obliged? All this I considered as I knelt there, peering around my buttress, my stone wall, fingers clinging to my sword, heart pulsing, limbs taut. I waited. Ashen haze obfuscated the combatants; I saw but shadows moving through the brume, heard the noise of their struggle, and cringed.

“Pick up your sword.”

Terror laid its frozen hand upon my spine; I went stiff, and my eyes widened.

“Are you deaf, unwilling, or unable? Come. Pick up your sword.”

The voice was cavernous; it came from behind, rolled through me and vibrated every atom in my frame. I thought immediately of devils. Their likenesses had been drawn into the ivory-white pages of my father’s great psalm book, and now they loomed before me, harsh of countenance and distinct, horrid beyond all comprehension, alive!

Thought had abandoned me. The burning in my joints increased—it filled my limbs, my chest, my head—I stood. I cannot say why I stood, but I did, I stood clutching my sword in obedience to the roll of thunder and its articulations; I stood, and warm air wafted over my shoulder, against my neck.

Jesús, María y Dios…

Something is standing at my shoulder and it’s going to kill me, Jesús, María, Dios ayúdeme, ayúdeme—I’m going to die, oh God help me, help me, please—

My fingers had turned to stone around the hilt, and my body burned—sweat upon my neck. Sweat and breathing—the latter engulfed me. Did time slow, as the earth wheezed its wasted air along my shoulders, as that booming voice grew tangible at my back? The presence was becoming too strong; like an animal, frightened from its immobility, I spun about, half-gasping—now screaming—my blade like lightsome silver among the ashes, catching the pointed muzzle, the sterling fur—a monster loomed behind me, surely, a demon risen from hell! It stood several inches taller than my head, white teeth upon one side exposed in something that was not quite a snarl, something that was too horribly human to misconstrue as bestial. Its amber eyes glittered upon the Cimmerian clouds of ash, the deepening dusk sweeping over the land. I screamed again and went tumbling into the wall, but no time had passed between my turning, my discovery of the behemoth behind me, my staggering, my fall. I had discerned—I had registered—in the blink of an eye. My head connected violently with the stone, and a spark of black threatened my vision.

Reason, surprisingly, had remained.

A wolf stood before me. A mile-high, gargantuan wolf.

My vision passed through some stages: firstly, a tangle of black dots that swelled and became a black lake, fading as they merged and became clarity, emergent upon a sea of haze. The wolf towered above me, its lips still parted, as though it laughed at me, as though it meant to speak. It lifted its head and I staggered to my feet. I had fallen awkwardly, knees bent and heels against the back of my thighs—standing was involuntary, a completion of my trajectory. The stones caught at the back of my shirt and hair, opposing my upward path—they scraped like malicious things, and pulled me backward into that buttress which had once been my haven, and what now hindered my escape. But I was now fully upright, and instinct took control of my legs: I jerked left and fled. I had come to the corner of the wall, and was now around it, my right hand grasping the abrasive stone, chafed as I sprung around it and put the wall between myself and the wolf. But I was slow—ah! so unhappily slow. The wolf had anticipated my movements and came bounding around the opposite side; I turned the corner and came face to face with the amber eyes and the terrible countenance. Perhaps the wolf had done with words (for in my horror, I had convinced myself that this animal could speak, so thoroughly did its expressions lend itself to my impressions) and now only looked to destroying me quickly, efficiently. Its rows of teeth gleamed, snapping inches from my face. But again, instinct had taken charge, and drew me back just as I went sailing forward. This contrast in motion strained my neck, but no groan of pain escaped me—only another scream of horror, a twisting of my body into that backward motion, running.

I ran blindly, as though through a hall of mirrors, for in such a place as that there are mirrors all about—so here there were slabs of broken wall everywhere, and in this manner resembled a mirrored web. I fled toward a column. At my right shoulder, again, there came the hot, damp breath, the twinkle to teeth, the wine of gums—I swerved as the wolf moved effortlessly to cut off my path of escape. It snapped at my head; a heavy paw, beared with claws, raked the air where I had been. I did not congratulate myself on my timely veer, only breathed with relief—but suddenly, that breath was gone, extinguished—this wolf anticipated me as I was unable to anticipate myself, and had come snaking around into my most recent path, wearing still that human look, that pitied my idiocy and my sluggishness and my inability to surprise, my inability to escape. Again I threw myself aside, motivated not only by my terror, but a growing desperation, a presentiment that I was not going to live—a rabid, furious need to live despite this. My wildness was like fire, coursing from my under-consciousness into my limbs and hands. I still held my sword and now used it. I was face to face with the wolf, slipping amid broken flag and rubble. The great, gray body of my antagonist bent sinuously to face me, and the lips curled back in that unsettling grin. My feet braced, my body tensed—my hand grew hard about the hilt…

Dear God. This won’t work, it can’t work, this wolf is not—

Its amber eyes danced, like scarlet flames, molten rock, embers, alive. I grew numb as I understood—understood not with a conscious thought, but with a flooding of the mind, the body, like rain, like the tide, like water upon a parched throat. This wolf was not a haphazard creature. It did not rise from hell as a phantom, sent by devils to fight me. I had no notion of its origins, but it was beyond all I had ever known, ever encountered. It was clever and it did not move guided by instinct alone. My heart swelled, tears of horror rising in my eyes.

Dear God. This won’t work, it can’t work, it can’t work, it can’t—

“Your fear is like the stench of sulfur,” said the wolf (but was its words within me? My body quaked from the inside out). It loped forward, came at me like a rush of grey water—there was no way I could block that powerful frame…

I slid forward, onto my stomach, and rolled beneath the behemoth.

I do not think I surprised him, but neither did I surprise myself, for having come to some conclusion as to what I fought, my fear had settled so far as to give me access to my own thoughts. I scrambled gracelessly up and lunged, sword poised, seeking some vulnerability, some concrete indication that the wolf I fought was indeed full flesh and blood, but I was again too slow—my head spun, and I saw the wolf’s paw as only a blur, catching my sword as the body turned, ripping the espada from my grasp, flinging the brand, in its way, to the ground. My hand fell to my waist, to my pistol, but something stopped me, an urgent, inward voice. I continued downward, found the ground, grasped a heap of rocks. They spewed from my grip—gravel filled my nails—I rose and cast the shower at the wolf, bringing up another pile, throwing it concurrently with the last. This was hardly affecting, though the wolf paused and raised its stately head above my paltry efforts. I took this as a favourable sign, and continued to throw while retreating; from the tail of my eye, I heard the sound of battle from the other two antagonists, heard the scream of weaponry, of conflict. Did they mark the wolf? I wondered. What would happen if I staggered among them, took shelter in their struggle and so warded off my own opponent? I saw the wolf’s eyes slide in the direction in which I threw my thoughts; seeming to shake off my vague assault, the wolf bounded forward. It leaped, and seemed persuaded to take me, but I leapt forward again, ran for my sword. I heard the crunch of rubble as the wolf landed, the grinding noise of footpaws turning. The crunch grew loud; the wolf was in pursuit. I seized my sword and turned about with a cry, for I could not bear another moment of blindness to the progress of my enemy.

I turned and was caught.

Huge paws brought me low, slammed into my chest and sent me skidding into the dirt and stones. The earth grazed and stung, drove its wreckage into my spine. I screamed, flailed, losing hold of my sword and kicking, began to shriek. I flung up my hands, catching the wolf’s mouth, gripping the muzzle fur, feeling its hard, wet pant against my wrists. The sides of its teeth pressed my palms. They were so long, tepid, slippery—where the teeth shortened, they stabbed my flesh like needles. The monstrous head shook back and forth, and my hands began to alternately lose their hold, slipping into the yawning mouth, against the teeth. I kicked and kicked—there was the wolf’s rib cage; I kicked harder and envisioned in those desperate moments fracturing the bone—one piercing the heart—oh, but unlucky creature that I was! Though I poured my soul into every frantic kick, my attempts were futile. My screams were growing guttural, and soon my throat would be no longer able to sustain them; my heart would tear through my chest at the rate at which it beat and its palpitations filled my ears. My arms shook, my clasp slipped. The wolf’s mouth was inching closer and closer to my face and I felt its heated breath, its flecked saliva—

“NO!”

No, I could not die, I would not die! I had been abandoned by all that was human accepting this violent, wild-eyed desperation, and oh, was I desperate, like a woman scorned and ravaged of all her sentiment, left with nothing, nothing, nothing but something wild and insane! A sudden life flowed through my arms and I bridged the burning fatigue of my muscles; I screamed again and thrashed about. The monstrous paws pinning me down slipped, one from my shoulder. Partial freedom! But then the head lunged down. I came flying up in the same instant, breaking the pressure upon my other shoulder, my hands wound in the jaws and tongue of my adversary. My right shoulder was burning, ragged, crimson suddenly—brilliantly white teeth had torn through it; my hands released their hold. My face was buried against the neck of the wolf, and with a shriek I sank my teeth into the fur and lashed my head about, grabbed with my left hand more fur and pulled and pulled and pulled. The wolf lurched against my shoulder and I grabbed its head in an encircling arm, grabbing and yanking more fur—every finger and tooth was thus employed. The wolf waggled its head savagely, reeled backward and drew me off my feet. I hung there like a marionette, but with a violent shake, the wolf dislodged me. I went crashing to the ground and the wolf leaped. I rolled away, stumbling upright instantaneously, snatched my pistol from my belt and turning, aimed frenziedly and fired.

The shot was a fortunate one, for I was close, and grazed the ear of my antagonist. The wolf flung its head upward momentarily, and I discovered my sword amid the rocks. I lunged and seized it, and then turned and ran. I burst upon the arena in which the two figures fought, stumbled and crashed into one of them in a knot of arms and legs.

Like a doll, like a mess, like a blur of confusion, I fell…


OoC: Being 10:30 at night, I will be obliged to look over this for shameful errors in grammar later. Until then, yay! ^^ Sorry for the wait. And apologies, HH, if I portrayed Kiba wrongly.