Sequence III: Perdition - Chimera.

[Civet]

He is walking for a while, starting to wonder the point of this strange dream. The healer is still -quite- convinced it is in fact a dream. The way movement blurs things, the saturation of the colors. It's not quite right, and so it is a dream.

He hears a scream faintly in the distance, and a cold unease settles into his stomach. Maybe it's a nightmare.

Bryce has had considerable nightmares in the past, his healing abilities exposing him to some fairly gruesome sights. Lately the nightmares have been from events in Myrken, an unstoppable plague killing everyone, swarms of insects devouring everything, or a giant hulking minotaur lurking in every shadow. It's the minotaur he fears the most, a tangible threat that could be anywhere. He quickly pushes his way between some thick pine boughs, fear building from even thinking about Choss, and is almost startled to see Agnie. Almost.

It's not a complete surprise that she would be in his nightmares as well. Bryce has been harassed by her non-stop from the moment they met, and she's been near cruelty with some of her jibes. She's hovering over an older man who looks sick and dying, and there is a child with her. Is this meant to be some sort of manifestation of the guilt she's forced on him for her brother's death? Bryce's only crime that of being too weak to be there? Is he supposed to help??

He rushes up to where the girl is kneeling over her father, dropping down beside her. He doesn't even see how she's weilding the knife. "I can help him.. move aside.." He says, desperate to prove that he would have helped her brother if he could have.. Even if it is just a dream, he can have his own peace of mind.

[Vanidor]

Use me.

The weapon was simple, and hefted in his hand quite easily. Tossed up in the air once, twice to get the weight of it. There was something off in the world around him. The colour of the trees and grass and sky, each brighter than it should have been. Paler than it should have been. He had seen this before. He knew what it was, what to feel. Was it a dream? Was it reality? He had to decide.

Yet first he took a look around, surveying the world around him. The wood was thick, the grass was rich, it was pristine wilderness. Memories of the meadowlands of home rushed through his mind… If only the trees could be shorn, leveled to allow the undulation of the land to be seen. The wide and open expanse of grasslands that allowed one to see for miles in all directions, a veritable sea of grass that anyone could be hiding in.

That… anyone could be hiding in. There. He felt it. The tension in the air. Use me. His hand tightened on the grip, spare falling to his waist to snag at the weapon that should have been hanging there. Yes, fingers fell upon the familiar hilt of the thing. Soria, ever faithful, rested closer to him than the real one ever hand. There was a vague recollection of falling asleep with her clutched to his chest. That was a memory best forgotten, for nothing gained such closeness to his heart these days.

The knife and the sabre, they would have to do, for he would not give up. He could not give up. Wasn’t that what the dream-walker had said? That he had to fight for every moment of life he had left within him? Death was… sedentary. Still. A waste. He had decided to burn as brightly as he could, for as long as he could, and not give in to the madness within. He would fight, and lose, but he would fight.

Motion at the corner of his eyes, several steps carried him into the brush. The tough fronds scratched at his naked torso, leaving a gentle tracing of welts upon sun-darkened skin. The knife was twisted, held like a fang in his hand. He was quiet in the bushes, his mind centering on the scene that played out before him. They way that Suede had fallen to a madman’s ravenous claws. How the madman himself had fallen to guile and the silent creeping of the dark-skinned assassin. How that same woman then wandered away, predatorily seeking another to slay. Was her thirst for blood as deep as that? The knife was tossed towards his other hand, held at the ready.

Then. The woman had drawn closer. The spiders of that made an odd cloak swirled ‘bout her. Kerrak al’Nerun exploded from the scrub-brush, the void swirling even though he was locked within the dreamscape. The cry he undulated was indistinct, meaningless. He threw the knife, for the thing was begging to be used. He aimed the crude blade for the woman’s torso, landing on the balls of his booted feet shortly afterwards, his sabre bright and brilliantly washed-out in the colour-scheme of the world that surrounded him. It was as chaotic as the action he had just taken, for here was none of the calm nature that had once upheld him…

“Death! You bring death where there should be life, like all of your kin! Death is failure! Death is the end! The Long Sleep shall take you!â€

[Jirai]

The woman - would Kerrak even recognize her? She was so different from what he had known, scars erased as if they had never been, leaving her face delicate and beautiful once more. Her clothing, too, had changed, tight-clinging, colored leather, and no cloak - save the spiders.

Did it matter?

She drew closer to his hiding place, naked blades in her hand. Closer, close enough that he could see the wildness in her dark eyes. Madness, coldness, bloodlust... masked grief. Her thirst for blood was deep, and had not been sated by murdering Suede's murderer.

Kerrak exploded out of the bushes, a sudden movement which immediately had the woman spinning aside, blades raised defensively. It was a move that shifted her from the path of the crude knife sent spinning at her chest. One threat averted - but there was still Kerrak and his sabre left.

The bright, gleaming metal of his sabre would be met by her own crude knife as the female twisted away.

Use Me.

The other blade would lunge for his side. "Uk zhah elghinyrr. Nin dos orn el, ichl." She'd snarl at the man in her own tongue.

[Vanidor]

There were bellows in the otherwise silent wilderness. Cries of pain and of surprise. The guttural bellows that came along with combat and battle. Aeryn made moves to avoid it all, the knife he had found tucked quite safely into the wide sash of dark green that wound it’s way around his waist. Janerio-grey long coat hung open, hanging loosely from his shoulders, the pale blue shirt under that untucked and hanging limply. His feet were bare, poking out from breeches that were two shades away from being pure black.

As far as dreams went, this had to be the best he had had in ages. Able to walk away from the fighting and the confusion that usually enwrapped him like a whirling cord. It felt nice to feel no desire or obligation. To be able to walk under the canopy and feel the grass between the toes, to allow those same toes to -dig- into the loam and bring forth the rich and earthy smell of grass. It came in a rush, a sweet smelling rush that made Aeryn smile once more. He had often enjoyed doing such in his youth, taking in the smell of the wilds. Ha, in his youth. The man smiled at himself for that thought, and then came forwards through a bough of low hanging branches and bushery.

A scene before him that was odder than many others had had already seen here. Agnieszka with a sickly old man, a boy that Aeryn thought looked familiar. Bryce rushing forwards to offer his assistance, to forestall a death that seemed to be occurring. Was this still a dream? He could understand Agnieszka being in one of his dreams (it wouldn’t be the firs time), or of the younger Bryce being a feature in one also… But both at the same time, what with this strange array of events? Had he gone off for a walk into the woods, and then been placed under a magic spell of some sort?

One way to discover the truth, and that was to act. There was often much truth in actions, and here was one. Aeryn stepped out of the brushwork, striding across the field for the two… no, the –four- others. Bryce was still calling out his desire to help. The decision had taken but moments…

“Agnie… Bryce. What ken I be doin’ t’help…â€

[Carnath-Emory]

Ariane had been moving away from the bloodied scene, when the echo of Kerrak's wrath turned her back about.

She'd been making decent progress, too. Some forty feet of wilderness, she'd put between herself and morrigan Jirai -- for it is a lovely day, after all. In any case, she'd no more interfere in the drow's business than Jirai would hers -- unless it were to become necessary, and so far there has never occured a conflict fit to place them at odds. So: let her have her vengeance, which is likely what that was, and let Ariane wander back towards the sunlight, except that Kerrak's roar of a sudden shudders the very leaves above her head; it is thunder in the air, it swears itself to murder, and when she turns back about, it's to retrace her path at a sprint. Through thick undergrowth, she pushes; through shallow puddles and sodden leaves, with a thousand reflections to keep pace at her side.

She'd covered more than half that distance, when her brother's voice sent her staggering.

Forgive her this instance of clumsiness: that her brother would condescend to address his younger sister -- this female is remarkable. But that he would speak at all is a miracle, for when she last saw lanky Petyr, he'd been bleeding out his life onto a fabulously expensive rug. So there comes this stagger, bare feet skidding through mud and silt; she twists around, because this cannot be so -- and there he stands: seven inches her senior, tall and lanky, and with that sullen twist of the lips that is so familiar that she aches. So unlikable, Petyr had been: indulged, entitled, useless --

"How dare you," he sneers -- and an observer would realise that the dislike is quite mutual, for Petyr has a naked sword in his hands, and has hesitated not at all in driving it for her throat.

It's a simple thing, to push it away with the knife Jirai had dropped. Death has not improved her brother's swordsmanship; his arm is still weak, his balance abysmal -- oh, as useless a fencer as an heir! He is only the slightest of obstacles: even so lightly armed, she need only defend -- as had been the case those ten years ago, when he'd come to her bedchamber with that weapon bared. In outrage at what he'd seen sprawled upon its floor, he'd come for her, instead of the intruder he'd anticipated from her shout; in fury, he'd stabbed for her throat, then as now. And she, with a husband's sword in her hand, had cornered him; no meat to be butchered, she'd fended him away as the House roused in alarm --

And defense, so easily -- so unnecessarily -- had become attack. Then. Now.

He is still fond of extravagant gestures, it seems: it is the work of an instant to dash forward and fast beneath that sweeping arm, to slash the dagger across its inner elbow in a manner that will agonise, that will cripple. And to draw back before the blow can fall; to dart upon him again when the pain sends him reeling; to blind him with a cut across the brow; to dash past his sloppy stab and drive the keen blade into his side -- oh, all of this for you, elder brother, who'd come across this sister standing over her husband's bloodied corpse, and condemned her to death at his pallid hands. All of this for you, who'd inherited everything and earned nothing: every inch of this newfound dagger, just for you.


The clash of steel carries thin upon the warm breezes, a singing counterpoint to Kerrak's thunderous fury.

[Vanidor]

A trace of blood ribboned upon his naked torso, adding to the weals of scrapage from the thorny bushes. A drizzle of brilliant crimson to stain sun darkened (or was it -fire- darkened) flesh, an injury to add to the multitude of others that criss crossed themselves across his barrel-shaped upper body. Corded muscles twisted, sinews contracting. Physically fit for a man pushing into his forties, he had prided himself on being quick for his age.

For still being strong. Strong enough to fight against the eternity that is death. "Fuck you and your vile tongue! I'll make you bleed enough to match the stains Suede made upon the earth! To match the visceral gore you made of that damned wolf-man, Biske!" He had seen their death throes, had heard the sound of their demise. Kerrak would be no such easy meat. Even enraged as he was. Even as... reckless as he was.

The left hand shot down. The sabre-scabbard was gripped. Heavy, bludgoning metal added to his array of weaponry. Kerrak danced fowards, boots tearing at the pristine soil. Sabre swept forwards, aiming to cut free a limb. It didn't matter, be it leg or arm, but if it were extended for a reprisal attack, Soria swept for it. In counter-point the blunt, steel-hard edge of the scabbard slithered in as well. It was dirty. It was brutal. It was Kerrak. Anything and everything that was needed to win, that was how he fought. And so the scabbard came as well as the blade, hard and fast...

Was it all a dream. Was it reality.

All that mattered to Kerrak was in the lusty roar of combat. The triumphal scree of metal against metal. And, if luck came to it, the unhealthy squelch of steel against flesh.

[Jirai]

Gore that still coated her hands, dried in her hair and clothing. Gore that she reveled in - as much, perhaps, as he would. Biske had deserved it. And Kerrak... now Kerrak had earned it as well.

"He killed Suede."

She snarled, voice thickened with rage, the wildness of her eyes not reflected in her movements as she spun aside yet again, Soria scoring a line down her arm, her own blood mixing now with Biske's, with Suede's.

"And you will die like he did!"

With the nimbleness of her race, a deft twist of her torso avoided the scabbard's thrust. The knife dropped from her injured hand, as though fingers could no longer hold it. The other dagger swept across, a steel mask to hide the intent of her other hand - to get close enough that the poisoned needle concealed in a ring could do its work.

[channe]

There is steel and sound. Screams of blood and death, somewhere, but here on the corner of this field, more pressing questions.

And then she is surrounded by her fellow-soldiers, welcome and not: sour, trying Bryce, and -- Aeryn, the only goddamned bright spot of this entire twisted day, in whose presence she tries to wipe the terrible wetness from her eyes.

No. Nothing's wrong here.
Everything is.
This is real.
Am I dreaming?

She stands at the edge of a precipice; a decision is made; she jumps.

He had apologized. She'd give him a chance.

"Heal him," she says, fervently, to the young healer -- shock in her father's eyes, as she tears away from him. Karol tears at the hem of her shirt with a desperate man's gesture, but the spell is broken; no, father, there will be no death-bargain with your murderous daughter tonight; at least, not now even though her knife is bared and still held tight in her hand. It flashes at Bryce. "Do it, now." Her eyes are serious as a schoolteacher's.

And should be utterly, utterly clear.

This enrages the child, though, who bursts into tears and pummels his small fists on Agnie's thigh. "Agnie, do what your father wants, you promised, he wants to come see me, he misses me, you must do as he says," he says, wonderingly, with feeling far too strange for what Jozef Kaczmarek would have felt in life; but he had been a strange little boy, had he not? And Karol, on the other hand, looks from one to the next -- "oh, God, let me die, I want to die," he moans, "she won't let me die, Agnie's the only one who can help --" and more, underneath his breath.

"Heal him," the Kaczmarek misfit says, breathless, knife suddenly slid into her belt, rapier in her hand. She then steps back to stand next to Aeryn, distancing herself from the healer.

"Do it and I forgive ye everything. I'll peel yer frackin' potatoes, I'll kiss your dirty feet -- I'll trust you, I'll trust you, by God -- DO IT," she nearly screams. "Do it right this time or you will earn the punishment of all rotgut liars -- you could not help my brother --" she clutches the boy's hand tighter, tighter, tighter -- "but, by the One God, help my father --"

What can you do to help, Aeryn Karolinger? You can watch Bryce try to heal your namesake; you can stand beside Sister Kaczmarek, who has unconsciously enlisted your support by stepping up beside you; you can even attempt to pick up the bloody pieces that will fall, if you like.

You may also want to draw your weapon, because you have seen that look in Agnieszka's eyes before.

[Civet]

Was he going to do otherwise? Of course not. The man is suffering, Bryce can save him, and it is only a dream but it feels real and maybe if he can accomplish this, a small part of him will feel better and be able to more easily take Agnie in stride in the waking world.

The man pleads for death, but that's only because he's in pain. It will go away and her father will thank him after. He can't save everyone, but that's never stopped the healer from trying, despite the consequences. He tosses the dagger aside and rests his hands on Karol, closing his eyes to clear him mind. He blocks out Agnie's voice, the screams in the distance, the sobbing of the child. He focuses on what needs to be done, to draw on his own energy and guide it into the man laying crippled on the ground. He reaches.. and nothing happens. Nothing at all. It's gone. His focus is solid, his mind on the task, but the normal channeling of power is as if it never were.

He opens his eyes, looking down at his hands with a gasp of surprise. Is this what the nightmare is about? A cruel jape at the one reliable thing in his life? The healer feels an icy hand clench his guts, the same feeling he felt when he got the long snakelike scars all over him, and his eyes meet Karol's with a soft whisper filled with fear, "I can't.."

[channe]

Every so often, people break like dolls or crystal vases; too much pressure, and they shatter.

Agnieszka has been mauled by a dragon; betrayed by a teacher; battered by the death of her brother and the subsequent meltdown with Bryce; stung by the accusations of Guili Maria and the constant, sniping, negative, shattering criticisms of Jirai and Curin and Elil and a dozen others who see in her the things she is not; the strange, hooded man that comes to her and speaks truths and makes her stomach roil and who magicked himself into looking like her, and the dirt and utter truth in her soul after their encounters -- and, oh, the thousand concentrated indignities of being poor in Myrken Wood -- a stomach too often left to hunger, a soul sold to the Brotherhood.

And now this.
One last indignity from a boy who has given her a dozen such indignities.

So she does the only thing that is in her heart. Her hand goes to her belt; out comes the knife, sword-hand is raised, and voice tears from that lovely white throat of hers --

"BRYCE LAROSE, YOU ROTGUT LIAR -- YOU FRACKIN' WHORESON, this is the LAST TIME you SCREW WITH ME AN' MY FAMILY --"

And she's launched herself at Bryce.

[Vanidor]

The girl had come to stand by his side. A small thrill curled up the spine of the young man, a slight resurgance of boyhood emotion. Was this the time for it? The time to put aside duty and obligation. To indulge in that which he had, per force, denied himself the chance of cultivating. Was it right to do what the twisting pathes of confused mind and conflicted heart urged? This was more than a dream. It felt like reality...

Her father! He had heard that the man was dead. Killed by a rogue guardswoman that had -not- been allowed into the Brotherhood when they had installed themselves. Dead, if the rumours be true. But then how could it be, that the man was here and crying for release. He heard Agnieszka's command. The way she seemed to force and sob and bluster her way through the decree. Aeryn gazed downwards, dark eyes focusing upon the sickened and withered form of a man who sought out death.

Aeryn... paused. Started to open his mouth. Agnieszka's eyes were a concern, but it was easy for him to become lost in them as well as find them utterly horrifying. And then Bryce spoke those two words...

"I can't..."

Silence. The battering of a heart. The squelch of feet digging into loamy and untilled soil. A breath before the storm. "Angie... Sometimes ya need t'let go, an' let 'im rest." The only things Aeryn would say. The only thing he could think of. "Sometimes... sometimes y'gotta give succor, e'en t'someone ya wanna gut... An' sometimes yer goin' t'have t'say g'bye to those ya love, an' that be at tha point o'a knife..."

His hand had, in the mean, settled on his waist. Upon the sash into which his own rather crude knife sat... It burned there. As if a clarion call...

Use me...

No. The hand fell away. There was something else that he could do. Something that would make no sense, but then again... this had to be a dream. "Sometimes Agnieszka... Ya gotta do somethin' reckless an' somethin' that don' make no sense..." The next action would probably prove to be his undoing. But... those where the risks, and what was life without risks. Just a lot of regret, something Aeryn knew most keenly. And here was the headstrong girl acting in full character. She would have gotten along better with Jons, or perhaps Kerrak himself. And so then, in words whispered to himself... "Sometimes... ya jus' gotta say t'Hél wi' it."

And Aeryn Karolinger, that one bright spot that seemed to shine no matter how tarnishes the image of Janerio got, grabbed the enraged and emotionally twisted Agnieszka Kaczmarek, aimed to spin the flaming girl round about (which would put his own back towards Bryce), and slap a kiss on her mouth.

It was a dream. And only in dreams did something like this work...

[channe]

Aeryn is correct -- only in his dreams does something like this work. And it will, but not in the way he'd expect. Because, it seems, even in her dreams, Agnie Kaczmarek still never gets what she wants.

Not even something she's wanted for ages, like this.

Things happen so fast, in these dreams of theirs. He grabs her shoulders, spins her; she is so focused and forward she has forgotten to be aware at all sides, forgotten her lessons; and so, so shocked and amazed; and her bodily reaction is to raise her hands, to protect herself, as she had protected herself from Ignas Demonsbane that one time, and that knife is on one of those hands --

-- a terrible accident, really --

-- but he is intent, which will only net him the sharp end of the knife-blade originally meant for Bryce, the one that she holds steady from shock between them and, soon, to his body. It is simple vector physics; flesh becoming proof of an equal and opposite reaction.

What will happen? The knife will come in on the side, or, if he is truly forward with that kiss, the front, right through his ribs.

He is fast. Will their lips meet? Yes. Perhaps. For one, fleeting second, as motion fails, as steel possibly meets flesh -- for a moment, before she realizes what her negligence may have done to him?

Oh, Bryce Larose, for your healing powers now...

[Pipkin]

Around her.... voices, screams, and death-rattles.

The woods exploded with their insanity, and it would seem that all Elil could do..was stare wide-eyed at the horrors around her.

Silent, soundless feet take her through leaf-littered woods..her reed sandals moving carefully as black eyes survey the world around her. Already, she had seen blood...and even corpses. Those of the strange wolf-man Biske, and Suede..a man she knew little of, save for his face.

And now..his backside.

Had she seen Jirai walk away from that carnage? No..but she heard the harsh language and bellows of the Drow's next confrontation.

The Djinn writhed...hands opening to claw their air..as though it would prompt the woman into some sort of action. Lips curled upon the bearded features..sliding into a wicked smile before whispered words filtered through the air..caressing Elil's mind, though to anyone else, such comments would simply be gibberish.

Head tilted, movement spotted out of the corner of her eye, and Agnieszka's rageful voice soon filling her ears.

As fingers tightened around that newly found knife in her hand, Elil decided to see what all the ruckus was finally about.

"AGNIESZKA!"

[Rattrap]

David D'Rael had found himself like everyone else - he'd even similiarly found others rather quickly, in the scuffle that was unfolding between Agnie, Bryce, and Aeryn. It was Agnie, foremost, that demanded his attention - her and that murderous knife, pointed first for Bryce, only to soon turn to an accidental victim...the Doc moved quickly, dashing forward to meet and stop Agnie, hands reaching for a critical juntion on her limb to halt the violence.

He barely had time to sleep, normally, let alone change - so he was in his usual attire: indigo vest with a simple linen shirt underneath and the common, earth-colored pants. The knife that everybody seemed to have hung from his belt, taken only for its utility purposes - it would be silly to ignore what could be a useful tool in an unknown area.

Even if David was aware that none of this was...let's say, natural. While the tangibility of this reality might just as well be the actual, David was sensitive to psychic intrusions. He was aware this imagery didn't come internally.

...the only reason he hadn't woken himself up was the curiosity to find out who - or what - they did come from.

[channe]

Elil approaches, but Agnieszka is a little too busy to acknowledge her presence. For someone else has come at her, now, and attacked with no intention as innocent as a kiss -- there is an attack, there are fingers searching at her limbs, but she can be fast as well, and now that Aeryn and Bryce have inspired in her watchfulness, she is able to turn, wriggle out of the Doctor's grasp.

For her training, of course, sees this as an attack. Kind intentions, D'Rael, get you nowhere in a place like this, with such suffering.

And perhaps you should have left your interference to shouting and watching, because Agnieszka is defending herself. With her rapier. That well-trained rapier she'd had her hand around when she was falling asleep, the one she's never far from at all, the one that serves in the place of a lover --

Can you dodge a close, full-on, rapier attack at your stomach, oh rude, rude David D'Rael?

What else can one expect from attacking a girl so on-edge? It's only truth; it's completely understandable, this counter-attack, is it not? She wants to live, she needs to live --

And behind her, Aeryn, Aeryn --