Enter Vex Glaston (Open)

[SilentMusician]

It was a chilly night in the grim town of Last Chance. The wind was gusty and the moon continued to hide behind clouds passing through the night sky. Outside the boundaries of the village, upon the side of one of the barren roads that winded toward the town, a small whistling sound was taking place amidst a bundle of cranking trees, nearly stripped of their leaves by the coming of autumn. The air twisted and blew within this affected vicinity, leaves of gold and red being thrown up, whirling about in place. The very space in the middle of all this distorted and cracked, ethereal energy creating sparks of light where this strange activity was taking place.

The sound grew. The distortion became more violent. The disturbance eventually created an ellipsed-shaped pool of energy rippling throughout, like the uneasy surface of a pond, colored pale purple. A black hand struck through, followed by a limb that was also ebony in color. And then a body followed. The following sound was like a whip cracking through the air, the portal giving to allow its traveler to pass through before collapsing in on itself, disappearing faster than it came.

The black figured rolled along the grass before coming to a crouching position. It was in the light of the moon and the still of his motion when the details of his body were finally apparent. The blackness of his limb was, in fact, a part of a high-tech slim-body suit, textured with synthetic fibers, and detailed with mock shapes of the human's muscle anatomy. Around his waist was a belt that held various pockets, with other pouches of this nature attached to his chest and the legs. Not overexcessive that it stood out, but numerous enough to allow quick access to whatever the situation called for.

Over the head of this being was a helmet with black visors. The helm was aerodynamic in nature, much like the conservative shape of his body suit, all meant to optimize agility. As the left-over crackling of the former portal moved about the body of this person, the helmet started to pull backwards along the skull in various clicking layers until it disappeared behind the high collar. The man's face beneath it was oriental. His eyes were gray, though shaped nearly like a snake's. His hair was black, short, and well groomed on the top of his head, glossy to the overhead light of the moon.

He stood himself upright, a shoulder bag making itself known strapped over his right shoulder, and falling diagonally across both front and back to the hanging bag resting against his left hip. As the wind settled back to a slight gust and the leaves found their rest once more at his feet, "Vex Glaston" removed his telecommunication device, a cellphone looking object that created a holographic screen overlay. Static rushed about the three-dimensional display.

"Damn," he said to himself, closing the device back up before pocketing it. "No signal to headquarters. I truly have arrived in another dimension."

He walked himself from amongst the trees to gaze upon the town that awaited him down the road.

"Terrenus, huh? You can run, Roen Jaeger, but you will not hide for long."

Vex, or V, proceeded along the road, entering into the town.

[Anglekos]

The newcomer to the world of Valucre wasn't alone.

Even as the helmet-bearing figure adorned from head to toe in what looked to be an obsidian polymer closed his communication device and let the Way that he had utilized to materialize here shut behind him, perhaps he would feel the presence of someone watching him. Perhaps not. Irregardless, once the man's feet had carried him away from his arrival area and deserted it in favor for the collection of sentience within the town not far off, the watcher made his own move.

The soft sound of metal clanking upon the grassy knoll that lay upon the side of this barren roadway marked the approach of the stranger, adorned from head to toe in a sinister suit of ashen metal, accentuated by the ebony cloth that flickered like dark flame from his neck and whipped at the evening sky, interrupting the steady flow of moonlight from the skies above with its haphazard movements. The armored man simply stood there, it seemed, for a time as his horned helm peered downwards, emblazoned with markings as black as the cloak he bore and bearing no obvious significance to the natives of this realm. From within this encompassing helm, unknown eyes stared at the point where the polymer-adorned stranger had exited one dimensional rift and entered this, silent and judging in that darkened suit. Finally, movement; a gauntlet-borne hand arose from the sides of the silent one and drifted lazily towards the air. This idle gesture was more that simply one of boredom, however, as soon it would become visible to any watching him that leftover remnants of the intruder's Way still remained, the former portal's energies flickering over the stranger's armored limb almost with affectionate familiarity, before dissipating once more into naught, the air he had swam his arm through ceasing the twisting and curling from reality being torn asunder.

A grunt of disgust slipped from within the pewter helm that this stranger bore; hollow-sounding and dead, yet nonetheless carrying the condescending note of superiority that somehow infected that single note. Soon after, speech accompanied that sound; a low baritone murmur that would barely be heard by listeners, especially with the wind picking up on this autumn evening. "Amateurs." Spoke forth with the same hollow sound that his note of disgust had carried, the armor-bearing figure shook his horned head, the light gleaming off the metal in his movement.

Soon after that hidden gaze shifted, the horned man peering outwards where the dim lights of the still-awake town shone before his omniscient gaze; where the intruder unto Valucre's grounds had borne his path towards. An echoing sigh emitted from the armored figure, with clouds of cold air from the temperature drop tainting the existence of reality about him with passive frost and Winter's touch as it exited the small grates in horned helmet.

And thus, with heavy, slow footsteps did the Judge Amoracchius follow in the intruder's wake, his black cape flickering out behind him, carrying the scent of cinders and ash, of burnt bone marrow and cooked flesh.

Blood would be shed this evening.

[spacegy4]

Silently the darkly dressed assassin skulked from roof too roof. There were a few things about Last Chance that she had duely noted upon her arrival. There would be no shortage of jobs for her, but that wasn't why she was there. She had returned. Returned to her birthplace where everyone had 'personal business' to take care of. Why would she come back to such a place of which she had outright fled at a young age?

She, much like anyone who would go out of their way to come to such a hole, had an agenda of her own. It coincided with the reason she had left Last Chance in the first place. Unfortunately while in the city she would need to keep her guard up more than usual. Being a notorious assassin of the local area woud likely mean that there were still contracted individuals continually scouring the city for her. Completely oblivious to the fact that she had no longer been present. Being dressed in a dark uniform of a veteran assassin was fitting for her and as a bonus helped her blend with the darkness. Although she didn’t identify fully with the organization of which her clothes represented they would seem imposing enough to keep the common thief from even going as far as to approach her.

Only moments earlier she had accomplished a hit. It was a simple job. She knew most all the routes over the rooftops, in between and along the ground perfectly, which made it a much less complex matter for her to make a kill. For this place had been her home. Now resting on a rooftop she silently observed the whereabouts of the town. She could clearly see the newcomer walking into the town. Her excellent vision allowed her to easily pick him out of the darkness that permeated the night. She climbed down from the building and leaned against a building near to the path of the stranger.

“Who would you be? You don’t look like you’re from around here.”

The voice of the teenage girl would call from the nearby darkness. Her grey hair and the hues of her blue eyes would stand out ever so slightly in the darkness.

[SilentMusician]

V's head turned slightly over his shoulder as he entered through the gate of the town, then looked forward again. The palette of this city was depressing. The lights illuminated the town in a warm glow, but this didn't look like a town that was bright on its spirits. The first sign of his assumption came when he saw a beggar sitting on the street near an alley. His head was bowed and his body barely holding the clothes on his frame. People walked by, but paid him no mind. The next sign was the people themselves. There were no smiles or any form of happiness coming from the way they moved themselves about. They all seemed mainly to themselves, wanting to get to where they needed to be without being bothered by anyone.

Over yonder near a guard post, two guards were talking to one another. Their casualness and smugness was disgusting. But they weren't the worst of it. The worst was seeing a patrolling guard kicking one of the beggars off the street, knocking him back into the shadows of the alley as if his image was ruining their already fouled streets.

His first impressions of Last Chance were bad ones. And rightfully so. He would soon learn that this place was the Wild West of Terrenus. His examination was interrupted when he heard a voice come from his right. His gray eyes flowed as he turned his head, the female voice originating from a ray of shadow, though he picked up on some of her brighter tones of her appearance to make her out.

"You're right. I'm not from around here."

He had the nerve to ignore her, but he felt this was a good opportunity to kill two birds with one stone. He was paranoid of having entered into an alien world. He knew nothing other than the vague details that were in the files back at CvC. Terrenus was quite a mystery, even to a secret organization that dealt in secrecies of that nature. He had jumped blindly into the abyss; and now it was up to him to inform himself of where he was before he can carry out his main mission.

"Mind telling me where the closest place to get a room is?"

A place of rest was his first task. The second was to juke the person following him. V didn't quite call it following, but he trusted no one. He barely trusted his own comrades back home. So he was curious whether the piece of armor not too far behind him was either entering Last Chance just for the sake of entering or if he had seen V's arrival and chose to investigate. Using a portal for transportation wasn't always quiet. He could very well be a guard of this city. And getting familiar with the authorities was not something he wanted to encounter just a couple of minutes upon entering Terrenus.

Whether the woman responded or not, V continued further into the streets. If she wanted to keep up the conversation, she would have to follow him. It was his intention to move to a more advantageous position, just in case.

[Nahash]

Oblivion. Nothingness. The blackness of darkness. An emptiness of feeling bellowed forth from the void of non-sentience. The flickering of distant stars throbbed in and out to a beat which made up the scope of sensory experience.

Tha-thump. Tha-thump. Tha-thump.

The noise intensified until it filled the nothingness with echoing booms, a vibrating bass of discomfort and anxiety. It grew, and grew, and blossomed into awareness. Awareness of a body in pain. Awareness of an emptiness of mind that filled him with horror. Words and half-complete images of another life flickered by and were gone. A name surfaced. His name? His name: Margrave.

He was alive. He remembered the passage unto death, he remembered the long tunnel, the vanishing light. The blackness. The maddening, painful, horrifying blackness. He hated that blackness. His eyes opened.

A copse of darkened trees surrounded him, the rustle of nocturnal beasts and vermin came with the wind, rustling bushes, leaves, and grass. The last thing he remembered was a table and an obsidian room, the walls like liquid pools of darkness. Then, nothing. What had happened to him?

That throbbing thump returned. It was a dull, blurring pain - a pressure behind his eyes building up, ready to burst his skull with latent energy. He hated that sound. He hated that feeling. He hated the oblivion of not knowing. The fog which filled his mind was precisely that blackness of the void, the tunnel, the empty space which he would never return to again.

"What is going on?" The question emerged from his lips. The sound of his voice surprised him. Raspy, but deep and almost ragged in its intensity. It warped its way through the trees and scared the wildlife around into silence. He realized then that he didn't even know his own face. A calloused and rough hand waved in front of his face. It was the hand of a manual laborer. A blacksmith? A cobbler? What had made his hands this way?

His face was clean shaven and his hair short. A stolen strand gave him a yelp of pain. In the poor light he could just make out its sable hue. It reminded him of the void again and he shivered. He pushed himself into a sitting position - he just under six feet tall of average build. In fact, it seemed to him that whoever this Margrave was, he was entirely unremarkable.

Margrave.

A voice sounded in his head. It was not his voice, and it was not his thought that brought the voice. Something was speaking to him. Its preternatural voice shared more in common with nails on on blackboard than human speech, and yet somehow, Margrave understood it.

You are my vessel. You link me to this world. You are the mortal coil which binds me here. I know not why, I only know that this is true. It is essential.

"Why me? Who am I?" Margrave querulously replied. He was entirely unnerved.

I know not.

A flash of red filled his mind and vision and he felt his senses vanish and fall away. His prone form twitched and he awoke, the knowledge of an immense and painful power which had bound itself to him was made more than clear. He was beginning to think that there wasn't a thing about this he did like.

"Stay out of my mind. It's painful to talk to you."

As you wish.

The presence which had flickered with a red energy in the corner of his mind faded to a blank grey, a monotonous vacuum of space which merely covered over the presence he now knew was lurking there. It was nothing more than a crude disguising of the stark and terrible reality that Margrave, whoever he was, was not alone in his body.

Someone would answer for this. He would find who was responsible, find out why they had done it, and then exact justice unto them. He must regain his memory, that he knew without a doubt. He must eliminate the uncomfortable force which lived within him, if it was even possible.

Margrave found himself standing, fists clenched, the trunk of a tree his target. Catharsis covered his knuckles with cuts and bruises until his fists were slick with crimson, mixed with painful splinters and fragments of the ruptured bark. The ravaged tree spoke only silence in return, and the force inside of him merely rustled.

Just beyond the copse, he found himself on a road leading... somewhere. A whisper in the back of his mind shuddered to life, reminding him of a haven for criminals and social outcasts. It was called Last Chance. He was headed there. The whispers reminded him that it was a town of ill repute, full of the dark corners and unsavory underside of the land. Perhaps that underside contained some information which could benefit him.

Lost in thought, he almost didn't notice the black caped man in a full suit of armor plodding along. His foot caught in the fabric of the cape, he heard the sickening sound of a tear - and gasped when it revealed the ominous-looking fatal suit of armor which had been concealed by the cloak. Stumbling back he fell and prostrated himself to the man whom he had undoubtedly offended badly.

"I am sorry, it was an accident. Truly I did not even notice you."

[supernal]

The journey was a difficult one but trial and tribulation were not foreign to his weathered skin. Pain was a clever magician but it and all of its artifices nothing more than smoke, pretty lights and mirrors. The bedlam of inter-dimensional travel, an utter chaos of the senses and upheaval of the mind, rarely affected him. There was no force in the world, this one or another, which could penetrate and confuse this man's sense of inner peace and serenity; his senses were too refined, too abundant, he was too at one with himself to admit of external confusion.

Everything needed to align.

That bastard son of his had levied an unthinkable insult and breach of protocol, the brunt of such infamy his Organization would have to bear, and then ran off to wreak havoc across the many-worlds. That that boy's cavalier attitude would affect his younger brother was a foregone conclusion. With no more maternal influence to guide him away from such foolishness, Isaiah grew to idolize Malachi. Naturally Isaiah knew to defer to his father nonetheless, for the old man had made sure he was brought up right, but there was a certain venomous glare in his eye upon returning back from missions that made the old man doubt his youngest son's sincerities.

But circumstances had intervened on behalf of the wild, young Malachi and for nearly a decade now the contemptuous jackanape had managed to slip through his clutches like the finest sand. But now all the forms were signed, every step of protocol had been executed with laser precision, and so now the old man was on a black jackal mission after his own sons and had the full force of the law behind him to boot.

The old man exited from the wound some stranger before him had made before it could fully heal; this was key. Entering hot on the heels of a blazer meant that his own machinations could hide in the wake. Less power used, less notice drawn to himself. And so it was that a procession established itself in Last Chance. The initial propagator, waylaid by some tramp in the darkness, behind him a man of gravid demeanor and behind him a dazed lad of unwitting potential.

And behind them all, nearly on the outskirts of the town with a clear view of the proceedings, was the old man. Dressed in a pure white uniform with a double-sided postern whose ends tickled the top of his ankles. He stopped a good distance away, before any of them ought rightly to have a clue as to his existence, but he made no motion to hide. He stood in the middle of the road, eyes affixed to the motley crew.

Instinctively one might want to say he was too far away to hear any conversation. But on a calm, still night in one of the more desolate sections of Last Chance, where the tightly packed apartment complexes amplified acoustics, it was not out of the question.

[Anglekos]

Power is a funny thing.

To say it is easily misplaced is to state the obvious. Even as an arbiter of justice, a manifestation of law and order in the chaos of intradimensional discord that happened to be the Multiverse, the Judge had witnessed the rise and fall of those whom both chased and sought power, and those that possessed it and sought to discard it nonetheless in favor for mortal normality. Talents both minor and major had devised and plotted against his authority, and like ants he had crushed them all. It was, after all, the reason why he was still alive today; the law of common nature that was universal throughout any dimension, any world, that he had happened across. The nature of the beast, the survival of the fittest. It wasn't that they hadn't had strength; nay, quite the opposite. It was simply that he, a single individual, had always proved stronger.

The armored figure was reminded of that very fact as suddenly a trio of new factors entered his field of continuity running through the very Structure of the ground beneath his feet, interacting with his passive nature unconsciously. The law of threes, coming in different natures and levels of reality. Before him, not fifty feet from where he now paused, a feminine life-signature began to interact and mingle with that of his original objective, still continuing forward into the desolate habitation of The Last Chance. Although her passive strength wasn't a threatening level, from what he could tell, even at this distance her Influence carried the refined sleekness that he found generally belonged to those who carried the whims of Death with them and walked in the darkness as comfortably, if not more so, than the light. Perhaps not a danger to him, as long as she stayed in his awareness, but it was something to note.

Then there was the flesh at his feet, the unknown male that had caused him to pause his steady advance in the first place, now pleading for the armored one's forgiveness with the stance of one used to subjugation and surrender. Despite this stance, the otherwise unremarkable man carried with him the scent of talent that the godslayer had come to recognize unconsciously; untapped potential, a nightmare in waiting. A threatening force should the reality of its growth come to fruit. Despite being a master of awareness, however, the Judge was not omniscient, amongst other things; even as the weary male knelt at his steel-coated feet, the armored slayer resisted the urge to make a link to this stranger's mind and steal forth the knowledge that undoubtedly lay within. For that, of course, was prohibited save in certain circumstances, and this was not one of them. Even as the evening wind picked up and carried away the single scrap of raven cloth that the stranger had unwittingly tore away from the rest of the flickering cloak, the Judge turned his horned, faceless visage down upon the hapless, unknowing being, staring from beneath his steel mask at the life pouring forth into the passive Influence that this subservient stranger possessed. Silence greeted the man's proffered apologies, before the horns turned, letting the faint howl of the chill wind whip along his senses as he directed his obscured gaze over his shoulder, back whence he came.

Then there was the newest incomer to the stage. Unlike the two others he had noted, this one was no stranger to the workings of Influence and Structure; had the Judge not been looking for exactly what had happened, he may have never noticed the subtle re-parting of the first walker's Way, nor the masterful usage of another's Influence to attempt to mask their own approach. These were the basics taught to those whom were used to walking the Ways in-between existences, especially those whom preferred subterfuge over overt might. For while most abided by the Law of Common Sense when it came to planeswalking, there were those that simply didn't care. The Judge had found that those that did, however, tended to be far deadlier than those that did not, and the sudden pulse of life coming from behind him simply reaffirmed that fact.

Indeed, power was a funny thing. Not five minutes after stepping unto Terrenus and now the Judge Amoracchius found not one but four minor to major talents walking about in not a hundred foot proximity from himself. He almost chuckled to himself at the irony of it, but remembered the existence still kneeling at his feet in apology; it would be troublesome if he left any to record his vocals, even subconsciously, and he was not one for unnecessary bloodshed. Still wrapped in his guise of silence the armored figure turned on his heel, facing now away from the town of the Last Chance and its denizens as the moonlight gleamed off his horned helm as it pointed northwards, back whence he came, where from this distance the pinprick of flesh and existence gleamed like an ivory tower, a beacon of silent strength like he, stood awaiting in the middle of the now suddenly-crowded dirt roadway.

His initial objective had been the observation of the prior creator of the Way, the suited one that was now continuing to interact with the feminine presence, but that one's methods had been sloppy; of little matter in the grand scheme of the space-time continuum. A fly that the Judge would attend to later; however, the newcomer that stood before him was of greater importance. He was not something that Amoracchius could ignore until a later time. Deserting the fallen male with untapped potential with little regard, the armored figure reverted his advance, ascending up the hill without halt or question; a silent juggernaut as he approached the aged one without fear or pretense.

[spacegy4]

"You're right. I'm not from around here."

"Mind telling me where the closest place to get a room is?"

She would note the man had begun to move and followed behind him into the dimly lit streets. This man wanted to find a place to stay. That would be relatively simple in pretty much any other city in Terrenus. One would merely have to find their way to a place of rest and set down there. In last chance things were vastly different. Any travel in the city at all was dangerous. Especially at night. This would be an opportunity for both the girl and the man. They could both get something positive out of the coming possible transaction.

“Your best bet for a room would be the Floating Dagger Inn, but you won’t want to go directly there. From here and at this time that would be suicide going all by yourself. Goes straight through a territory of assassins. I’d be happy to show you a safe route through there though for a small fee. I was born here and know my way around, and this assassin group knows better than to attack me or anyone near me.”

She would keep to the side and nearly out of sight as she followed wherever the man was going. Awaiting the response to her offer she scoped around her to see if there were any other beings or people nearby. She could feel the motions of the suit of armor nearby and other newcomer. She was prepared enough for an attack. Should one come from any of them she would be prepared enough for it not to be a surprise.

[SilentMusician]

Floating Dagger Inn, eh? The name was ominous itself, but the path there sounded even more malicious. He was right, this place was far from your luxurious grand city of easy-traveling. Every step you took meant you might die. The thrill of not knowing what was ahead caused a smirk to appear upon his face, his mouth pushing at his cheeks. The look was sinister with the way his eyes were already shaped like a snake's.

"I appreciate the advice, but there won't be any need for that. We're going to walk straight to that inn."

He stopped, looking to her again.

"I'm sure they won't attack if you come with me. Unless, these group of assassins aren't exactly what you call your friends."

Her story didn't check out. Why take an indirect path if the direct path was only safe if a person these supposed assassins knew was with him? Not to mention, if this city really was a place of uniform deceit, then she could easily lead him into her own trap.

"Either way, thanks for telling me the name of the place. I'm sure I can find it on my own."

His left hand reached back into his pocket, pulling out that cellphone device of his again as he proceeded down the street. If he got one thing from her, it was that this city was probably one of the worst places one could try to sleep peacefully. Fortunately, V was a man of awareness and deceit himself. He fit into the loathing and malevolent spirit of this city as much as any other grim citizen of Last Chance. If this place was the survival of the fittest, then he would just make himself the fittest.

As he walked on, his eyes caught the sight of a hanging sign above the doors of a pretty big building, swinging to and fro ever so slightly with the words "The Cutthroat Dagger, Tavern & Inn" etched into the wood. The font itself was composed of sharp angles, a distinct appearance that it may have just been carved in by an actual dagger itself. Why try to find the more dangerous Floating Dagger Inn that the womanly friendly pedestrian told him about when instead he could check into a more out-in-the-open inn that was just to his right. He checked out the exterior for a moment before proceeding through the doors inside.

The atmosphere was just as peachy as it was outside: everyone seemed to be in just the best of spirits. Half finished mugs of brandy, smoke lingering in a corner of a room, and a receptionist who had the bearded look of an untrusting man.

V could get use to this place.

[Nahash]

A cloud hovered over the moon, passing with the eddies of wind billowing in an intricate dance. In the dimmed light, the silent suit of armor took on an almost demonic figure, its plated metal gleaming like the guillotine's razor. Somehow his silence, far from being a relief, simply filled Margrave with even more questions. Did the man understand him? Did he not know how to speak whatever language they spoke in this place. If it were him, and someone had prostrated themselves before him and insisted on something in an alien language, would he say anything? Would he even realize he was being spoken to?

"Wait! Do you understand me? Please. I've lost my memory, and I don't know where I am, mostly..." He called out to the now retreating armored man. "At least give me some sign. Let me do something to repay you for the cloak."

He patted his tattered pants and felt the inside pocket of a burgundy vest which he seemed to be wearing. He could find nothing.

"I don't seem to have anything to give you. Perhaps you need something done? Anything?" His voice was waveringly hopeful. He was following the suit of armor as it trundled past him in the opposite direction, all desire to enter the town forgotten and replaced with the intense feeling of culpability for wronging someone else. Come to think of it, he didn't even know if it was wrong to step on someone's cloak. It could be the sign of highest compliments for all he knew. Maybe silence was the normal response to such a compliment. Anything could be possible - he was an empty man in an alien place.

You should not follow that one. He will put us in danger.

The voice drummed against the back of his eyes and with it came that unbearable pressure. For fear of making the armor think he was crazy, he tried simply thinking his reply to the thing inside of him.

I need to do this. Besides, maybe he knows something.

I will not allow you to put yourself in danger. If I sense anything amiss, my action will be swift. You may not like the result.

Margrave did not deign to reply to the disembodied force, but looked onward with a gasp of surprise as the white-clad old man came into view. He had been about to renew his pleas, but one look at the man's expression told him that the occasion was much too somber for that. He opted to remain passive and mum - taking a step back he felt his back hit a tree and he winced painfully.

How embarrassing...

Margrave would really have to work on being more aware of his surroundings...

[supernal]

The old man remained unperturbed, as the one of gravid demeanor turned about with an untold purpose and made his way, gait strident, back to the point of origin. The old man tired of conversation. So little of it was of any meaning at all, and the usual trivial nonsense had a way of sucking time out of a man's hand with unnatural vigor.

Then there was this kind of conversation, occupying the smallest percentage of conversation but nonetheless the most aggravating. A conversation of some critical import, but paradoxically no less trivial, and with no small absorption of man's most valuable resource.

Victory was not the question. It was not in the nature of a warrior to doubt his own abilities, merely to question that of his enemy. By all accounts the armored man before him would delay him to a point that was merely unacceptable. There was never any question of threat because there was never any question of conflict. At least, not on the old man's part. Battle with this behemoth promised to be protracted and noisy, both of which were out of the question.

The only real question was . . . what did this man want? And how far was he willing to go to get it?

"The journey has been long. Let not this be where it ends."

Unassuming enough words from an unassuming enough character, but an implicit question wove itself through his staunch, clipped tone and gave his words structure; just whose journey was the old man referencing?

The old man took a breath; his senses unfurled like a flower with one thousand petals. The female assassin, her male correspondent, the gibbering boy backed against a tree and finally this menacing figure were all kept under his scope of observation but not necessarily within sight.

"Everything about you is order. Purpose. What is your purpose here, with me?"

[Anglekos]

As an observer, the armored figure was more than lucky when it came to the judging of character. The way the aged one held himself, with his aura precise and simple, flowing passively about his material form like liquid bespoke of his mastery over its usage, even moreso than his own manifestations of vocal observation he had made about the very juggernaut now bearing down upon his being, slowly but steadily. Even though the very man before him had regarded (correctly) the approaching Judge as a being of iconic order, of lawful alignment, there was a deadly calm about the bearded figure adorned in white that bespoke of his own authority; it was a calm that was often attributed to those used to giving commands and having them followed without question, lest others suffer the consequences of their wrath.

A trait shared by the very being that this aged stranger now addressed.

At his back, the shorter, uncomfortable male continued to bequest the Judge's attention, offering pleas for forgiveness in the wake of the armored one's silence, and the faceless mask turned slightly as the thing paused in its advance, turning the helm to "gaze" in empty expression backwards at the flesh. From beneath that steel the walker within let the power beneath his irises burn as the reality that he saw suddenly gave way to the true nature of things, letting some of his own sanity burn away in trade for the information that his 'Sight' gave him, before not better than a second later he shut it back down and let the mortal world crash back down before his gaze. Of course, neither the old man nor the pleading mortal would notice any visible changes about the armored being, for all this had taken place in less than the space of a second and beneath the masquerade of his protective suit.

It wasn't that his 'Sight' could reveal everything but that quick glimpse had at least told him a single aspect of the hidden potential within the unknown, clumsy youth; more than one sentience occupied the container that was the unknown boy. That made sense as to why the power felt unnatural, untapped. Still, even with this knowledge, the metal man remained wrapped in his silence in regards to the youth; the Judge was not a teacher, nay, nor a leader of power.

He was the jury, and the executioner, if need be.

Gazing back upwards with his horned helm, the Judge returned to the question posed by the aged warrior before him, the man's vocals carry a resolute timbre that unconsciously tapped into the Structure of the air, the fabric of what they referred to as 'reality'. Aftereffects, surely, of his usage of the Way and not conscious tampering, but still it bespoke of his natural talent and skill with Influence. Letting the ripple of the Structure flow over his passive aura like water, the armored man breathed out from beneath his helm once more, and the air slowly began dropping dramatically in temperature in his immediate surroundings; the previously mildly warm autumn breeze taking on a chill, wintry edge as it slipped between the trio of figures now occupying the road, even as he felt his prior target slip from his field of awareness. It mattered little. Frost began to form slowly over the stiffening grass on the sides of the road, as the horned helm arose to face the bearded being face-to-face.

When two creatures of natural authority came together, a clash generally seemed inevitable. Or, would be, had the two in question not been the arbiter and aged warrior. So, even as his 'purpose' was questioned, the armored one's initial response was not anger, nor shock, nor suspicion. And when he spoke in response, his 'voice' came out hollow and dead-sounding, a sinister baritone that echoed unnaturally from beneath the helm like it originated from underwater.

"Time is precious, and I will not waste thine; nay, nor will I interrupt thy quest. Mine purpose, instead, is to witness and record the events that shalt transpire this mortal eve; and to apprehend offenders of the versal Laws, lest they be broken with no retribution." The tone that the vocals carried were not threatening, no; everything the being stated was mere truth, mere fact, to him. It carried no emotion with it. "In that, I give thee this permission; to use the Flaws of this world as thee will, but do so with care and thought. Tolerance of a lack of such will not happen."

[Nahash]

As soon as words left the as yet totally silent suit of armor's visor, Margrave knew he was in over his head. However these people were, they were dealing with forces far beyond his comprehension. It was enough that he didn't have any idea who he was and only vaguely knew where he was, but these figures before him appeared to be arbiters of some higher law the intent of which he could only guess at.

"Well if you ever change your mind, I'm sure you know how to find me." He gave one last parting attempt at reconciliation. He knew that what he had done probably didn't matter in the least to the imposing figure, since he probably would have reacted by now if it did - but it was a matter of principle. If there was any justice in the world, it could be found in the individual admission of guilt and attempt at reparations.

Satisfied that he had done his best to satisfy his own feeling of guilt - a feeling of guilt which he still wasn't sure it was in keeping with the cultural practices of whatever place he had woken to - he turned around and began walking towards the nearby town. Little did he know, the city of Last Chance was quite possibly the worst place to pick up on standard social norms for someone as disorientated as he was.

He felt eyes watching him as he crossed the threshold of the place. It felt like latent malevolence saturated the very air he was breathing. It was not that he knew that the place was bad, but rather that he felt that there was something off about it. He took a deep breath, eyed his choices of lane and picked the one that looked the least dark, dangerous, and dis-repaired. There wasn't much of a choice - the few shambling drunkards were, he presumed, walking away from whatever fine establishment had housed them. He could guess at other possibilities, but he preferred not to think about it.

Making himself as small, inconsequential, and worthless looking as possible, Margrave strolled casually down the way until a sign caught his eye. It didn't inspire much confidence in their service - would they cut his throat with a dagger as soon as he went to sleep? However, he didn't relish the idea of aimlessly wandering around the seedy town looking for a preferable alternative when it may be that Cutthroat Dagger was his best option.

The only real problem was... he didn't exactly have any money with which to buy a room or even a drink. And he doubted the proprietors could be convinced to give him a key pro bono.

You have any ideas? Say, that reminds me - I don't even know what to call you.

He was getting used to that odd feeling, that burning pressure, which built up as the being linked to his immanent self made its thoughts known. It didn't hurt or disturb him quite as much this time.

Perhaps I can help you. As for what you should call me, Margrave, I go by many names. I suppose most relevant to you would be Saraf.

Dissatisfied but unwilling to give his unwelcome guest the satisfaction of knowing, he accepted Saraf at its word. With an appraising eye he made his entrance, sweeping the establishment with his gaze. Being inside was hardly an improvement from the squalid exterior. On the contrary the iniquitous denizens of the tavern projected an aura of practical approachability which Margrave didn't feel confident enough to breach. Just before him there was a man in a strange suit with another one of those strange helmets designed to obscure the identity of its wearer and perhaps also for protection.

"Excuse me, are you looking for a room here?" He asked, his lack of confidence obvious, "We could collude and save some money."

It was a longshot, but it might just work. Of course, if the guy found out that he, in fact, had no money to speak of it might go sour. Hopefully whatever 'help' Saraf was talking about wouldn't take too long to arrive.

[supernal]

"The man peers over the edge of the pond and sees a reflection; he is surprised to find that the face staring back at him is not his own."

The elder dismissed him in that same moment that the air became pregnant with his enigmatic words. It was not a dismissal to be taken to heart, not a thing born out of ire or condescension, but a mere recognition of the very thing that the arbiter before him intended to impress on the old man. That so long as he acted with care and thought, he could expect no trouble.

To ask care and thought of a man who had spent more than a decade planning and adapting and refining a master-plan to annihilate his most mortal enemies, his two sons, was a pittance.

The old man let his eyes wander for a moment. He did so only after the arbiter finished speaking, because the man had respected him insofar as he did not attempt to instantly ply death against the aged flesh for the sake of his mission, and in so not doing managed to earn the old man's respect in turn. But his eyes wandered to that young man's back who, spooked, retreated further into the annals of this festering wound of humanity.

"Your quarry escapes sight. Not very wise for a scrivener."

[SelenaNichole]

~*~ Xera Trancia ~*~

The night had an edge to it, as she sat upon the top of a building in Last Chance. This was Xera's home, since she was born. It was the only place she knew and the only place she could ever know. What a shame that was. Xera tilted her head as that statement made progress in Xera's thinking process. Lately Xera had been questioning everything. Perhaps it was because she knew she couldn't die a natural death, or because she knew she would live way past any thief that walked the streets of Last Chance. She was not bound to Last Chance personally, but she knew she bound to it by ownership. The Dark Lady was her master, and beside that, she was a double agent, working for a darkness even scarier than her mistress.

Images floated back into Xera's mind, images of being struck with lighting. The energy had sparked a coming of death into Xera's soul, and yes, it tasted so sweet. Xera welcomed death. She bid for it to come and take her away, so she could remain with her mother and father again. However, the gods will always remain so cruel to Xera. She remembered after being struck that she laid, dying, in a grass field, begging for the afterlife, when a dark form came upon her. The form had no name to give, except for a few words, and a gentle kiss of death. The kiss was suppose to kill her, for she knew the harbringer of death had come, but instead, it began to regenerate and reanimate her body, giving her undead body life again. What sweet sorrow Xera felt than as she stood up, feeling the ever daunting command of her mistress again, only to feel an even darker presence that lingered in the back of her mind, asking her questions and making her reveal information.

This was not the life she had ever wanted to live. Xera licked her lips, a bit of dry blood disappeared from her lips as she looked back at the dead man behind her. Dinner was very enticing tonight, but there was something about Mage Slaver blood that tasted just wrong. Shrugging, Xera's small black hues focused on the street down below. She let her legs dangle as she sat down upon the very edge of the roof top, listening. Xera could not return to her mistress without bringing some form of information. She had failed to kill that strange weather woman on the road, so she knew she had to do something. Her ears perked up as she picked up a few sounds. Retracting her fangs, Xera focused and honed in, hoping to catch any glimmer of information that might prove useful. Seeing several people talking she heard the mention of an Inn. Xera didn't catch the name of the inn, but thought about The Black Rose, Tavern and Inn, an inn secretly owned by her mistress.

Curiosity overtook Xera, as she dropped down from the roof tops and landed softly upon the ground, as graceful as a falling cat. Fading into a soft mist, a trait given to her by her Undead lineage, she flowed into the street allowing the wind to guide her. Entering a near by alley across from the inn, Xera materialized, placing a hand on the side of the wall. It couldn't be her inn, for they were in the wrong side of the town. Watching the man step inside, Xera just waited, reading the sign.

"The Cutthroat Dagger, Tavern and Inn" Xera mouthed. This was the inn her dad always used to go to. Xera knew of it well. A smile appeared on her face as she leaned up against the wall. Should she go in? The thought just kept on entering Xera's mind as she was indecisive. Yes....No....Okay I will...No I won't....Fine...No! No! Xera shook her head. She was a child, and she would draw too much attention..."Unless" Xera said to herself softly. Drawing her black hood up, Xera wrapped her cloak around her body, and pulled her hood grimly over her eyes, covering a majority of her face in shadow. She knew she would draw some attention, but she could handle it. She wasn't the best at compelling humans, but it was something she wanted to practice on anyways. Walking across the street Xera, stepped into the tavern, keeping her long black cloak tight around her body.