He awoke later, the daze still there, letting him know that what had occurred wasn't a dream. He felt a warmth, a kindness in the room. Sitting upright he placed his back against the headboard of the bed. The hard wood welcoming his touch as it quickly became warm and comfortable as all things do.

Opening his eyes he let them trail around the room, noticing that a Half Elf brunette was sitting near the window, his things on a nearby chair, he noticed the saber first, just because the sheer fact the half the blade was warped twisted, and looked somewhat melted. Probably from killing whatever it was that attacked him.

Noticing that he was unclothed except for his boxers (Or whatever Elves wear underneath) his red flecked silvers landing on the women, curiosity swirling in his mind as her attentions snapped to him, "Hiya" you ok?" Glancing to the wound Glan brushed his hand over it, only a scar remained, "Now I am...I think. Did you heal me?" The women nodded her hair falling over her shoulders. A well built half Elf looks how he likes (Fill in the blanks yeself if ya" wish.) His eyes drifting over her, wearing Elvin silk short's and a rather tight muscle shirt, the exposed skin a shade of tan. "Thank you." A genuine statement considering he couldn't do it himself now, and he was pretty close to death.

"Your welcome, so what?s your name?" Her voice soft, gracing his pointed ears as he listened watching her lips form the words that rolled off her tongue. "Daeron is the name I go by here." Sliding an Elvin silk shirt on over his head as he listened. "Mines Caladwen, my mother gave it to me as my second name." She beamed at him as he placed black Elvin silk pants on, "Nice to meet you Caladwen, and again thanks for healing me." Softly spoken with warmth?" Glan is out of his mind but he is in Bordertown and that could do it. Suffice to say the women had earned his respect, and he needed to repay her somehow.

She nodded then paused before speaking, "I have heard that name before, it is a name seldom uttered in undertown or through sub vocalizing, who are you?" He looked to her, "Someone who should be dead." She smiled at his response, "I see, well what now?" He arched a brow the red flecked silvers trailing over her features as he took note, "Now I have my own agenda, although feel free to call on me as needed, I owe you one."

She beamed, "No you don't, but if you wish to owe me something, I'll help you how I can." The kind gesture not ignored, but Glan new death was at his heels, and knew how making friends at this time could destroy him in ways un-imaginable. "You need not repay me young one, I owe you a favor and you owe me none." Not lingering on the subject he continued to suit up, the black leather armor being adorned in small parts. "You need help more than I, that is something I sense within you, and your thoughts surface into my mind uncontrollably so I accept the un-intentional bond. Please accept my help."

He paused, man there was no way to deter this women, "I am afraid my path is something best faced alone. I do not wish harm to come to others, you have my respect that is all. Please do not linger on my tail because that isn't wise." No longer even facing the women, he knew that emotions were forming. That isn't a good thing, and could complicate things as usual.

The power within him growing as did his hunger for death, and the life force contained within all, why' What was happening now" What is the wishes of the higher powers, and why are they targeting him' These all needed answers, and he only had his pointy ears partially to the ground so' now he needed to find someone to give him the intel he needed.

How that was achieved is still a mystery. The questions unanswered he finished by fastening the last part of his black leather armor.

"Thanks for your assistance." That said he melded into a nearby shadow, the ancient power passed through his bloodline giving him that luxury, moving through the shadows with ease he headed back on his path to his contact on Water st.

He felt it, a sudden hunger, his last bit of mana leaving him. The power stripped away, the knowledge of how to use it remaining but he couldn't use his magic anymore. The loss of this bringing back things that he wished not to remember.

The hunger growing, and his emotions slipping from his control. And the more he thought of the hunger, and the anger attached the need to kill grew as well. He longed to see someone die, and to watch their life force die like the ember of his Elvin clove.

Taking an inhale he held it in as he walked, the cloak shading his features and face as he moved with ease through the crowds in the club district. The hunger growing with the buzz, and the buzz growing more with the energies passing through him like a conduit.

What was the hunger, why did it want him to kill" Why was it suddenly there. The though making his anger and urges grow. The pain of his last memories caressing rationality, and there at the edge of his sanity it waited. Like a cat waiting outside the mouse hole.

Turning down a small street he found himself ducking between the alley ways, and dodging shadier people for his reasons. Although it was only so long before he entered to conversion, then he was on New Soho, and those whom had better Tech could spot him easier, and restrict the shadow entry.

Foot steps at his back, more rushed then his he felt himself slipping farther towards the edge, the abyss in his soul longing to be filled with the part that was taken from him, and would not be satisfied until the one who possessed the part of his essence that clung to his power with a deathgrip.

The red flecks danced within the silver, and he felt his infravision become sharper, more vivid. The red becoming more prominent, and flashes of things he wished not to see became more apparent. The self fight for control echoing as was his existence.

He felt the footsteps speed up with his, and he had no idea why. The new graveyard noted on the corner of New Dragon town and Soho, he knew that would be the only place to fight un-noticed, and without interference.

Wait what"! Interference he wasn't to fight anyone, escape if possible drawing attention here, now could cause the repercussion to become a trickle effect, and he had know way to correct the problem he was dealing with and until he could figure out what was wrong with him he was screwed, and the anger contained when he fought would make his tactics nullify and his rationality dissipate as the silver in his eye began to do.

Crossing the gate, he picked up the scent of the one's tailing him, good prey, strong in magic, untapped meaning none was spent. A delicacy like no other. The scar on his cheek fading as did he feel his weakness, the power of the ancient returning just short of magic.

"Hey you are dead, what you doin" here"!" It was four faceless assassin's that knew him, and wanted to see him dead, "You movin" into out terf" If so you gonna" find it hard to leave here in one piece!" Said as the two at the back drew guns, and the ones at the front charged.

Glan didn't turn, but he felt his body control him. The hunger moving him with anger. Knowing what he was to do, and how he was to do it suddenly. A cackle escaped him, as he swerved around bullet fire, the red glow escaping the haven of his shades, shadowy claws tipping his fingers, as the first victim was gripped around the neck, using the momentum he had from the inhuman jaunt he forced the man against the tomb, the wall shattering under the pressure. "You will not be leaving in anything less than a zip lock baggie you poor SOB!" The shout making the man wince, as the claws sunk in, and began to drink from his life, the soul untouched he only targeted the energy.

Afterwards he turned to the others, the inhuman jaunt taking him towards the group again, the darkness hiding him until he was in close quarters, then he shot back into the darkness again, the claws gripping another.

Disemboweling this one he let himself absorb the power held within, then turned, he felt his strength's multiply, then he began his jaunt again, only a black and silver blur as another left the light.

This one rather quickly was he erased, the craving somewhat satisfied now. The anger washing over his soul, as well as the pain. He felt the power turn away from his true emotions remaining gripping him, the craving outweighing anything. "This is gonna" be fun FW!" The echo in the silence making it to the remaining ones ears, he heard the footsteps contacting the wet grass.

An inhuman jaunt brought him to face the man, his energy emanating from him, the power seeping through the cracks visible to those who couldn't see past his form, a red ethereal glow surrounding him, and the power making the man before Glan quake in fear. "Feed me with your suffering!"

The man dragged out for about an hour, the pain lasting for days as it was absorbed, and the pain washed over him again. The hunger and sudden power leaving him, only the physical attributes remained and they only held for about a week or a night, who knew.

A scream escaped him, the scream was heard from one end of B-town to the other, the pain resounding in it. The power behind it fear inspiring, and the sadness it held making it hard not to let tears grace ones facial features, the corpse remaining in it's silent stare as Glan shouted, putting everything into it. His anger subsiding, and his sorrow as well. The only thing remaining is rational thought and memory which alone could drive him to hunger again.



Driven up and down in circles, Skidding down a road of black ice, Staring in and out of storm windows, Driven to a fool's paradise.

BUT IT"S MY TURN TO DRIVE BUT IT"S MY TURN TO DRIVE

Driven to the margin of error, Driven to the edge of control, Driven to the margin of terror, Driven to the edge of a deep, dark hole

Driven day and night in circles, Spinning like a whirlwind of leaves, Stealing in and out of back alleys Driven to another den of thieves,

BUT IT"S MY TURN TO DRIVE BUT IT"S MY TURN TO DRIVE

Driven to the margin of error, Driven to the edge of control, Driven to the margin of terror, Driven to the edge of a deep, dark hole,

IT"S MY TURN TO DRIVE, BUT IT"S MY TURN TO DRIVE

Driven in-driven to the edge, Driven out-on the the end of a wedge, Driven off-by things I've never seen, Driven on-by the road to somewhere I've never been,

IT"S MY TURN TO DRIVE, BUT IT"S MY TURN TO DRIVE

The road unwinds toward me, What was there is gone, The road unwinds before me, And I go riding on,

Driven to the margin of error, Driven to the edge of control, Driven to the margin of terror, Driven to the edge of a deep dark hole.

"Driven" by Rush.

Thunder sounded outside the Factory, then lightning shot across the sky, New Town's presence still very different from Old Town. The Rain drop fell to it's death on the pavement, guided by gravity, and wayward gusts of a strong wind. The heavens opened up in mere seconds after, another streak of lightning and there was thunder on it's tails. It sounded like an old battlefield, and the echo of life on the street was apparent.

The scattered thought became one, a shred of sanity there as Glan moved up the street. The red flecks dancing while his eyes moved from person to person, a glance offered to those who seemed interesting. Another clash of thunder was heard. The sounds of the city shut partially down as everyone seemed to duck for cover in usual and unusual clubs and buildings.

Step after step was taken, comfortably numb in his own way he forced himself on. The flashbacks of his wife, and daughter, then his father, and so on. His memories seeming to surface in reverse order as he looked upon the new face of B-town.

His thoughts concentrating on those who were on his tails still. The chick had to be the women who saved him, she was obviously skilled in magery and could easily pull off that sort of glamour, and that seemed in character for someone who'd follow him.

But he still didn't know who the guy's in suits were, or whatever it was they were wearing. They had said that Glan was the last Tasartir, they obviously knew his actual name. There must be some way they knew this. The six of them also stated that their *creator* wanted him at his side. Plus the mention of deliverance, although he knew not of what that meant.

He was far past redemption, saving or any other type of thing that a *man* could offer, his thought drifting back to the girl, who seemed to still linger in his presence. She had good intentions, but was that enough. Did she know anything, either way he asked her to stay out of this, because nothing she could do would help him drastically.

Either way she was on his tails to, but back to the men that seemed to want the death of him. Creator, that was a more cryptic thing to have been said. They spoke with the same voice, and in unison. They were an upper echelon of killer, and that was a notable quality. They also mentioned something about him being far past his death date, well that may have been a good thing but still it concerned him that they saw his dying moments.

Very few can take a blast of straight mana designed to kill and decay flesh. But he proudly admitted that he had survived, and was still taking breaths, and if that necro had his way he'd be a servant at this moment. The other thing that concerned him was that there was freshly moved earth in the graveyard; meaning that someone was raising or robbing, either way it wasn't good.

Robbing in that area near the crypts meant that most of the weapons buried with those that were meant to remain untouched were in someone's possession, and were still useable. A shudder at the thought of the Morgantie weapons of the past as well as the sentient weapons that were floating around in his older days, another shudder as he thought of them floating around the town in these times. It was closer to morning than Glan wanted, so he was forced to move swiftly. He needed to head back to old town un-noticed. There was someone that needed to be talked to about his new weapon. The foot steps becoming swift, but remained silent. He was heavily drained, but there were things that needed doing before he could walk away satisfied tonight, and that meant a change in the plan' Hopefully that Smith was still in town, considering he was in deep last time he had a blade forged. The pace gradually rising as he made for the Old Town road, there wasn't a-lot left in Old Town, but he knew that the man hated technology; and even if he was *Human* he was a damn good blade smith.

Turning a corner he came to the edge of Soho were it intersected with Mock Avenue. The older sign faded and worn, the light of spell globes and lanterns shown dimly from the upstairs. Glan's feet hit the welcome mat, and his eyes moved left, then right in their respective sockets.

A decent hearty knock was planted on the door, the sound of a hammer on the other side ceased. He could feel the presence of the man, he knew that the man could feel his. This wasn't the best hour, or the best part of town for a Trueblood but he still knocked.

A lock released, the door moved to were it was slightly ajar, "Hello, what do you want?" The cold, depressed tone was present as usual. Glan spoke to the man in Elvin, he was present for the meeting between him and another about the incidents here. He knew that this one would understand his words, and respond in the same way. "Hello Angthelion, it has been a while."

The man unlatched the door, and opened it fully replying in Elvin as well, "Who are you, and when did we meet?"

Glan shrugged he could tell the man was aging now well into his thirties and holding the Fireband staff. "I shall grace you with the name you know me by, Glanhelmion, I was the head assassin in Elfheim when you and the other came to explain things. I have a favor to ask of you, do you mind if I enter?"

The words sunk in to the man's head before he let Glan in, the door shut and locked afterwards, "What is it that you wish me to do?" Elvin tongue a bit worn like the sign.

Glan sat on the sofa, his eyes moving from swords, to staff, to other weapons, most made of mythral, others made of less complex metals. But all had a shine to them when the spell globes activated, and the light reflected off the surface of the metals. "I would like a sword, made of mythral, and a few added inscriptions, if you would provide me with writing material. That is aside from your usual enhancements."

Knowing he'd have to write his own tricks in ancient Elvin to make it harder to be read. That way the man wouldn't modify the weapon to hinder his job, and his motives. Although he would have to modify it, if it wasn't in new Elvin the man wouldn't be able to engrave the words, which would mean that it wouldn't be *his* weapon, the name already picked out.

Angthelion moved to the back, soot covered hands extended. A piece of paper and pencil offered to the elf. Glan made a few symbols, and a bit of his own magic enhancements. Writing out the inscriptions it read, to those who could read the symbols.

The bringer of death, The trail is ablaze,

The power of flame, The coursing of cold, The flow of energy,

The memories of old, Your life is mine, The pain within flows through me,

I am eternity, Immortality, One but two, Held in battle, Heard by all, I am the Shadows voice.

The paper handed back to the man, the pencil as well, "That is all please." Spoken in English, his tone held the cold, but had a warmth as he of all people knew who the Smith was, and knew the man knew his grand daughters. "Please no alterations to that."

Angthelion nodded, his eyes scanning the paper, the words taken into effect. He headed back, the sword to conform to the words in mind, as he would add to the blade that others who grasp it would burst into flame. That is only something he does for those he is familiar with, and respects. "Sure thing man."

"When can I expect it?" The tone of voice urgent as Glan stretched, an Elvin clove placed between his lips, the previous one doused out by the rain.

"Well first I have to forge it, inscribe those words you requested, as well as the ones I use, then activate them. That way the enchantment's work." Said as he headed to the kiln the flames dancing at his approach. "Wait there, it shouldn't take long, at-least if everything goes as planned."

"I think I'll be back, need to take a walk." Glan rose to his feet, then headed out the door. His eyes moving every which way, his head moving with them. The rain still coming down, but in a light mist now, an inhale from the clove as he felt someone grab his arm. The jerk pulled him into a jaunt with the person. The wind blowing the opposite of the direction the two people were headed, the sound of fabric moving together, and feet connecting with cobblestone was heard after they sped by.

Glan took note of the girl as she pulled him off the main stretch. They were heading down Mock Avenue, the bell tower sounded that it was four a.m. after the math and trick to the tower was done anyway, it always rung out the wrong time, and that isn't surprising.

Flinging him into an alley way she pinned him, and placed a kiss on him. The sound of many foot steps whizzing by was heard as she did this, he felt more than a falseness to the kiss, he felt her. Breaking off he looked at her, "Now I am not one to complain when a hot blonde grabs me, flings me around, and then kisses me, but lady I don't even know you? I also forgot the bondage."

The women chuckled as the Glamour fell, to reveal that it was the chick who had saved him. Of course he had to be off the streets soon considering he was caked with blood. There was four bodies of people that he killed in the graveyard, and six strange guy's after him.

"Look Daeron, or Glanhelmion, we need to move somewhere safe, those guys really don't like you, and we should get out of the rain." Her tone soft, and relaxing like another Glan knew.

A shrug then he took the lead, his jaunt swift as he knew just the place to hide, and remain hidden. His eyes moving from face to face as he did, the thoughts of cleavage, and carnage on his mind currently. "Alright then, you want company you got it. But I ain't one for words so make this quick!? Said between inhales and exhales on the Elvin clove that remained in a firm two finger grip.

There was a pause, he held the sword in his grip. Night was fast approaching, and swiftly bringing the chaotic shroud with it. Everything was seeming to flow in the right way for him at this point. But there was a presence that was near, it was strong. Hidden.

His mind fluttered, from one subject to another. His mental state was as wrecked as everything else seemed to be, yet that wasn't going to stop him. Oh no, this wasn't as bad as other times, and the wars were far worse.

There was a presence" In it's wake was chaos, that held the streets of Bordertown, but it wasn't centered around him. No, it was centering around another, but this person was also hidden. There was war again, but the gang's of B-town had divided, into New and Old Town sects, there was something missing.

There were assassin's attacking various, yet select targets, this stunk of Oberon. Yet how could that be, there hasn't been activity. Not in this area, not in years, and most crime is held within the grasp's of capable hands. But whose hands" Again this was very reminiscent of the past, and filled with knowledge that seemed to smell of those who were unfamiliar, to here anyway.

Unsheathing the blade, he read the inscriptions carefully, the Elvin words sliding into place in his mind. There was a soot caked under the metal, it was dark, just as he pictured it. It held something, it had depth to it. Although the majority of the blade had soot under the surface of the metal giving the sword a luster, the engravings glowed as mythral does, and it held that mystical, yet old look to it. Calming to one who wished was raised in combat.

He slid the blade back into the sheath after running a dry rag over the surface of the weapon. Placing the weapon to the side, he began to adorn his raptor hide armor. The memories weighing in at a rather heavy weight tonight, and their lingering stare casting darker thoughts over Glan's mind.

Placing the sword on his back he headed for the door. Every muscle forcing him forward, into progression, into more traps. He knew this was a bad idea, but he still knew kill or be killed was still how everything worked. And no-one could convince him otherwise.

The silent steps down to the second floor stairway clearing were echoes, echoes as if this already happened. Yet this hasn't, but he knew why, he knew the reason his thoughts would linger. It was his only remnant's of peace the days of old, and his only failed attempts.

The last length of the stairs was taken. An even more awkward silence was in the air now. No Inn keeper screamin" for money, no harlot's offering services, nothing. There was something wrong, but this wasn't a problem yet; although he did glance around the Inn.

It was New Town, indeed. There was the smell of gunpowder, the stagnant scent of blood, and the remains of the few present at the Inn. Someone had been here, probably after something, protection money is the first guess. But that didn't seem the case.

It was professional, he knew by how clean everything was. This was done recently, it was cleaned recently. But there wasn't the smell of cleaning fluids. There was something amiss, and it stunk the same as most things did right now.

He moved to the first corpse, only a small entry wound on the chest. "New Town, it has advantages, and disadvantages?" Said under his breath as he slid an Elvin clove between his lips. The smell already nullifying the smell of innocent blood. Although why that began to bother him was curiously becoming something worth looking into.

A flicker of the lighter flame than an inhale. He ran a black gloved finger over the entry wound, blood and powder caking it. There was a long pause as he let a few scenario's turn over like an old car's transmission, there were a few, but he went with one thing. That it was close range, there was the burns, the powder, and the lacking of an exit wound. There was a silencer involved, but it wasn't a conventional home made one, this one was combat.

Exhaling smoke, he let it burn for a second before he took an inhale again. There was another trait, it seemed that it may have been an explosive round, but why, what?s the purpose. They could have just picked them off at a distance, why so close" If this was targeted, than why take the risk of letting them see your face"

Again there was something missing. He headed over to the desk, there was a stump were a head should have been. It wasn't a surprise, not very stylish, and lacked grace. No severity, another long pause as he examined this a bit more as well. It wasn't neat, nor messy, it had the light touch of a suido-professional, which made no sense, again.

There was also something missing, when the jugular is severed there is a rush to clot, causing a gush. At least this was spoken due to experience. There was no blood, and it was too messy for a vamp's tastes. Again lacking the severity.

He turned and headed into the street, the emptiness of the block said more than words. Something had gone down, something bigger than he suspected. Someone had to have been captured, but who, and why' There was only one hint, and it screamed something out of his league.

It was obviously the intent of the attackers to draw out the council, but that wasn't a bright tactic, nor was it a smart move. This would bring down more then these thugs imagined, or was it thugs. Was it just made to look like thugs"

Oh hell, this was to rush the council's hand in matters. This was a set up, it was to force them into acting. A stride was taken down towards the old Club district of Soho, the lights still not faded, and the glamorous look of Old Town remained. New Town just looked like any other human city, aside from the Silver Suit's being more present.

His movements swift silent, and held meaning. He mused quietly as he moved, the thoughts of who was behind this wasn't known. Just then he spun on a heel, his eyes darted back to the front of the Inn, his mouth dropped. On the ground, there was a marker, it held the crest of the main Dragon triad boss, and there was a long pause.

He turned, and again began back towards his destination. Which was his usual surveying zone, and above all the best place to paint. Mock Avenue, the bell tower had a decent and large area of sight, and gave way to many things. His only worry was now on who was behind this. It was dragging him down, and bringing many with him. There were only few who knew about him, and those few didn't know much in the first place.

So who gave them this information, why' What was the purpose" Well either way he aimed to figure out a-lot of things before his long trip back to Rhy"Din, he was ready to make the person putting him into this situation pay, making him look forward to getting pine cones shoved up his arse by Morningstar himself!

The winds of change swept through B-town, and there were many in the streets. Daeron was free, even though it was Glan's B-town name, ironically this one was named that as well. The smell of an Elvin clove was flowing in the chilling wind.

He moved between the crowd to the car, a 1970 dodge charger, chromed midnight blue, battery replaced by an auto-recharging mana stone. Six Spell boxes hooked up to power the engine, and it's V8 power and reign of glory.

Typically something hard to hotwire, but the recently deceased had easily forfeited the key. It was twirling on his free hand's index finger he slid it in, the sound of the tumblers turning, then click. The door swung open, and there was a roar.

The idle was shifted into first from the wheel, then he was off, the engine roar drowned out by the sounds of music coming from the new wave tape playing stereo. A slight crack in the window, an inhale, then the exhale. He was turning in a slight motion, and evading pedestrians. The headlights pointing ahead of him, the white racing stripes going from the front bumper to the back, the artist skipped the vinyl top, but the graphic continued in perfect alignment on the back end. Pin stripes down the sides, and all glistened in the light as he passed by spell globe street lamps.

The rolling of tires ceased out front a typical Dragon hang out, he was in New Asia, and looking for answers, the clove smoke sliding in and out, then the cigarette was discarded as he exited the car.

There it was, one of the only sake caf"'s in B-town, the marker that was at the scene in front of the Inn he was staying at was outside the door, marking off the territory in the classic yakuza style. Silver flecked red's hidden behind reflective shades slowly drifted in his sockets to the guards and their grimaces before he entered.

The door creaking shut he headed for the exact table the man was sitting, the Dragon that knew all, and saw all in B-town, and his hand was teasing the grip of the broadsword as he went. "Where are they Wind" I want to know!" The cold dark shout ringing out through the sake caf" as his partial relative stood. These two didn't see eye to eye, not even when Glan was all there, and Daeron was at peace with things.

"Who' Who Daeron at deaths edge" Why do you want to know" Is it that important to you, to protect grandchildren that never even got to know you aside from simple visits on the holidays, or great grandchildren that knew you only by signature"!" His tone with matching coldness and darkness as he let it ring out.

"That isn't my fault, you know that Wind, why do you think I was never around lad, you wanted me to get you, your mom, and her mom killed" Do you think I was na've then, or now"!" Shouted as he stopped at the edge of the table, his fist colliding with polished wood, the nice coat of finish cracking, and the table to had a crack down the center. "I wouldn't place my own kin in danger, not at this point!"

"That didn't stop you from killing your own brother!" The little half elf, half Asian spoke with a sneer, he knew the assassin well.

Glan assumed control again, and thought in unison with Daeron, he was now pissed beyond comprehension, he knew that chaos was about to erupt, and that no one in this area of town was safe, since the false kid napping on the far side of New Town, and he knew better, knew better than to leave his granddaughters here to deal with things. "Chaos will ensue soon Wind, do you want to be on that list, do you want them hurt' If you know what is going on, then you already know that there was a kid napping on the far side of New Town, and your marker was there! Elfheim will take action, the person taken was royalty!"

Touch' was the word on everyone's mind now, and Glanhelmion was indeed smarter than people thought, and Daeron was indeed stronger than anyone thought, his expressionless face said that both were serious, and he knew what he was to do, and he knew what the response was supposed to be.

"Yes, and you think I haven't taken precautions for this Daeron"! I see farthest in this town of blind innocence. There is enough of a safe haven here for them, we have them secure, and they are hidden by one stronger than you. Trust me when I say this, but you?. You are not safe, and should leave, I can handle things here, and will protect what is left of your family, I owe you that much." The sentence after his response was spoken kindly, like that of someone speaking to kinship, and his tone dropped to something fit for only his, and the ancient's ears. His face accented the words, and his body language speaking the truth for him.

Glan/Daeron simply nodded, the pause in the sentence was noted though, and the man's gaze towards the new comer to the caf" was also noted. Daeron returned to the wheel, and he turned in a slow silent movement the armor hissing lightly as he did so, the injuries healed almost to the top of things, and he saw them.

Six of them, walked in with casual nonchalant coldness that was shared with both, these smelled different, and had more power behind them, Daeron could see it, and knew what they were, well beyond the comprehension of Glanhelmion, and he kept that thought silent as it came to mind.

There was a seconds period of time, than the swords appeared, the magic soul sucking swords appeared, and were pointed towards Glan, the swift movements of the assailants was a blur, and reaction was cutting it close, the reflex making it possible to dodge somewhat, but before he did, he stopped. He would have to take the blow otherwise Wind would feel the sting of the first two.

A slide of boot on wood, the crackling sound, and there was a fifty mile per an hour gust of wind cutting through the air at waist level, Glan's shell was now face first on the floor, he knew better than to make his move. As a chair flew over head, the halfie took to the air, boot landing on the small at the top of the chair's back brace; his movement precise, his hands swirled and another strong blast of wind emitted from his palms.

Glan rolled, pushed off, the angelics forced backwards thanks to Wind, but that wouldn't be enough, Daeron was already at work calculating the predictions for combat, as Glan was doing his own thing. The spin from the floor was boosted by the demon's sheer strength and the shadows of the other four had begun their dance, the murky depths twitched like an epileptic. Then from them all at the same time sprung forth the sentinel's, the catlike beast's wispy form was hurled towards the assassin's/

Landing on his feet the padded boots didn't utter a sound, then the bells began the chant, the song of death, it's soft cry was distorted by the sudden crackle, then a flash. Charged mana was released, in the form of fire, Fire had come out of the corner, her form twisted under a blow, and then there was a burst of flame, the thin line of fire cut through the nearest ones gut.

Chaos wasn't the word.

The shadow sentinel's weren't holding their own, and as they were near their demise they each slid back into the void dimension, as The Shadow's Voice was drawn from the sheath, the blade swallowing itself in flame, and the soot in the depths stirred filling the inscriptions. Glan had begun the dance, two on him at the current, he parried one blow with the flat of his sword. The other had rebounded off the armor with an intentional dodge to make it land in a particular way.

He lost track of the other two, and the sentinel's and their fighting as he entered his flow, the red flecks swirling and dancing slowly as he moved.

The Shadow's Voice, his trusty sword tasted flesh, the stab was successful, there was another seconds period of time before he did a spin, driving the blade out with the bracer, forcing it into his spin, using the momentum he lopped off the head of that attacker. But in the process he let himself become open, the next blow of the second was precise, and missed the armor, it slid under, cutting into his gut, then passing through to the other side.

A cough of blood, then Daeron began to work at the prevention of the soul slipping through. The blood pooling up his throat was hawked into his mouth, then spit on the face of the man. The broadsword brought down on top of the man, cutting him from collar bone level all the way to his arse, the blow was dealt, and the man fell backwards.

But Glan couldn't stop the bleeding, he forced himself into the next bout, the man was standing behind the two and was already in mid swing at this point. Glan was fast, and evasive, but this one was fast. Faster than most, Daeron gave a boost to the pivot, and the twirl. The life force of the last two was drained upon their death. The demon's strength was growing.

The twirl sent Glan's blade in at an angle, neck level, the shadow sentinel's were all gone, and regaining the strength they lost in the fight, there was anger in the attack, and power. The swipe was hard, and the head spun off, then bounced on the hard wood flooring below. The spin continued the weight of the blade allowing the momentum to increase, and it dug in again.

Tearing through bone, and flesh, the Shadow's Voice ended this ones existence. The body combusting as the other ones had, the next attacker was already coming in at Glan again. His condition worse than ever, as more blood pooled in his throat, and he was coughing it out like someone choking on water. The wound's intensity increasing as though the blade were still there the lingering effects wore at the shell.

Daeron was sending power to the Trueblood, but that wouldn't sustain him forever. He needed healing, and bad.

The next attacker brought the blade upwards, the gleaming edge showing brilliantly in the light as it neared it's height. The death blow was about to commence, the sound of life still in his ears, he wasn't that weak, nor was he that strong. He wouldn't let it end, and time froze on him, three attacks converged on the assailant, and the third came with the sound of a bow string thumming in the background.

He looked over his shoulder now, to see what had spared him, what inkling had saved his life, and what possibly could have happened, the angelic assassin falling down his body combusting as it went. The soul sword vanishing, and the pool of blood remained among soot, and ash.

These were different, but this wasn't the time nor place to consider things. He saw the bolt of flame shoot through, exploding as it entered encased by a sheer layer of wind that focused the attack, but who was the third, it came from outside, landing an arrow through his head.

"You alright Glanhelmion?" The voice smooth as scotch, and almost as potent. The calming tone spoke with warmth, as the huntress entered the caf" long bow in grasp, and her pale blues sweeping the scene. The two Asian half elf's fell into silence.

He attempted to stand, to scream at her, to tear her a new arse hole, and to mentally and physically destroy the women, but all that came of it, was a sudden grip to a nearby chair, his frame weakened. The words uttered were simple, and not harmful, but a form of gibberish. It held no meaning, but as he uttered them more blood flowed from his mouth, and the pain became worse as adrenaline died, Daeron was weak as well, even though he was recently fed, the energies that sustained him were dying slowly, all because he tried to save his host.

Caladwen stepped to his side, her mana charged, and she began to heal him. Her hands warm to the touch, and calming, her tone cryptically warm, and light to the ears, "Leave, I will meet you on a sunny day in that realm, you know which one I mean as well. Before you go, I would ask you to return to the building up the street, it is small hotel, it should allow me to better heal you."

He shrugged, tossed a glance to the other two. He moved with nonchalant coldness, despite the wounds, and the girls casual grasp on them, hidden behind that of an embrace of the arm. Her smell filling his nose again, and he had not a clue were this even would bring him, but his face remained expressionless as the turned and headed into the building.

The name of the place was, Hsu's Bed and Breakfast, although it was far from it. Rather run down, broken spell globes, and the one room that was live-able only ran hot water. Hot water" Yeah this was B-town were the question remained WTF.

He sat on the bed, she continued healing, and his words now pressed themselves out forcing themselves into the equation. "What in the seven hell's do you want with me woman?" The cold, dark tone spoke for both inside as he spoke.

She looked up, her coffee brunette landing in place on her back, she simply smiled, looking beyond the shades that hid his eyes and continued healing with the smile in place. Her warm touch indeed calming. Her tone matching the touch as she was obviously concentrating on the wounds, "We are friends, at-least in my opinion." She looked up to him, her expression didn't quite read well to Glan as he had not seen that type of face in years, coon ages, maybe more.

"Interesting, then why are we here, we?" His tone was silenced by a finger on his lips.

"We Interrupt this to bring you an announcement, there is random impulsiveness present, and the question on everone's mind WTF" And also there is a sudden rise in murders of car owners in the Old Town Area!! We return you to this already in progress Story Line!"

The daze was knocked off fast by warm water. Yep, he passed out, and looked as bad as he felt, he had been up for two days straight, and was falling faster into the life he didn't want for himself. But it was B-town, and the crummy hotel room was now empty, the promises, and vows taken here tonight not worth the trouble.

It was three a.m. the Mock Avenue bell tower's ringing was heard in his ears, even as far off as he seemed to be in the city.

Sliding his armor back on, he gripped the note she had left in her wake. He passed out, and obviously she didn't. He still had the feeling and remnants of her on him, something that made him uncomfortable. He knew that he was going to cause himself more pain walking this path, and what awaited him, was something far worse than what it needed to be, and he was making it so by his actions.

The final piece of clothing adorned he walked out the room, the car key swirling on his index finger, and the clove smoke trailing him like the vapors of life, and reality.

The engine roared, and he was driving out, down the Yellow Brick Road he went, the oak and ash were just a blur, and the car sped on, into the world, into the place he would wander his way back to the other realm, the realm of Rhy?Din.

The sun rose on Rhy"Din early for Glan, with just two hours of sleep, and a revised version of thought he was prowling Westend. Hidden red flecked silvers darting to look beyond his shroud of mind, and his self made state.

He entered a small building at the end of the neighborhood, same as his apartment. The shabby building was a hole in the wall, but said something about food, and it was worth looking into. Sliding into a dark booth, he looked over the faceless mortal's. A smirk crossing his face in the utmost disgust, his mind forming the darkest thought, and his being portraying that.

A waiter set down a plate of common food, and rather good smelling. It held warmth of homecooking, and after rummaging up food on Urth for a week, he wasn't too picky. Still holding some savoir faire he placed his utensils the way they belonged, then began his rapid ingestion of the meal, devouring most of it. Then it happened, a nice detective and his disposition crept up to the table. A sneer on his face as he spoke with the same type of intolerance on his tone, "Well Daeron of Deaths Edge" You know how hard it is tracking an assassin that has horrible patterns, and doesn't keep regular hours" You are in for it, an' your arse will rot fer years!"

Swallowing the last of his meal, Glan did a nice noticeable sniff at the air, his cold expression speaking louder than words, yet holding nothing more than sheer amusement in his opinion, the expressionless tone held a hint of darkness, that only one could let on after being put through the hell he had seen. Again he sniffed at the air, with the obscure, obvious snorting of air rushing up nasal passages, "I smell mortality, and frailty, stinks of *Humanity* for some reason' Oh detective you need to grow something of the male anatomy before approaching me." He said between sniffs as he let his head slowly turn to make it obvious that beyond the shades he was glaring at the detective. "Now please I must say, your weakness is unamusing, and tiresome, LEAVE!" The last part rising to be that of a cold drill instructor like tone, with the same snap of harshness that one would address a misbehaving soldier with.

The detective shuddered then spoke with the same bark, and more aggression in a sense, "Who do you think you are, this is my city, and my LAW, I will take you in peacefully or you can go down fighting"!"

Now of course Glanhelmion himself wasn't tactful at all, not in any sense. He couldn't wait to blow anger in the least. To add to it, he awakened this morning with a glint of sunlight hitting his arrogance which really made him unhappy. A twisted, smile that spoke many things in his silence shot across lips, his pale skin glowing in the light as it regained some color. Again he sniffed at the air, ontop of it all, he was going with that intolerance to humans. Glan so disliked them, all of them.

He slid from the booth, brushing the man aside, with the casualness that made him famous in his field. The contact brushing with it a nice scent of clove as he slid one between his lips, the Zippo pulled from within a pocket, the flames flicker dying and an inhale was taken between words, "Detective, the fact of the matter is, you are odious, un-attractive, and personally infuriating. Trying my patience wasn't a tactical move, it was stupidity, you are a discredit to your already pathetic race. If you wished death, all you had to do was lay down some cash." The nonchalant chilling tone surprised those already frozen due to the rise of vocal level that had encroached upon their breakfast.

The detective grew red in the face, really flustered now. A sneeze at the clove smoke and the lingering scent burning at his nostrils. He didn't like the cold shoulder, nor did he like some young punk elf speaking harshly with him. "How would you feel?"

The comment was ended, with a crisp clean blow to the jaw bone. All of Glan's strength and weight put into it. The man was sent over two tables, and four patrons of the establishment. It was the now even more po'd elf's tip. "Wrong answer DETECTIVE, I will not marry you!" Spoken as clove smoke jutted from his mouth. The shadow's swirled, forming a decent sized dagger to continue the beating. You never ask an elf that, especially an ancient. "You are the dirt under dog fezzes!" The chilling shout rung in the ears of those already present, they went scrambling for the door, indeed this was going to get ugly.

The dagger rolling over his fingers, its smooth motion interrupted as it was suddenly sent upwards, then sent into the man's gut. "This ain't your city capn" far from it, the crime is like the economy, and where there is peace there is always chaos. Remember that mortal, after I wring your internal organs out to dry!" Sick, Twisted, Insane, Deranged, and Crazed. That is Glan all in one sentence, with the use of common words.

Another knife perfectly balanced forming from shadow. The blade of it in Glan's grip, "Now was it worth the pain capn", because I recall giving you the option to walk away; with the command to leave. Aye that I did, now you could've saved yourself the death at the hand's of a ruthless sadistic SOB by simply complyin"!" The next one was sent flying across the room, aimed for a knee cap, seemingly the second most important pressure point on a body aside from a collar bone. But that was next.

The second of two blades shot through him, like fire it burned, it stung, lingering pain, then a scream emitted from those lips, pain held in it's loud depth. The sound of anger mixed in among it, the anger of a helpless fate, at the hands of this kid.

The detectives thoughts showed on his face, reading him like a book, Glan let his voice be heard again. "Now capn" I tain't one for words an"all but I must say, that looks like it "urts now dun it"!" Cold glee in his tone, "An" I ain't no brat like the res" o' these kidlings running about with their half grins, and no motive dreams of happiness. I am not Na've as they be, you should've seen that upfront, what the hell is wrong with ye' They didn' teach ye know better?" Casually drifting in and out of ancient Trueblood speak, then back into partial slang, hoping to confuse and bewilder the man even more before he granted his spirit the eternal attempts of vengeance, only to fall into the shadows to feed them as all the others that were present in every movement and every breath Glan took.

Another wispy blade was formed, again it began the roll over fingers as Glan took a lean against the nearby table boots only inches away from the mans face, a sneer across his lips, bloodlust and sadism showing their colors among the mixture of gray that made him' well him. The third blade landing between the tibia and fibula, the cartilage that held them, along with nerve endings under the flesh rupturing, causing the expression of pain that so pleased Glan, the long scream after was mixed with laughter as the cook then left the scene unfolding slowly at torturous speed.

The Trueblood's cackle erupted, another wispy blade appearing, but this one wasn't going to leave his grasp so quickly, it was going to find it's way their slowly, after a proper beating. Sending the boot into the man's face with ease, and at the same time swift strength building behind it. Oh how Glan loved doing this. He drew the boot back, the man spit two teeth onto the floor, and their was blood, spit, and sweat covering the toe of the boot now.

Again he sent the boot forward, laughter erupting again, he would never get tired of this. The boot pulled back, another imprint leaving red puffy flesh, and partial bruises forming, blood pouring from a broken nose. The laughter ceased for the commentary, "So how does it feel detective, need an aspirin?" The amusement apparent in the tone.

"Your sick!" The detective spoke after the third boot hit his face, spitting more teeth onto the floor, a pounding headache, as his eyes began to swell shut, another boot battered him, and he felt himself fade into dark, coming back, then fade again.

Glan nodded, the laughter erupting more so, "Yeah I know." Said between chuckles, he sent the boot in, careful not to knock him out, for the other part was about to begin.

The fourth dagger was sent into the man's collar bone, cutting the muscle that wrapped around his neck, connected by that pressure point. The wispy dagger protruding from between the two bones that composed his arm was gripped as the assassin kneeled. Taking an inhale on the clove, he exhaled the sweet scented smoke into the air around him, the scent drowning the human. He twisted the blade, to make it more obtrusive, as it was wider now. Then he jiggled it broadening the wound, with nice clean precision. Aside from the blood pouring out from the wounds of the detective.

Another scream erupted as his only operating hand went for the gun, he was classic. But the torturous movements left him in unbearable lingering pain, the power of the unbearable pain breaking his will to fight back, this was torture, not a murder.

The assassin drew on the powers further, creating another blade from the shadows, materializing in his grasp, he sent it into the mans gut, slowly sliding it in, just enough to break flesh, and decently penetrate body tissue. The small incision made, he slid it down, towards his bladder area. Once done this action, he moved it the opposite way, then used the blade to part it, no blood, just the spilling of organs onto the floor.

The detectives face, shriveled, the pain, then he saw the guts, saw them ooze from him, spilling over the floor, watched them spill over the floorboards. The loudest scream he could possibly conjure from within him erupted, like a volcano from his lips, passing it all, surpassing the sound barrier that the walls of the building provided.

Glan laughed, cackled, then sent the blade into the mans liver. Standing from his position, he took an inhale, the boot tapping the wood next to the man, absorbing life force in waves subconsciously, Daeron was doing this, he was operating slightly at this point. Another knife appeared, then was sent into the man's left lung, the larger of the two. Puncturing it made him at-least stop screaming, so not to alert those not needed before he died.

He turned, in silence, letting all the chuckles and giggles escape him before he did his slink to the outside. That was one trouble off his mind, for now, he knew eventually he'd have a whole tactical force, he only had silver suits after him once, and they dared not speak of it again. Actually he was sure that the file itself was erased, and the guys at the edge of B-town were lost in the confusion of how to stop the assassin, but that wasn't now. There was no reason for this echo to come to mind as he left the small restaurant.

Sliding between people he headed into a small caf" up the street, the smell of tea, and coffee peeking senses, an inhale on the Elvin clove as he did so. He was listening to the words of others when he was offered a job, of course he took it, and the long day begun. Later he would discover that he was a Blood, and would be working four jobs for the same amount. He now would know what Sammy Hagar meant, and he was the "Man on a Mission".

Glan had undoubtedly transformed, or was it a dream. Eyes eased open, and he opened his mouth. A yawn poured forth, as his feet found their way to the floor. Rhy"Din was indeed a weird place, that did weird things to people.

He stood, ducking under the door frame as he entered the bathroom. Thoroughly washing specs of dirt from his face, and cleaning his shades off. He did what he was able to making himself appear at-least presentable. Pausing he plucked a silver and black sunburst feather from his silver mane. Indeed this was awkward, more so than anything he ever had experienced. But at-least he had something he could have enchanted, and maybe he would be able to assimilate a different form at will now.

Turning he cast a look over to the bed, and the other there. Either that person was turned on by birds, or he had transformed back, and she got screwed by Daeron. Either way he had gotten lucky last night; their was a chance that he flew here though, and stayed the night. But wait then why was he naked, either way again it seemed he had gotten lucky.

Sliding into his Bloods jacket at the end of dressing he cast another look to the women, a smile crossed his lips and he licked them, slowly. Tasting her still he slipped from the room, now everyone could know, that in Rhy"Din two things motivated Glanhelmion, sex, and his well being. Which for a male, were both good points.

He slipped around the banister, and was down the stairs in seconds. The feather rolling between fingers, as the free hand slid an Elvin clove between lips, the flicker of a Zippo flame, he paused. Taking a supremely long inhale of carbon he let his lungs absorb it. Red flecked silvers bare, flick to the inn keeper a smirk on his face. The noticeable brightness of his eyes was not overlooked. But it was questioned by the humble old man.

"You on drugs?" Or wha' Gimme" tha' money you owe for the room las night"!" His tone chilling, and his scowl growing as it hit Glan.

The Trueblood let his eyes go back to dark, and let the flecks glow and dance as they usually do, "You seem like a smart mortal, your end is near, do you wish to rush it that badly, because I can comply to your plea, because pity will allow it." The red flecks danced within the silvers, that inhuman glow making it seem more and more dark, cold. Holding no light, no happy, nothing.

Well the inn keeper quickly turned away, and sped off. Glan wasn't one for paying his money to anyone, he was very miserly that way. Considering Rhy"Din's sheer size he couldn't get caught and he was sure now that the police were no longer after him; considering the detective was slaughtered mercilessly.

Moving with silent speed his eyes regained the glow, like they had their own backlight. Which also made him look inhuman, the red flecks accented by this. He slid the shades into place, the barrier between the mid afternoon light, and the backlight lit eyes.

The sting of the sun on his skin was indeed annoying, but nowhere near as bad as no sunlight. B-town was where he was headed now, he would use the gate. BHO had it's benefits indeed, like un-daunting numbers of ally's, and the ability to go back to realms in which he belonged. It was simple enough, hop on his bike, head into B-town, then head to someone with magic experience.

He needed to learn more about this animal form BS, it was nipping at the back of his head; knitting thought into reality, and holding something more than anything. It seemed like something that one wouldn't do normally, but again it was either the Never, or Rhy"Din whichever was that latter of the two.

A half hour later he was now back on his way to B-town, he would be stopping in to check on operations at the other Blood house either way, as he was *assigned* to do. The sneer taken up as he slammed down on the shift, and was off. Popping the clutch he lifted the tire off the ground. Speeding off he was traveling through the swirling vortex like tunnel that lead straight to the lands.

A drop down, he felt like he had returned from warp speed, and was moving swiftly down into town. His head turning he leaned the opposite way he turned to make sure his bike didn't fall all the way to one side. The roar of the engine was indeed something that was heard ahead of him. People turned to look at him, somewhat shocked. To most he seemed like just another Blood on a bike, but those who recognized him from before let their jaws drop in a way. Mental or not it was noticed by Glan, he couldn't deny it, he wouldn't.

Speeding into Dragon Tooth Hill, he was in an upward climb, the engine sputtered, then roared as he shifted, up, up, up. He was in the last gear on the bike, and hitting somewhere at one eighty, squeezing the brakes, clutch, and rapidly shifting into first then neutral. Sliding off the bike he squeezed the brake locking it into place, that way it wouldn't go the back down the Hill without him.

He knew after he was back in Rhy"Din he would be on the tails of Viki, or Tara again, which meant he could at-least use a less suspicious form. A sneer crossed his lips, and he was heading up the steps, slowly and still silent.

Loud knocks were heard two houses away, and their was the shuffle of feet, which seemed louder than intended. The twisting of a knob, and the shouting of a voice, "Get in your rooms kid's!" The man's shriveled face appeared, "Yeah what you want Ears!" Gruff tone cracked the silence like a whip snapping. Normally Glan would've retorted with a snappy reply that sent the man mentally wheeling, but this was the only man able to help him. At-least do something of that sort to assist him in the means to control the animal form for a while or something along those lines.

"I need assistance friend, so can you please help me with something?" The feather was raised, and twirled in front of the man's face, catching his eye.

"Indeed, I can, why didn' ya" say something when ya" knocked fellow Trueblood." His tone suddenly warm, and his eyes locked with the feather. He parted the door, and let the assassin follow him into a study. Many tomes lay in visible sight, all on types of manifestations of curses, enchantments, how to place a curse, using mana waves, using cantrips, how to activate mana stones, common spells, transforming into things, and Spell Boxes For Dummies.

"Lemme" take a look at that feather friend." Said in a warm tone, as he pulled out a book on avian shape changing. An obscure book that was hand written by the man obviously. Flipping through pages, he paused, reading over something with a quick glance he ran his hands over the spines of books on a shelf behind him.

Glan slid an Elvin clove between his lips, watching. He remembered long hours of research, and learning his offensive spells in the first place. The boundless flow of mana he could use to his will was something that he missed more than anything. The flicker of a Zippo's flame quickly dissipated, then he took a long calming inhale. He was dealing with another case of a True that outlived the longevity that he was granted. Not an ancient, but one who was new wave, and was living far past his days. Obviously senility had taken effect long ago, but that didn't delude the insane thought of intelligence that was seldom spoken coherently by the man. Exhaling smoke into his proximity he read over the pages quickly before they were turned.

"Ahh here it is" Let's see." The man's raspy tone still warm, he placed his hand over the feather and began a chant under his breath. His eyes fluttering then, they forced shut. He began to speak in a dark tone, then a light one. The dialect changing as well, were he would go from whispers to shouts instantly. With ease the man was speaking the words like a second tongue, then he ceased, the hand lifted.

The feather had a glow, but it was dim, and matched more of the sunburst look. He twirled it between thumb and index. Looking up to Glan he went back to working with swift speed for his age.

Glanhelmion took a lean against the wall, taking an inhale on the Elvin clove, his eyes moving from book to book. Reading titles, and mouthing spells from each. These seemed so close to his own personal notes that it wasn't funny. Although the man was missing Glan's favorite work, How to Better Your Fret Movement, still it seemed like this man was taught by the same one he was. A mental shrug as he exhaled smoke with that ominous look to him. He knew all to well that the old man was far from done, and couldn't be sped up.

By far was messing with an ancients animal form easy, although it would've been easier to deal with it himself, but that comment remained unsaid. His eyes continuing to drift from book to book, words appearing in his mind. Then he read the title that caught his eye, his mouth ajar partially to allow the clove access. A pull on the cigarette from lips, sucking smoke through the filter, then he inhaled the full force of the cigarette smoke settling in his lungs like the dust and flames of a forgotten battle.

The old Trueblood placed a scroll in the center of the table, one that seemed long out of date. Then he placed his hand to it, and began reading it again. Charging the parchment with mana he spoke in a version of Elvin again, the words rising and falling. He sounded like he was chanting words to a song, with lyrical rhythm in every word, falling with the eternal timing that seemed only natural for certain individuals.

Glan in the meantime had silently moved over to the book shelf where the book that caught his eye was. It had a title that was undeniable, and seemed to be older than the both of them combined, "Eh old timer, where'd you find this at?" Speaking as though he was a young punk with his own intentions for the book.

The old man finished, his eyes rolling back to reality. The feather fell back to the surface of the paper, and it's glow had improved. The old man pulled another scroll from a shelf, "Tha' oh well it was found in the Elfheim library before it was burned down. Didn" ya" hear" I know ye are from their ancient, only one like ye can possess the power I can sense through your presence in this feather." Speaking with the Elvin accent the old man set the feather onto the scroll, and began the chanting again.

There was a ghost of a smile that crossed Glan's lips, he carefully slid the book from the shelf. Sliding into a chair, nearest the ash tray, he took an inhale. Parting the pages he started on a chapter skipping the prolog and readers supplement. He knew what he was looking for, and he recognized the handwriting. It was the Muse" handwriting alright, but that meant this person knew the wretched women. But Glan wouldn't make a comment, and he knew better than to speak in a way to reveal anything other than he was waiting for a mage to unlock something within him.

His eyes traveling fast over the pages, taking in every word, which was filed away for later judgment. The words that he couldn't understand rolled off his tongue in sub breaths, he only mouthed them, letting them make sense before he memorized them too. Then he came across the essential sentence, stating things that made no sense at all, nothing making sense. Blinking he read it over again, this time aloud, "The Soul Stone can be split, through physical contact, part of the soul can be taken. True misery inflicted by this, can cause many things to occur, especially if one strips the abilities to use magic away. If done properly this is an effective way to subdue someone, and place them into stasis?" He paused, then continued, "This is done by physical contact, granting the ability to wear down the mind shield, if there is any, then break through thought to the mental connection to the stone that allows the person to maintain a grip to reality, and allows the body to continue walking, and interacting. Thus this breaks the connection, causing only a shell to remain, this makes the person in mention fall into a form of lifeless like sleep, although this occurs the body still maintains a form of regeneration." Glan blinked, translating Elvin into English, wasn't a strong suit for him, but he did indeed try. Glancing to gramps he noted that he was still reading off the same scroll.

Eyes drifted on further and he began to read, allowing himself to think it over with clarity, "Although in some cases, mostly occurring in those who have been deemed by Bordertown to be Dragons, there is something inside them that forces them on, it makes the body maintain."

Glan stopped there, and continued, he skipped a few chapters, to the area about mana draining and read more lines from the book. "The ability to cast spells lies in tapping into mana, which if you strip that ability from the person then they can no longer use magic. This is something every person has, even most humans, something that is passed down through bloodlines, it is an ability from ones soul, and mind. It is a synchronizing thought, and causing an effect in reality, so if you remove the part of the person that is in their soul that allows mana to flow through them, then they no longer possess the ability to use magic's."

Then it snapped into place, Daeron was draining peoples life force to account for the loss of mana, he could no longer feed on the mana that Glanhelmion was tapping into. So he was reverting to what is the standards, although if he drained the soul of one that was a strong mage, he would be able to use magic again. There was one problem with that, who was strong enough to give a connection to mana that could be tapped into with ease. Then there was the fact that this would not give back what the Muse had taken"

Glan stood, did his silent slink across the room, and slid the book respectfully back into it's place on the shelf. A ghost of a smile crossed his face, then he took up his lean again. Taking an inhale on the Elvin clove, he let smoke slide out of flared nostrils before he stubbed it out.

The old man's eyes rolled back into place, and he looked to Glan, "Ye bes" come here unless you'd rather not have the ability to do what you wish to do." Said in the raspy tone, warm, yet it held some form of a command.

Despite Glan, his pride, and his refusal to do anything he was forced, absolutely forced to do, he stepped close to the man. A rather large hand landing on his forehead. Their was a moments pause, then he slid two scrolls under the feather, one for Glan, and the other to enchant the feather further.

Gramps spoke in a long forgotten tongue, it didn't even sound Elvin, it sounded rough, and had a-lot of different sounds to it. The feather had a dim glow to it, and their was the sound of chanting in Glan's ears. The assassin felt the tingle of the man's hand as mana was forcing itself through him, again he longed for the connection, then the feather began to dance on wind that wasn't there. It began to flutter, fall, then rise again as though it were still attached to the bird. The images of the animal coursed through the ancients veins, and drifted across thought. The feather fluttered higher, then fell.

The light of the feather had contacted the assassin, the light flowed to every part of him, then his hair was white, silver, black, then held the same glow. Slowly it dissipated, and slowly the feather regained it. The ethereal look, as if the feather fell from the heavens itself, the thought of a hawk with that coloration to it hit Glan's mind, and planted it's roots.

An hour of chants, and glowing hair in a non-existent breeze was over, the assassin had thanked the man, and was now atop the bike again riding towards the Blood house at the edge of B-town, he would check on operations, income; then split. The feather inside an insulated pocket, it held a warmth, the only part of Glanhelmion that still held all of a soul, and could feel emotions other than darker passions.

The assassin was on his way into the harder parts of town again, and was sure to run into trouble at-least once before he was to leave. And he indeed did" That night he left for Rhy"Din, the winds under a wing, and the smell of prey on the horizon.

The streets were empty, and this night especially. The night's shadows concealed him, and his trek across Westend. It made the whole crime thing a-lot easier, and it made the whole sneaking past guards a-lot faster. Although he wasn't quite sure why he was able to do it, or why the shadows spoke to him. All good questions for later though, and he was sure that they had a thing or two on his family line in Elfheim that explained it.

The swirling depths brought him out at the Blood House, and through the gate he went, then through the rather heavy, large doors. A glance over the emptiness, and the dark of the place. Shades removed out of respect as he pushed on a bit. Entering the place, he was all to slightly uncomfortable, but able to perceive what was going on a-little better.

Although it was not his first time here, they usually had people always puttering about inside, and going's on, it seemed like a shell of it's former glory. But he was sure that things would return to normal later, after all the business subsided.

He neared the room that he was told to get his briefings from, and in he went. Silence on his wing, padded boots making no sound, and neither did his movements. Red flecked silvers slowly dancing from table to table, chair to chair. It seemed a bit dimmer than he could say he remembered this room to be as well. A slow shrug, and he felt the days of old spent here, and the past. But now was not the time for him to remember. His eyes continued to move, then coming to a silhouette, he opened his mouth to speak. The flash of light from a cantrip illuminated the room, and his eyes couldn't adjust fast enough. They forced a blink, while his eyes were in their closed state he heard the sound of paper landing atop a table.

The stiff air swished, and by him the silhouette went, the gruff voice on the air "You have your orders, you are Lankyn's dog now, so prove worthy, these are the names, we want them to answer for what happened." Words sunk in, and the assassin's eyes opened, a subconscious salute was given, and he snatched up the envelope.

His steps swift, and into the street he was already, the steps bringing him towards his office, which is were of course he offered his services from. The sneer hit his lips as he read over a list of names, places, and times. He would be a busy little killer of the next few weeks, maybe longer. Time to look for a secretary to take his business, and deal with files. That last thought came to mind as he slipped the envelope into his mail slot, with the paper inside of it. Footsteps moved on, and a meld into the nothingness of shadow had him headed towards the Inn.

"Time, it seems to pass fast, seconds become minutes, and minutes become hours, then those become days. Soon an entire life has unfolded." Three weeks pass, in this time it seems his goals are drifting farther from view, his dreams slipping away in the shadows of himself. He felt the change, he felt it on the wind. He wasn't passionate, except for the darker ones, and those weren't tactful. He was not acting on impulse when he killed his first DCH lawyer, and he could smell it on the air, the blood of the oncoming battle he would be forced to face. But when" Why"

He was decently contempt doing what he was good at, even if that wasn't a bodyguard. Although he did long for things he had not seen in years, those things seemed to be lost among other things. A slip, and he slid into the shadows, off towards the office, he had to look over more piles of paperwork. A daunting task, he was meant for battle, not for writing. Although he could do it, he longed to be giving and receiving the blows of a worthy opponent.

The key slid into the door, and he entered the office, a letter on his desk again, addressed to "Lankyn's Dog" it seemed the name stuck in the Blood House either way. Hand grasped the envelope, and there was one objective that seemed to be at the top of his list now.

Turning on a heel, he slid an Elvin clove between his lips, slink brought him out into the gloomy shade of night. A slow sneer came to his lips, he was still on Tara and Viki duty, but now he had information to go on, he was to aid in the search for Lucky, and on the other hand, he had more people to interrogate, and one was supposedly to arrive in Rhy"Din the next day. Tactical thought came to mind, and he was off to stage attacks, sending word to contacts in B-town. He was going to be busy, and he was going to deliver a blow.

"More time seems to pass, even after the life has unfolded, leaving a shell of a man. Still in the armor, still in a battle, even if the enemy is not seen, or is not present. He is still in a fight, always, the warrior does what he is trained to do, and time passes, always fighting, always killing. Lingering for the lust of battle, that calls to them."

He slid from the shadows, a week later. The various dies he had put in his hair had just been washed out. How refreshing bathing was, although the floozy he was with, passed out' it seemed he would be finding a way to shake her off later. Indeed that was one way to motivate him, a nice piece of flesh dangling in front of him, although women weren't his only want. It seemed after the weeks of doing deeds for the Bloods he was wearing thin, although he liked the sight of blood, and the smell of battle, the sweat mixing in, stinging the wounds. The pain alone, kept him coming back for more.

He had gotten used to his job though, ever since his first it seemed to become a craving.

Why?

That thought brought ripples to mind, and he felt life return to him, the soul jar stone was drawing near, and the person on his tails was drawing close, but he was not sure of the night, and it's veil.

Off towards the Inn, he rode the B-town bike, the smell of his urges on the wind. The lust for pecca growing as he thought of his own problems once more.

Clench of a fist, the streaking of lightning, and the clash of thunder, it sounded as though the heavens were to fall. But that was not the case, only the darkness and uncertainty of thought clouded by the senses. A mental cascade of memory swept by, with the wind, the smell of blood, battle, birth, death. It seems more an more, that this" image, reality was passing with ease into the shroud, into the veil, indecision, making it harder to see.

The lines had blurred long ago, and alignment, knowledge. It all covered, hid the truth. Building a lie, upon many, falling into the arms of thousands, overnight. The battles fought, for things that seemed true at the time, seemed that it was only right. All seemed to be a small part, but it rippled through, cut into time weaving in and out, sending a shadow, to cast doubt.

Night, held these many fights, and the most painful could still be heard, as though the battle was still being waged, until this day. The day that it all seemed to come crashing down, with the wayward shards of sanity, falling in a glass like rain, to frail to touch without breaking. Even in the formless fall, the weightless touch, the drops held something, held voice, depth. Dark.

Blood pooled, drawing the eyes of many, and only the sound of impending doom, the smell of many, and one. Blurred portions of reality, intertwining, in thought, becoming echoes, unthought echoes, that rhymed with the boots silence as they collided with the cobblestones of yesterday; only hiding the motive, scratching the surface. Which seemed to surge upon the land of reason, eroding it with ease, and time taking it's hold into mind.

The ache, the sound, torn flesh, broken seems of armor, woven into place, by anger. Nightshade, death, seemed swift, seemed always nearer than far, another swift breaking of clouds, an unrelenting blast of ionized heat. Lightning, shattering the dark, it's hold, it's continuous grip.

War cries of the past, sounded with the thunder, and the feel of flames, coursing through his veins. Pride, anger, hate, sorrow, pain, emotion. All seemed to clash inside, the soul, the power, heated grip, shadowy claws. Stained with unrest, disgust, and a long held rage.

Lusting for it, the difference between tasting it. The feel of it, different from guess, or witness, eternal, imprint of thought, filled by satisfaction. Seeming unending, in the cycle, all of the urges, needs, wants, cravings brought the sword through the air again. Flame sizzling in water, against the cool cut of drops, remnants. The heat of anger, fighting the cool breath of reason.

Wind swirled about, forming fists that were sent into anger, pounding against flesh, chased by the strike of reproach, blade digging deep, cutting through piercing flesh, digging, hitting, slaying. The taste of blood holding itself to the flame, the smell of searing pain on the wind, the sound of it in ear, blocking the intentional anger.

A keep in the distance, held many things, the siege was taking place. Far off, in times long past, and yet manifesting in many forms. The fiery reach of a catapult scraping well built stone from it's grip on the building as the arrows, many, falling aimed for one, and yet nothing. A burst of cold air, fresh feeling, holding no warmth, just the sense of words, the sense of well being, and the feeling of victory.

Shouts of past, echoed, the drenched army, swords raised, and the charge had begun. The voice rung out, a title, title touched, vocabulary, and reached over the cries of thousands as the two masses connected to form a blob, arms extending beyond the reach it should have; against the will of greater cause, greater need.

"Sergeant, what do we do now, they are thwarting the second wave"!" The soldiers tone grave, as wind and rain swept the field, sharp eyes picking over stones, and seeing weakness, another creaking, untying string, sounding in waves, fiery balls flowed across the sky, doused by rain, landing forcing more stone from it's grip.

Head shook, and the cold, dark tone resounded, resounded with crisp precision, yet undoubting smoothness, it seemed familiar, the silhouette of a cloaked figure, holding the sword of fire. Corpse at his feet, blood caking the presence, weather acting out.

"We press forward, send word to the others, it is time."

Sweat cold, coated, mixed with rain, and unfocused eyes, red flecked silvers, swept the sight in front of him. The dark cut, with another lash of lightning.

Back to reality he was, and blade dug flesh, the spinning, broadsword parrying a blow, only for another blade to hit it's mark. Blood was pooling in puddle, under cobblestone, with the mana, power resounding in thunder, as electrical waves were sent with a kick.

Landing a blow, the assailant went reeling, a spin, brought another heel to the attackers face swift, painful. The inhuman movements, seemed unwilling to give to the wish of death. His story was not over, nor was the memory, that seemed to plague his mind, the thought that seemed to hold itself to thought, remaining in the long lost battle, seen through the eyes of a near soul.

A drift of thought the gaps of what had happened, the smell brought the desolate battle back into mind, playing from were it had left off from.

The clashing of steel and another sentence on the breeze, that became a gust.

"I need thirteen men!" Shouted to the camp at his back, as the battle was waging, the smell of fire, burning wood, lavish decorations, used to block off, to hold back surges of power from the attacking troops. Elvin armies, amassing in the far north, in the far west, closing off the keep, the defending forces seemed to push on, with determination.

"We will crush what morale they have left. Four archers, and two crossbow, the rest, armed with shields, and sword!" The command barked on the wind, as a wayward arrow, landed at the feet of the man, crushing earth underneath his shadow. Which seemed to swirl, a murky depth.

It was the first battle, that was fought, an Elvin civil war, fought over betrayal, that seemed to grow like fungus, clinging to the forest, the cities, in the vicinity. The weakened armies, began the charge far off in the west, and he wished to join. He longed to be aside them, why had he been ordered to remain here, but no longer, he would use tactical knowledge he had gained prior to this experience to gain access to the castle, and take control of the situation.

Thirteen men, like he had asked, arrived on horseback, at his side. The bells attached to steed, reigns was silent, another command arising at the presence.

"Abandon the steeds, we move on foot, be ready, or be left behind. there is only one movement to be made. It requires stealth, get caught up in the outskirts, then you fall, we will not submit position, tactically to allow you to live!"

Arrogant as well, he is indeed a familiar warrior, but he was indeed tactical, and the horses were abandoned, movements swift down the mountain side. Three of the men carried lengths of rope, twined for just this type of operation. But would it be used"

Swift silent movements, red flecked silvers darted, side to side in sockets. Holding only slightly to what was really occurring.

The flash of thunder, brought him back, as it was sent from his own palm. Throwing knives, they dug into flesh, between seems on the black leather armor, in coherent memory, he was becoming sloppy, and the smell of gunpowder as shots echoed in the alley way. Another had joined the fight, sword brought down, flames on wind.

Wind cutting before blade, swirling, sending flames with explosive force upon impact, that there after imploded on flesh. Shaping the air around the man, he used his power, another shapeless snake of lightning struck it's mark, hitting the assassin, absorbed as mana, holding power to him.

Turning, he brought the sword in at an angle inhuman speed, aimed for a hand. Gun began to spin on the finger of that hand, and was used in swift action to roll across the blade, a dodge from the new attacker, brought the gun to point blank range.

Dagger was swift to leave the sheath, as weak hand left the handle of the sword. Bringing out, the snake, mortal killer, Morgantie. The blade, matched the scene, and was sent towards gut, digging deep into reason, another flash of lightening went across the sky.

Thunder clapped, the gun was no longer in his face, and back memory drifted before his eyes.

Blade sunk into the neck, absorbing a soul, flames cauterizing the wound. Bloodless death, and the mirror like cloak whipped matching surroundings, red flecked silvers shot to the next target, to clear path. A parry, catching the sword in the air as it was brought down on top of the elf, and spinning from this, grace. Sending the blade deep into gut, twisted, then brought upwards, tearing out the shoulder between bone. Blood gushed mixing with the rain, feeding the armies lust for it's sight.

Arrows were sent into many a head, as the archer sped silently behind, one at the back, and front of the small troupe. Sudden change in direction, brought them near a wall, forced against the side of the keep, by a massing of troops, held in the eye of battle. Cloak, became that of an enemy uniform, and a cold, dark voice rung out to nearby troops, with false sincerity.

"Climb this rope, over the wall! Tell them we have prisoners, that need to be interrogated! NOW!" Three ropes, three nearby troops, enemy troops broke away from battle, and began their climbing up the wall. First part of the plan was in action, and the smell of blood was heard as a shout echoed as memories did these days.

"Infiltrators kill them!" The shout directed at the troops attempting to help, by climbing over the wall. Their explanations meant nothing, because by this point the small organized formation was gone, amongst the battle hidden by the chaos.

The blade of reality, bullet of smite. It hung, broke the stream of memory, his own dagger forced into himself by the enemy, lightening streaked across the sky, this time connecting on the man, as he clicked the trigger. Sending the last bulled into gut, breaking through on the other side, to exit as larger wound, tearing flesh, and sending pain and a sneer to the assassin's face.

Shadows swirled, and the sentient guardians, began their whisper. The clap of thunder emitted rattles across surfaces, surging in rationality, and the cry of victory for the mute. Sounding out of pity, mercy, which was no longer part of Glan, he could feel more adversaries approach, and readied himself, this was one fight he promised himself to face. He wasn't alone, he hoped, he wished, although he was sure that he was.

None else need die for him, not anymore, this wasn't that far off battle, this was his life, his control. Rain washed blood, kept it from caking, as the Bloods jacket was removed and slung over a shoulder, to remain there, an Elvin clove slid between lips, sheltered by a hand. Zippo flame flickered, and he sent the smell into the air, wind ceased, the break allowed him to take a long needed inhale. Then he slid the lighter into a pocket, continuing onwards to feel the nights grasp touch the memory of that night"

"When you look up late at night, look upwards to the stars, the heavens, above, so close. Almost reachable; right' When a wind brushes by you, do you feel the winds of oppression, the winds of change, or the winds of adventure" What is your calling" Do you conform, do you allow others opinions affect yours, even if they are wrong, confused, or mislead" Are you always attempting to become faceless, become someone hidden amongst others" Or are you the person everyone talks to, and everyone affects you? Are you an individual, are you? you? Is your opinion, something that defines you, or something that you are afraid of; can you see the future" What lies around that corner. If you step outside, and drop dead, will you be remembered" As who' A person who conformed, a person who was outcast' Or you as an individual, who made your own decisions."

The worst end of the stick. PT 2.

Night fell fast, held tight. Grasp controlled the city on the edge of the World, and Elfland. Both parts of a reality, that seemed more and more blurred, lines. Significance to something, isn't always apparent, isn't always something that can be seen. Engine roared, blaring at decimal level, resounding off of glass, brick, cobblestone.

Bike screeched to a halt at the end of a block, city block even. At the edge of Water, and the corner before the city began, near the post apocalyptic wasteland, shrouded by trees and sand known as the Never" or Borderlands. The place sent off daily waves of mana, that surged with every movement, crackle of energies flowing under skin, muscle, bone, mind.

Gloved hand, swiped wayward strands of silver from face; slow inhale on Elvin clove, before the remnants and filter were tossed with the flicking of it from thumb and index finger sent it skywards. The clove was in mid flight, there was the rustling of air. Two men who had lurched out from behind dumpster in alley way were now in the scene.

Sneer touched cold lips, lifeless apathy, held only to him. A turning, black cloak billowed, fluttered with wind. Clove, still smoking, swayed path because of wind. Falling slowly to the street. A flicker of wrist, knives, coated with poison on edges, shot out. Serrated blades, gripped, elongated yet small blades, dainty compared to the gloved hand. Sneer overwhelmed facial features.

Seconds pass, one man drawing a crowbar, other pulling out a bludgeoning instrument. There was a flicker, the gleaming of blades in the light there was a moment that passed, the cutting of air. Cigarette filter became weighted, and fell from it's high point. Two men, fell choking on blades embedded in windpipe to the cobblestone curb, head resting on defunct road. Dilapidated building in front of the scene as it unfolded.

Both men, landed to please the sadistic mind, head, to head. Toes pointing the opposite way of each other, and torso's cattycorner from each other. Silent steps, the brush of a breeze, and he stood next to them. The first, looked fearfully upwards, painted with the tinge of blood, and loss of it. Slow words left lips, almost momentarily, but were lost upon the wind, due to the lack of air held in lungs.

Sneer still on lips, boot drawn from pavement. Then rapid movements sent through the slamming of air. Blade, half in, was sent fully into the windpipe, choking him, something of a slow, suffocating death. Like drowning in essence just on your own blood, saliva, sweat, tears, and fluids.

Shades removed, red flecked silvers turned, sneer became a smirk, frailty. Knees bending, slow, steady motion, and he spoke, words moving fluent through air, cutting into mind, like the same type of knife, but only for the ears, not shared by any other senses except them.

"You look to the left, and look to the right, but you will live in danger tonight. When the enemy comes he will never be heard. He'll blow your mind, and not say a word. Blinding lights, flashing colors, sleepless nights, if the man with the power; can't keep it under control, some heads are gonna" roll." Spoken lyrically, on tune, on key, cold, sharp still. Dark.

Gloved hand, grasped the handle of the blade protruding from his throat, sharp twist. The man's eyes bulged in sockets, blood did a slight gush, before it began to flow freely from wound. Then the assassin pulled it out, smirk on his lips, apathy on facial features. Sliding it slowly down his cheek, own blood tainting the poison coated weapon, sudden sharp poking at sockets, blood. What was meant to be a scream was gurgles, what was meant to be a yelp as optical chord was severed was gurgles. The plucking of two, brought the satisfaction of one, he pocketed them, and lifted their wallets.

A more detailed frisk of corpses, found that they had families, they had money. They were also searching the streets, there was two letters, from an address which didn't exist in each inside pockets was orders, from someone anonymous to hunt, a photograph came sliding out. It was Glanhelmion, several photographs of him slid from the pockets, him and Breeze, his two daughters, and the one holiday he couldn't remember, they were aged, reproductions. Someone was planning this for a long time.

But who' Why"

Pants pockets, jackets pockets. All came up with old photographs, everyone who either went missing, or was found dead was connected to this. How" Names were scrawled on the back of the pictures, all in broken Elvin, it was encoded, sloppy to say the least. Holding no actual meaning, seemed to need cracking.

Further examination all tied it to Elfheim, and higher-up's in the chain, holding some significance in a small way. A breeze brushed past, and slowly the condition of the situation. Rain cold, chilling was falling spilling on the ground, the assassin, and the two corpses, spreading blood across the scene. Low muttering of curses were sputtered before he turned on a boot heel, and headed into the comfort, and warmth of the safe house.

Silent steps brought him to a desk in the dimly lit room, spell globe activated with a snapping of cold wet gloves, against cold wet gloved palm. Light sigh on the stagnant still air. A fresh Elvin clove slid between lips, as thought converged.

The letters were orders, to hunt the streets for those mentioned in the photographs sent, and to kill them. If female, rape them, kill them, and do more malicious things that were worthy of his own sadism, holding the sickest, and the most conditioned of attackers to their words.

But the two outside were not conditioned, they were almost fresh to the area, they even had guns, seems they were a-little shy about using them though. Maybe they figured that they wouldn't work, or found the Bordertown survival guide, and read it thoroughly.

The sliding of a desk drawer echoed up empty dark halls, and the flicker of a Zippo's flame lit the scene even more, casting dark to unseen places, brighter than the spell globes glow, seems the mana flow wasn't in high end tonight. Well at-least he knew that he could store it in his body, and that explosives weren't volatile until set to explode.

Starshooter dropped atop desk, ammo checked, and speed loaders were prepared, sliding into webbing on the inside of jacket, light grin touching lips as gloved fingers pulled at a another drawer. Elvin clove placed between lips, inhale taken, as lips limply held it there. Hand depositing into the drawer, two fresh throwing knives pulled, and loaded into bracers. Held in their place. Starshooter slid into holster, then holster slid over shoulder. Slender metal cartridge pulled from nearby shelf, and slammed into mini crossbow before he slid that back into it's concealed location under the thick leather belt that held armor leggings in place. Special Morgantie dagger slid from the coat rack and clicked lightly as it slid into place under armor, shaped oddly it was a unique looking weapon. Cold to the touch, until it sucked a soul, then the black and silver blade heated rapidly to stifle it, adding to the souls that it ate already. Which was somewhere in the greater numbers.

Cloak slid off, as did arm leathers, light hiss, as he re-applied a suture to it, to hold the wounds shut. Goldenrod dabbed at the cheek wound, filling it in it's crease on his face, splinters contamination killed, infection prevented. Smirk touched lips again, as he read over the newspaper, it explained a great deal, there were orders coming from Elfheim, but the ones that were commanded to do their job, have vanished amongst the eight already presumed dead in the case.

Although there was one thing troubling, the identity of the person issuing these orders, was this all a pawn in the larger game of who killed whom' That question brought newer possibilities to mind, that clawed their way into rational, conflicting with possibilities.

Shrug released tension in shoulders, the crackle of bones, arm leathers slid back into place, and were fastened. Bloodied sutures tossed into a nearby empty trash bin, then he made sure every thing was fastened properly, a brush over his form, checking for his weapon capabilities, all of those were also in place.

Crime scene evidence landed atop the table, old photographs, shotgun shells, and notes scrawled in the same broken Elvin were among them. Seemed someone was trying to make a point, but what was that point' Another question that plagued thought as he adjusted the broadsword strapped to his back, and slid it closer to hiding behind his head, to conceal that better as well.

Moist heel spun on the surface of wood, silent, stealthily he began for the door. The hiss of tightening leather as gloved hands snapped the spell globe off"

Sliding atop the bike, the engine roared, and he was off in the direction of the club district. Tires rolling upwards, downwards, and rumbling on air springs as he moved over the rough surface of B-town roads.

The Wheat Sheath was crowded on this particular night, and since the occurrences of the previous obligations traveled fast, people wouldn't even offer the assassin a curious glance, which meant that the scene of the caf" in New Town seemed to have reached many ears before the end of the day. Although he was sure, that the people of B-town weren't sure what really was going on. So all they had to go on was rumor, so it buzzed, but he honestly didn't give a flying f***.

Light nod to the man behind the bar, rain was pattering on windows, occasionally becoming a thrash against glass, then subsiding again to become a light patter, lightning cracked into darkness, and then thunder sounded as a response to it's silence. Rumbling on the clouds outside.

Drenched patron sauntered in, red flecked silvers behind shades shot to her, she was a halfie, almost perfectly proportioned in her figure and form. But was a typical B-town teen, wet hair clung to her face, and her eyes moved over the crowd slowly before she sashayed back out, and across the street.

The tender behind the bar, sat down a hamburger, something Glan had honestly never tried, so he indeed took a bite, hunger was the best seasoning as they say, so he convinced himself to take that bite. Eyes still looking out the window, spell globes shone light into the pavilion outside, the man that was sitting there had a look to his face, as the girl entered and exited the place. That surprised, but still perplexed look to his face.

It was caught and words left Glanhelmion's lips as he looked to the tender.

"That man still sitting outside?"

The tenders response was quick, and sharp as if he was happy to answer.

"Yeah, he's been there for the past hour?"

Glanhelmion let one word slip, one word unannounced almost spontaneous, as he caught the man rising from his chair, the mound of cigarettes in the ash tray, putting out his last one to it.

"S***!"

Tall Elvin frame slid from the stool, a bite from the hamburger, which was enjoyed, it was a scene directly from a movie, he was sure he saw while on the run somewhere. Silent steps brought him out the door, eyes moving in sockets, the girl disappeared into the crowd, off towards New Town, the crowd was moving slowly over the line, and into the developed part of the city. The man a human, plump face, olive complexion, dark hair, dazed look followed, not exactly behind them. But he was shadowing, which meant to use a light touch, although if another onlooker saw the scene and suspected that it was tied to what he was investigating that screwed the whole shadowing thing didn't it.

Silent steps contacting cobblestone, once they crossed the New Town, Old Town line the man rushed forward, seemed to have the same sawed off weapon as his the man back at the caf", well that was probably more than coincidence.

A bite on the hamburger, still in the grasp of gloved hands, star shooter pulled from holster, hammer pulled back, slow squeeze, at a distance still accurate weapon. Shrapnel shot across the street, shattering the kneecap of the attacker, simultaneously he fired a shot into the crowd, pegging three people, and the halfie chick. Sending them all to the ground.

Another bite of the hamburger, as the man began his limp towards the alleyway. Hammer on the starshooter pulled back, another squeeze brought another shrapnel blade through his thigh. A yelp escaped the mans lips, he turned the pump on the shotgun, sending a shell to the ground.

Hammer pulled back, the rest of the burger crammed into his mouth, the next shot more precise nailing a lung, as he came close in silence. Hammer drawn back, and the next shot hit arm. The man's screams were heard rather loud over the rain, wind and thunder, as well as the moans from the crowd, a few across the street screaming and yelling.

Chaos erupted, as the hammer was drawn back again. Slow squeeze from the trigger, and fifth round went shredding muscle tissue as it split ribs, and hit other lung. Gurgles came from lips, red flecked silvers shot across the street, another man was waiting over there, already in shooting position.

Hammer was drawn back to deliver the last shot, before he saw the man across the street, shot echoed, in the distance, and pellets ripped through seems in armor, cutting into flesh. Swift pivot, and he lined up the sights of the revolver style weapon on the mans forehead, and squeeze to the hair trigger weapon. Light pop, a contrast to the loud pop of the man's skull as it split, and blood splattered the wall of the dumpster he was crouched near.

Smirk touched lips, as he allowed the chamber to pop out, to the right, empty shells falling to the cobblestones with clanks. Speed loader, with the next chamber of rounds sent into it's place, a twist, then the empty speed loader slid back into the webbing, chamber was swung shut.

Red flecked silvers shot to the Silver suits as they charged in uniform glory up the repaved streets, of former Tin Town. Shades slid into their proper place up his nose, silent stride brought him to the bodies, swift frisk, brought new evidence, as he took the weapons, and set them in the alley behind the dumpster, from the first guy anyway. Seems they didn't even notice the second man, so he was not a concern at the moment.

He slid from the alleyway, then over to the girls side, halfie, about seventeen, light complexion, fair. Smooth skin, well filled out, brunette, scraped on the forehead, violet eyes. A brushing of limp wet hair, rain resumed it's light patter.

Pulse checked, presumed dead.

Eyes were shut, he at-least showed respect to her, and he looked to the charging silver suits, before the came to a halt. Eyes taking in their form, uninteresting, for the most part, aside from the military style firearms, and batons at their sides. Smirk became a decently shaped frown, he didn't do his job, this wasn't supposed to happen again. Right"

Face of the girl drained in color, as blood pooled around her, turning her corpse over revealed her side, was penetrated by metal pellets, rapid expansion caused the hole to grow on contact. Close range, it was a dangerous weapon. Previous knowledge would tell the assassin that. Another brush of hair, on her face, and he uttered a few words before leather hissed. And he stood at his 6"11 form. Eyes moving in sockets to the silver suits as they looked at the man.

"Eh' Blood" You did dis?"

The question sharp, filled with rage, but then again it was more commanding sounding than anything else.

Smirk touched lips, and his response was swift, cold, apathetic. Matching the sharp touch of the rain to ears.

"An what if I did"!" He didn't really like police, in any place, in any form. So they got about the same respect as they would from any assassin. Light flicker of eyes, and he thought about that statement, as they looked over the scene, they had to know already his presence, and the nodded to each other before the asked.

"You Daeron?"

Glan's head lowered and raised, in a nod. Meaning yes, expression had po'd Trueblood written all over it, so they backed away a good bit, called for backup then allowed the assassin to do his search of the scene. Which he did.

Silent steps brought him across the street to opposing alleyway, where he collected the other weapon, before he slipped off, evidence collected, and he was to look into this personally now. It seemed they were targeting people, without that figurative filtering of targets.

More photographs collected, and he headed to the Silver Suit headquarters on the outskirts of the city, it seems that they compiled a-lot of lists about there targets, so at-least he would get the people into protective custody if possible, otherwise, it would be his own form of protective custody, which was much worse for the opposition, meaning that if the attempts were made, then they would be feeling the wrath of many they didn't want it from.

Traces of a Past

Light shone through the trees of the Never, they dare not tread these ground. Not many do, only the foolish, and the brave. Glan was neither to his knowledge, silent steps cleared the sandy ground, not a single boot print left behind in his wake. Only an eerie air, that fell stagnant with the stifled reproach and inquiry brewing in thought.

Brush forced aside, smoke, a clearing. Painted with blood, of a camp, blood that ran cold to the touch. Something had killed recently, not animals, this was blades. Deep slashes, although the men had seemed not to notice that they were attacked" all were joining in regular activities. All Elvin, holding familiarity. They were the native folk of the Never. Armed, they had the means to take down those assailants, but they obviously didn't know of their attackers presence. How so could that have come about"

Long Bow held tight, string gained it's tension, arrow, black feathered. Held between two gloved fingers as leather hissed. He crouched low, sharp eyes from behind shades peeking over the brush, silver hair tainted with dies of B-town. But he still remained wise to the ways of wilderness.

Cold steel, a sensation touched his neck, and the voice soft, on the fresh morning air. Still moist from due, and biting cold, passing in every breeze of stillness, under the veil of trees, and clear blue grey skies.

"You walk your training grounds again? What brings you to this camp ancient"!" Commanding tone ringing in the sharp ears of the assassin.

"Just a wayward passer by, enjoying the sites, got a problem with 'dat?" Cold dark tone, holding no warmth for the fellow Trueblood. Only a hint of surprised, awareness, he was alert, and by the time words left his mouth he had realized that there were several people coming out of their concealed state.

"Aye tha' I do, your kind ain" welcome amongst us. Although you, you are an exception. Stand and speak your name!" Another command which Glan did not appreciate all things aside.

"Arseface be the name I go by if"n ye need to know." Said behind the snarl, as he rose to his full seven foot frame. Shades reflecting the sharply sculpted one standing before him. The bow tension released, not in attack, but eased into a lull.

"Now wha' you savages wish of me?" Inquired the assassin, then he reconsidered and added, "Also why you at the scene still?"

Only to meet a restraining hand from the one he was facing, the man looked carefully over the Blood's features, brows knitted slowly. As familiarity took it's hold to the wild elf's features.

"You" we wish nothing of you, and these are out handywork indeed. Although if I am not mistaken, you are of Tasartir blood, the tainted warrior's of Elfheim correct?" His eyes grew rather wide for Glan, as the others halted, bow strings gaining their tension from the others.

Sharp eyes picked the man's facial features out immediately, he was going to inquire, but then again the assassin only offered half truth's even if he cared no longer of his lineage, but only of the fact that he was a noble race compared to humanity. "Aye, I am of Tasartir, but that is none of your concern." Speaking of which, Glan allowed spit to roll off of his tongue, and then forcefully sent to the sandy earth below, as if cursing those he was from.

"Still spiteful of them are ye?" The man knelt, to glance over soil, eyes carefully picking details, as he glanced upwards slowly. Then back to Glan as he stood upright once more.

He only snorted behind a gloved hand; somewhat shocked of the question. Then glare fell to the man from behind shades, the red flecks dancing curiously. An Elvin clove finding it's way between lips behind all of it.

"They're all dead, not by my hand as I would've wished, but they are nonetheless?" He paused to glance to silhouette's among the brush and tree. Only the twitch behind the shades allowed him to hold that poker face look to the features that remained apathetic.

His new words flowing, with that sound to them. Expectancy in his tone, from what lay in the brush and tree line. "One-two-three?" He counted them off slowly eyes moving, the flicker of a Zippo's flame.

The feral elf, looked upwards, and gasped. The others slowly turning to the tree line, subtle release of the strings, a thum, then air was crushed, forming around the shafts as the strings rung with vibrato of release.

"Okay maybe six left?" Offered behind a grin, as his wrist flicked to life spontaneous. The glint of steel on the air, and combat consumed them. Behind a thud, a shadow leaped forward to reveal another Trueblood, this one from B-town as well" surprised Glan only answered with the drawing of a blade.

Sword swung low, aimed for leg joint, relieving the man of an appendage that was actually needed despite what others say. A spin, sliding in the sand, feet skidded across it's compacted surface, blade sinking deep into the next victim, delivering a head blow dropping the man. A twisted smile came onto his features, as the next lunged forth.

Only to be met with the spray of arrows expected from the others, a commanding tone was certain, and an angered pounding of fist against sand as he fell into death. The twisted smile on facial features faded, and he looked towards the others with pointed expressions. "I could have done tha"!"

Patrol closed encircling the B-town Trueblood, with a look about them, the commander gestured to Glan with a look of surprise. "They followed ye, why?"

"Because I pissed in the wrong alley." Sarcasm playing deeply in tone, as red flecked silvers adjusted to the changes, to better read the environment so that the next surprise was his to play out, and feed from.

"That wouldn" surprise me Glanhelmion, but answer the question otherwise I be "avin to take that tongue of yers and listen to it's explanation's meself!" Commanding tone ringing again, as he looked over the assassin carefully with judgment in his eyes tearing at his edge.

Glan snorted again, with glee on his tone, "Why do ya" care if"n you mind meh asking?"

"Because there's a mess o' bodies sitting in *our* woods, and it has yer name plastered all over it."

Kneeling slowly, Glan looked over the brush slowly taking an inhale on the Elvin clove in silence, he looked upwards. The wind spoke here, anyone who treaded the area as much as he had, would know this. Something about this place spoke words. Over the trees a shadow sped by, only to leave curiosity on his mind.

"What type are these bodies, and can I inspect these corpses?"

Feral elf patrolmen nodded slowly, as he rose from his position. An upwards nod towards the area, Glan was forced to go like it or not. It wasn't an option to deny the man, he knew better than to think that he'd escape notice for long in the confines of the Never, even if he knew where to hide, and how to. It was complicated to understand the changes that undergo even while one is present.

Silent steps ceased as he looked upon eight corpses, all Trueblood's and Halfie's" about ages fifteen to twenty; the typical B-town youths. All stripped bare, and scraped beaten, very dead. Cold under the warmth of his hand. The crackle of energies on his touched breathed into them, minds not daring to touch, although it gave perspective on how they died to say the least. Although nothing was returned by the mental ping, seems that not only were they tortured, but soul sucked as well.

Obviously he would be a suspect, considering it was his method's. But still and all, he was an elusive thing, and wouldn't willingly fall into someone's grasp, if he was involved that is. Although another thing was off, there were pieces missing.

Blades ran through and through every corpse, if the girls were killed close up, then" why use a sword" That is for extended use in combat, it is mostly something only done for rituals and such when done at the range it was comitted on these girls. Unless that is sliding cold steel through someone's chest was indeed fun to someone, well other then him.

Inhaling a mouthful of smoke, he smirked, thinking to himself about every scenario that played off of this. Only four or five came to mind with ease, meaning that the scale was less of a chance.

Now only to figure out the connections between the girls, there is always a cause and effect, and always a reason that drives someone to murder. Even if it is the most simplistic of things, it was probably something he'd require to solve every portion of this and figure out the reason he was now tied in.

They all had Elvin blood, that was apparent, they all were younger, and all had presence in their features even while dead. But lacking the color, and a few obviously fresh seeing as rigormortis was setting in or already fully blown, meaning it was anywhere between forty five minutes, to twelve hours since the most recent of the killings. Others were already expanding meaning that they had begun the second stage of decomposition' knowingly changing the range to at least a week to three; somewhere in that area.

"T"ain't my handy work, I dun do childrens any way." Spoken softly under his breath for only the commanders ears, he looked upwards to see trails leading out of the clearing, towards B-town, then he thought it out slowly.

He was defiantly knowledgeable, but not a coroner, he'd be talking to one of his contacts to see if someone could be sent to this location, then confirm his estimations. Rising from the kneel, and inhale to stifle the stench of death under his nostrils. Sweet scented clove smoke filling lungs as he silently padded towards the tracks, still leaving no boot prints. The cracking of a silver brow and he awaited the commander's sharp retort, which never came as he looked at the bodies as if in a daze.

One of the men came into the clearing, swift, sloppy. Finding no stealth in his motions, Glan spun, sword drawn, and he fell down from his step. Energies crackling in every joint as he halted the movements, so that he didn't take the life of an ally. He was sure he'd have the option to use this situation to his will later on, but until then he was still playing along with them.

"Tis my greatest regret to inform you sir, that our camp came under attack shortly after we left' none survived the incident except three children. From the looks, and how the three younglings described it was a Morgantie." The scout's words grim, and slow, to take affect without overwhelming any of their small troop.

Feral elf leaders eyes grew wide, and he looked to Glanhelmion, "Who is doing this" Why?"

Glan shrugged slowly, still apathetic. He allowed no emotion, even if he felt it to slip through his apathy. Painting the situation rationally, but still cold toned with the commander, not even sympathetic for the man. "I nae know, and if I do find out, you are not the first to be informed."

"Well then, all I ask is you kill them good, for the name of your father."

More spit rolled off of Glanhelmion's tongue, finding it's rest on the sandy ground of the Borderlands, and their post apocalyptic embrace. He was content with that as his response. He resented his family, and their need to drag him into this, if that is so. He was certain that the commander knew more than he let on, but he did not inquire. Only turned and went back towards B-town, he still had a tender to torture either way?

The weather got a-bit choppy, slicing with cold to the bone through wind. The night was fast approaching, sunset over the horizon. Red boot propped on the ledge of a building bells glistening in the fading light; black cloak billowing under the chop of wind. Stray silver strands flying freely from under the hood, red flecked silvers darting from window to window.

Old wounds, opened by thought, and action. Blood cooled by weather, soaking into the Elvin silk shirt. Casual wear always cursed without better protection. Although it was narrowed down to one building on the edge of Dragontown and New Town.

Another cutting blast of wind sent strands of silver before his eyes, and cloak billowing with a familiar rustling sound. Then falling forward, in a solid leap. Timing matching that of the man exiting the building directly opposite the one he was perched atop.

Surroundings whizzed by the wayward assassin; wind in pockets forming under cloth with the swallowing of air. Contorting properly gloved hand gripped the fire escape, with ease and precision' skillfully taking himself up with a strong heave he landed. Slight whisper of the bells in key with thought allowed to by the solemn granting.

Making his way down a few floors, he glanced to the man who was now a block up, not even paying proper mind to the pending demise. Glan was certain though, this was the scumbag, all leads led to him, all clues added up to him. A new gang leader operating exclusively out of New Town, in order to traffic weapons more fitting, and to ship certain things that didn't need to exist over the border. But still it was an operation all of it's own, and decently legit.

More biting wind, as he placed his back against the wall. Smirk escaped, with harshness hinted; but emotion's would only prevent cleanliness. And it's important to kill with that crisp precision almost like fear.

He was far beyond the point of his hand shaking, or his mind scattered, he gained a calm easy now, and it was like breathing to him. Taking a blade, and sending it into the throat of someone deserving, otherwise he wouldn't have been paid to do it.

Although considering Lankyn was personally footing the bill he wondered about the motive, as well as why he was put on the detail. Considering the past few weeks were spent on this particular case, and he's surviving off of two hours of sleep, as well as the wounds he got from the various fights. He was losing that edge, it was becoming dull to the habitual loss of sleep" but that may not be just this case; it may be something he was unable to understand himself.

Turning into the alley way, he glanced to his left, then to his right. Boots landing in silence in the puddle, not even a splash rising. He felt them, all around him, sudden converging shades of anger. It was safe to call this a set up.

Feeling the first brush by, a dagger slid from a sleeve, the black blade sharp, cold. Spinning it across a leather clad palm, other hand gripping the man that grazed him by the hair, he quickly slid the weapon's sharp edge across the man's throat. Blood spilt onto the alley floor mixing with water, before he let the corpse drop.

The next flung themselves at the assassin, as they came into striking distance, he spun. Blade caught itself at an upward angle under ones sternum. With a sudden jerking twist, the man went limp, fresh edge sliding through the cartilage with ease.

Another jerk involving the flick of his wrist, and the blade was buried in the neck of his secondary target. The next blow connected, but before the damage was dealt he allowed himself to absorb the blow, then spiral out of it. Giving him calculation time.

Drawing a elongated dagger with a serrated blade he sent it into the mans temple. Releasing his grip on the blade he let the man fall, bleeding through the orifices of his face he sat dead on the alley floor as did his other friends.

The last lackey was easy, he rushed in. As quickly as before Glan reacted, boot finding comfort in the mans gut, sending his diaphragm to force air out of his lungs. A moments pause before the crack echoed up the alley. It was a sudden crack, jolting the man fell to the ground, screaming.

"You son of a!"

Before the last word escaped his lips there was another lightning fast movement ending in a loud crack. Jerking his wrist back, it was now visible for a split second. A line of six, with three razor blades hidden amongst the lashes, poison coated with an acidic grin substance.

The next clean lash landed in the mans face, before a boot was sent into his stomach. After the torture, he spun, both ankles catching the mans neck, with a snap, he was dead.

Turning on the murderer, and his particular interest in younger girls, the whip extended. The man backed out of the way swiftly, only his arm got tore through. Although in this moment he stepped over the line, and he knew it. It read so plainly on his face.

The long pause brought silence, a long silence, painful to the ears. Considering the next sound was a gunshot, which drowned out the hum of a bow string. The whip coiling around his hand, free hand drew the mini cross bow, and placed an arrow neatly in the SOB's chest, sending him gasping for air, in large obviously over exaggerated gulps.

Stepping forward, being Glan, he slipped the mini cross bow back into it's concealed location, and drew a Morganti dagger, the blade black as the knife before, but this wasn't a flat black, and the edge was an eerie blue. Holding a certain glow; the blade sucked at the air from it's dark feel.

With a single powerful motion, it sunk into the man's neck area, soul popped into the blade, and he was to be brought back as another thing to adorn the walls of the Blood house as a trophy".

Dragonfly out in the sun you know what I mean, Butterflies all havin' fun you know what I mean Sleep in peace when the day is done And this old world is a new world And a bold world For me

Stars when you shine You know how I feel Scent of the pine You know how I feel Yeah freedom is mine And I know how I feel It's a new dawn It's a new day It's a new life For me

And I'm feeling good

"Feeling Good"

It had been awhile since DCH has gotten one over on the Bloods. The last time they'd given Belial to Gabriel, a deal for which they are still waiting to see results. Howe looks at the elder Elven Lord, Glanhelmion Tasartir, lying at his feet and smiles in satisfaction. He's unconscious, wounded and bleeding, easy to keep under control in this condition.

"Yes, yes, you've done an excellent job, Jasper." Howe turns to his henchman beaming with glee. " "You know where to put him. Make sure they keep him sedated, we don't want him bringing in the Calvary just yet."

A darker shadow amidst the rest gives what could be considered a nod to Howe, but doesn't speak. Jasper is a man of few words and rarely wastes them. He knows his job, he knows what to do and Howe knows he knows. The shadow slinks in closer to the unconscious Elf, picking up his dead weight without any effort.

Howe gives the pair a wide berth, hands rubbing together in anticipation. Everything is looking up for DCH and he can't help but feel buoyant. Lots of hard work and with seemingly little reward, they are getting some small successes at last. Getting rid of Belial and capturing Glan is only the beginning. Four elite assassins of the eight "hired" are already in Rhy"Din. Recent reports suggest they are closing in on several of their targets. Soon, all those DCH wants "out-of-the-way", will be dropping like flies.

Yes, the sheep may not be easily led to slaughter in this town, but what fun it will be bringing the slaughter to them!

Howe watches as Jasper leaves with the Elven lord draped over his shoulder. His work tonight isn't done anymore than his henchman's. There is still so much to do. Beady eyes contemplate the empty doorway through which Jasper and cargo exited as he ponders strategies and tactics.

Howe has the issue of Stewy to resolve. However, there are many unanswered questions and Howe wonders if he should keep the guy around a little bit longer. Maybe try and flush out any Stewy's been in contact with' Howe realizes he's already given Othinsson the order to take the man's head but it may have come prematurely. Stewy could be a useful weapon against DCH's enemies, and for Howe that makes him a commodity rather than a weakness.

But tonight's business isn't about Stewy. Tonight's business is about the Nexus and teaching a few upstarts in Rhy"Din a lesson about *importance* and *power*.

Howe has a meeting with the scientists and mages conducting nexual research for DCH and after that he's off to oversee a few "presents" for some "friends". A certain inn keeper is in for a wake-up call as well as that pain-in-his-ass Ancient, Sid. Howe intends on seeing that their weekends turn out as "bright" as his own is looking.

Beaming his pleased smile Howe starts his trek up from the lower basement of their Rhy"Din DCH offices to the first floor and the conference room already filling with personal.

Yes, tonight has already proven most entertaining and the festivities have just begun!

Feet dragging roughly over the newly aquainted cell floor....pacing. The sedation keeping him well out of reach of concentration. Physically drained all he can feel is the numb embrace of the light breeze...

Still not quite sure where he is, he just hopes that he can find a way out of his situation. But all is fading to blurred images of gray. Streaks of red cross crimson, as the bars revealing light above him are screened. Covered, taking away what little breath of freedom he could have.

All that remained was a vapor trail, of heat, of the life he could sense. The scent of blood, blocked all other senses. Taste was sweat....covered in dirt.

"Yanno' lifes like a bad Ozzy album, meets the taste of bad pecca" said almost like he spit it onto the floor. Feeling his way along the six by six room. Hand placed on the wall, caloused fingers, palms, dragging along the wall slowly as his feet slowly dragging like a dog in the heat.

Pain inflicted....the collar shocking him.

A jolt of energy surging through every part of his body; resisiting what he could, but adrenaline only made the sedative's hold worse. Coursing through his body like a dark poison, falling to his knees, he found himself face first on the floor. In the darkness, a strong scent of brimstone piercing the air....as a chuckle cracked the silence, as though to break the will of broken wings.

"Howe....what? Can't get enough without tormenting the broken" You already have me, what more do you want?" Spoken in a rough growl, animalistic, breath heavy as words are flung into air.

"Falling from a sky, you've lost the wings you stole, the wings of wax and hate....made of false hope. Breaking you isn't enough, never is." Beady eyes recognized as the cell door opens....or at-least Glan thought that's what happened, he couldn't really define reality or the affects of the drugs right now.

A growl was all that could be heard....Glan felt the sudden burst of pain.

"Now, now Glanhelmion, we can't have you leaving yet....we can't have you being free, to attempt to make use of the life you were granted. Indentured we figure you of use to us, but the time will come when we figure that one out.."

The growl grew into a roar, pain neglected. A surge of energy, but this was a shock to both Howe and Glan. Lifting himself from the ground, with a burst....of power" From where" He'll figure that out later...

"You sick little fat B******....I will crush the life out of you!" Muscles surging, the collar sending wave after wave of pain through his body. Yet that only seemed to make his will stronger, seemed to only create more of a rage. The built up anger, as the grip on Howe's thick little neck tightened.

A well made Italian leather shoe heel sending Glan across the cell....wall welcoming the ancient. Before he launched himself at the Trueblood himself.

"Now this is interesting" a hiss of words coming from the Lawyer.

Red eyes came up to meet the beady black ones. The shadows surging around the cell, provided by the screen.

"See you make mistakes, judging me as down, when I have only begun my fight to make your life a living hell!" His body melding into the wall, like a curtin of dark, falling over the two of them.

The lawyer's grip began to heat up, like fire to the touch. "Hell, HELL! You know nothing you Trueblood slave, you will die a slow death! By the hands of someone paid enough."

Whispy claws tipping fingers, as the world became black, a pocket of his realm, feeling his face contort. A instinctual transition, he could feel his soul shredding, as if it was being ripped from his form, but there was no soul....only a solemn strand connecting the shell to it. But it felt more as if something was filling the void within him, as if the awakening was beginning again....as if Daeron's slumber in his own mind was coming to an end.

Howe had a strange look on his face, pudgy skin contorted to reveal that the gears were turning. "Oh no Glanhelmion, you are not as strong as you think." The collar began to repel the pocket realm.

It seemed as though Howe was ripping the two of them from the shadows....ripping Glan's soul, and silencing his touch to the magic that fueled his sudden touch of awakening.

Finding themselves back in the cell, Howe's hands on Glan's shoulders, searing touch bringing the Trueblood to his knees.

"Maybe I may find someting of use in you after all....but for now sleep in your silence. But don't expect an oppurtunity like that again."