Asuryan

Once we were here
Where we have lived since the world began
Since time itself gave us this land

Our souls will join again the wild
Our home in peace and war and death
Wandering on Horizon Road...

A sound of steps echoed in Kings' Row alleys. Over the rooves, in the damp and smelly courtyards, in the streets full of overflowing trashcans, just the usual display of evil rituals, petty thievery and violence. But those steps traced a straight line toward a precise target, and if something evil happened to be on their trajectory, they stopped just for a second, then a keen metallic sound resonated, followed by the whistling of the wind when it's cut by something moving really fast, the sound of limp bodies falling to the ground, and then, steps again; black leather combat boots, with a hint of yellow near the sides.

She didn't like to walk. Since she learned to fly, she never resorted to walking. Especially not in Kings Row. Kings Row smelled of poverty, of sad buildings all alike, of factories and filth. Whenever she could, she kept to the greener, cleaner areas of the city. However, she had been walking those streets all evenings, at that same time, every day, for months: her eyes vainly searching the poorly lit alleys for a sign of Gal's Place reopening. Recently, there had been some working, maybe even restructuring, and cleaning up. But always behind doors closed to the public. Could it be...?

The streetlights reflected over her golden, winged tiara, giving it a spectral hue. She lifted a black gloved hand to touch it, almost shyly: she had never changed it, and never a single enemy had been able to break it or maim it. Sure, it had been scratched, but nothing serious, and it had always been repaired to perfection; that never changed, neither her clothes had changed, but what about Gal's place? What would've she found? Maybe this time, this time will be different, and maybe not. Maybe it can start again, no, it can continue from where it has left. Is she all right? Is he all right? Are all of them, all right?

Then her steps stopped, right in front of Gal's Place door. Her deep green eyes started itching, and she pressed her fingers on them, rubbing away welling up happiness tears: then, she pressed the palm of her right hand against the door, slowly, almost waiting for a dream to fade away. Gal's Place was back.
With her left hand, she brushed away from her face a lock of fiery, long red hair, sending it over a shining, golden knight shoulderpad. Her right hand slid down to the doorknob, and clenched it for some moments, to be absolutely sure of its concreteness: not an illusion, not some Carnival of Shadows mind trick. It seemed so real...

Then Falcon Kitiara turned the doorknob, and stepped inside the Place, black cape with blazing lightnings gently waving behind her, and Hero of the City badge shining on her simple brown leather bra.

[Welcome back, my dearest friend! It's so nice to have you back! and hello also to everyone in Gal's place, both old and new faces ]

"I worry about her, too."
Falcon sighed slightly and united her hands over the table, her crossing fingers. She shaked her head slightly.

"I'm no mother, but I can be a big sister for her. I don't know if I will be able to replace her parents, but maybe it is too soon for that and I should simply try and make her feel happy. I'll try to do my best to make her feel at home, help her forget that her parents are about to sign a piece of paper where they renounce all parental rights over their child. From what she's told me, her last year with her parents has been a nightmare: telling the truth but not being believed and being punished for saying it, being disciplined without knowing why, having no one at her side to help her understand what was happening to her and how her marvelous gifts work, being feared and looked upon with distrust by the same people that gave her life. If they weren't mere citizens I would already have given them the beating of their lives."
Falcon opened her hands and, clenching her right fist, she smashed it against the palm of her left hand, biceps bulging, gesture eerily contrasting with her lady-like attire. Her eyes were angry, not at Steve, but at Lily's parents.

"And they were all too happy when they saw me and heard me asking for the child's legal custody and guardianship. For them it was either being denounced from someone for having abandoned a little girl and possibly mistreating her, or taking her home again, or letting her to die in the streets. I offered them a fourth possibility, the possibility of cleaning their conscience. This way they can think "it's for the best, now our daughter is with someone that can care for her superheroistic needs much better than us" and simply go on with their lives." she sneered, emerald eyes still flaring "Cowards. Growing her should be their battle, not mine."

Slowly, she relaxed again, and talked with a smile.
"However I plan to do for her at least what her parents weren't planning to do at all.
When she will come back home after an afternoon and evening of skulls and hellions hunting, with her skirt teared, face stained with someone else's blood, and eyes gleaming with pride, I will be there to hug her and tell her that I am proud of her."
She hadn't mentioned the magical invisible horse that Lily so cheerfully declared was her Guardian Spirit, but her smile, now sweet and almost savoring an image of the future, revealed how fighting grown men and monsters wasn't an issue for her at all.

"All right then,the Portobello special, we'll share it." Falcon smiled at Beth, slightly nodding towards Steve.
"As I don't think that champagne is the best when it comes to eating veal, would you please bring us also a bottle of good red wine? I'm not really an expert, so I'll let you and Martin decide which one would be more appropriate to what Steve ordered."

After Beth had finished taking notice of their dishes, and went to bring their orders to the kitchen and grab their drinks, Falcon Kitiara turned again her head to face Steve.
"Did you want a bit more time to decide on the menu? You seemed to me a bit confused." she cocked her head slightly on the left, her green eyes resting on the features of the handsome red skinned man.

Falcon smiled at Steve's confusion. She didn't know what was puzzling him so: could it be that he had been so distracted by the bandage on her breast that he had completely forgot about the dinner? Maybe, but his befuddlement seemed something recent. Maybe something she had said?

She turned towards Beth.
"A mushrooms of season appetizer, and a kaesespaetzle. I'll drink some red beer with it - Chimay red would be good if you have it."
She browsed the menu, a bit uncertain: she had fought a lot that day, and she was really hungry. She skipped lunch too - had been knee deep in the sewers at that time, and it kinda chased away all the hunger that she had at the moment... - sore muscles and empty stomach: she craved something else too.
She turned again towards Steve.
"If I ordered a Portobello special too, would you share it with me? It would probably be too much to eat a whole one alone."

Falcon looked genuinely surprised. "Lily? Have you met Lily?"

"It is a pleasant coincidence" she smiled "I've met her just this morning, while patrolling Steel Canyon. She's so sweet, so in love with life. She is at my home right now... I guess she told you why?" a pause, waiting for Steve's answer with questioning eyes.
"For now she isn't attending any school... traditional schools or even private ones don't seem to want a little girl with a Guardian Unicorn that protects her and whispers to her all the answers to the tests."
Kitiara's smile broadened, became a small laugh. "That suits her just fine: between her playstation thing, and the first steps toward becoming a true hero, she is very happy to avoid some school days. When the Paragon University will open, though, I've heard there will be a class for superpowered children, too. The professors are supposed to be superheroes themselves, to put a bridle on children's powers and be sure that no one gets hurt or cheats during tests."
After a moment of silence, she smiled, this time it was a silent, quiet smile.
"I think I will become her legal guardian, since she cannot live with her parents anymore."

Then Falcon Kitiara turned towards Beth, and lifted her right hand in greeting.
"Hello, Beth, it's nice to see you. Don't worry about being late - the evening has just started, there's still plenty of time to eat."
"What about you?" she asked, turning her head towards Steve "Do you already know what you'd like to eat?"

I don't know how to do that, or I would surely have a Victory emote.
Give me a suggestion, how does one create such a macro?

Falcon Kitiara has group flight, and it is heavily slotted with lots of SO's. She could then get people off new orleans, away from the whirling waters and from the ruined houses, using the Group Flight power and simply flying away with them until they're safe. Then when she would be sure that they are in a safe place, she would go back to new orleans and save all the people that needs to, the same way.


<<"Help! Please, help me! Won't someone help?" the cry comes from a half ruined house, about to crumble to pieces. An old woman on a wheelchair is at a window and is crying and weeping at the same time, her white hair disheveled, eyes red with tears. The people that hear her don't stop to help, they feel ashamed about it, but they have to make sure that their children, wives, husbands, are safe, before worrying about other people and neighbors. The waves crash against the wall of the house, the woman lets out a scream of pure terror feeling the house moving menacingly; on the verge of despair, and feeling the loneliness of being abandoned by everyone else, she almost doesn't notice a strong, leather gloved hand on her shoulder.

"I am here. I will bring you to safety. Don't cry."

The woman turns her head toward the female voice with scandinavian accent, and sees the fierce she-warrior with fiery red hair, a broadsword strapped to her back, golden shoulderpads shining under the light that comes out of the window and from the candles the woman has lit. She wears a mantle behind her back. The woman doesn't know who this person is, but she has heard her words: here to help, safety, life. The old woman's wrinkled hands clench around the strong warrior's hand, as a drowning man would do, hoping that this caped lady is not some kind of illusion or dream.
The lady is lifted from her wheelchair by the strong arms of the caped lady: she can see twin yellow lightnings on the black cape. The swordmaiden doesn't seem bothered at all by the weight of the woman. With a jump, the woman goes out of the window, and the old white haired woman screams in terror: is this caped lady crazy? They will die, they will be swept away by the waves!

"You won't die. I will save you. Don't cry."

The old lady closes her eyes firmly.
then opens them again, since she doesn't feel any movement sensation. And her eyes open wide.
The red haired lady is hovering gently in the air, as if there wasn't any gravity; she lets the old woman go, and, how can this be? The white haired woman can hover, too!
A smile, as genuine and spontaneous as it didn't appear on the old woman's lips since her accident, appears on her lips. Fly? She can fly! She doesn't know why or how this mysterious lady is able to make her fly, but... wait! That must be it. She is an angel. God has sent her an angel to save her! The lady doesn't have any wings... and her sword isn't flaming... and the cape is not much angelic... and of course, why should an angel speak with a scandinavian accent?
But the old woman is flying. Flying! It doesn't matter that she doesn't feel and cannot move her legs now, the angel is making her fly. Pure joy rushes into the woman's heart, as she flies behind the red haired angel. Under them, people are pointing and commenting with "ooh"s and "aah"s, the angel doesn't care, she just wants to bring the old woman to safety. Never before the white haired woman has felt so safe and cared for.

The angel doesn't stop. She rescues a children stuck on a roof, she rescues another old man, almost unable to move because of a grave illness, and some other people. Away from their homes, to the nearest red cross or salvation army camp. To safety. To live.
The survivors weep with joy, rejoining their worried relatives. They turn, tears streaming down their eyes, toward the kind angel that saved them from certain death, and stutter their tanks with voices breaking down with emotion and gratitude.
The red haired angel just bows.

"My name is Falcon Kitiara. No thanks are necessary. I just did my duty."

As she flies away, back into new Orleans, the old woman caresses her nephews hair, knowing that both her and them will always cherish the day that their grandma has been saved by an angel.>>

All right, that's a bit emo, but I like it, so there! :P
About looters? Well, that's what broadsword is. Arresting people, of course - killing is wrong for a hero

Falcon had noticed Beth as well. She glanced at her, not wanting to stare, but wondering if that tray was for them or for some other table. She then turned towards Steve again.
"And you? What happened to you these days? I hope that your experiences have been better than mine" she smiled, crossing her arms again on the table...

"I don't like being the centre of attention for people such as the circle of thorns." answered Falcon Kitiara with a smile, raising her glass too, frail crystal stem gently hold between three delicate white gloved fingers. The warm light of Gal's place shone and trembled on the ripples of the wine's surface. She moved the glass slightly, to see the light shining through its clear colour. Her left hand was now opened, palm down, on the wooden table: she could almost feel the wood living, sap flowing, under her fingertips. Maybe it was just a figment of her imagination: nonetheless, it was good to be alive, so good! Her brush with death had made her appreciate even more the little things in life, from a simple smell to a texture to a taste.
The slightly bitter, sparkling bouquet of the champagne on her tongue (maybe a bit too bitter, though, she thought?); the pleasant and known smell of wood, the less known but appreciated flavour of the foods cooking in the kitchen (were there mushrooms she was smelling? she wondered); the warm colours of the wood, pavement and walls, the warmer color of Steve's skin, as red as a summer twilight: his eyes, the warmest of all things there. It was good to be the centre of *his* attention, she thought.
"I don't like it" she sipped from her glass and put it again on the table with a slight dull sound. "But it can be helpful. Usually the circle's attention is centered on the poor girl or man that they are about to sacrifice to their dark gods; when I come near them, if their attention becomes centered on me, chances are that the victim might manage to safely escape, even if I should fall in battle."
She stopped and thought about it, slightly tapping her chin with her right thumb, snow white against white skin. "A couple of times it has happened, I must admit. But that's what hospitals are for. And those defeats were part of the knowledge of battle that I have now, so I cannot complain."
She turned her green eyes right then left, a not-so-subtle hint of hunger inside them - and her body language reflected that, tongue slightly passing on her soft lips, a deeper inspiration than the rest to best inhale the flavours from the kitchen.
"If Martin doesn't come here soon, I'll eat him as soon as he shows up" she joked, and winked at Steve...

[Welcome back, my friend. It is a pleasure to have you here again! ]

Falcon Kitiara noticed the look that the white man with black leather boots and pants had given to her wound. She lifted one snow-white gloved hand to cover the small patch for an instant, as if it had been a mark of shame and symbol of poor combat skills, then she lowered it again. Everyone is defeated sooner or later, I shouldn't be so ashamed for a single defeat she thought, and turned her head toward the man for a second, an inquiring look inside her eyes, trying to understand his feelings. When she saw neither spite nor sneer in his eyes, only genuine concern, she relaxed and smiled slightly, wondering why he seemed to be concerned for a wound he knew nothing about.
With a last, curious look to his white hair and strange, sometimes gaunt appearance, she turned back her attention on her date: after all it wasn't very romantic to stare at someone else when she was in such good company...

Falcon Kitiara smiled at Steve, and she began her storytelling, quickly licking her lips with the tip of her tongue to moisten them.
"In the days past I was giving chase to a beast called Envoy of Shadows. It is a creature from another dimension, not unlike all the behemoths and behemoth lords that the Circle of Thorns summon to do their bidding. Tall, scaly, horned, and strong. Many powerful heroes have defeated the Envoy, and thwarted the Circle's ambitions, but this time it was my turn to send him back to the pit that spawned him."
"I infiltrated Oranbega for the nth time, searching for clues about the Envoy and its true name: it seems that demons can be controlled or made mortal if their true name is known. What I wasn't expecting... was that the Envoy was there too, probably to negotiate some kind of pact with the Circle. I don't know for sure. I do know, though, that he attacked me as soon as he saw me. I guess I should've run away, but I still needed those clues, and those were... right behind its back."
Falcon's fingers touched lightly the small bandage on her chest, absently: a side effect of her recollecting her memories.
"I thought I could defeat it, or send it running away, so that I could obtain those informations. But as soon as I moved in close combat range, a sickly black aura around the beast began sucking away my strenght. I couldn't dodge its blows, I was feeling weaker and weaker by the second, and --- long story short --- before I realize what has happened, everything goes black. He slashed at me many times with his talons... but those wounds were much faster to heal than this one."
Falcon crossed her fingers together, in a gesture reminding of jaws closing, or prison bars moving.
"When I opened my eyes again, I was inside one of the Circle of Thorns' crystal prisons. It was beautiful, but cold and damp. I had my sword with me - still don't know why they didn't simply take it away - but my feet were chained together. Magical chains, I guess, or cursed ones since they were keeping me severely weakened, unable to try and get free. Every attempt to break off the chains with my sword failed: imagine my frustration."
Following the word frustration, Falcon opened her hands again and lowered them on the table, closing fists again loosely, forearms touching the wood.
"I think a few hour passed, then a big group of Thorn Casters and Behemoth Lords entered the room, lowered the prison crystal door and simply swept me away. They took what seemed a labyrintine path inside the Oranbegan tunnels, walking for about half an hour, and brought me to a room with an altar in the centre. They tied me to it, and then a death mage came along with a sharp, pointy black crystal. That's when I started to feel really terrified."
Her smile was a bit uneasy: she wasn't used to fear. Not to *that* amount of fear. And maybe, she was a bit afraid that Steve would've thought her weak for it.
"The death mage walked toward the altar with the black crystal in his hands; he chanted something I couldn't make out (from the sound of it, it could have been latin, though), and when the chanting stopped he plunged the crystal toward my heart. I managed to free my left hand as I felt the shard tip inside my flesh. Just in time for me to block it and prevent it from piercing my heart and lungs." she smiled, moving her left hand slightly on the table.
"I didn't even dare to breath. We struggled for a bit, then I managed to grab the crystal and smash it against the nearest surface; I don't know why, but this almost instantly killed the wizard. With my left hand I then grabbed my sword, used it to cut my bonds while he was in his death throes, and fought the behemoths and wizards in the room until I managed to escape."
She smiled at Steve:
"It is a rather simple story, I know. Let's say I just spared you the grisly details. This wound is the crystal shard wound. It stopped bleeding, but it isn't regenerating... or if it is, it's regenerating so slowly that I still haven't noticed any change after about 20 hours. I will give it some more days: if it doesn't start healing in a handful of days, I will ask Azuria about it."
Falcon winked, her voice now amused:
"And yes, you can look at the bandage as much as you want, I know that it is attention drawing, so I won't take offense."

[OOC: Here I am! Back after registering my latest exam. Maximum marks! Cheer for me, guys!
The longer, and I daresay better, version of Falcon's story is on the Roleplaying boards: not too long, not too short, if you have some spare time and want to check it out feel free. ]

Midnight.

A strange immobility hovered in the sacrificial chamber; something had gone wrong, the wizards and Behemoths could feel it even before actually seeing what had happened. Even after they saw it, no one interfered, the danger too high: the deadly black energies wouldn’t have allowed someone to interfere, not without paying the ultimate price.
Falcon Kitiara and the Death Mage were locked in a deadly duel, inhuman eyes full of mystical light fought against green eyes full of fear, but also rage and determination. The warrior’s left hand, wrist still encircled by a broken strap of leather, had grasped the black pyramidal Torment Shard, near its pointy end: the Death Mage’s hands, both of them, clutched the crystal near the pentagonal base of the pyramid. He had the advantage of his position, that enabled him to use all the strength in his shoulders, and was using both hands instead of one, but Falcon’s arms were trained by long years of survival in the wilderness and with her sword. The ancient wizard’s body was frail and old, his hands used to unfold eldritch scrolls of parchment, not to feats of strength. However, the Death Mage was a master in the art of ceremonial sacrifices: he knew the best places to strike, be it with an unholy dagger or with a Torment Shard. This time, too, as he had done with all his previous ceremonies, he had chosen the best place to pierce, just between two ribs, avoiding the sternum; the path should have been linear: skin, muscle, lung, heart.
The blood of Falcon Kitiara trickled on her chest skin, touched and ran over her leather brassiere, and formed a small crimson puddle on the granite altar; when the Mage had plunged the crystal toward her heart, the tip had easily pierced her skin, and then went down a bit more. Panicking, Falcon had sent out a cry of pain and had tensed her left arm: the worn leather strap had broken, and her fingers had met the icy surface of the crystal, grabbing it, hope flaring inside her soul. The black swirling energies started slowly sucking her life force away from her open wound, so Falcon immediately put, and still was putting, all of her strength in resisting the pressure the Wizard exerted; the piercing pain she felt from her chest worried her, so she breathed in small, quick breaths. She feared that crystal more than everything else in the room, it was so near her heart, she was sure that it already had pierced both skin and muscle, and unless she kept her inspirations very small, she would’ve run the risk of having her lung pierced by the shard.
She then noticed that, although the eyes of the mage were inexpressive because of their demonic light, his face’s expression was showing fear, too. She didn’t have time to wonder why, could not afford such a luxury: her eyes remained transfixed inside the Mage’s, and she kept pushing the black crystal away. Inside the gloves, her palms were moist with sweat: if she hadn’t worn them, her hands would’ve slipped on the surface causing her instant death.
The hands of Death Master Arathius were unable to sweat, but he felt fear, too; the dark forces he had summoned were temporarily being sated by the virgin blood they were tasting, but they had been called on this world to be sated by a life, not only two trickles of blood. He didn’t have much time to complete the sacrifice, and he pushed more, desperately: he had seen so many things, the fall of Oranbega, empires rise and fall; he had survived so much, now he was running the risk of losing everything because this woman had managed to break the leather strap. How can this silly woman have so much strength with only a single hand? It cannot be that this barbarian is making me fear for my life! Doesn’t she realize that my life is much more important than hers? His mind screamed, he was losing concentration, his eyes blinked and his breath became irregular.
Falcon didn’t know, and had no way of knowing, what was passing inside his head, but it could mean her survival: she decided to play the game the hard way and deeply sighed, expiring all of her lungs’ air. His left hand abruptly stopped pushing toward the Wizard and pulled instead the Torment Shard toward herself for an inch or two, allowing the tip to tear her flesh and drink her blood; the dark energies swirled faster, her blood ran down changing from a trickle to a stream, but the Death Mage stumbled forward, totally astounded by her move, fingers slightly loosening around the pyramid. Now! She had to move fast!
Falcon stopped pulling and pushed forward with a sudden move and a growl: before she knew what exactly happened, she had torn the crystal away from the Mage’s hands, and was now clenching it in her only free hand. Without thinking, she hurled it toward the nearest hard surface that she was able to see: the rotating, hovering green crystal. The pyramid hissed in the air, its sharp end touched the big crystal with a crystalline sound; Falcon was not looking at the green crystal and black Torment Shard anymore; she was still bound to the altar, she had other matters to worry about, and her left hand ran toward her right one.
Mages, Thorn Casters and Behemoths looked at the scene with a mesmerized stare, only the Death Mage celebrating the sacrifice let out a scream of terror when, with a clear and almost harmonious sound, the Torment Shard broke down to small pieces that fell down like a rain of black crystal drops over the altar.
The swordmaiden wasn’t looking at the scene; she could guess what was happening from the feeling of little pieces of crystal touching her skin: her left hand took the sword from the right one, and the red runes wildly blazed with a powerful blood-red light. Her heart sang and she felt it beating wildly with a ferocious joy. The magical steel danced again in her hand, danced for her, no matter the left hand, no matter its uncommon weight…
Meanwhile, the Death Master Wizard fell to the ground, on his knees, still screaming, this time a scream of pain: he lifted his hands, grabbed his head, screaming, screaming. How could she? How could that woman ruin everything… she, a mere nordic barbarian, against the knowledge and power of an Oranbegan…
His eyes flared wildly with yellow energy, and the dark mists that still swirled around the altar flew over him, upon him, surrounding. Then, the dark flames plunged deep inside his heart, disappearing; no visible wound, but the Death Mage’s scream changed to a shriek of agony; the energy flaring from his eyes became orange, then red, then dark red, then black, and lastly, it disappeared.
The body of the Death Mage fell on the sacrificial chamber’s pavement with a hollow thud. This simple sound, a thud, like a sack of potatoes falling from someone’s grasp to the ground, in sheer contrast with the mystical, holy chanting of just five minutes before. A Death Mage no more, now only a simple human husk clothed with purple robes.
The thud broke the unnatural silence and Behemoth Overlords and Earth Thorn Casters threw themselves toward the heroine that was now standing on the altar with a defensive stance, her broadsword in her right hand again, left hand ready to hit the wizards with her knuckles if necessary.
A ferocious battle began. Earth Thorn Casters threw their spells at Falcon, noticing with disappointment that she was too much of an expert fighter to be immobilized or knocked down by their magic; the warrior hacked, slashed, always concentrating on the nearest enemy: her legs brought her up in the air with a graceful jump, her broadsword whirled around her, drawing a circle of death that never failed to spill so much blood; two Thorn Casters, already weakened by her hacking and slashing, fell down on their knees and died, still trying to stop the bleeding from the deep wound on their chests and arms. Every now and then, though, a Behemoth Overlord managed to surpass her defenses and land a blow; a wound on a bicep, a hit on a thigh ripping the brown leather trousers, a strike on her back, opening a long wound and ripping her black cape with yellow thunderbolts.
Falcon realized that the remaining Earth Thorn Casters were now waiting for the Behemoths to kill her. She was landing blow after blow successfully, but they were too many, their skin too hard for her to defeat one in just two or three blows, and both the blood loss and the energy draining caused by the manacles were starting to make her feel dizzy and tired. All of her focusing could not help her against six Overlords surrounding her. No, she had to think up something, she couldn’t risk running away and making her back an easy target for a sequence of ferocious blows. What to do?
An entirely new strategy. She was always very conservative with her energy, to land as many blows as she could, but now it was not the time for conserving stamina, now she had to survive!
She jumped high with a battle yell, a triple somersault backwards, and she started fighting as she had never fought before. She dodged all blows, deftly avoided their fetid claws, and her strikes kept coming without a pause: whirlwind blow, slice, disembowel, head splitter, another slice, another whirlwind blow; the black blood of the demons spilled everywhere, spattered on her brassiere, on her cheek, on her trousers, on her cape, she didn’t care. Her most powerful blows, the ones that could do more damage, and the ones that could hit more than one, or better all of them, at once, always landed on the target, never missing: the enchanted steel (bright red light continuously flaring out of the runes on the blade) sang and whistled, cutting the air as well as the demon’s arms, severing them at the elbow, removing clawed hands at the wrist. Falcon kept fighting, a vortex of destruction, a deadly dance. For each blow, a piece of monster fell down, big injuries were born, and before long the Behemoth Overlords’ bodies laid at her feet, all brutally dismembered, mutilated. Sure, her broad sword was not as elegant as a katana, but she was proud of her weapon, even if it was so rough despite its magic runes.
Falcon turned her head toward the Earth Thorn Casters, sparkling eyes full of furious bloodlust, her red aura powerfully glowing, its light, as red as the magical runes on the blade, filled up the whole room as a lighthouse: Revenge! Death! Something screamed inside her, raging; she had to kill the Casters too. The Earth Thorn Casters were huddled in a corner of the great chamber, quivering. They had stopped casting spells; now all they were doing was hoping that she would forget about them and just go away.
The light on her sword resumed its rhythmic flashing: no, she had to kill them! Straining her willpower, she turned her back to the Earth Thorn Casters with a last, satisfied grin, and ran out of the great chamber, blood dripping from her wounds, her speed greatly enhanced: this was not the time to avoid straining herself. The need for survival gave new speed to her heels and calves, and in a flash, she disappeared inside the north stone corridor, away from the terrified wizards’ eyes.
The Agony Mage had not joined the massacre: he had reached a safe location and had waited, respectfully putting the golden tray on a little stone table. It was so interesting, for him, to be able to study the pain and reactions to pain of the Behemoth Overlords, it was a rare thing that someone would be so nice to maim them for his looking pleasure. He was indebted with the Amazon, that was for sure. Then, when the blood bath had begun, he had simply enjoyed it, studying the weapon she used.
A fine broadsword, powerful enchantments over it. The skill and strength were all from Falcon Kitiara’s body and training, but something else had been casted on the blade in ancient times. The Agony Master didn’t know who, or when, had forged the blade, but he was absolutely sure of one thing: the sword had a will of its own, feelings and desires, and it had gone berserker a few seconds before. It had almost managed to convince its owner to slay all of the Earth Thorn Casters too. He smiled, appreciative of the show he had just savored.
“Just let her go, this night she has already done enough damage to Oranbega.”
He turned his back to the scared Earth Thorn Casters, and disappeared inside the south corridor.

[Almost complete! Only one chapter remaining.]

11:55 PM.

The manacles were removed from Falcon’s ankles with a tenuous click. Four pair of Behemoth hands instantly grabbed her knees and boots, preventing her from kicking and fighting. The warrior growled toward the Death Mage supervising the operation; her gloved hands had already been tied to the altar with sturdy leather straps. Her fists, held high above her head, opened and closed again, and she pulled with all of her might, feeling her strength steadily coming back to her body after that horrible artifact had been removed from her legs. Disgusted by the sickening smell that the demons emitted, she struggled against her bonds, fighting both against the leather straps and against the Behemoth Overlords that kept her legs still while the Thorn Casters secured another pair of leather bonds to each of her ankles and to the grey stone altar. The four Overlords quickly stepped back at the exact same time; each one did two steps of equal length, leaving Falcon alone on the granite plate. Falcon wrestled against her bonds, muscles of arms and thighs pulling and fighting again and again; she only stopped when she realized that she still wasn’t strong enough to break the leather.
Falcon laid still on the slab, closing her eyes. Let them think you are defeated, she thought; let them think they have won.
Her nose was constantly assailed by a whole set of strange, or hostile, scents. Smell of blood and sulphur from the Behemoths, smell of dried herbs and mineral powders from the Thorn Casters, an electric and dangerous smell came from the great green crystal hovering high above her, slowly rotating from left to right.
Her cape protected the skin of her back from the icy cold emanating from the granite slab; the familiar sensation of her sword’s handle inside the palm of her right hand; she felt a little pain from her wrists, where she had bruised them even with her heavy leather gloves on, so much had she pulled and jerked against the bonds. A little pain from her ankles too, this one different, as if blood was slowly coming back inside her legs and feet after something had drained it from them. But she was breathing better and better by the second, and with a handful of minutes she would have had enough strength to try and break free.
She started moving her left fist, ever so slowly, against the granite, scratching the leather against the rough stone; she had noticed that the attention of the behemoths and mages was focused on her right hand and her broad sword. She repressed a smile: she and her sword sure had conquered a well deserved reputation, all right; her blade had killed so many of those demons, gravely hurt so many of those spellcasters, it was no surprise they were keeping an eye over her sword and sword hand. The warrior kept her left hand movements very small and inconspicuous, with ten or twenty minutes she could have broken the strap, and with a free hand her possibilities at becoming completely free would’ve been much better.
A loud clang resonated in the air, and she turned her head left, eyes dilating, heart beat becoming faster; the Death Mage she had spoken to had come back, his hands hidden inside his long sleeves. Behind him, an Agony Mage came, bringing on a golden tray two long, pyramidal crystals, very long (about 20 inches) and slender, with a pentagonal section. One of them was pitch black; the other one was green and swirling with mystical energies.
No more time!

The Death Mage and Agony Mage stopped just near the altar. The first one, elder and more important, turned his head toward the lesser wizard, and talked with him in ancient Babylonian tongue.
<Aayesha> he slightly touched the green, swirling crystal <Queen-Sorceress, is ready and eagerly waiting for her new body. We shouldn’t make her wait, Agony master.>
<Of course not> replied the Agony Mage, he had a very thin face, and a mischievous, evil grin, already savouring the torments of the sacrifice. His eyes flared of some orange energies, and the end of his tongue touched his lips, with a satisfied sigh. <You can start the sacrifice even now, Death master. The Torment Shard I created myself with these hands, and believe me when I tell you that it is one of the best Torment Shards I have ever completed. You know the procedure: first the Torment Shard, then the Aayesha Shard.>
His hands offered the tray to the Death Mage. After just a moment of concentration, the Death Master took in his hands the pitch black Torment Shard and kept it as if it was a ceremonial dagger. His left index barely touched the tip of the pyramidal shard, and a wound instantly opened on his finger, a trickle of blood coming out, descending on his palm and wrist.
<Marvellous handiwork> he said with appreciation. With the golden tray still in his hands, the Agony mage bowed, a satisfied proud smile on his thin lips.
<We can begin.>
The Death Mage nodded and turned toward the bound Falcon Kitiara. He kept smiling and talked to her in Scandinavian.
<Now you are not as proud as you seemed when you killed my colleagues and stole our crystals, are you, swordmaiden?>
Without waiting for an answer, the Death Mage lifted his joined hands toward the rock ceiling, and the rotating luminous green crystal, clutching the Torment Shard. His voice rose in a powerful chant, ancient and revered.
“Surge aquilo et veni auster: perfla hortum meum, et fluant aromata illius. Regem nostrum venientem ex igne, illuminatum, et diademate coronatum, ipsum honorate in perpetuum…”

59 seconds.
Falcon’s heart started beating furiously, her stomach closing: her time was about to finish. Her eyes were fixed on the black crystal shard, high above her heart: there was no doubt about the intentions of the Death Mage. She was about to be sacrificed! No one was looking at her now, everybody were transfixed by the Death Mage’s chanting, all eyes on him or the black shard, everybody slightly waving, as if hypnotized by the rhythm of his words. Falcon’s left hand started moving frantically, trying to break the leather, or at least to weaken it. Her chest went up and down with her heart beat and fast breathing; her animal instinct cried out for danger, danger everywhere, danger around her, but even more, danger from above her, from the shard, from the slender but lethal tip of the shard.

45 seconds.
An high- pitched invocation from the Death Mage, and the great green crystal hovering above all of the audience sent forth a ray of white light that penetrated inside the Torment Shard; around the black pyramid a dark energy was born and rotated like a vortex. The Death Mage closed his eyes, enraptured by the magic coursing in his veins and answering the ancient call of the rite, surging like a volcanic eruption; his heart beat went faster and faster, a small error and the ritual would’ve been broken, all of the Behemoths in the room would’ve torn him down to pieces.
He had seen Falcon’s eyes full of fear, no, of unhidden terror; she didn’t want to die. Ah, those were the best preys and sacrifices; such powerful emotions coming out from the bodies and souls of the ones sacrificed unwillingly!

31 seconds.
Falcon called all of her willpower, and remained still on the slab, her eyes glued to the crystal as if she had been an injured deer waiting for the hunter to kill her at last. Her left hand rotated, pulled, worked, she could feel the soft sound of leather scratching against rough stone, and hoped that her plan could manage to save her life: her mouth was slightly opened, and fear and hope intertwined inside her mind. Escaping! Death! She had to escape! She was about to die! It was so hard not to surrender to the panic clenching her entrails…

15 seconds.
“Kyrie, fons bonitatis, inspirator sacrae artis, a quo bona cuncta tuis fidelibus procedunt, Eleison.
Kyrie, Hagie, lapis benedicte artis scientiae qui pro mundi salute inspirasti lumen scientiae, Eleison.
Kyrie, ignis divine, pectora nostra juva, ut pro tua laude pariter sacramenta artis expandere possimus, Eleison.”
The body of the Wizard was now surrounded by a dark aura itself, the ritual almost complete, and his hands waiting for the exact time for plunging the shard inside Falcon’s heart. One second too soon, one second too late, and the dark energies in the room would’ve claimed his life, enraged by the mistake.
His fingers clenched against the pentagonal, pyramidal crystal, almost making love with the smooth crystalline surface, his sweat melting on it.

10 seconds.
Falcon Kitiara stared at the pentagonal crystal, everything in her body completely still, the only exception her left hand. Trying to weaken the bond, it should work, it must work, it HAS to work, I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die!

1 second.
The chanting stopped, inside the great sacrificial room could now be heard a rumble, like a roar, coming from the dark energies evoked, clashing against themselves and asking for blood and life. The Death Mage held high the pyramidal shard with both hands, then, under the hungry eyes of the Agony Mage, he plunged the crystal toward her heart.
A cry of pain resonated inside the room.


[For those wondering what are the words spoken by the Death Mage, I used an ancient chant of Hermetic Alchemists in the middle ages: being the Circle of Thorns a congregation of wizards and mages, it seemed like something they could chant. Plus, the mix of latin and greek really does add to the mystical atmosphere, I think I would've used babylonian, but I don't know anything about how that sounds.]

[All right, 3rd part! This one required me a bit of research, and I still am not completely sure I've got all the scandinavian phrases right. This is the best I managed to do ]

11:00 PM.

A strike. Another one. Another one again. How many? A hundred? A thousand? Falcon didn't know and wasn't interested in knowing.
She lowered the sword, its tip resting against the crystalline pavement with a soft ting; her breasts went up and down with her tired breathing, and she shook a bit both arms, then ran her left hand over her right arm, clenching her teeth while she hissed, inspiring through gritted teeth; she felt her biceps and hands begging her to stop, aching. Of course, Falcon had fought many times in the past for much longer than a mere hour, but it seemed that fear was accelerating the rate at which her body started to feel exhausted. Or was it the manacles?
A quick glance to the manacles, still encircled by their glowing dark energy. Kitiara removed her left glove and touched their cloaked metallic surface, probing it with her fingertips: she could feel the scratches and scrapes where she had struck, over and over. Biting her lower lip with disgust toward her own weakness, she realized that it was all they were: scratches. No structural damage. And how could that have been different? Thanks to the cursed relic, she was unable to strike with more strength than a 6 years old.
She turned her head toward the crystal green door: the two mages weren't there anymore. She didn't know when was it that they went away, but it was OK with her. Her naked fingers caressed the smooth surface, reaching for its borders, checking for the smallest air draft: nothing.
Then, were the prisons airproof? With a light of fear in her eyes, she deeply inhaled the air of the crystal room; it didn't seem too heavy, so there had to be a way for the air to get in.
The trail of her thoughts was interrupted by something she had caught with the corner of her eye: Falcon turned her head again toward the door. A very large group of Earth Thorn Casters and Behemoth Overlords were getting inside the prison room; no, not a group, a squadron... no, a veritable army! Falcon counted six Behemoth Overlords, twelve Earth Thorn Casters and a Death Mage inside the room. She would've been hard pressed to kill them all even without the hated manacles around her ankles. It was obvious that they had come to get her, and her only regret was being unable to welcome them on her feet, head held high. She raised her chin in a gesture of defiance, and waited.
The Death Mage neared the door and touched it, tracing on its surface a mysterious symbol with two long fingernails; the emerald door glowed fiercely and simply disappeared. Kitiara said nothing, merely waited, looking at the Death mage with distaste.
<God kveld, Falcon Kitiara, enemy of Oranbega, we have come to bring you to death, or to a new life as you wish to put it. Kan du forstå meg? (Can you understand me?) > intoned the Wizard opening his arms laterally, as if officiating some kind of ritual. Kitiara opened her eyes wide: he had talked in her native language! Well, of course, the Mages had had so many lives, there had to be a Death Mage with knowledge of Scandinavian languages.
<Jeg forstår deg (I understand you), I am not an enemy of Oranbega, I am an enemy of everyone preying on the weak as you do.>
<Your opinions have no weight, as you will be dead in less than an hour. Of course we could spare your life...>
<You are not original. What would you want me to do to spare my life?> Falcon smiled, rolling her eyes.
<Tell us about the Ladies of the Lake restaurant.>
<What about Gal's place?> asked Falcon, arching one eyebrow.
<How is it that we can't get inside? We tried sending there some emissaries to scout the area, but we couldn't do that. We are of course very interested in killing or capturing a great bunch of heroes when they less expect it.> grumbled the Death Mage. Falcon's smile became larger.
<Beats me.>
The Death mage knew from Falcon's clear eyes that she did know nothing about the subject. She quickly added, with a jokingly caring tone of voice:
<But don't get me wrong, I wouldn't tell you anything even if I knew.>
<Well then, there's only eternal imprisonment inside a Torment crystal for you, and eternal slavery for your body.>
<Din mor suger pikk i helvete.> smiled Falcon, mocking him, and looking playfully at his face, reddened with rage. <I will come peacefully, but remove the chains. I want to walk.>
The Death mage thought about it for only a second.
<No. You are too dangerous: you can thank your own reputation for our caution. One of the Overlords will bring you, and we won't remove the manacles until you are tied to the altar of sacrifices.>
<No green energy flames hovering me in the air?> asked Falcon with a hint of worry in her voice.
<No. As I said you are too dangerous. I won't be at ease until you will be tied to the altar of sacrifices. We'll see whose mother sucks it in hell, norskan wench.>
Two overlords neared the chained heroine, grinning, uncovering many rows of yellow fangs which smelled of rancid blood. Falcon clutched her sword with all of her strength: whatever her fate, no one would've ever been able to separate her from her weapon. Not until the very end.

[OOP when you write $ you mean Inf? ]

10:00 PM.

The two robed figures were still in the same position they had been for the last 2 hours. Of course, they weren't really alive; they had simply ordered their bodies, like puppets, to stay there without moving for all the time their owners would have deemed necessary.
The Death mage was speaking with a soft tone of voice.
"We wanted to possess all councilmen, exploiting that fool Hicks and his silly attachment to his wife's memories. And Falcon was there. We wanted to get the bodies and souls of those college students. And Falcon was there. We wanted to beat up the banished pantheon to the secrets of the goddess Tielekku. And Falcon was there. We wanted to contact the alternate world's Oranbegans. And Falcon was there!" his voice rose to a shriek, and his apprentice echoed it with a servile nodding.
"It is true. But now, no more, my master! She is in our hands. May I ask what does the Conclave plan to do with her?"
The Death mage's voice came back to normal, his phantasmal eyes contemplating the woman inside the crystal cage, now awake.
"There are lots of possibilities. We could just sacrifice her to the Envoy of Shadows, to buy his services or at least entice him in serving us for a certain period."
The Earth thorn caster coughed slightly, embarrassed.
"A thousand times I ask for your forgiveness, my master, but the traditions say..."
"Yes, she is a virgin." said the Death mage, clearly annoyed by the question: the carnal pleasures held no interest for him for hundreds, no, thousands of years. The pleasures of the flesh, as all Death mages knew, were only a despicable distraction on the way to true power. "And before you ask me, o silly apprentice, NO I have not checked it myself. The Green Aruspices Stone told me so before I came here. It's more than enough for me."
"Then, a rare and precious gift to the Envoy will she be, my Master" said the eager apprentice; his eagerness was somehow an inheritance from the body he inhabited: the original personality came straight from Oranbega, and was much less vibrant in its passions, since ghosts are only shadows of their former lives until they find a place to possess. "Imagine, we could offer the Envoy a super-hero, a beautiful and strong woman, and a virgin. There can be no gift as precious as this one."
"That is the point, Solbias. It is TOO precious for the Envoy. Sure, it is powerful and until now it has helped us, but you shouldn't forget that we don't know its true name, so it could turn against us at the first occasion. No point in giving too beautiful a gift to a thing that could one day become your worst enemy. No, we will keep her."
"Then what, my master?"
"Then we will plunge a Thorn inside her heart. The Queen-Sorceress Aayesha said that she wants Falcon's body as her home, and she wants Falcon's soul to be put inside a Crystal of Torment for toying with when she will happen to be bored. And she holds a great importance in the Conclave's politics."
A longer pause. The Death mage, without moving his head or his eyes, grinned.
"I feel you are disappointed, apprentice. Why is it so?"
"My master! The Guides, Archers and Defenders are still very near to their... human instincts. They wished to have the body of the woman to do as they pleased, of course I... tried to warn them that such desires are only a waste of time... but..." the Earth thorn caster stuttered, trying to defend himself and managing to do the exact opposite.
"I detect two lies in your words. Your first lie is that the Defenders want the body of the warrior only because of their human instincts. The Behemoths and Behemoth Masters, too, wanted her, for the exact same reason. Lust is a universal instinct, not only a human one.
And your second lie is revealed to me by your stuttering. You too wanted her body for yourself. I guess it is not your fault, though. I should've explicitly asked for your Thorn to be plunged inside some old man's heart, not a strapping young male. This way, hormones are interfering with your studies. Shame on you."
The apprentice bowed his head with both shame and barely hidden annoyance. The Death Mage noticed, and noted, the annoyance, but simply ignored it. Feelings weren't of interest for him; Death was the final truth, and the only subject that appealed to him.
"So when will the ritual be performed, my master?"
"Midnight."

Falcon was partially knelt, partially sat inside the prison; she could see the two mages beyond her prison door, unmoving as only two statues, or two dead bodies, could be, faces sculpted in stone. She growled, looking at them with both anger and spite. Surely they wouldn't have stayed there with such confidence, if only she had her legs free, and the strength to properly use her sword...
That wasn't the right time for ifs. She had to find a way to free herself from those manacles; that was the first step to do. Managing to get out of the prison would've been useless, if her strength would've kept being sapped away by the cursed thing.
Falcon closed her eyes and bowed her head, concentrating, unkempt red hair hiding her face from the wizards: how much time had passed since she had been captured? She had confronted the infernal emissary at about 2:15 PM. Her time sense, and lots of little details like the smell of earth and stones, her hunger and thirst, told her that it was night, or late evening. About ten PM... Probably ten o'clock, she'd wager. She opened her eyes again, looking at her captors; what did they plan to do with her?
She had seen a university student with a crystal thorn in his heart, possessed by a spirit; his original soul disappeared, replaced by the soul of an evil mage. She shuddered: she didn't want such a thing to happen to her! Adrenaline pumped inside her veins, and she clutched the sword with both hands, inserting it between the manacles, trying to shatter the metallic bond between them using the blade as a wedge. To no avail. She hit that bond as hard as she could, but the bond did not break.
She lifted her sword in the air and tried again, her muscles tensing, the dark aura whirling around her boots draining the little energy she managed to draw from her body. Then, after a moment of pause to recover, she tried again. The sound of metal clashing against metal filled the small, enclosed space of her crystal prison, and little sparks were born from the clashes. She just had to try, again and again. The only alternative was surrendering. And she wasn't ready to do that yet.

[If you have found the time and curiosity to browse this topic, even if the title is perhaps a bit dull, then thank you. I hope you like this, the first part of my story.]

Nightfall.

The long, green robe of the earth thorn caster murmured slightly as he proceeded, with slow but sure steps, along the long, dark corridors of the deepest Oranbega; he only stopped upon entering a very great hall: he was on a stone ledge, finely decorated with ancient, lost runes that reminded him of the past glories of the Wizard civilization. Bridges of rope and wood started from the ledge, curved around great pillars of stone, and ended in front of impenetrable crystal doors, perfectly sealing beautiful crystal prisons; each and every crystal prison was sustained by, and embedded inside, one of the room's stone pillars. Inside each prison there was someone. Each and every prison had been created from a single, enormous piece of hardened magical crystal, as strong as the heaviest reinforced steel, as hard as the diamond. At the feet of the pillars there was clear, pure water; the Earth thorn caster knew the reason of that shallow lake: the prisons emanated a delicate light, glowing of magical energy. When Akarist, the traitor, was still a part of the Circle, he had explained that by doing so, not only the reflection of that energy, but the energy itself would've been reflected back against the crystals, thus effectively doubling the amount of magical power of the material, and doubling thus its hardness and resistance too.

Another set of steps, another murmuring robe, this one a deep, dark purple. The Death mage stopped near the Earth thorn caster; four eyes, glowing of mystical energies inhabiting bodies that had been stolen from their owners, looked in the same direction. The first one to speak was the Earth thorn caster.
"My humble greetings, master Arathius."
"Does my presence here seem strange to you, Solbias?"
"To tell you the truth, my master, it doesn't."
A pause, the only sounds were now the whisper of the water and the cracking of the fire in the braziers. Then the earth thorn caster added:
"I was sure that you would've come here to see our best prey."
"Ahh, yes, Falcon Kitiara. Even if the Envoy of Shadows cannot be trusted since we don't know its True Name, this time it did a great service to us." the old, wizened face of the Death mage opened up in a satisfied smile.
"I, myself, was not there when Falcon Kitiara and the Envoy of Shadows battled, but the Guides and Defenders have told me that she has been no match for him, my master." a chuckle "Imagine her face, when she discovered the ill fate that befalls everyone nearing the Envoy of Shadows. Too late to run away. What a sight it must've been! This time, that cursed sword she always carry everywhere hasn't helped her."
The face of the Death Mage was perfectly still, in contrast with the utter delight shown by his apprentice, but the old Wizard's luminous, exalted energy emitting eyes showed that his joy was as great as the Earth thorn caster's.
"Yes, her sword. Neither our Behemoth Overlords have been able to separate it from her unconscious body; they roared with pain and rage and I risked losing my control on them. We just had to bring it to the prison with her."
The master saw the terrified look on his apprentice's face.
"Don't be so frightened. Her sword can't help her, as chained as she is now. Normally she is quick and can avoid most blows... only, there's no way she can dodge blows with her ankles chained. We would knock her out again in no time."
The apprentice's body relaxed, his eyes sent out steady green flames.
"Her ankles, my master? What about her wrists?"
"No need."
"No need?! But with her hands free, and her sword inside the prison with her...!"
"No. Need." syllabified the ancient mage, with a tone blocking all ifs and buts.

Falcon opened her eyes. First thing she noticed: she wasn't at the hospital. Second thing she noticed: her head hurt like crazy. Third thing she noticed: she was feeling awfully weak, drained of all strength. She turned her head to the right: her right hand had kept clutching the handle of the sword for all the time she had been unconscious... but why hadn't they taken the weapon away from her? The red runes were glowing dimly, as if the sword was as tired as she was.
Using her hands as leverage, Kitiara pushed herself up from the icy cold, smooth crystal pavement, a slight squeaking sound came out when her leather gloves pushed against the crystal. She turned left then right, and her eyes dilated, full of both horror and anger; she was in a Circle of Thorns prison! But how...
Then the memories came. She, charging ahead the monster with her sword ready to drink blood, ignoring his dark aura and knowing grin. She, entering the dark aura of the monster and feeling her life force being drained by it with amazing strength: this, this was not something she could dodge as usual!
She had tried to fight just the same. But the more she stayed near the monster, the more she felt her life escaping her, feeding the horrible beast. She did manage to dodge almost all of his blows, but it was no use, he was too strong, his skin too hard to be easily pierced, and she was becoming weaker by the minute, no, by the second.
Then one of the blows of the beast landed, and she had lost consciousness. Well, not entirely: struggling to stay awake, she had seen some Earth thorn casters and Guides nearing her, looking with grateful respect toward the beast.
Rage fired inside Kitiara's heart: so, this was it! The wizards believed her to be defeated. Well, she would've shown them. That frail-looking door could not have been so hard; it was just crystal after all. Plus she still had her sword. They...
The warrior jumped to her feet... she tried to, but she tumbled ahead, parrying the fall with both hands. She turned her head toward her boots: a chain, or better, a pair of joined manacles (no length of chain separating them), surrounded by a dark swirling energy very similar to the Envoy's, blocked her ankles together.
So, is this the way they want to play? Kitiara snorted: well, it was all for nothing. She was, after all, able to fly; she didn't need her legs to run away from the Oranbegans lair. She concentrated... to no avail. She was simply too tired.
She grasped her sword again and tried to break the manacles with a blow: her sword barely scratched the steel darkened surface.
Whatever that aura could be, she now began to understand its meaning; keeping her weak, unable to fly, to strike any blows, to oppose whichever thing the Circle had in mind for her.
What could they want from her? What kind of revenge had they plotted?
For the first time since the moment of her imprisonment, Falcon Kitiara felt fear clutching her entrails.



[All right, since english is not my native tongue there are bound to be some errors, and this is after all a first attempt at writing fiction on this board. But well, here goes
The key game-facts around which this story is revolving are the following:
1) Falcon Kitiara was in the middle of the envoy of shadows storyarc.
2) The envoy of shadows defeated her, and she woke up inside one of the COT crystal prisons.
3) There were death mages, behemots, and various kinds of thorn casters.
4) During that mission Falcon leveled up, and she later gained Elude.
I don't like thinking that my character just smashed her way out of her prison monotously. Hack hack hack hack. And so on for, like, 20 minutes. Yawn. This way the story has become a little more dramatic, but also, I hope, a little more interesting to read.
Thanks to all of you that have read the story, comments are welcome: I will post the other chapters of the story soon.
A special thank to Sibling, that encouraged me to write even if I was afraid of doing some errors. ]

"Champagne is it then. I have never tasted it, but I have heard that it is a wine that sparkles naturally and is sweet and pleasant. Not as much as your company" the white and gold clad warrior's eyes surveyed Steve's face to see his reaction to her sentence "but still, one of the most renowned wines there are."
Falcon had noticed Steve's expression: the way he seemed to avoid looking at her eyes or face directly, as if she was of noble descent and deserved better; his back straight but his head only slightly bowed in a respectful but not humble gesture; he really seemed to treat her like a true lady, as if she was a princess straight out of a children tale.
A thought came to her mind for a couple of seconds: was he looking at her with such admiration because of her shining attire? Would he still have treated her as a princess if he had seen her in the woods some years before, long unkempt savage hair, dressed in leather trousers, grey fur boots and gloves and cape she made herself from a wolf skin, sweaty and bare chested? Not much lady like: she smiled at herself, amused. She could paint the two images (how she was back then, how she was right now) one near the other in her mind, and the contrast was rather funny.
She noticed his eyes examining first the table, then her hands, then her shoulderguards, and often going back to the little patch of bandage on her chest. The thought that he could've looked at her breasts in a lustful way didn't cross her mind: she knew that the bandage was easily noticeable, it was in a rather centered position after all.

"You are right, I have a story to tell."
She touched the bandage absent mindedly with her index. "I have no qualms about telling you how I got this wound: in fact I think it is an exciting story, but it can be that I see it that way just because I experienced it. It could be a little long though, are you sure you are up for it? I wouldn't want to bore you."

[Ok, Sibling, everyone, I'd like to solicit your opinion: should Falcon tell Steve the story of the wound here, re-telling it in the 1st person and as short windedly as she can, or should I post the full lenght story I've written about it on the RP forum for everyone to read it if they wish to do so? Well I could do both, too. Or maybe you see other possibilities other than these 3? I will eagerly wait for your suggestions about it ]

"I would be glad to."
Falcon smiled again, the curve of her lips and light in her eyes revealing her feelings with the usual clearness and transparence: she was genuinely happy that Steve had put his trust in her. She was happy that he had asked her for help, trusting her capabilities, all of them, not only her fighting skills.
"Helping people is what I've chosen to do with my life. I am willing to help people I don't know just because they need me, how could I not be willing to help you?"

She stressed slightly the last word, letting it hover between the two of them: you, not an unknown person, not a common citizen, you, someone special.
"There are heroes that draw their powers from magic studies or futuristic machines: they are full of knowledge in magic or technology, surely much wiser than me. But I will help you with whatever means I have. You only have to tell me how do you want me to proceed... or I can ask my contacts about those descendants and tell you about their findings. The choice is up to you."

The white and gold clad heroine took the wine list in her hands, lifting it enough to show it to Steve.
"The choice of wines is up to you, too. I fear I don't know much about wines. Or we can simply decide what to eat and ask Martin what he would suggest with it. What will it be?"
Her smile now revealed that she was equally at ease with both possibilities, both for the wines and for the descendants of the train wreck; it was no sacrifice for her to let him decide, since each choice was okay with her. Under the table, she crossed her legs.

"Maybe the money could help you find the families of the people that died in the accident: once you know who they are, maybe you will get some hint about how to help them" suggested Falcon, her voice warm and her smile becoming somehow smaller, a calm atmosphere settling between them. She crossed her fingers under her chin again, her gloved white fingers remembering, with their position, the spreaded wings of a dove.
"There are some people that are called P.I. in big cities like this one. Private investigators, I think. Detectives. They could help you tracing the families of those people, for a price. Failing that, I could ask some of my contacts if they have some way to help you. Those men and women are able to research the strangest occult things, or secret files on the internet... I am sure that they have the means and capabilities to give you a push in the right direction."

Part of her mind browsed quickly the list of contacts that she had helped in the previous months and days. Cadao Kestrel? Indigo and Crimson? Tina Mcintre? The old friends in the hollows? Who could be the best one for the job?
But the rest of her thoughts were focused on Steve.
"You are a good man. Maybe money alone can't make amend for what happened back then, but they can surely help you in a number of cases. If a man has debts, you can help him save his house and his property from the bankers. If a woman is ill, you can help pay for the cures. If a family is threatened, you have the power of fire at your command to help them.. and if fire alone won't be enough, I will be ready to help you with cold steel."
Falcon's left hand slipped behind her and patted slightly on the sword's scabbard, almost like she would've done with the shoulder of a friend.

"These are good news indeed" Falcon smiled, letting Steve take the wine list first: she knew something about beers, but about wine she was completely inexperienced.
"I am happy for you. It is good that you now have the means to live, and build another life, in our time. I do not doubt that you would've obtained enough money even by simply working as a hero - there are many rewards to compensate for the dangers of our profession - but it is a fine thing that you have something to start with."
Secretly, she had another reason to be happy for him; maybe, when it would've been the time for him to choose between death and life, he now would've had another reason to choose life instead of death - his new, current life, as a settled man with a place to stay and to call home, rather than a ghost of the past, cursed to live in a world that is not his.

She put both elbows on the table and crossed the fingers of both hands together, her fingertips barely touching her chin, as if sustaining it.
"Do you already know what will your first big expense be? An apartment, or a house, maybe?"

Falcon let Steve move her chair for her, slightly pushing the pavement with the golden tips of her boots to decrease her weight; her slightly puzzled look revealed that she wasn't used to this kind of chivalrous gestures, her smile showed that she was pleased at them.

"These days surely haven't been boring" she said, as Steve went back to his seat. She slightly bent forward, toward him, her arms crossed on the table, in a friendly, relaxed way: her left hand cradled her right elbow, her right hand was poised on her left forearm, snow white gloves on pale white skin. All around her, a soft, gentle white glowing shimmered, not so brightly as to be annoying, not so dimly as to go unnoticed.

"I have met some very interesting people two days ago; a group of women that go by the name of Sisters. They worship a mother goddess, and I think that Gal, Narshawn, and maybe other staff members too, are part of their group. Wonderful women, all of them, kind and friendly. I have been invited on their island, too - I think I will go there in a few weeks. There are some citizens I have to protect before I go, and some matters I'll have to solve. Otherwise I would feel guilty at going there, not exactly the best way to relax."

Her right hand lifted to brush with two fingertips the small bandage on her heart, very delicately, an absent gesture, almost without realizing she did.
"There have been other interesting events, some good, some bad, but I will tell you about them later. What about you?" her right hand lowered again and rested on the polished wood table.
"Have you had some interesting experiences these days?"

Falcon Kitiara smiled at Martin: she liked the stiff englishman, he was a welcome sight; his old style courtesy and perfect service suited her just fine. She wasn't used to be treated like a lady, but every time it happened it was like a
"It is a pleasure to see you again, Martin." she smiled, bowing her head slightly to greet him. "Flattery will get you anywhere, even if I am sure that this place is visited by women with much more splendid attires than mine."
She followed him toward the quiet corner of the main restaurant room, her boots' clean rubber soils slightly squeaking at each step she took on the shining pavement. As usual, Martin's footsteps, as careful to avoid disturbing customers as they always were, were barely making any noise at all.

When she saw Steve's perfectly classy outfit her eyes widened slightly with appreciation, and her smile became wider; Falcon held out a hand toward him, knowing (hoping?) that Steve would've kissed it as he had done three days before. When her arm stretched forward, a big lock of red hair slided away from the round opening just above her breasts, revealing a white, rectangular adhesive bandage on the right side of her chest; the small white bandage, about 5 inches long, was partially hidden by her tight white shirt, so there was no way to guess its real lenght.
The cut seemed neither to be impairing her movements, though, nor to be painful.
"Good evening, dear Steve. I hope your wait for me hasn't been too long."

Flying as fast as a hero's flight can go, the figure came to a sudden stop and a graceful landing just in front of the Ladies of the Lake door; she landed foot first, with a progressive slowdown, her golden combat boots touched the ground with their tipis, almost without weight. As soon as she had solid ground under her feet, she let her concentration go and the power of flight retreated from her body, leaving her standing, and facing the restaurant.

Falcon Kitiara smiled, a bit tense, ready for her date. She didn't know if Steve was already inside, waiting for her: she couldn't see him around, so she wagered he was inside. He didn't seem like the type of guy that let a lady wait for him at a first date.

A quick glance at her attire: a double face cape, red with black tribal marks on the outside, dark grey with black tribal marks on the inside. Apart from that, and from the blazing red of her hair, she was a vision of gold and white, with a tribal pattern to her clothes. Gold folded combat boots with a white tribal, white tights and a white skirt, both with a golden tribal motive. White, short gloves, golden pointed shoulderguards, a golden V belt, her favourite white shirt, with an opening on her chest, above her breasts, showing her tattoo, now dark golden and light golden. Her metallic, golden headpiece with reddish winged points completed the ensemble.

::I am ready:: she whispered to herself. She walked toward the door of the restaurant: it had been so much! Even if she had failed to visit the place just once, the previous night, she felt like days had passed. A clear indication of the fonding she had grown for the place.

A slight push on the doors, and Falcon Kitiara strode inside the restaurant, searching for Martin (and for Steve, too) with her emerald eyes...


[OOC here I am! It has been too long since last Kitiara came here. I, on the other hand, was here every single day to read everyone's posts. It's so beautiful to see the thread come back to life, and with so much strenght - you are posting with such speed, and I am joining the thread once again! A pleasure to see you all, new and old posters. *waves to everyone!* ]

[there can be no gal's place without Gal, Martin, Gypsy, Narshawn and the others.
We, your affectionate customers, will wait for you here, girl, don't stay away too long!]