RP:Darkness in Cenril - Leifong and Nemo waltz to the Dans Macabre
Background
Unbeknownst to the general population, Leifong had been forcibly selecting some of Cenril's inhabitants as experimental subjects for his necromantic research. His terror-inspiring methods had brought even the gang conflicts in southern Cenril to an almost-standstill.
One evening Nemo, Korax, and two of Korax' acquaintances, quietly start a reconnaissance mission to investigate the layout and possible defenses of Sawtooth's turf.
They have the misfortune to be targeted by Leifong while in Arril Street, and conflict erupts in the unnatural darkness spread by Leifong's twisted arts.
Setting
Leifong :: Quiet stretches out across the now mostly dead urban passageway of Arril street, though the occasional distant shouts of sailors coming and going from taverns still mar the air at irregular intervals. Yet the stillness is... unnatural. Not a single man, woman, or child is visible in any alley or peeking through windows. All the residents had heard of someone, met someone, or in some cases been the one to have a family member or friend go missing from the area, and in the span of several days rumours which had been disregarded or laughed at had transformed into a general terror hanging in the air. People were disappearing, they said, and stories were running rampant. The local residents were terrified, staying behind closed doors or moving from place to place in packs, and the stories had spread far enough that even travellers from congressional way were now avoiding the place. Some claimed that it was demons, some slavers, other had gone so far as to speculate that a group of evil magicians were teleporting around and sacrificing people for some dark ritual. All anyone knew for certain was that something evil had taken root in Cenril within the last few days, and that no one who saw whatever the thing was escaped to tell of it.
A Darkness Stalks the Streets of Cenril
Likewise quiet had been the feud between Sawtooth's gang and Craven's crew in the Arril street region. With associates, and in some cases friends and family, disappearing without signs of struggle, the sense of unease in the area had heightened to breaking point. The dour, ex-militia members of Craven's crew had gritted their teeth these past few days, bringing together their respective families to form a tight-knit community west of Arril street, the regular members keeping an eye out for trouble even as they lay low, scenting a storm of violence coming over the horizon. It was in such hazy and unpleasant weather that Nemo, Korax and two street rats of Korax' acquaintance, prepare to infiltrate the territory of their rivals - Nemo across the rooftops, his cloak rendering him as but another shadow among the many shadows; Korax and his men through the back-alleys, uneasy in the uncharacteristic emptiness of the streets. The streetrats finger their daggers nervously, eyes flicking around for the expected ambush, eyes wide and teeth clenched. Korax, displaying less signs of nerves than the two ruffians with him, hefts a light crossbow of what may be drow design, a dark cloak swirled around his shoulders, searching for signs of Sawtooth's men. Their breath mists in the air of the strangely cold night. A lone dog howls in the distance.
The streetbound group's nervousness is not unwarranted, for as they cautiously pick their way across enemy territory, eyes are watching them. This was no longer Craven's street, nor Sawtooth's, for the time being it was Leifong's territory, until he'd sufficiently pillaged it of inhabitants to his heart's content and gone off to look for more fertile lands. As the little band of men progress further through the Arril Street sprawl a thick haze begins to infiltrate from all directions, a strange cloud of swirling darkness the pours through the street and side alleys, growing more dense with each passing moment until seeing more than a foot or so in front of one's face becomes nigh impossible to all but 'Nemo' where he creeps from roof to roof. Inside that darkness, a predator stalks, quietly circling the threesome in delight. Leifong enjoyed this bit ever so much more when the prey was armed and strong. It made seeing the fear in their eyes, their spirits breaking, much more satisfying.
Nemo's skin crawls as he watches the shadows deepen, take on an unnatural presence. Fog was never this malign in Cenril. The only place he had witnessed darkness as malevolent as this was in Vailkrin, and in the dark fortress - neither were places he wanted to be reminded of. Below, Korax hisses in surprise and consternation as the night grew darker than he had ever known night to be "Light up a bloody torch, lads. Flick, grab your flint. Fingers, you hold the torch steady for Flick." Mumbling to themselves about 'not liking this' and 'It's right spooky, innit' the two quickly light up a torch, then light a second one from the first. Arming themselves with dagger and torch, the streetrats flank Korax, who continues holding his crossbow comfortably "I'm thinkin' we'd better find somewhere less open. This stinks of trouble, it does." As the three move to find a building entrance, Nemo slowly inches his way across the rooftop, his enchanted boots consuming the sound of his movement as his cloak continues making friends with the more natural shadows. The bone ring on his left hand tingles, and the black-masked assassin does not need to remove his glove to know that it pulsed darkly in tune with the energies of whatever fell creature was slinking in the darkness below. Ever-so-slowly, the assassin retrieves from his satchel a bottle, a square of cheesecloth, and a vial of clear liquid. As he watches the darkness creep through the streets, the vial is stowed in a secret pocket by his collar. Inwardly, Nemo curses whichever deity of misfortune took such pleasure in making his life difficult.
Leifong was close now, close enough to hear even the faintest whispers and mutterings from the small group as they groped through the darkness for some bit of safe haven. Their torches are next to useless, the dirty light they cast produces little orbs of light which quickly dissipate into the darkness barely a foot away from their sources, as though being swallowed up by the shadows. Soundlessly the priest creeps, closer, closer, picking out the one straggling group member as his first target. He needed to act fast though, for a door had been found, and already Korax was moving through it. In a sudden burst of quick, assertive action Leifong lunges through the shadows. His hand snaps out to wrap around the straggler's mouth, cold fingers clamping down to prevent his yelling as a shiny little homemade syringe appears in the Priest's opposite hand. The wicked little instrument is jammed hard for the man's jugular, the little stopper pressed in, and almost immediately the man who was physically much more powerful than Leifong himself should be losing all abilities of coherent thought. It was a quick swoop, and if all went well Leifong would be retreating back into the darkness with his prize before the others even noticed his arrival.
Fingers wasn't going to be seeing his girl tonight. Not a sound escapes the young ruffian's lips as hazel eyes bulge, the toxin working its vicious way through his system. As Leifong retreats with his prize, the dark priest's egress is heralded by the clink and clatter of dropped dagger and torch. Flick turns, torch whirling, a slight shriek escaping his nervous lips before he calls out "Fingers! Where are you?" Korax turned also with a sharp curse, hauling on Flick's collar to bring the unnerved streetrat into the building, slamming the door shut behind him "Damnations, whatever's out there is worse than the bloody lizards. At least we could see those scaly bastards coming before they shanked us one." Above, Nemo's sharp ears witness the clatter of dropped equipment, Flick's outcry, and the slam of the door. His mind swiftly calculates the scenario, plotted out on a mental construction the alleyway below. An ambush then, and the assailant attuned to the darkness in a fashion similar to Nemo's fondness for shadow. A matte black artefact of Preklek design appears in his hand, shunning the touch of light without so much as a glint, and the assassin braces himself. Were he the assailant, Nemo calculates, he would come from behind, incapacitate or kill his prey, then retreat backwards, to the side of those barrels, and then into the little side-lane... there. With a sequence of clicks, the preklek-designed bolt-launcher sends three bolts in quick, sharp succession to target the likeliest hiding places. The recoil of the device causes Nemo's feet to shift, dislodging a tile. With a silent curse, Nemo starts moving away from his position even as his ears seek out a response from the three bolts launched.
Out from the darkness a horrible shriek rises that echoes off the stone walls of buildings like one of those bolts had just pierced the hide of some hellish demon. It's not quite human, and it chills to the bone. Yet it clears away quickly and a silence heavy enough to suffocate an infant spreads through the area. The darkness ebbs and flows like a conscious entity, writhing it's way in great tendrils up out of the alleyway to pour over the rooftops nearby. Leifong was actually quite surprised, he hadn't been injured yet on this outing, and the thick bolt that he was now pulling out of his artificially preserved flesh had been well aimed, even amid the cloud of blackness that was continuing to spread. The body of 'fingers' was to be left spread out on the street for now as Leifong went to stalk more capable prey. Whoever had aimed that lucky shot would make a great subject for his new studies into creating living automatons. With a clatter Leifong tosses the bolt away, up the street a bit as he melts into the shadows which poured from that little box in his breast pocket. The next time he takes corporeal form is upon the rooftop that tile had fallen from, shadows already having engulfed it entirely, and in the likely event that 'Nemo' had already abandoned his post, Leifong would sniff heavily at the air like a dog tracking a scent, trying to follow it all the way back to this new point of interest.
Nemo confronts Leifong
Nemo had indeed moved, picking up bottle and cloth as he did, but he had not moved far. One bolt, and then two, had ricocheted off stone or thunked into wood, but the third did neither, confirming his shot was true. The unenchanted nature of these bolts gave the assassin no sense of assurance of victory, only that the one stalking the darkness thought as a killer should. And so Nemo waited, Preklek device secreted on his person again as he carefully removed the stopper from a bottle of black-fire wine, twisting the cheesecloth into a wick and pushing it into the bottle as it soaked up some of the potent liquid. The clatter of the bolt on cobbles below causes Nemo to wince - his foe was supernatural indeed. Then, suddenly, the tingling along his left hand grows stronger, the bone ring crafted from the body of his family's foe so many years ago exulting in the presence of a strong darkness. Nemo then uses the strategy prepared for those vampiric foes who sought him, and murmurs an arcane word as he performs a slight flourish and snap of fingers. Flash paper prepared for the purpose and produced between his fingers in the flourish ignite the cheesecloth wick on the bottle with a stage-magician's flair. The runes on his sleeves start to glow brightly as they seek to undo the enchantments pervading the area around the assassin. Closing his eyes behind the black mask, Nemo's awareness expands to form a mental map of the rooftop, much as when he had successfully fought the drow Kuzial of House Stavret within the Patron's globe of pure darkness. A small throwing knife drops into his right hand even as his left readies the bottle, wick slowly burning down. His ears take in the sounds, while his skin is receptive of changes in air pressure. And as the seconds pass, the runes flare like the sun reflected off a mirror, fighting against the mists of darkness.
Leifong quickly found the man through the use of his tinkered olfactories and then the far more obvious fire, followed by the sudden retaliatory magics trying to fight back his own. It would seem that this new friend knew a bit about the arcane, a bit. But what angered him most about this last part, was that it was working. With a grimace the Priest disintegrates once more into the mass of shadows cast from that wondrous little box which were now surging around the building that 'Nemo' had relocated to. Whatever magics were being employed had fought the shadows off of the roof, but were not powerful enough to dispel them further. Moments tick by as the priest collects his thoughts and formulates a plan of attack, stacking the variables and weighing his options. This was starting to become a good bit of entertainment for the corpse man who'd dealt with nothing but simpletons and weaklings for the better part of a week. Then it happens, a sound, like a hurricane opening up in the alleyways and raging at the world. All over Arril street and the surrounding area frightened residents make to evacuate quickly, not knowing or wanting to know what was now unfolding all around them. The sound is primal, guttural, and not quite like anything most men ever have the misfortune of hearing. Yet there is a certain sentience to it, like the roar of some enraged beast. In direct response the swirling shadows grow thicker, agitated and more wild as they course around Nemo's rooftop and spill over onto it ever so often before being fought back by the counterspell. Yet they were growing powerful again, Leifong now lending his own magic to the device he'd acquired from Jobbie, nurturing them, infusing them with Vakmatharas' grace, until both the sound and the dark currents reach an apex of excitement. In the next moment, the sound dies away, leaving a moment of silence before quite suddenly powerful, fist like appendages of darkness force their way through the barrier and onto the rooftop proper, hurtling toward Leifong's prey as they attain a state of solidity and attempt to batter with the force of giant rocks hurtled from a catapult. First one, then another, then two more, thick masses of dark magic powerful enough to make it through Nemo's enchantment and do great damage to both the gangster and the building itself before being dispelled.
Nemo doesn't let the assailant have more than a couple of seconds. He steps from cover, still on the same roof as the Necromancer, and chances a glimpse through one eye. It is enough to send a wave of shock and concern through the assassin, as he recognises the cowled figure before him. Nonetheless, he moves swiftly to initiate the second stage of his strategy, even as his eyes close to avoid the glare of his own runes. Nemo had not spent the time cooped up with Craven's crew idly. Even now, on a shelf in the safehouse, there is a lump of wood carved into bottle shape which bears a myriad of impact scars from the assassin's daggers, thrown blindfolded. It is thus with practiced ease that the bottle of black-fire wine is now thrown towards the spot registered as containing the presence of Leifong, dagger flying half a heartbeat later, spiked pommel shattering the bottle and spreading its contents. A portion of the potent liquid catches alight midair as it reacts with the burning cheesecloth, and a spray of wet and burning wine splashes around Leifong's position. Nemo can only hope some of it catches alight on the robes, but even if it doesn't, the scent of wine may thereafter allow him further clues to the Necromancer's position even with his eyes closed. The assassin starts to move in a slow, and fluidly evasive fashion. Years ago, after mastering the geometry of the old Vailkrin school of fence, his strange and devious Maestro had showed him a form of footwork which made a mockery of geometry, used to help throw off the aim of archers. As he weaves, taking momentary cover behind a chimney, the black-masked man speaks his first words "So, Leifong, I didn't think being married to me was -quite- that bad." Further words are interrupted as the Necromancer's sorceries build up to a crescendo which the defensive lightwards woven into the assassin's clothing cannot match. Nemo's first warning of impending danger is brought by the sudden silence and dimming of light from weakening runes. His eyes snap open and he rolls to the side, a crunch signifying the first bolt tearing a hole through the roof where he had just been. The second smashes through the chimney, and while a frantic dive moves him out of the way of the darkbolt itself, he is pelted with bricks and mortar, which smash into the side of his body and face, shattering the mask and causing blood to seep from several gashes. Leifong would recognise the face, even if he hadn't done so the voice, as that of Cornelius Von Penzance. A grimace lines the dandy assassin's scarred face as the third dark bolt clips him while he frantically hurls himself backwards, the force converting his controlled freefall through the broken ceiling into an uncontrolled landing on the floor below with a crunch as his left shoulder connects "...dammit. Jolie is going to laugh herself silly when she finds out how we processed the divorce papers." Gallows humour, perhaps, but while the dandy can still move, it will not be with any great agility, and his left arm lacks strength. The only upside to this is that the fourth darkbolt takes out the roof, rather than the assassin.
Leifong emits a shriek wholly unlike any sound that the human vocal chords are meant to produce as that bottle of alcohol ruptures and spews fire over, on, and into the space which he encompasses. For while his body is not exactly corporeal, it is still existent, and while a dagger or some other such blunt instrument of destruction might phase the half-real priest little, the molecular agitation of extreme heat still had an effect on him. The wine itself, flaming or otherwise, passes straight through him and it is that which causes Leifong the most pain, and grants him insight into what it truly means to burn. Yet while his pain is extreme, it is simply that, pain, and nothing more. The fire moves through the space he occupies and away, unable to cause any permanent damage, only to torture. Yet even once the fire is gone, splashing across the cobbles and onto the walls of neighbouring buildings, it leaves something behind. That pain, like a spark, igniting the priest's rage. Up until now he'd thought of this as just another hunt, some other peasant who would be quickly captured and subdued. But now, as he recovered himself and went into pursuit, the memory of where he'd heard that voice was playing in his mind, and thoughts were racing at a mile a minute. He wasn't allowed to kill Cornelius... no matter what insult the dandy had offered him. But... perhaps this didn't need to be Cornelius... it could be anyone, any number of urchins or scum that crawled the streets of Cenril. No one would have to know, and no one would be able to find out... so long as he could sufficiently pervert the corpse. Perhaps removal of the face would be sufficient. In a great wave, the swirling shadows hurtle like a missile over the building and then down through that gaping hole in it's roof, coalescing into a convoluted orb of darkness which slowly takes humanoid form. And in no more than a moment, the man known as Leifong would be standing on the floor now littered with splinters of wood and fallen beams, shingles and the former contents of the room which were now upended and destroyed. "Why have you come here? Must you stick your nose into everything? Hmm?" The priest would say in his icy tone as his feet reach the floor and have weight put back on them. "Oh well... It doesn't matter much now. I should probably just kill you. No one would have to know... nor would they care."
Nemo/Cornelius felt vindicated by that shriek, even as he was being buffeted by darkness made cruelly corporeal. That freefall to the floorboards below felt like a descent through his past - a quirk of three hundred years encased in stone had given his mind a rare agility, and a predisposition to inappropriately-timed introspection. A life spent on the dark streets of Vailkrin, one bloodied blade among many, had sculpted Cornelius into something as hard as the statue he had become. Indeed, the darkness of his memories suited the night and his freefall through Shadow-duels with vampires over black market transactions, murders and assassinations, the loss of his family to the twisted creature Anastasia had become. Every scar on body and soul had been earned in blood, and pain meant little to the last surviving son of Penzance. As the air pressure shifts, despite the agony from his left shoulder, the unmasked Cornelius is swiftly to his feet, his hand brushing at his collar. That movement, possibly a nervous tic, predates the words creeping in glacial fashion from Leifong's dark presence. As he is addressed by his erstwhile 'wife', incurred through Jolie's eccentric necromantic ritual, Cornelius laughs. It is, surprisingly, a merry and unforced effort, springing from true amusement. "Why have I come here? What a deucedly unexpected question. Well, far be it from me to leave your curiosity unsated, old bean... I came here, you daft bundle of shadows, to jolly well get away from you. I thought it was bloody obvious, really. The shadow trap made the necessity quite apparent, you will agree." Another laugh, an amused snort "And here I was, riled and ready to ask you the same dashed question. You're right, though. You really should kill me while you have the opportunity. That shriek a moment ago tells me you have good cause, wot." Cornelius' gaze at Leifong is level, the dandy assassin's posture relaxed in the face of what he knows could be his last moments alive. Inappropriate to the last, there is amusement in those eyes, a slightly pained smile playing over the dandy's lips, a casual lightness to his words. Still, ready for oblivion as he is, no man of Penzance goes down, save fighting, and Cornelius has a couple of tricks left to him if need demands it.
Leifong takes step after slow, silent step toward his now risen enemy. Grey eyes hidden in darkness locked firmly on the dandy's own. "It's decided then. I'll kill you and carefully cut your face away from your skull with a sharp knife. It's a bit tricky you know, getting the face to peel off without it tearing or stretching, but I've had some practice." the priest comes to a halt just outside of arm's reach as he finishes that last sentence. He was a proud creature, confident, arrogant perhaps, but he was not foolish, and he knew quite well that in any sort of fair physical altercation, Cornelius was easily his superior. "It's quite an interesting process you know. See, flesh begins to decay rather quickly post mortem, but I think that I'd like to keep yours looking clean and fresh so I can wear it around at parties, or when I'm feeling blue." Leifong was enjoying this bit, as he always did. His last moments alone with someone before ending their life. "Now, I could simply enchant it to never decay, but where's the fun in that? And besides, there would be little clumps of blood and flesh left on the skin. Not very sanitary at all. No, that wouldn't do." The priest begins circling carefully as he talks, never letting his eyes stray from his prey, always alert for any sign of treachery or an attempt at escape. But truly... he liked it when his prey tried to out run him. The hunt was always so exhilarating. "So first I'll have to dry it out. I find the sun works quite well, so long as it's dry heat. Then I'll take your face and soak it in water, hard to say for how long. Some can take as little as two hours, others can take much more... but you're relatively fair skinned... I'd say no more than three. Then after your flesh has taken on a bit of water weight and softened up again, I'll remove it from the bath and lay it flat on my work table. Getting the extra little bits of flesh off is important, you know." All of this is spoken of quite casually, but the level of detail given, aside from just being who he is, suggests that Leifong has done this more than once. "So I'll have to pull it back and forth over the edge of my table for a while, and eventually all the little fleshy bits underneath will rub off, or at least most of them. After a while I'll have to switch to the serrated edge of my knife, to get the last. But it's important not to stretch the skin as you're doing this, or you might end up with a wad of garbage at the end. It's a lot of work, over all, but I find it's worth it." As he continues speaking, Leifong reaches into his robes and pulls out a little leathery looking mask which he holds out for inspection. It's only in context with the conversation at hand, and after a moment of study, that you might realize it's actually some other poor soul's face. "Then it's got to soak again for a while in a solution of boric acid salts and water, to keep it soft you see. No use in letting the thing get all hard and crusty." the priest lightly strokes his mask with his dead fingertips in a disturbingly sensual manner. "And then the face must be scudded, to break up any fatty tissue which might be inside it. Basically scraped again, but a bit more delicately, and then it's on to the tanning. Some people have started using chemicals for this, but I much prefer brain tanning. No waste, you see. I'll take out your brain and liquefy it, smash it up into some water, and then let your face soak in it over night. After that it must be nailed down and gently stretched into form until it's dry. You see, by this time it will have contracted a good bit. And now it's got to be brought back to proper size. Finally, after all this work, it's just got to be smoked and then tacked onto a frame. I used a bit of wire for this one." Leifong flips it over to show the cross hatching of a little wire frame, and then puts it on. Despite what one may think, it is -definitely- possible for Leifong to look more terrifying than usual, which is proved now as he puts on that face mask. His own dead eyes staring devilishly out through the holes where it's previous owner's eyes would have been, and one might wonder just who this poor man was in life. "But I think for yours... I might come up with something special. As for your body... well... my subjects have been getting rather hungry. No sense in wasting good meat. Think of how happy you'll make them, those pathetic, starving little creatures."
Nemo/Cornelius listens in apparent fascination - indeed, makes mental note of the usage of boric acid salts - and as the necromancer circles and waffles on like some dull professor, the assassin shifts his stance to follow. Each subtle movement shifts the distance and geometric positioning between the two in tiny increments, until the range has changed just enough that an unskilled fighter would not realise their danger, but would be apparent to those who spend their lives dancing the old Vailkrin circle of death. As Leifong continues his smug rambling, Cornelius listens and waits for the moment when Leifong's legs would cross by each other as he circles - for it is in that moment that any attempt to evade would result in tangled feet, and the potential for a little trip to embarrassment-land. With the speed which foiled Kuzial, the precision which defeated Noose and Sein, and the experience gained in a lifetime surviving the worst of Vailkrin's criminal elements, Cornelius moves decisively - but not away, as the arrogant necromancer may have assumed. Indeed, in that one split second where the position of Leifong's feet leave him the most vulnerable, Cornelius' own feet slither with the deceptive speed of a Gualon swamp viper, and Cornelius is in Leifong's face, his sorely-painful left arm lightly rested around Leifong's waist in Waltz-style - catching the priest if he does start to get tripped up - his right hand holding a spring-lidded vial of clear water delicately tilted above the face of his unappealing 'third wife' in such a fashion that the slightest interference will cause it to fall on the necrotic priest's face. For one whose very essence is of darkness and shadow, the blessed liquid contained within that vial may scream its holy nature through the room's aether even as the runes on Cornelius' sleeves flare back up in the bolstering presence of the unveiled vial of divine-aspected water, temporarily driving most of the shadows from the room. "Dear wife, has anyone ever told you that you talk too much? No? Perhaps it is time you take a couple of lessons to heart in this honeymoon moment of intimacy." Cornelius' face is blank, absent of any sign of emotion "Firstly: your petty necromantic aspirations are of no interest to me, save where they interfere with my own projects. Secondly: your lecturing style leaves a lot to be desired. You drone on terribly." The runes, still glaring, cause the water in that vial to shine in response, casting scintillating reflections of holy light around the room "And finally, while death has its appeal after three hundred years, no-one kills a Penzance without suffering in the process: Nemo Me Impune Lacessit." Cornelius is now sunk deeply into the cold mental space of his training, the discomfort of his wounds postponed to experience later, if there is a 'later' to be experienced. There is a darkness in the man's eyes, a granite glint of coldness showing nothing but icy focus "Do continue, Leifong. Bore me with details of my impending demise. But be careful. Any movement you make will result in a nice cleansing bath. You could use one, the way you smell." The assassin locks his eyes on Leifong's own. The normal pale blue of them have hardened into an icy grey, as if constructed of tombstone marble. "You are powerful enough to kill me, yes, Leifong. The shadows are indeed your puppets; darkness your weapon. But you lack the cool-headed sense of perspective which would make you a true asset to Jolly-girl. Even those with brute power can learn the art of finesse. Keep that in mind, Leifong, and you shall become a true power in this world, and not merely a petty sorcerer prone to murderous tantrums." Cornelius stands motionless, a still-frame waltz-partner to Leifong, vial of holy water tipped threateningly, the runes on his sleeves blazing brightly. And a darkness in his eyes to match the Necromancer's own.
Leifong was impressed. No really, he was. Less of the man's skill than the forethought which had obviously gone into this, but still. There they stand, the two of them, locked together in some preternatural embrace. Both ready to kill the other in a heartbeat. "Finesse, you say?" the priest muses, a bit of humour in his voice as his right hand flexes slightly to make Cornelius aware of the wicked little dagger which had somehow found it's way into Leifong's grasp, along with the fact that it's tip was resting gently against his thigh, near the split of his legs, where it could easily be forced in to sever the Femoral artery. Leifong was no fighter, he had not the brute strength, but he knew his way around a blade, and he knew a great deal about human anatomy. With slight effort on his part, the dandy would find himself bleeding out within minutes. "My dear husband, I think you underestimate me." Leifong must really be enjoying himself to acknowledge Cornelius as such. "For you know nothing of my true power. Nothing at all. Do you really think shadows and trickery are all I have at my disposal? Oh, the things I could show you." But despite his claims, for the moment at least it would seem that the pair have reached a standstill. Leifong made light of the holy water, barely even looked at it, but it was a concern. And now that Cornelius was in his grasp, new possibilities of pain and horror had opened up. Were this under normal circumstances, the priest wouldn't hesitate for a moment to unleash his rage. But it was rare that someone got the better of him, and were he to show up sporting a melted face right as Cornelius was declared missing... people might figure it out. From behind the face of another man, Leifong's dead eyes remain locked with those of his enemy, and a wry grin spreads across his thin, blackened lips. "What do you propose we do now, hmm? Destroy each other?"
Nemo/Cornelius chuckles, appreciating the humour of the moment. Really, dying was dying in the dandy's books, whether by bleeding out or being torn to bits by shadows. "In all honesty, old bean, I'm rather afraid that if I -do- destroy you, Jolly-girl will re-animate my body just to yell at me for a couple of centuries. She's grown rather fond of you and your sadistic ways, I believe. She's always been a bit warped like that, and she'd be most put out with me if I did end you with my final breaths. She does much prefer dead people to the living. But therein lies a dilemma: I'm not going to simply lie down and die just to avoid her posthumous scolding." He ponders a moment, statuesque "I suppose we could simply disengage, and go about our separate businesses. It's a boring option, but really, the only reason I engaged with you tonight at all was because you attacked my men. I'd much rather not see you at all, truth be told. You are hell on the old nerves, you know, and not exactly good for the health either." The scarred assassin withstands the impulse to shrug, smiles instead "Go bodysnatching in Rynvale, or Gualon, perhaps. There's plenty of places which don't have me residing in them. Or, you know, mutual annihilation is always an acceptable compromise in my books." There is a manic edge to Cornelius' Cheshire grin at that moment, a hint of the cracked psyche which compelled the dandy to seek out confrontations with death on a regular basis. "I'll leave it in your hands, Leifong old bean. My reflexes will have the water pouring over your skull the moment your shoulder twitches to cut open my arteries. Or you can withdraw the dagger, carefully disengage, and leave. I've other business to attend to myself, which has been regrettably interrupted by this heart-warming reunion."
Leifong was thinking extensively about just what he should do in this situation. Despite what Cornelius believed, that little bit of holy water was nowhere near enough to ensure his destruction, so the 'mutual' bit was slightly ill conceived. Still, he didn't like the idea of just letting the dandy saunter away... especially now that it was he who'd suggested it. "I've been forbidden from killing you, actually. Rest assured, it would be both of us to receive hell at that woman's hands." and here, Leifong almost cracked a genuine grin before managing to suppress it. "Logic would dictate that it's best for us to just part ways... I suppose." but that knife goes nowhere, and presumably neither does the vial. "Though it would be rather unsatisfying." Time seems to stretch unnaturally as the world goes on existing around them, taking on a snails pace as the various likely outcomes are mapped in the priest's mind. It's possible he could avoid the worst of the holy water, given that he was wearing a mask. But it might just funnel the liquid into his eyes. He also had a free hand though, he might be able to knock the vial away before all the liquid spilled on him. Those runes though... oh how he hated them at this moment. For without them... this would be a much different altercation. Finally, after what seems like an eternity of deliberation, Leifong makes his decision. "May Vakmatharas smile on you." he says lightly, and in the same moment, he makes to tear brutally into the thigh of his 'husband' with that magically sharpened blade. It would take almost no force to penetrate Cornelius' flesh deeply enough to sever the femoral artery, and at this range, dodging it would be nigh impossible. Once that was done, Cornelius would have very little time. A healer would practically need to be on-site in order to save him. As he makes to stab, the priest throws his free hand up in hopes of knocking that vial away. And perhaps the dandy would be surprised enough by Leifong's apparent death wish to fall victim. But the odds were that any second now the priest would find himself in a world of pain. But why? Why risk his own life just to see the end of Cornelius'? Backing away was something that Leifong just couldn't do this time around. Not when he'd come so close.
Nemo/Cornelius was expecting the necromancer's choice - had determined no other outcome possible, and had prepared his response carefully. For an assassin, between life and death there is but a thin line, and that line was one Cornelius had learned to walk with careful precision. Of the network of scars marring his body, most of them had been inflicted in this kind of scenario, and for a reason: the dandy assassin approached the game of death as a chess player would, sacrificing a knight to save a queen. He had calculated the most effective strike upon him, agile mind constructing the scene as he spoke, and the moment Leifong's muscles gave the tell-tale twitch Cornelius acts. He twists his hips even as his vial-bearing hand evades Leifong's own in a sinuous movement, thumb hooking into the top of the necromancer's mask. As a good half of the blessed liquid is splashed into mask, aimed to wash down towards the eyes, Cornelius can feel that little blade tearing through his flesh. His one chance for survival, after all of his earlier calculations, came down to a single, highly unpleasant option: to guide that blade's cut into the bandolier of steel bolts tied around his thigh, and so avoid the immediate death offered by a severed femoral artery. An unpleasant option, for to do so requires him to force his own pale flesh past Leifong's blade in a precise and brutal fashion. In truth, it was only a combination of Cornelius' training, experience, and a measure of insane genius with regards to biomechanical manipulation of his own body that allowed him to conceive of such a mad plan. But Cornelius had danced with pain many a time, and while a scream of agony is forced through his lips at the commencement, Cornelius still releases the vial to let the rest of its contents splash Leifong's head as a follow-up to the dousing of the necromancer's face. His runes blaze and blood sprays as his acrobatic twist shears the knife's blade further through his flesh, grating along bone, and meeting the bolts. Separating from the deadly embrace, bleeding profusely and in exquisite agony, a rictus grin forces itself to the dandy's face. The pain was, as always, a potent affirmation that this was no stone-dream, no manipulation of the dark fortress, but an act by Cornelius determining his own destiny. The dandy assassin now relies on adrenaline, stage-magician's tricks, a hope that the holy water shall impair the necromancer's senses long enough to allow escape from the immediate premises, and a prayer that after all of that he can reach a healer before death claims him. The fermin concoctions in his satchel, obtained through Noose's connections, would keep him going beyond his body's limit for a time, but without appropriate treatment, Cornelius knows his movement could be permanently impaired. The moment he breaks the embrace, his hand pulls out a bisected glass globe - a trick adapted from the Jersher Sein's tactics - and smashes it to the floor as he steps back and drops through another damaged section of floor where Leifong's powerful magics have provided an exit. A terrible stench fills the room Leifong is in as the chemicals mix with each other and the air. Meanwhile, stifling another agonised scream as his abused leg protests, Cornelius is gifted a stroke of fortune, then, perhaps his first of the evening - the normal resident of this place, a card-shark and fence for stolen jewellery currently absent for fear of becoming another 'vanished person', is a collector of whisky. It is a matter of moments for Cornelius to smash them, a flourish producing more flash paper to set the pooling whisky and the wooden floor and furniture alight. His second bottle of black-fire wine joins them, causing the minor conflagration to flare and set in rapidly. Limping, his trail of blood temporarily broken by flames, Cornelius still manages a swift pace downstairs into the building basement as the fires build up on the floor above him. Stumbling past the card tables to the 'client's entrance' Cornelius is met by a white-faced Korax who looks at the bloody and battered assassin and swears "Shit, boss, you need a healer. Let's get the hell out of this deathtrap before you cark it on us"