RP:Face of a Friend

Part of the Township Troopers Arc

This is a Warrior's Guild RP.

Summary Lionel, Khitti, Rorin, Kreekitaka, and Brand set off on the maiden voyage of the Tranquility under Warrior's Guild command. Their mission: eliminate the threat called Scraith by any means necessary. Along the Fengoth River, in far-west Venturil, the man who was once Ameno perishes to his friends' blades.

The Tranquility

Lionel rests his arms against the Tranquility’s stern rail, nodding approval toward the various hired sailors when approval is necessary. There are questions for which he does not currently have answers, such as the shipment dates on the replacement oars and which cargo types the Guild will invest in to help with upkeep. Another question weighs heavily on his mind. A question which may -never- have an answer. “How did it come to this?” A dark and clean-shaven fellow pauses to stare, expecting clarification. Lionel merely shakes his head, allowing the fellow to return to his duties. How -did- it come to this? Ameno’s letter, delivered by a saurian of the Razurath tribe, has shed new light on the creature Scraith’s attack. For all that light, though, Lionel has been unable to deny the cold logic presented by his Guild companions. As Rorin leans beside him now, single eye fixed on the forward sail and seemingly lost in thought, Lionel takes a deep breath and approaches the plank. Once Khitti, Brand, and Kreekitaka have arrived, the Tranquility’s maiden voyage under the Warrior’s Guild’s command will commence. He’ll give them all a look of regret, pass Ameno’s letter between them, and then speaks. “The Royal Academy of Aramoth was attacked. Grace Valerii was the only survivor. We lost six, including Anton. She rests at the Broken Barrel, now, wounded. Something -else- awakened instead of Ameno.” Rorin clears his throat and adds, “There is virtually nothing left of our friend. For the sake of the Guild, for the sake of the fallen, for the sake of the realm, we must end him.” Lionel almost rolls his eyes at his own orders. “He’s outside Venturil, along the Fengoth. We leave now.”

Khitti :: This whole situation was entirely unexpected. Well, of course it was. Who the heck can predict when someone’s gonna go ape-s***e crazy and slaughter almost the entire guild? Probably those frakkin’ trees in the Shadow Plane, but we’re not going to talk about them right now because they make Khitti and Brand (and probably Lionel too) angry. Then again when are they not angry? Khitti’s still got that wintry aura (not the literal kind, she’s just very distant right now) going on with regards to Brand--especially since they’re on that ship that’s suddenly become the love of his life--and well Brand was Brand. It took everything for Khitti to not burn up that letter as it was passed around, but she merely shook her head with a sigh. “See, peach, this is why I’m not interested in guilds. Nothin’ ever seems to go right, “ Brand would side-eye her when the letter was skimmed over, but Khitti’d still keep rather quiet. And speaking of that Khat, she’s quite bundled up. While she’s wearing that typical armor of hers, the blue scales and whatnot, her duster’s buttoned all the way up -and- she’s even got the collar pulled up like she’s some sort of badass in a gang -and- she’s wearing gloves? Odd, to be sure. Probably something that should get addressed later, maybe. Definitely. “Let’s just get zhis over vith. If I’m not back in time to meet vith Meri, I’m not gonna be happy.”

Kreekitaka still had Kingmaker lurking out in the dock and, had he more time to rig up a system by which the colossal pliosaur could pull the ship along, would have been rather more help to the voyage. As it was, his primary assistance would likely be extra muscle for pummeling Ameno with. Well... that and one other thing. As he climbed onto the boat, he made a claim: "I wish TAH!oo be HHHTHe firsTAH! TAH!oo approach him. Ameno is a business parTAH!ner of mine, an' I'm going TAH!oo neeDAH! him TAH!oo sign someHHHTHing before we syay him." It didn't seem like killing him was going to bother the uyeer all that much, but he did apparently have desires regarding the proces of it.

Lionel purses his lips and regards Kreekitaka coolly. “The men and women Scraith slaughtered were under my command.” He twirls his left index finger, signaling for the sailors to set to oars. “And Ameno was one of them,” he adds slowly. “No. I will be the first to speak with him. If you can compel this murderer to allow our fallen friend control of his body long enough to sign some dotted line, be my guest, but be quick about it, because unless something changes, judgment will be swift.” As the Tranquility’s line is cut and she sets toward the breakwater, the Catalian dwells on the inevitable. Rynvale becomes a lantern-lit blur upon the horizon, then vanishes, and only the moon’s occasional peeks through clouds provide much illumination on a starless night. It is as dark as Lionel feels. Nor do the next two nights fare any better. A lone constellation -- the Axeman in Catalian mythos, but the Razor’s Edge in Old Lithrydelian -- seems to guide the ship’s path as the high cliffs of Cenril and the crags near Gualon are passed. Caravels and fishing boats are seen less and less frequently as the Tranquility makes for the western reaches of the realm, and then at last, it seems that there is nothing else within leagues, no one else but them, and somewhere near the Fengoth lurks a killer. By dusk of the third day, they arrive, and Lionel and Rorin lead their teammates to shore. The journey is quick and direct thanks to the Razurath’s pointed directions. Very soon, they will happen upon their foe.

Khitti kept her distance from Lionel, Brand, Kree, and Rorin, though not far enough away that they might think that perhaps Amarrah was up to something. She just likes her privacy okay?! Brand was, of course, delighted to be on an actual ship, though the circumstances were less than favorable right now. He was as much in his own head as Khitti was, usually drinking from either his flask or a whiskey bottle, whichever was full at the time, pondering on #JustBrandThings--which probably meant ships and booze and talking trees and for all Khitti knew, naked ladies too. Who knows. Rather like a loose canon, Khitti wasted no time in unsheathing those swords of hers as they reached the shore. She didn’t care about silly paperwork that needed to be signed--hell, if anyone was going to bring Ameno back, it’d be her so she could beat the hell out of him for bringing this down on all of them, buuuuuut that would end up making her a hypocrite (hint: cause of Amarrah) so she likely wouldn’t--and just wanted to get back to Rynvale as soon as possible. Oh, she’d let Lionel do his talking, of course, but if there were any tricks, she sure as hell wouldn’t hesitate to turn Scraith into sushi. Brand, well, he was just along for the ride...and maybe to alleviate some stress via a few fireballs. It’s not like he cared about this guild (yeah he does, just don’t tell him I said that).

Kreekitaka was a bit disappointed by this insistence from Lionel, but supposed there was nothing to do about it. He spent the entire voyage drafting up a contract--one that stated, very simply, that in the event of Ameno's demise, all of his possessions and land ownership would be transferred to the ownership of Kreekitaka, to be put to use as the crabman saw fit. Sort of like a last will, only it was more like someone else's last will for you. The way Kree saw it, the guy wasn't going to be using those things anymore, and he might as well have the full legal right to them so as to avoid having to jump through hoops later on. Occasionally he'd take a break from contract-drafting to dive overboard and grab something to eat, but he was always certain to catch back up with the ship. He tried to talk to Khitti about things and discovered that she avoided him the entire time. He made a note to corner her on the way back, there was information he wanted, dang it! Eventually, as they entered the river, the occasional sight of a huge flipper or blast of steam rising into the air would stop accompanying the boat--probably much to the relief of many a hired hand. As they arrived on shore, he made sure his pen was in its holster on his belt and that the contract was in a neat little envelope with the dotted line exposed for quick signing. The other thing he made sure he had with him was his jawblade. For, you know, the actual justice.

Venturil: Somewhere Along the Fengoth

Lionel | Lithrydel’s western reaches seem to have resisted spring’s arrival with tenacity. The skies are a constant slate grey, and the shores are choppy. A fine mist’s worth of rain drifts in at a sharp, constant angle, coating the away team in dampness so thick it threatens to reduce visibility. Jagged rocks are the only trail the Guild will find, slippery and all too steep between steps. It is cold. Unseasonably cold. The journey is miserable, but the way forward is clear. As darkness covers the Venturil region, the rushing river Fengoth can be overheard, and in the final stretch of travel, the being known as Scraith comes into view. The tongue wagging from the edge of its tail seems to be lapping up rainwater, and the thing’s claws are digging into a corpse so ruined it can only be called meat. Rorin winces, remembering the ornate chess set Ameno had left him in his will. “Commander,” he mumbles, but he cuts himself off with a firm shake of the head before Lionel can urge him to a whisper. “There it is,” Lionel says softly. “What’s left of our friend.”

Khitti wasn’t interested in anything the crab had to say. She didn’t know what he wanted and she was starting to wonder if she even did want to know. It was probably nothing good, to be sure. As they reached the corpse, and Scraith, Khitti was pretty furious by then. This thing took advantage of the fact that they were all the way on the other side of Lithrydel, of the fact that there were other things going on that were of grave importance. “Lionel.” She didn’t bother with his titles like Rorin did. “You need to get to talking now before my blades do all zhe speaking zhat’s needed.” Not long before they exited the boat, she’d taken her stone back from Brand, the object held between her palm and the hilt of one short sword. “Zhere isn’t time to mourn right now. No time for pity or mercy.” Some of the guild had been so keen on having her head on a platter, when she’d not even actually killed them--hell most of them were more injured by the bugs than anything Amarrah had thrown at them. This was worse than that...so why the frak were they hesitating?! Brand would give Khitti a bit of side-eye because of what she’d said, but he didn’t seem to have anything to add to it or protest against it.

Kreekitaka wasn't mourning, and had no desire to show pity or mercy. Ameno had always been rather unhinged, in his experience, and the sooner he could get this over with, the sooner he wouldn't have to deal with having a very unstable business partner. As the... that was Ameno? Great. Well, regardless, Kree dumped his load of potions into his tanks. This was not a particularly healthy maneuver. The water in the tanks started to glow and bubble. Steam started rising from them. It wouldn't be long before the mixture hit his bloodstream--and when that happened, not even Kree was entirely certain what was going to happen. He'd ordered super-concentrated potion mixture for this particular excursion, just to be on the safe side--well, sorta safe. It was possible that Kree might be about to do more damage to himself than anticipated, but... for now, there was just the anticipation. "JusTAH! as yong as I geTAH! my paperwork signeDAH!, KhiTAH!i," he said, rippling his paddles in preparation for the fight.

Ameno stood at the edge of the falls in his hands he held a dagger which he twirled in his hands, his form would shift and to those had they been watching he would have been in a shouting match with himself. “They are coming Scraith, to Kill me, which means you’ll die, and then finally all of your killing ends, and my parent’s goals die.” His form morphed and twisted becoming the monsterous scraith. “Fool, you never were in charge, I was,” Then his form morphed to a female razurath, “Stop it you two, let them come, let them kill us, just put us out of our misery before we become more misery for others.” And yet his form morphed again. This time to an Icy blue skinned Humanoid. “To think, had life been different, had this been me, Anton and the guild would still live,” Then his form morphed back to scraith, “You are all pathetic, to have been bonded to the five of you for 13 years is complete and utter, *unpronounceable word*” and then it comes back to ameno his form like a zombie, of a draconian what the spiders inflicted everything scar every torture upon his body. “I look forward to death, for in it surely my lives have been terrible, but surely an afterlife is owed where upon golden wings and scales I shall soar…” Scraith took back over and turned to the corpse that he had killed, His massive form, his magical resistance, his alien form bordering on the demonic and alien, this was a monster that needed to be put down, and it was big enough strong enough to take down dragons, even if Ameno’s message hadn’t gotten through surely, Ameno would fight scraith too, so that the last breath he would draw, would end the monster within. Scraith gritted his triple jaws of teeth, as its enemies approached, It let loose its roar which sounded as if it was being drawn back in as fast as it was coming out. It brought down its talons upon the ground shaking the earth, unhinging rocks from the cliffs, As it leaped toward its enemies Ameno, would intervene to morph into a form less so that each member could kill a separate form, before scraith would be on his own, and when Scraith would be dead, Ameno, would be left for the final judgement.

Lionel chews on a jumja stick. They’re coated in a thick, sugary substance, and substantially tough, and for centuries scholars have asked one simple question: how many chews does it take to get to the sweet cinnamon core of a jumja stick? If Lionel were not so preoccupied right now, he’d be counting. Lionel has had many goals in life, and many successes, and many setbacks, but one of his long-standing bucket-list goals has been to determine the answer to that age-old quandary. Unfortunately, he has not found occasion to count, because a string of voices, their sources unseen, have just jointly argued over such delicate matters as life, the universe, and everything, and it seems they’ve just about wrapped things up, so Lionel’s good to go, and he’s wrapping his hands around Hellfire’s hilt and pulling the fabled blade from its prismatic scabbard. And that’s for the best, really, because a behemoth of epic proportions is slamming toward him, now, and apparently it has numerous wingmen. Wingwomen? Wingpeople? What is the proper term for any of this? The lines have begun to blur in this world of identity politics, and Scraith is the ultimate example. Lionel is accepting, inclusive, and believes his friends come in many shapes and sizes. But he has no earthly clue what this creature is. It’s the final minutia that runs through the man’s mind as his sword billows forth an ethereal emerald flame and he bolts across the battlefield, closer to the river and wayward of the enemy, leaving fire in his wake. It melts the flesh of that enemy, and within a matter of seconds the Catalian has returned, carving a diagonal path through the air but then sweeping away and striking vertically. The first strike was a feint, and Lionel is up close and personal now, willing a volley of pure balefire which leaves him sweating profusely but launches multiple projectile magical missiles, if you will, at all angles. “Ameno!” His voice is thick with anger, yet laced with sorrow. “I didn’t want this for you, or for the fallen, or for anyone else!”

Khitti growled at Kree, pointing one silver-iron sword in his direction, “Look, Crab, ve don’t have time for your ridiculous business schemes. You’re little conquest to rule zhe vorld doesn’t have anything to do vith zhe guild and it’s got no purpose here. He murdered people, much like you’d bragged about in regards to your own people. I don’t give a damned frak vhat zhe hell you do under zhe ocean, but up here on land, ve’re civilized people live, ve take care of our own and ve make sure zhe people zhat kill our own end up deader zhan a damned doornail. I don’t have time for zhis. Zhere are more important zhings zhan you getting some damned form signed. -Literally- an entire island could be destroyed vhile ve’re all dilly-dallying over here.” As if to emphasize the fact that she was quite fed up with all of this, the triad of shadows, shadow-ice, and shadow-flames sprout forth from her blades and she was off, darting along behind Lionel, taking especial care to dodge his flames. Brand too, would join in, letting loose those fireballs he so loved, also taking great pains to -not- set that girlfriend-of-his-that-was-absolutely-not-his-girlfriend on fire. Much like with the Everspider, Khitti was angry and erratic; whatever swipes, hacks, and slashes she dished out with those magic engulfed blades for this monster were not strategically made. It didn’t matter, just as long as it died. Shadows would leak from the swords, leaving darkness where they might while shards of grey ice and flares of purple flames would try to strike true. She was done. Done with all of this madness.

Kreekitaka was barely listening to Khitti, because the moment she started talking he felt as if his blood had been lit on fire. Silver flames burned out of every joint in his carapace. His muscles condensed--and condensed again--and expanded, and expanded again. His carapace cracked, splintered, and reformed, resealing itself over the wounds his body was inflicting. Everything hurt--but at the same time, there was a tremendous rush of endorphins. Life! Energy! He was full to bursting with both, and the potions he'd filled his body with were changing his body to allow him to make use of all of it. He grew. Nine feet--ten--eleven! His carapace darkened to almost midnight-black and reinforced itself with multiple layers. His clothes were ripped away entirely, the contract lost in the flames which erupted from his body. As the group of Amenos approached, Kree didn't even bother with the lesser ones, turning his attention instead to the central monster in the middle--Scraith. Locking himself down, the crabman drew back a claw and then socked the beast right in the face, a tremendous uppercut with the stopping power of a small locomotive, intending to entirely halt the beast's charge with the one blow. His other claw came up afterward and clamped down on one of its limbs--and then, with a howl of effort, attempted to lift the monster off its feet and suplex it into the ground.

Rorin prayed. He prayed for the soul of their brother that he may be forgiven in the afterlife. That the transgressions of beasts who subjugated him would not mar the record of his life. It felt a comfort to Rorin. With his left hand on the hilt of his bastard sword he knew could send Ameno onto peace. All would come to fruition now as the scraggle of forms leapt upon them. Rorins sword would become awashed with otherworldly blue light as he charged forward to slay the enemy. That's what they faced now. An enemy. "Ameno!" Rorin echoed, hoping to bring strength to his remains, "fight now, destroy this beast from the inside, we must do all we can!" Do we have a chance, Rorin wondered, his sword light and fast with holy power, is there something left of him we can save? Rorin would cut through what came at him with ease. His sword was a reaping wind of iron and through it he fought to save the remnants of one mans soul.

Ameno felt his form his originial form like a vapour still on the the rock overlooking the waterfall, It was Ali who came under Khitti's wrath and he felt her death, which caused him to grow dizzy as a literal part of his soul died, yemaro the icy blue Humanoid he saw Lionel strike him down, and again pain so deep in him, as more of his soul died, and yet strangely his body felt a fire as if something in him were building. He watched Scraith tackle with the four, Khitti's magic couldn't make a dent that is until some of his bodies died, and while at first Scraith had not been stopped by Kreekitaka attacks he soon began to buckle, as the bodies that made him nearly invincible died, As the three would continue to destroy scraith eventually landing a blow to between his spines which would cause the monster to get sucked into himself as if vanishing into some realm that none should ever set foot into, he called to rorin, and when rorin was given the opportunity, Ameno felt his friends blade peirce his body, His eyes would appear strange his remaining soul freed of the monsters, and it quickly blinded with light tearing through the skin of what he remained, his words of last being, "I am soaring, with golden wings and scales... peace..." his breath would be short as his body fell limp on rorin's blade.

Lionel grits his teeth and blinks, swinging his head almost violently as perspiration rolls down to the ground, mixing with the blood and rain on the jagged stones beneath him. In that blink, the fire coating his sword is extinguished, and the flames left in his wake disappear with only a thin stream of steam to mark their passing. The night is suddenly that much darker, but for the holy light emanating from the lower half of Rorin’s sword; the rest of it is lodged deep inside Ameno’s corpse, burning the tragic draconian from within. As if on cue, the rain becomes hail, buffeting the rocks, urging the river into waves. Lionel stands defiantly against that hail, sheathing his sword and approaching the body. “Whatever he became, he was one of us before the end, and he deserves a burial.” Presuming Rorin has removed his weapon from Ameno’s chest, Lionel will begin to pull the body toward the Tranquility in silence.

Khitti :: When all was said and done, Khitti’d merely sigh at Lionel, her anger waning somewhat as she thought on things, her swords returning to their sheathes at her sides. What would become of her if they were forced to do the same to her as well? Would they give her a burial? Would they even mourn? Her emotions shift again, crimson brows furrowing at her ponderings. Brand trailed along beside her, and she’d sneak a glance in his direction, studying him. He was as Brand as ever, doing more drinking and thinking than talking, as per usual. For a moment, she thought to say something, anything. She’d not said much the entire time they’d been to Rynvale, but she thought better of it, handed the stone back to him, and continued on. What was the point? They’d probably fight again or worse, things would get awkward. “Lionel...vhen ve get back...Brand and I are to meet up vith Meri,” she’d whisper to the Hero of Hellfire, “I zhink you should be zhere, if you have zhe time--and if zhe vorld decides not to implode for zhe day.” She eyed Ameno’s broken form, a frown finding her lips, “But, of course, ve can deal vith zhis first.” She wasn’t going to say it, that word that she hated--funeral.

Kreekitaka had delivered hammer blow after hammer blow to Scraith, and was fairly certain that he had to be making a difference--if nothing else, he was keeping the monstrosity's attention on him and not his more fragile comrades. It was taxing even then, however--his carapace held, but it seemed like every time he made a move, his body hated him for it afterward. As the fight progressed--and they won!--he took a moment to relax, to try and heal--and felt another wave of pain wracking his body. The potions were no longer helping--he'd seriously gone and done it now, he'd taken far too much. A strange ringing sound filled his awareness and, barely listening to anything the others were saying, he staggered off to one side and collapsed to his knees, reaching up to his back and hurling the water tanks off to one side. Now that he was no longer taking in more of the stuff, he might have a chance. After a moment--or perhaps an eternity, what with this fire inside him distorting everything--his strength began to wane, his muscles slowly unclenching. His carapace shifted as the potion of healing tried to keep up with his shape-changing, keeping muscle bound to carapace however it could. Layers of reinforced carapace fell away like discarded dragonscales. When it was all said and done, the crab looked entirely spent, as though he'd just spent a year of his life over the course of the few minutes the battle had taken. Still not listening to anything, he trudged slowly back towards the boat and the water.

Rorin smiled at Ameno gently in his passing. "Go in peace, brother. Go and be welcomed into the arms of the gods," Rorin withdrew his blade and watched the blood wash away. Quietly sheathed, Rorin picked up half to carry the other with Lionel. "I will inform those he left behind in Venturil," he added quietly. For now Ameno could have a shroud in a room of their ship. A funeral. Soon.