Barron walked out into the street and began searching around for a carriage when he felt the hairs on his arms stand on end. Something was wrong. It didn’t take him long to notice what it was either…in fact, it actually beckoned to him from the other side of the street. “Come peacefully, Cultist, or we will kill you where you stand.”
Barron locked eyes with the Enclave Witch Dana, and his blood ran cold. She returned his gaze coolly, and gestured to the half dozen or so armed men at her side, as if to provide irrefutable proof of the promise behind her threat. At first Barron found himself wishing that his companions were down here on the streets with him, but after sizing up Dana’s retinue, he instead found himself glad that they were not. He might be able to escape from this trap on his own, but if his friends ended up in the fight he knew that he would be unable to leave them behind. Stupid, blind loyalty.
Barron watched the passing carriages out of the corner of his eyes as he began to cross the street towards Dana and her men. He spread his arms wide, palms forward, in a nonthreatening display. “Look ‘ere. There’s no need for violence. I’m sure we can settle this little misunderstanding without any problem.” There. That carriage will do nicely.
Two of Dana’s men moved forward to intercept him, and then he made is move. He snapped his wrists and felt the blades slip down into his open hands. He turned and pivoted towards the approaching carriage, hurling both of the razor sharp spikes into the chest of the nearest guard. The man cried out in pain and surprise, but he still moved in to give chase after Barron. Of course she would have gotten some tougher help this go around. Sodding witches.
Barron grabbed on to the luggage bar of the carriage and hoisted himself aboard and scrambled to the opposite side of the wagon looking for cover. One of the guards circled around the wagon and shot a blast of searing fire out of his hands at him. Barron nearly lost his grasp on the wagon from the pain as the flames blistered his hand and caught the arm of his jacket on aflame. Were these witches, too? I thought the Enclave didn’t allow for male Weavers?
Barron was pleased when he heard the coachman order his horses to action with a fearful shout and a painful crack of the whip, and for the moment he thought he might actually get free of the melee; but a powerful tug at his chest wrenched him painfully free of his perch and sent him sprawling painfully down onto the stone cobbles. He watched in annoyance as the carriage bounded off without him taking it with any hope of salvation, and he rose slowly to his feet and dusted off his coat with feigned nonchalance.
Dana stood there a few feet from him as a long tangle of razor sharp vine slowly uncoiled itself from around Barron’s waist and glided back to her hand; a self-congratulatory smirk on her – admittedly, very pretty – face. She motioned for the guards at her side to apprehend him, but instead of submitting, Barron instead flashed her a blood-stained grin. “This is for Karl!” He shouted, as two more razor sharp blades flew from his hands and struck Dana soundly, one in the shoulder and one in the chest. Barron watched with satisfaction as her smirk mutated into a gasp of pain and surprise as the steel spikes buried themselves deeply into her flesh. Now we know these Witches can bleed!
The guards were on then him in a moment, lashing out with their obsidian axes as he tried to fend off their hungry bite. As he fell back under their onslaught, he knew that he could not hope to beat them all, but took solace that at least he had hurt that bitch!
The rest of the fight was a blur as the familiar battle rage took over his senses as he tried to take in the entirety of the battlefield. Somehow Sinikka dropped to the ground behind him, falling four stories onto hard stone, and immediately lashing out with the wicked spear of hers. She was like a heroine of legend: a Valkyrie in service to the God of War. And behind Sinikka poured Nugget, Marrow, and Bexley, all wading unwavering into the pitted fray; sword and dagger and razor fangs all dancing to the drum of battle.
Barron popped a smoke cloud from one of the strange devices that they had found in Markus’ room and tried to use the dense fog it produced to hide from sight as he worked his way towards the Dana in an effort to finish her off. He could hear the sounds of battle all around him as his companions tore into the guards as he blindly stumbled through the smoke looking for his quarry. When he noticed two shadows at the outskirts of the smoke cloud, he dove out of the fog at them, hoping to catch them off guard and dispatch them quickly so that he could keep moving towards his main prize. He lashed out with his steel blades, slashing high and low, pivoting to gain position, darting in and out of the dense cloud of smoke. The men grunted in pain and annoyance and the familiar thrill of the fight burned fiercely within him. How he had missed this dance of blood and steel; it was the one thing he was good at. His grin widened as he ducked under a clumsy axe swing and punished the man with a deep slash to his outer thigh as he pivoted again to keep the two men off of his flanks.
The two guardsmen shared a brief glance and Barron felt that familiar worried feeling begin to take root within him; his feral grin was quickly replaced by a look of concern and concentration, his blades held low and at the ready. The smaller man darted left and feinted as if to swing his axe, but instead he raised his other hand and held his open palm at Barron. He could see that the man was wearing a strange glove, inlayed with metal and wire, all arrayed in an intricate pattern. What in th….The thought was cut short as a burst of crackling electricity arced out of the glove and struck Barron squarely in the chest; the blast knocking him back and slamming him hard into the wall of the building behind him.
Holy hells that hurt! Barron was having a hard time seeing as his vision wavered and swam and threatened to give out entirely. He tried to snap to attention as the second man closed in on him from his right. This man was bleeding from the half dozen cuts that Barron had gifted him with, but instead of looking worried he had a look of victory on his pale, grizzled face. This guard held his hand up palm forward and Barron could see that he wore a similar glove as his companion and Barron’s blood grew cold. Barron feebly raised his dagger in front of him in a futile attempt to fend off whatever was coming; but steel and flesh are no match for fire, and the man grinned as he baptized Barron in a gout of searing death…
Barron stumbled back into the safety of the artificial fog and patted out the flames the still chewed on his skin and coat. How he was still standing, he had no idea. He staggered on through the smoke searching for safety, as the sounds of the battle faded behind him. He was wracked with pain but the hurt of his failure agonized him more. He had never been one to run from battle, nor one to leave his companions behind to fend for themselves. This fear was something new, and it gnawed away at him. And yet he stumbled on: dread, doubt, and pain chasing after him through the fog…