• Graded • IV. Tidying Up

[Kasoria]

50th Trial, Ashan, Arc 718
Outer Perimeter
23rd break

Continued from here

All cares and concerns faded away, all consequences and calamities were immaterial, save that he did not fulfill his mission. The day had been long and tiring and... strange. Too many dimensions to it. Too complicated for a man who enjoyed the simplicity of his profession. A name or a face was conjured; a purse was pressed into your hand; the order was given, and all life was but a straight line between you and the death of that name.

He found that simplicity again, the moment the karambit sunk into Ron's throat. The trill after Pork's incredulous question struck the breeze, Kasoria felt the stress and uncertainty bleed out of him. Yet he was not diminished. Instead he felt renewed. Restored. Much as the stinking thing he'd shrugged off outside had been abandoned, so was the persona of the stuttery, fearful wretch that Ron had let in the door.

He was himself now. With bloody steel in his hand and fell purpose crackling through his body.

That said, the frying pan took him by surprise.

"Fucking hells-!"

The kitchen was somewhere between a mess and deserted. Half of the room was bereft of anything, not a table or a chair in sight. The other half was a stove that smelled of burning wood and frying eggs, with ragtag piles of wrapping paper and empty bags and bottles and Fates it looked like they'd been living off fried food since they'd arrived. The man in front of the stove - actually wearing an apron, too - took one look at the man holding a bloody knife coming through the doorway-

-then saw Ron slump over dead behind him-

-and Kasoria had to admit, he reacted pretty quick. He cried out and grabbed the nearest thing to hand, which happened to be an iron skillet, swinging it at Kasoria's head like a club. The smaller man reacted instinctively, throwing up his forearm-

"Fuck!"

Which did not feel fucking great, by any stretch. Kasoria was almost knocked off his feet as five pounds of pressed metal hammered into his arm. He went skidding across the dusty floor but not very far, and Clean was already rearing back for another hit, fear wet and wide in his eyes.

Kasoria fed off that. Not a fighter, that one. Not one of the hard-eyed men who'd been watching over the botched meeting earlier. No, he'd stayed close to the donkey, to the product, to the man giving the orders. He wasn't pressing his attack, he was already backpedaling, wanting to get away-

Hesitating. It's what killed him.

With a wild yell Kasoria lunged forward, burst of noise and fury making the other man in the apron blink in surprise, arm slashing low and horizontal-

-curved blade slicing through a pudgy stomach like a bad side of beef. Even in that half-trill moment, Kasoria could feel all the... nuances. The first beat of resistance as the blade's tip punched through the skin. The way he felt a ripple of distortion tremble up his arm as it sliced, cut, carved, slashed, cleaved its way through the fat and muscle beyond. The stench when he knew that intestines had been reached, seven-inch blade more than long enough to go so deep-

-and then the resistance was gone, blade free in the air yet again, but leaving behind a gaping slash that opened up like a yawning, ravenous mouth, only it did not consume but instead vomited-

"F-F-Fu-"

Clean staggered backward as a nest of steaming, stinking vipers were deposited all over his feet. The frying pan was forgotten, dropped with a clang that no-one paid attention to as the man fell backward, hands stupidly trying to shove the writhing things back into his stomach. Almost heedless of pain as he tried to do the impossible. Muttering words and prayers that Kasoria could not properly understand as he walked over, arm afire, face twisted and curved into a mask of hatred.

Someone stepped into the doorway, urgent and alert. Just in time to see to see the little man drop down to one knee next to Clean, arm flying down with him in a punch-

-albeit one tipped with a curved blade under his fist-

"Clean?!"

Pork's tone implied more than just a vague friendship. Had Kasoria been of the mind, he could have heard divined more depth and loss when he heard it. Right before the karambit blade punched into the disemboweled man's eye and speared his brain like an oversized oyster. He didn't stop pushing until he felt the tip of it grate and scrape against the inside of back of Clean's skull... and then he yanked it clear.

Stood up to face the man with the sword, a bald head, and a body clearly built for fighting. Not to mention one clearly, obviously, terminally fucking angry.

"You bastard-!"

Kasoria grinned and met the man over the body of his dead brother.

[Kasoria]

Freddie knew that he should run. That was the first and strongest instinct that hit his gut, and he'd learned long ago to listen to it. He could throw hands when he had to, but he was more like a cornered rat than a veteran brawler when shit went that bad. Put a stiletto in his hand, and... well, he wasn't much better. So Freddie learned how to run fast, and when to know to do so.

Ready Freddie, that's what they called him. Because no matter how sneaky or stealthy the Blackguard were, when the trap was sprung and whatever con he'd been running came crashing down, all that was left of him was a cloud of dust.

Only now there were twenty pounds of Euphoria sitting on the table, and he was a dead man without the money from their sale. He could tell from the shouts and yells that one, maybe two of his friends were dead. Maybe Pork could handle their "guest". He surely handled everyone else. But he was two mates down, his hideout was blown, and his hustler mind already knew that mean Wide Nick had turned on them, the slimy fucking cunt.

Etzos had just shrunk to the room he stood in. One wall away from implacable men who would cut him apart for the bounty.

So he needed that money, or tomorrow, or next season, or an arc from now, he was a dead. Because Etzos wasn't his home anymore: home would be somewhere far from here, where the thousands he could make from selling that stinking weed would take him.

Freddie didn't run. He picked up his crossbow, and stalked to the kitchen. Pissing himself all the way.

The bald man didn't threaten, or curse, or even yell, not after that first outburst. He closed in with his short sword and swung and hacked and thrust and did it all with vicious economy. He'd been hoping his raging grief would make him sloppy, but he came at the smaller man with a fury cold and skilled. Kasoria was forced back and back, twisting and turning and flitting away from the swinging sword, and then-

-grunting as a jab connected with his cheek, blood filling his mouth, Pork clearly good with his off-hand as much as he was his weapon. On he came and Kasoria tried to parry as best he could with the karambit. But it wasn't a weapon designed for defense. Unless the other guy had a karambit, he supposed. Soon he was across the kitchen and in the doorway and Pork snarled and thrust for his stomach-

-his fist swung down and the karambit knocked it aside as he swayed-

THUNK

-sword sinking into the wooden frame of the door and sticking there fast, despite Pork's frenzied-

Now!

Kasoria knew he had a trill, maybe less, and didn't waste it. His empty left hand pounded Pork's side with a kidney punch, making the man twitch and howl with pain, letting go of his sword and lashing out backhanded with his fist-

-and Kasoria was already barreling forwards, under the blow, under his arm, shoulder catching Pork in the chest and heaving up from his knees, roaring out to get the blood pumping, the air flowing, a burst of energy that lift Pork up and then sent them both crashing down-

Don't waste it.

He felt the air blown out of Pork's lungs as he landed on his back, already grasping for Kasoria as the smaller man reared up, punching into his stomach-

-with his karambit in hand, ripping the blade upward and screeching until he felt it slide and scrape against ribs and now Pork was screaming and frothing blood and Kasoria screamed back and there was nothing else he could hear as he yanked the weapon clear and brought it slashing down-

On his face. On his chest. On his throat. Back and forth and up and down until Pork had no face, had no throat, and it was sheer animal instincts that brought his head snapping up to where a new figure stepped into the kitchen-

-pistol crossbow held in both hands, leveled at the waist, aimed casually at his chest-

Cover. He needed cover. And the only cover he had was-

-he grabbed Pork's shoulders and yanked him upward as hard as he could, ducking down at the same time-

TWANG

"Sh-Shit-!"

Freddie knew he wasn't a particularly good shot with that thing, but at the range he usually worked at, he didn't need to be. As long as he was out of reach of spears, swords and daggers, he was fine. Plus that first, lethal, impossible-to-dodge bolt usually took down a man with ease if you got him dead center. Which is what should have happened to that hairy fucking beast squatting over his friend. So he'd taken aim and squeezed the trigger and-

-his jaw dropped as at the same instant, the man pulled Pork's body up, moving him so the man was sitting up with his head slashed to ribbons-

-and the crossbow bolt slammed into his back.

No time to reload. No way was he fighting anything that had done that to Pork. So Freddie tossed the crossbow and turned to run for the window.

Scrambling feet behind him. Pork's body dropping, the man already getting to his feet. He'd have to jump it, it would hurt but-

-blinding, unholy, crippling pain set his left leg ablaze. He went down screaming, tears already springing from his eyes. He glanced down and saw the pumping gash on the back of his leg. He didn't know if a tendon was cut or a muscle severed but either way it was hot and painful and he couldn't put any weight on it.

Kasoria straightened back up for a moment from his desperate low lunge. Not as deep as he wanted, but good enough. He stood over the downed man, panting and blood-slick from knees to crown. He stared down through the hair and darkness and viscera coating him. Freddie looked back up, already vomiting up words... until Kasoria held up his blade. A universal call for silence, if ever there was one.

"Who... told you...?"

[Kasoria]

The moment passed when the danger did, not when everything else in the house was dead. Kasoria had learned the hard way that sometimes a survivor was necessary. Questions needed to be answered, large and small, and a man could not interrogate a corpse. He'd slain three men and aside from the whimpering thing curled up at his feet, he could hear no-one else skulking around, down there up upstairs.

The moment passed, and the smell returned to him. The memory. Strong and familiar and recent and drifting over from the twenty hemp-wrapped packages on the table. One of which had been cut open and ah, of course, the boys had been celebrating with their stolen wares. Glistening buds and dark green leaves were spilled across the stained wood, along with papers to wrap them.

The smell was the same. He was sure of it.

"Who told you about Kellen and Jacen?" He spoke slowly, grinding out one word after another, so that they fell on Freddie's ears like stones. "You were waiting for them. You knew they'd be there. So you knew. So someone told you. Who was it?"

Kasoria gave the weeping man three trills, then stamped on the ragged wound he'd cut into his leg. Freddie arched his back and screamed, high and pleading even without the words to do so. Kasoria did it again. And again. The fourth time, he bent down and yanked Freddie up by the hair.

Let him see the look of sheer, dripping disdain all over his face. Let him understand just how little doing such horrible things meant to him. Let the inference that far worse could easily occur, pass between the two of them.

"Don't push me, boy. The only chance you have, is to tell me what I want to know."

"You-You'll k-k-k-killYAAARRRGHHHH!"

Kasoria jammed his finger into the warm, wet wound and didn't stop moving it until Freddie started screaming out words.

"It was a whore it was a fucking whore please fuck please oh fucking Fates please I'll tell you I'll tell you..." Kasoria let go of the man. Snapped his hand away to get most of the blood off. He gave him another three trills, but even wounded and half-mad with pain, Freddie learned fast. He was already talking by that point. "S-S-Some girl P-Pork was fuckin', a'right? She-She-She said she knew some bloke, some farmer's son, some-some sweet dumb kid who visited her when he-he-he was in town! So-So one night, he got to talking to her, men-mentioned his Pop, their farm, what they grew, and-and-and when they'd be coming into town next."

Kasoria heard him, but was no longer listening. He knew how it unfolded, like he was listening to a man read a story he'd already finished. Freddie didn't notice the look of surprise flit over his bloody features. The way his mouth hung loose for just a moment, then snapped shut again. His jaw torqued. He closed his eyes as he sighed... made peace with what he knew had to happen after he left this building.

Speaking of which.

"Waitwaitwait!" Freddie blurted out the words as Kasoria raised his blade again, still dripping with every life in that house. "You-You-You said you'd let me-"

"No," Kasoria said, coldly matter-of-fact as he picked just the right spot for the blade to go. "I said you had a chance."

Then the blade flashed, and Freddie screamed, discovering in his last trill just how small that chance was.

[Kasoria]

"Go on. Take it."

"You take it!"

"I daresd ya first!"

"Daresd ain't a word!"

"Shut up, Pilby!"

Pilsby huffed and closed his arms as they both turned on him, the swine. Just because he managed to actually go to school every few days, learn a couple of things, like proper words. Jimmy and Fred never seemed to show up. They said they learned all they needed to "on the streets", which struck Pilsby as very unlikely. How often did you see teachers on the cobbles, after all? Other than the feast days, of course, but that wasn't lessons. Still, they said it was more exciting and you could even find "work".

Jimmy always said the word with a smile, and Fred gave him a big wink, so he thought those... little line things above the letters, that he'd seen in books, would be accurate. He guessed the sword was part of that work. It was laying in the street, after all.

But it was in front of the house. Where the screaming was coming from. And the other noises.

Jimmy edged a little closer to the sword, still in its sheath. Just laying there, still and harmless, daring him to take it. He licked his lips and watched the door as he moved. One more step. Okay, maybe two more. Fine, three. Either way, he was closer. Fred wasn't about to risk it and Pilsby didn't like swords, the fat fool. He just stood there wringing his hands and whispering about how "someone might come". Jimmy cursed his stupid friends. They didn't have the balls. He bent down and started to reach. His own sword. His very own sword, proof that he damn sure had the-

The door opened, and a face was looking at him. From two feet off the ground. Along with three others.

Jimmy felt something warm yet unpleasant happen to his breeches. The faces weren't attached to anything below the neck.

"Oi?" Somehow, he managed to look up, and a man the size of a monkey looked down at him with a face like one. "Fuck off. That's mine."

"F-Fuh-Fuck-"

'Leg it!"

Smart lad.

Fat boy had the better legs on him, funnily enough. He sped ahead of his wiry friends, though that sharp corner sent him sprawling into a wall. Barely stopped him, though. Fear that gave men wings, as Kasoria had once read. Turns out it worked on kids, too. He bent down and picked up his gladius, bouquet of heads banging and bumping his knees as he did so. The rest of the street was deserted, abandoned houses lining one side and the rest... well... no-one wanted to get involved.

There was snuffling from the barn and Kasoria stuffed the heads into a saddlebag. He'd washed inside, using the dirty water from the kitchen, just to get the masses of blood and clotted flesh out of his face and hair. He swapped shirts with... one of them, he didn't remember which. They were all bloody but the last one had been less so. Of course, too big for him, but hadn't that always been the case?

One by one, armful by armful, he loaded the Euphoria into the other saddlebags, until the placidly munching beast was ready to move out. There was an oats bag hanging up in one corner and Kasoria fixed it on him. He knew they were meant to be used as treats, or rewards, but he also knew he only needed the smelly cunt to do its job for a few breaks, so why not keep him happy?

He closed the door behind him, flexing his sore left arm. A frying pan, of all fucking things. He and his new friend ambled past the cloak he'd left... and yeah, of course it was still there. Who would take such a shit-smelling monstrosity, after all? Kasoria scooped it up and pulled it back on, becoming the vagrant mask once again, sliding the hood over his features. Covering the sword and the karambit and his face and all traces of blood, save what was soaked into the soles of his feet.

He left the street of dead houses and dead men. The night was late and getting later, but his job was not finished yet. And it would end where it began, in a way.

Or even further before.

Concluded here

[Oracle]

Kasoria

Well now, that's a lot of dead people! Kasoria has really begun to come into his own, and has become a force to be reckoned with. You do an excellent job of detailing the manic pace of combat, while peppering in some lovely gory details. The constant exchange of attacks is well written and gives a real sense of urgency to Kasoria's actions. He is a true practitioner of Ki'Enaq; using his environment to his advantage, and pressing forward at every opportunity. My only bit of criticism might be that because of the rampant pace of combat that there were moments where I had difficulty figuring out exactly who was speaking. Other than that it was an excellent thread, fast paced, and another page in Kasoria's story. I can not wait to read more!

Points

XP: 10
This may not be used for magic.

Renown

15 For killing several people

Loot

Injuries

Badly bruised left forearm, will take a couple trials to fully heal

Knowledge

Endurance: Absorb the Blow and Retaliate
Blades (Karambit): Disemboweling
Blades (Karambit): Not Ideal for Parrying or Blocking Another Blade
Unarmed Combat (Ki'Enaq): Kidney Punch
Interrogation: Offering False Hope (Better Than None at All)
Intimidation: Projecting an Air of Indifference to Suffering

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