Scavenger of the Dead

Scavenger of the Dead
Date of Scene:	12 February 2013
Location:	Eastern Continent - Bare Desert
Synopsis:	In the sun-bleached remains of a battle between the Burmecians and their Alexandrian foes, a lone figure performs even dark deeds. Is she merely here to rob the dead or does some more sinister purpose drive her to these atrocities?
Cast of Characters:	Faruja Senra, Royce

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Royce has posed:
A stiff breeze sweeps through the broad and mostly desolate expanse of the desert that dominates the western side of what has come to be known as the Eastern Continent in the World of Ruin. With the chaotic political atmosphere that has arisen from so many diverse cultures and mis-matched worlds being deposited into a twisted amalgamation of their various homes no formal names for the various landmasses have yet been agreed upon leaving them merely designated by their cardinal directions from the central continent.

The midday sun hangs high in the sky overhead, bearing down upon the blasted sands and weathered rocks with a tyrannical fist of sweltering heat that seems to sap what little life there is to be found here from the very air. Only the occasional flicker of movement indicates that this region is even inhabited at all, though only monsters and various vermin build to withstand the cruel temperatures and scarcity of water can survive here for long. Nature can be as unforgiving as it is beautiful.

However, deep within the burning sands a small stretch of land stands as a testament to the foolishness of man and demihuman alike for the broken remains of a recent battle lie scattered upon the dunes. The corpses of dozens if not hundreds of soldiers dot the landscape in messy piles, their bodies half buried under the constant flow of wind and sand. Pennants and banners of the nations of Alexandrian flap haphazardly in the gentle gusts of wind, standing tall over the carnage like silent sentinels held firm in the grasp of long-dead knights. Though brave and fierce in life, in death they serve only as a reminder of the horrors of war.

Predators and scavengers are noticeably absent from this place. Perhaps its remote location or the preserving properties of the sand that have kept the smell of blood and death from traveling far. Either way, the only indication of motion beyond that caused by the wind is the small huddled form that kneels before one of the bodies. Though the sweltering heat has practically set the sand on fire, Royce pays little mind to the pain as she digs through the fine grains to unearth her latest choice. A large burlap sack sits next to her, it's sides bulging with the contents of her excavation thus far. Her clawed fingers work at the armor straps of the dead knight before her, sawing through the dried tough leather with a few good scrapes so that she can remove the metal plating and get to the flesh beneath.

Ah, I had forgotten how enjoyable it is to see a battlefield wrought by blades and bows. The work of modern soldiers oft leaves little but scraps and pieces and more often than not even that is denied to--ah ah... be careful girl, lest you damage the skin!

"I know what I am doing."

Faruja Senra has posed:
Faruja would likely have a different opinion about the dead Alexandrians. It doesn't take long for the Templar to prove just that. Passing by a fluttering banner, the ratling cuts it in half with his gauntleted claws, only to spit on it with a snarl. His gaze turns to a dead body. He'd been sent here to scout out the evidence, and check for potential survivors for questioning. They were far too close to Cleyra, these Heretics.

No words for the departed, of course, until he comes across a Burmecian or two. They get a respectful prayer, unlike the Alexandrians. Heretics get no burials after all. A figure in the distance, however, stops his respect for the righteous dead of his homeland. Someone who seems to be doing /something/ to the dead. Even if it's upon a Heretic's corpse, there are limits. Could she be a battlefield scrounger, stripping the dead?

"WHOM GOES THERE!? Declare thyself, in the Lord's name!" Yells out the Burmecian, spear in his grasp as he stalks closer, squinting against the desert sun to get a good look at the woman in the distance.

Royce has posed:
With the wide hood of her half-jacket raised against the glaring sun, Royce's features are well hidden in shadow when she tilts her head around to peer at the source of the sudden outburst. Her single exposed eye glows red like the burning coals of some long dead fire, smouldering with an internal light that gleams with a predatory intensity.

Oho... what is this? One of these foolish soldiers still lives? Or perhaps one of his fellows. Come to search for survivors or count corpses, no doubt. How fortunate for us... fresh meat always produces better results, ha ha ha ha...

The girl slowly sets her current prize aside, allowing the half-removed pauldron to clatter noisly back into the body as she rises and turns to face the interloper. The fact that she had not heard this demi-human's approach grated on her nerves. The howl of the wind and the muffling properties of the sand must have shielded him from her senses and only his foolish choice to announce his presence had robbed him of the element of surprise. Knight or scavenger, it didn't matter to her; he would be trouble either way.

Lifting the sharp metal tip of her index finger to her forehead, Royce burrows into the flesh and begins to carve profane symbols of warding and dark magic. The first is that of a diamond bisected by a vertical line - an eye from the looks of it. Oddly there is almost no blood and what little does trickle down her face quickly seems to take on a life of its own, rising up to encircle the marking before it separates into tiny wet fragments that form runes and letters.

To Faruja's call there is no answer save the flickering intense stare of her eye from beneath the edge of her hood. She cares not for him or the lord which he serves. It will be meaningless trivia once he lies dead and broken.

Faruja Senra has posed:
Subtlety certainly isn't something Faruja often engages in. Indeed, to some degree, he considers it dishonorable to not announce his presence even to potential scum. A Templar doesn't hide or back-stab, after all (unless you're Loffrey).

Claws don't make much noise in sand, and that wind muffles the slightly lighter and less hot armor Faruja wears today beneath his green robes. A pauldron clatters noisily, even over the wind, and the rat takes a small leap. Landing in front of an Alexandrian soldier's corpse, his own red eye peers down. Kick! It's punted out of his way.

That spear is leveled at Witch as the rat finally gets a better look. That single eye sends a brief, prey-like shiver through him, before claws rake the desert. Battlefield scrounger...or worse, judging by the odd symbols he /swears/ he saw her slash into her forehead. His Holy Knight senses practically blare warnings. Something here is horribly wrong.

"No words? Mayhap the wind steals my voice. Temple Knight Faruja Senra of the Holy Church. In Holy Faram's name, explain thyself, lest I take thee for a defiler of the dead! Last chance, knave!" In front of the rat, protective spells flare up with an incantation, tail lashing as he snarls.

Royce has posed:
The rumble of dark sinister laughter echoes through her head like rocks grating together. Ah... religion. Such a wonderfully hypocritical institution. So many preach love and harmony and yet you can see the truth of their conviction lying all around us. Men never do evil so completely and cheerfully as when they do so from religious conviction. There is no shame to be found in grinding this fool beneath your heel. You may, in fact, be doing this wretched world a favor.

Royce remains stoically silent as the spear is pointed her way and the templar announces himself and his intentions in full. Her eye swivels down to follow the path of the metallic tip of Faruja's weapon through the air, settling on its gleaming tip for a few moments before traveling back up to meet his own cyclopean gaze.

"Your voice..." She speaks finally as the wind dies down, seemingly quelled by the ominous tension that passes between the two of them. Royce's tone is low and grinding for a woman but not without a feminine touch. Her hand comes up as she pauses mid-thought, pulling back the hood that obscures her face from view. Long white hair billows out like a cape from within to drape across her scantily clad body, revealing both the unnatural fires of her iris and the cloth that encircles her left eye, decorated in equally arcane mystic symbols, most notably a large golden pentacle.

"...annoys me."

With no warning beyond her emotionless dismissal of his demands, the chains encircling the girl's body begin to shift and spin, lowering the massive cannon on her back towards the ground like a castle portcullis being released. The weapon drops swiftly and her arm swings back, catching it by the odd handle mounted on the interior of its frame. Swinging the artifact about to bring its wide ornately-worked muzzle to bear on Faruja, she unleashes a swift burst of magical force to knock him flat. Brilliant neon red light builds within the cannon's depths, guttering like the fires of a dragon within its maw before it erupts in a fountain of blazing brimstone and scarlet flame.

Faruja Senra has posed:
The wind stills, and Royce makes her move. Her method of dress only seems to further infuriate the ratling, as she so boldly dismisses his words. Jaw setting, snarling in anger, he stares into the fiery eye of the woman. His own red eye narrows. No normal human possesses such an eye.

"...You stink of Heresy." Comes his response, more snarled than spoken. Even as she brings that weapon to bear, the Burmecian is already moving closer, agile despite his heavy armor. It doesn't avail him of much, however, as a magical blast of red light gathers then erupts into burning flames. Striking him solidly in the chest, he goes flying, skidding through soft desert sand as his body burns. Armor begins to melt, and he roughly yanks aside his robes lest they burn him further. Gasping from the force of the strike, he gets to his knees. Fire. Fires from the Abyss. Righteous fury and utter fear mix within him. A glance down, and something soft meets his clawed toes.

A Burmecian infantryman. So very alike the ones he once led against the Alexandrians who assaulted his home. Closing his eye, he speaks a prayer, before opening it. Fear is replaced by duty. He won't see his companions defiled if he can help it.

"...Be wiped away, Witch." Thrust. Even as his weapon gleams with holy Light, a falling column of power forms above Royce, seeking to quite simply tear through body and soul with Faram's wrath.

Royce has posed:
Witch. That was a name she hadn't been called in quite some time. It felt strange and nostalgic, like meeting someone who knew your childhood nickname. Of course, everyone who had ever called her that was long dead, either by her own hands or those of the inescapable march of time. Yet she endured where others crumbled to dust.

Acrid smoke wafts from the tip of the gun in her hands, silently drifting upwards to be lost in the shimmering haze of heat. Royce stares coldly down the length of her weapon at the templar as he frantically tries to deal with her infernal magic and his own fears. The inspiration he derives from seeing his fallen comrade does not go unnoticed by the witch and her eye narrows slightly at the build up of holy magic.

Light, brilliant and burning, fills the sky and Royce allows instincts honed by hundreds of years of conflict to take over. The flat shield-like surface of her gun is raised overhead and she hunches down to brace against the magical onslaught. For a split second her arm holds firm and the heavenly energies part like silk about her stalwart defense, sheering away in all directions to sear and burn at the sands.

However, almost immediately the full force of Faram's divine wrath begins to flatten her into the ground and Royce crumples, inch by inch. She struggles against the titanic forces, teeth grinding together with effort as they bow her down like Atlas holding the world upon his shoulders.

And then just as swiftly the magic expends itself. The pressure vanishes and Royce collapses to her knees, her weapon digging into the sand as she leans upon it for support. That was not her usual method of dealing with such assaults and, oddly enough, she thinks merely letting it scour away her flesh so that it might regenerate anew would have left her less bruised and worn.

Ha ha ha, well done, girl. You impress even myself from time to time.

Scowling faintly, Royce lifts her head to glare back at the Burmecian. She has no words for him but the annoyance is clearly visible in her gaze. Lifting her free hand up, the witch begins to intone dark magics. The ground rumbles softly as the bones buried in the sand begin to twist and rattle within their prisons of metal and flesh, clattering to life at her command. Finally, she thrusts the armored claw into the sand and all at once spears of fractured ossein matter erupt all around him from the fallen corpses. Gruesome and preternaturally sharp, disease and rot hangs wetly from the festering flesh still attached to these pikes by strings of tendon and muscle. They rise up and up, turning the entire battlefield around the Faruja into a gauntlet of deadly skewers bending and twisting to pierce his body and make him one with their brief unholy existence.

Faruja Senra has posed:
In contrast with that cold eye of the girl's, Faruja's own is passionate, and fiery. Faith and emotion drives the ratling, believe holding up and shielding the fragile soul within. It is armor, shield, and in the case of fighting Royce, his blade.

Faith flows into power as the rat's holy wrath descends, yet the infernal strength of his impromptu opponent holds firm. While certainly not the first time, the fact that so many seem to be resistant to the Church's techniques, or even simply survive them often, only proves to the rat the pure corruption infesting the worlds.

"...My, my, my." The rat mutters to himself, taking a precious moment to observe her weapon. The annoyance gets a small smirk. There's that, at least. Looks like he can't hold back against this one.

Legs bend as dark words flow forth from the witch, and the ground rumbles. Glancing down, his eye goes wide as rotting spears of bone erupt, a seat of the damned things rising to pierce at him. Leaping on instinct, he stll can't get away in time. A horrifically gory spear pierces into his gut, chest, and shoulder, easily piercing through armor as such weapons are so good at doing. White bone is soon decorated with red as they leave his body, legs propelling him into the air. It takes all that he is to simply not wretch out blood and his last meal from the pain and agony now inflicted in some of his most vulnerable spots. Gut-shots, when untreated, are often deadly /without/ such unholy disease within.

"Lord in heaven, grant thy servant strength, that he may banish evil! Guard my soul against the depravity of the wicked!" Already glowing white, the rat quite simply throws his spear downwards at the witch, a blur of Holy and silver metal as it descends; with the hopes of pinning her in place. Not resting, he rolls to the side, adjusting his fall with weight and use of tail. No longer taking things to chance after her display, the white light of a warp spell flashes around his hand. From seemingly out of nowhere, the shadow of a large pole-axe's head descends, aimed to quite simply split the scantily clad woman in half with holy fury, falling velocity, and a keen edge.

"To the Abyss with thee, wretch! Trouble not the departed any longer!"

Royce has posed:
There is no look of grim satisfaction or haughty amusement as the vile assault rends her foe's flesh. Royce pushes to her feet with a casual lack of urgency about the affair, drawing her black talons and the barrel of her weapon from the sand. Her face remains an expressionless mask devoid of feeling as she lifts her head to follow his rise into the air, save for the blazing core of her eye that seems to be the focal point for her interaction with the world.

In contrast, the voice sings out at the sight of blood. Yes! Pierce his flesh and rend his faith asunder! Leave nothing sacred for this fool to hide behind save his own delusions and deceptions.

Royce stares silently, even as the holy prayers light up the desert sky once more with divine fire. She does not move this time, never flinching away for even a moment as the deadly projectile descends like a thunderbolt. The spear explodes through her chest with a resound wet crack, shattering several ribs on the way through both sides of her unprotected torso. Scarlet neon light fountains violently out around the wooden shaft, raw magical power leaking out like lifeblood.

As was his intention, the holy weapon pins Royce to the ground like a bug in a display case. Her back arches against the pain that violates every recess of her slight frame but no hint of pain of anguish touches her face. The follow up strike brings the rat bearing down her like an avenging angel and it takes every ounce of her willpower to twist aside as his great blade cleaves through the air.

Instead of lodging squarely into the center of her skull, Faruja's gravity-driven assault finds purchase in the girl's shoulder. Amazingly, the blade fails to penetrate completely and instead lodges firmly in the valley of bone and flesh that it carves, leaving the arm hanging by a few strings of ragged flesh.

Again, brilliant glowing energy explodes into the air as if released from incredible pressure. For several seconds Royce seems to bleed out the very fabric of her existence into the air. Slowly, her eye swivels in its socket, rotating over towards the ghastly injuries inflicted upon her body with all the concern of inspecting a bug bite.

Chains burst from the girl's back with frightening speed, slithering out like living tendrils to coil about the spear and pluck it from her body in a single rough tug. Now free to move easily once more, Royce turns her head to stare at her wounded arm and casually reaches up with the other, gripping it firmly about the bicep. With a rough and sudden application of force, she yanks it free of the remaining flesh and the chain protruding from that side of her body slithers out to encircle the detached limb, its hand still firmly clenched about the massive cannon's trigger.

"Your gods cannot hear you, you know." She says gently. The utterly ruinous wounds begin to close before his very eyes and even in the span of time that it takes for her to turn and face him once more the gaping hole in her chest is no more. "They do not exist."

The empty chain lashes out at him without warning, its long spindly length tipped with wicked barbs and blades. The other brings her disembodied arm up and the gun to bear on the templar, hellish fire building within its gaping muzzle yet again. This time it coughs forth a was of dark fire and the projectile streaks into the sand at his feet, exploding with incredible force. Another surge of energy comes swiftly after but this time, as if to mock his very beliefs, burning white holy light gathers into a focused beam to pierce through his shield of faith.

Faruja Senra has posed:
Faruja freezes. No pain. No agony. He's killed a few too many people over the years to not know what a person hit so hard /should/ be reacting like. And yet...none of it is there for the witch. She should be pouring out blood, on the ground dying from such a hard strike. Even worse, is that she bleeds pure magical power.

"Wh...what /ARE/ you!?" Comes the confused, and now frightened Templar's words. Glowing energy pushes back the ratling as chains burst out and drag her arm back, yanking out the spear.

Impossible. Utterly impossible. She should be dead. Dead! Faruja's mind bends as he tries to grasp the reality he's witnessing. Only when there's a massive barrel of a gun, held by a disembodied arm aimed at his face that he realizes the danger he's in. Chains fall, barbs and blades once more trying to scrape and stab.

Up goes his poleaxe, the holy weapon glowing as he parries and ducks incoming chains, weapon swift despite its large size. The rat's stronger than he looks! It leaves white afterimages as he attempts to defend himself. Yet with so many chains, he could hardly stop them all. One bladed chain slashes across his bandaged face, tearing away his coverings and revealing the layered burns there. Another wraps about his leg, tearing into flesh and nearly bone. There's nowhere to run. All he can do is throw up a shield of magic.

Even as those twin beams of dark fire and white light fire at him, the rat sends a burning glare her way.

"...Naught but poison lies upon the tongue of a Witch. My soul is the Lord's. Even if thy foul magic takes my life, it shan't have my soul."

A hand closes around his necklace. Even as he's slammed into, magic shattering, his Faith holds firm. The ratling's body is less fortune. Strong armor shatters by the blasts. Were he less so, he too would have a hole in his chest. Instead, the smell of burning fur can be heard as his body is once more thrown into the sand, tumbling tail over head before coming to rest away from the piles of bodies. Gasping, he struggles to get to his feet, weapon blown away.

'What in the Lord's name /is/ this Heretic? No White Magery can heal such fatal injuries. Damn it all. I must simply crush her at once.' The rat thinks to himself as he pulls himself together in a far less literal sense. Standing, blood and sizzling fur showing upon his now bared chest, he ponders his options.

The rat's head bows. "...Forgive me. Duty before love." Mutters the Burmecian. Retreat is unacceptable. Even death is better than turning tail against such an abomination. Steeling himself, he makes a swift leap. Upon landing, he kicks up a infantryman's pike. Grabbing it, he ducks, jukes, and leaps about, avoiding straight vertical leaps in an attempt to get closer, but not get shot or chained up. He makes to simply stab her in the skull!

Yet, the strike is slow, and easily deflected should Royce raise her weapon. A feint! Dropping the weapon, he'll lash out with claws and teeth, as he seeks to rip away at the other arm holding her weapon as well as that infernal eye.

"Be GONE! What gain shall you have in this!? Have not these people suffered enough!? Let them REST! 'Tis all the fault of disgusting Heretics such as YOU that the worlds know naught peace and harmony!"

Royce has posed:
"Death is not the worst evil, but when we wish to die and cannot."

Royce counters the words of heroism with an ominous message of her own, leaving her aggressor to ponder its meaning. While tormenting his soul was not outside the realms of her power, superstition bred by ignorance and weakness was often enough to spread the icy grip of fear through her opponents. All their imaginations needed was a little bump in the right direction.

Of course, with one of her arms hanging from a living chain and the very dead at her command, she can hardly fault him for any assumptions he makes. Abomination was a good word, whatever the truth of the matter might be.

When Faruja goes for the second weapon her burning eye follows him across the sands. The loose chain coils and retracts in the air about her body, ready and waiting to strike at her mental command like a viper, and as the templar closes the distance once more it lashes out, flailing back and forth to harry his movements.

This time, however, the rat is swift and avoids the deadly chains. His scavenged weapon comes down across Royce's face but rather than attempting to block she merely takes the slash full on. The heavy blade smashes into her nose and sends the girl spinning, even as his feinted claws rip into her smooth skin. Long gouges mar her tattooed sides, spitting unholy red energy into the air like sparks, but almost the very moment that his hand pulls away the damage is gone and healed anew.

Royce sails through the air and bounces several times, her body rag-dolling through the loose sand until it finally arrests her momentum and she stops face down. As she flies the gun barks hellfire into the templar's side once more before being dragged into the distance with her by the chain. The witch is motionless for a few moments but her seemingly inexhaustible stamina sees her climb to her feet soon after.

Faruja Senra has posed:
"Mere pain and torment mean nothing against true Faith. Do your worst." The rat returns. For all of her terrifying power and stamina, the Templar simply refuses to believe that she's invincible. Perhaps he'd be defeated this day. But there are so many others. It's all in finding one's opponent's weakness.

Blam! His strikes prove worse than useless as he's shot, not a single wound upon her body after all is said and done. He, on the other hand, narrowly avoids having his guts blown out by the blast. Screaming from the pain, he lands on an upright Alexandrian sword, the blade sticking into his back. Gasping, he finds the heat of the desert, and the amount of energy he's had to use in this fight rob him of his legs for the moment. It wasn't too long ago, as well, that he'd been injured. So many battles have taken their toll. He's lucky to be alive.

If nothing else, Faruja is a survivor. Reaching behind him, he yanks out the blade. Something else catches his eye, a small satchel. The sight of it, as he peers inside, has him grinning. While no expert in their use, he's visited other worlds enough to have an idea.

Forcing his shaking legs to support his body, the rat stands once more, muzzle whispering prayers. Once again, he leaps, flips, and ducks about with agility no armor wearing foe should possess. Upon getting to melee range, however, he no longer bothers to dodge. Like a true zealot, his eye glows with determination. That sword glows hot, almost shattering, as he pulls it back. Holy fire surrounds it. "The doom of a planet!"

Yet, there's no fiery sword from the ground just yet. Up his tail flicks, a satchel's string held within. With luck, he'll loop the thing around the very weapon that's been assaulting him for so long.

Only then does the sword fall, splitting open the satchel for all the world to see. Every kind of explosive imaginable is what the deceased Alexandrian had on her person, not once used in battle, its carrier felled before then. Nearly lips to muzzle, Faruja peers into the Witch's red one.

"...Mayhap thy skills in battle surpass mine. Mayhap I die this day. Let this be a lesson to thee: Never underestimate Faram's servants, not taunt their Faith!" His hand will try to clamp around her neck to hold her, and the weapon, still.

KABOOM!

Royce has posed:
With a grinding clank the chain connected to Royce's discarded arm retracts into her body, dragging with it the limb and gun until both hang loosely at her side. The chain flexes slightly and hefts the ragged flesh back onto the stump of her shoulder and with a faint acrid hiss the arm seals itself back into place as good as new.

Faruja's bold, and quite probably insane, strategy is met with the girl's staunch refusal to show any indication that she is even invested in this battle. If anything, she looks... bored.

Zealots never change, always ready to throw their meager lives away in the foolish belief that their defiance makes their end meaningful. Disgusting. End him and be done with this, we have work to do.

Momentarily distracted by the voice's pressure on her mind, Royce turns about fully to face her foe just as he unleashes his kamikaze dash. The Burmecian's weathered claws wrap firmly about her throat, squeezing tightly the tender flesh beneath. Crazed stare is met with empty regard and the girl puts up no fight whatsoever as the mass of ordinance crashes into the ground and engulfs them in fire and smoke.

Royce closes her eyes for a moment as the dull pain washes over her body, the shrapnel and concussive power shredding her flesh even as it renews itself over and over for the few moments that the explosions ripple around them. When she feels the last of them detonate, rattling her bones with jarring force, the witch reaches out and grasps Faruja in return. Her metal clawed fingers splay outwards as she presses her palm to the surface of his furry chest, chanting dark words that send a burst of cursed energy into him.

When the smoke and the dirt finally clears away the girl is left standing in the corpse-strewn field, alone. Her arm is extended still though something is now clasped inside of her clenched fist. It is a newt. The newt has only one eye, the other covered with very familiar scars. Royce peers down at the squirming lizard in her hand with what might be considered amusement.

Not so tough now, is he? Hmm, now how to resolve this situation. Ah! I wonder what happens when lizards are struck by lightning.

Royce tilts her head to the side. "That is simple."

The Faru-wt is held up in the air. The gun is released and the chain takes hold of it once more, bringing it about before the slender girl and thrusting it deeply into the earth until the stock is level with her chest. Upon the weapon a leather book of ill-countenance sits, bound by another set of powerful chains. Royce reaches out and touches them and the bindings fall away into dust. The tome floats freely into the air, opening of its own accord as some ghostly force flips through its many pages until the proper spell is found.

The witch turns her cyclopean gaze upon the profane symbols and arcane markings and slowly begins to chant as they resolve into a form that her mortal mind can understand. Overhead the skies immediately begin to grow dark and grey as the impossible occurs and clouds start to form. Spiderwebs of blue-white static crawl back and forth with roaring peals of thunder, gathering together at a central point until the critical mass necessary is reached.

"The same thing that happens to everything else."

The entire desert seems to turn white as a single terrible bolt of power drops out of the sky like the fist of an angry god and both the woman and her victim vanish in a blinding flash.

Faruja Senra has posed:
Faruja is an utter mess. If one peers hard enough at the tattered clothing, there may just be bone showing along some of his chest from shrapnel and general explosives. Unlike the Witch he fights, he has no such powers of true regeneration or immortality. Metal adorns him now, from a few grenades. This fight will add scarrs to his scarrs no doubt. One single woman has managed to do more damage to the ratling than that of his home's fall. Or perhaps more accurately, the pair of them have.

His eye opens, unmarred. Blood leaks from nearly every portion of his body. Yet, he's alive. Smoke obscures the area. That eye, glassy, practically high off of adrenaline and pain, teetering on the edge of life and death once more, narrows.

Boredom. She's /bored/. Blood leaks onto Royce as he attempts to snarl. It's futile. Every word he utters is weak. The fact he lives at all is a miracle, never mind he has everything important intact. "...Come now. Not even the satisfaction of opposing wills?" That pure lack of emotion. The shake of his head is tiny, barely there at all.

Where there was once hate, there is pity. "Death would be a blessing for the likes of you."

Cursed magic washes over him. He blacks out momentarily, strength utterly spent. As he comes to once more, ironically, he feels more whole than he was. The transformative spell may well have saved his life. A lizard has quite the power of regeneration, after all.

He's a newt. A bloody NEWT! Using what little power he has left, he stands up on his hind legs. A single front leg lifts up. Several fingers fold back, before he realizes he's missing one rather important one. A lizardy muzzle twitches downward. Not even a rude gesture can be given. Words in newtish, not too far removed from draconic, are yelled. Or hissed. It's all too vulgar for translation, of course.

That single eye, still quite red, peers to the book. Every Templaric and Inquisitorial instinct screams. The book. The Faram-blasted book! The little newt /smiles/. Lord willing, if he survives this, he at least has a lead.

Crackling storm clouds form. Faruja-newt peers up within Royce's hand. Even before it happens, the rat knows what's about to occur. A prayer and incantation (in newtish) swiftly occur.

The spell is simple. Any White Mage or Paladin worth their salt knows it. Esuna. Blinding light of Thunder crashes down, called forth by the powerful magess.

Glass. Faruja is laying down in glass from the impact and searing heat of thunder. A dull pain sits in his decidedly non-newtish chest. A spear of glass has pierced his chest. The spell went off in time. There's no strength left in his body. Gazing upwards, he tries to spy the form of his opponent.

It might be the pain, but the rat may as well be drunk. "Hah hah hah...it seems...*cough*...my Light is yet dim...frak my weakness and this damn shell..."

Royce has posed:
Royce is right there with the templar. The two of them sit at the bottom of a wide indention in the sand, steaming fractured rings of glass spreading out in a strangely beautiful pattern that looks more like a work of art than random fractal breakage along weak points in the freshly melted sand.

Smoke rises from her body as she slowly lowers her arm and her head, swiveling her eye like the lens of a camera to peer down at him as he laughs. With her body covered in black soot and burns, the girl has an almost comical mien about her, like some cartoon character who merely strides out of the most grievous of harms with nothing to show for it save temporary superficial injuries. Even now the pale luster of her alabaster skin begins to return underneath the sand and dirt.

He was more tenacious than she gave him credit for, though she should hardly be surprised. Zealots had an annoying habit of clinging to life far longer than they ought, driven by sheer will and their simple-minded adherence to belief. Hope and faith were powerful motivators no matter how misplaced they might be.

"I grow weary of your evangelizing."

Lifting her foot, Royce brings it crashing heavily down on the shard of glass emedded in the templar, grinding her heel back and forth to inflict as much pain as possible. Even with magic, digging tiny shards of crystal out of his innards is going to be... unpleasant.

Faruja Senra has posed:
Faruja couldn't move if he wanted to. Pain strikes him. Finding himself peering at his opponent, pain slowly growing, his chuckles continue. She may as well have found him lying here, from how little damage she had upon he body. Not a bloody scratch. The Templar barely has the strength to be angry about that.

Moans of pain and little squeaks are weak. Only his body's flinching and writhing would show the agony he's in. There's no more evangelizing or prayers. Nothing but tears, blood, sweat, and the smell of burnt fur and flesh. Faruja may as well be reduced to his component parts; a broken, battered being held together by the seemingly endless amount of faith he puts into Faram and those he loves. It's what separates him from all of those littered about the battlefield.

The hand that grasps Royce's foot is as weak as an infant's. Nor does the Templar beg. He stares, even amidst all of his pain and suffer. "...Why?" A single word. Why do all of this? Why cause such pain?

Royce has posed:
"Because you're in my way." Her response is swift and cold, utterly lacking in empathy for the suffering she is inflicting upon the poor rat. Of course, he brought it on himself. Had he not interfered she would still be peacefully hacking up the dead into travel-sized bits. Corpses no longer felt pain. Making a martyr of himself on behalf of their memories was, to the girl's rationally focused mind, the height of insanity.

However, if he wanted to commit suicide-by-witch, she was more than content to oblige. Wouldn't be the first fool to throw themselves on her metaphorical sword.

Royce grinds the glass down until she feels her boot touch flesh again. When that option for torturing him has exhausted itself, she draws the foot back and drives it into his mid-section with a powerful kick. This is followed up with several more just like it, the girl apparently deciding to literally stomp him a few new holes before she finally whips the chains down to scoop Faruja up and fling him like a dirty rag across the battlefield.

Faruja Senra has posed:
"...Wench." Defiance is a hallmark of a zealot. Faruja is good at that bit. The line between pain, existence, and pleasure blurs for a moment as that shard of glass is driven utterly through him. More boot falls sound against him, re-breaking ribs and adding bruises. So much pain. The Templar /smiles/.

Snatched up, he's chucked like so much dirt in a sack, landing and tumbling about. He doesn't move. For one moment, even his heart stops.

Blood flows. His heart beats. That red eye shifts. It stares, burning with the light of his soul. Peering out, the pure insanity it takes to live despite all he's been through shows. He has not words. Only a sound. Bloody lips purse.

"No." Is the single word he utters. Breath continues. A few whispered words. White light forms, swirling.

Piercing the sudden silence, a roar fills the air. The great wyvern Arista steps through the portal her master created. Stepping over the fallen, beaten body of the Templar, she vents her hatred even as she stares hungrily at the witch before her. A tail wraps about a fallen body. Armor, weapon and all, it's tossed at the witch. The message is clear. Leave. This one is /mine/.

Royce has posed:
The girl's eye narrows slightly at this final act of desperation. Was this some sort of summoning magic like she had heard spoken of in the whispers and echos brought to her by the shadows and vermin that served as her ears throughout the cities of the new world? She stares up at the beast, waiting to see how it reacts.

No. "Hmph." Royce vents her annoyance and perhaps a tad bit of disappointment. She was rather looking forward to seeing a summons in action. But this was just another beast.

The burning coal of her eye flicks over to the lizard's tail as it coils about the corpse but the puprose of this isn't clear until the pile of metal and rotting flesh is flying into her face at incredible speed. A loud crunch resounds through the battlefield as the bodies collide. Royce is lifted clear off her feet by the impact and goe sailing backwards like a missile. Her arm hits the sand first and an audible snap accompanies the limb twisting in rather unnatural ways as the girl tumbles end over end.

When she finally comes to a stop, Royce opens her eye to find herself several dozen feet from where she was previously standing. Her left arm is a tangled mess but she pays it no mind, her piercing gaze focused on the templar and his pet. The massive cannon in her other hand comes up, leveling on Arista but she does not fire - yet. Her intentions are quite clear though.

Just incase the familiar gets any fool ideas about sticking around to avenge her master the barrel is lowered until its aim rests between her scaley legs on Faruja's crumpled form.

Faruja Senra has posed:
"Eat...her." Whispers the Burmecian. Arista looks down. Those reptillian eyes regard the rat with a glance somewhere between pity and love. Stupid two leggers. All of that pride. No sense. Well, it's why /she's/ around. To make sure her stupid father doesn't get himself killed. She gently scoops up the ratling into her jaws.

Arista's eyes are twin balls of hatred and loathing. Chaos and evil in its most bestial form. Truly, Faruja's accidentally created a monster. But she's his monster. There are no words, only glances, that promise retribution. This isn't the last time. Neither the rat, nor his wyvern, are finished. Arista turns about, seemingly heedless of the Witch who so hurt her master. She'll eat /that/ one later. For now, she has a stupid Burmecian to scrape back together into one piece. The Warp spell ends as both Templar and wyvern fade away. Only the rat's words remain.

"...Witch. We shall meet again." All thanks to Arista. He's not sure whether to hug or slap the wyvern. Darkness claims him. He has the strength for neither.

Royce has posed:
The girl watches them go, her eye a burning ember amid the sweltering haze of desert heat. Only when the last vestiges of the portal magic have faded does her arm lower the cannon and even then she waits several long silent minutes to make sure it isn't some sort of trick meant to throw her off guard. Despite the sheer size of the weapon her arm never seems to grow tired, her aim never faltering until her eternal paranoia has been satisfied.

Climbing back to her feet, Royce casually checks her mangled arm, noticing that in the span between getting clobbered by a corpse and waiting for the coast to be clear it has managed to straighten itself out and is back to normal again. She flexes her fingers idly to test them out. Yep, all good.

Pulling her hood back up, the girl carefully stuffs her lengthy snow-white hair into back and then stalks back over to where she left her bag of goodies those several minutes before when she was so rudely interrupted. Kneeling down in the sand, she pulls off the pauldron on the fallen knight's body, the same one she was working on before.

Hmm, this one is rather well preserved. It will make for a fine servant.

Reaching into her bag, Royce produces a small fold of leather and lays it out on the ground. Within several tools that look like surgical implements lay neatly arranged, each with its own little holster to keep it from tumbling about in transit. Her clawed hand hovers back and forth for a moment before she selects the one most suitable for the job and then digs into her work with the same lack of emotion or enthusiasm that saw the templar laid low.