Webs upon Webbs [Llyr, Kas] (Graded)

[Kasoria]

Slippery fuckin' cunt!"

Kasoria spat out the words as he ripped away the silk sheets that had ruined his killing blow. The Backlash had blown Webb off his feet like the man had been struck by a giant's mace, but the Marshall was far from finished. Not only that, Kasoria's magic had worked too well. Instead of his stopping the blow, it had launched his target far away, out of the range of his karambit. Now he had to close the distance again, and as he was learning-

Fucker ain't just some rear rank wanker.

Webb was disoriented and helpless for exactly one trill. Had Kasoria been close, that would have been more than enough time. But he wasn't. He was ten feet away and by the time he'd closed half that distance the Marshal was up, twisting, grabbing and hurling a silk sheet at him like he was some shaggy beast to be ensnared. Kasoria's blow tore the fabric like paper but its very lightness was a weapon. Bunching up around him, in front of him, blinding him-

-for less than a moment, before his free hand reached up and snatched it away from his sight, ugly curse at his former commander hissing from cracked lips-

"COME ON, YOU SARDING BASTARD!"

Kasoria didn't pause. There wasn't time. Already a mad and desperate choir of alarms, voices, howls, barks and pounding iron-shod feet were tolling his demise. Some ember of understanding informed him, quite casually, that he might not leave this place. Webb looked like he could handle a blade well enough, but he would take him. The Raggedy Man didn't plan on fighting fair. But the flood of outraged swords and shields and armor that would soon tear that door down and swamp the room... maybe he couldn't open a Crossing in time.

It doesn't matter, he thought with an icy, eerie stillness, as he saw Llyr blink back into reality, as if birthed by the very shadows. Only this matters.

"Uh?"

Webb made a noise somewhere between a gasp an a grunt as he felt the knife at the back of his neck. A single trill. Maybe two. Confusion seized him again, and the hesitation that always bought with it. Kasoria knew they dealt in moments at this bloody stage; stolen slivers of time in which life and death could be decided. While Webb spent a precious half-trill weighing his options, Kasoria had made his own-

Measured by distance and urgency.

Decided by angle and time.

Informed by the knowledge that of the three men in this room, at best, only one was going to leave it.

He's already dead, Kasoria told himself as his free hand dove under his armpit and snapped back out again. It doesn't matter.

The throwing knife flew across the short distance in a blink, maybe less. Kasoria knew his target wouldn't be able to go back, nor advance into the flying steel. But he could dive to the side. Of course that would mean Llyr would be in the line of fire, but... well... now or after Webb was bled out, the Quacian was going to die at his hand. This was an unexpected end, but it didn't stay Kasoria's hand. What mattered was, he had the moment.

More than that, he knew what Webb would do. Because it was what he had to do.

So if the Marshal threw himself to the side, Kasoria would have already been unleashing another knife. Drawing and throwing from his underarm sheath in the same snake-fast, practiced movement. Hurling at such a narrow distance that he couldn't miss, even if he wasn't aiming for the middle of Webb's chest. Either in mid-air, or as he landed, Webb would be struck... and when he finally did land, Kasoria's outstretched fingers would clench into a fist-

-his teeth would grit as he braced himself for the wave of pain that Traitor Claw would mercifully absorb for him-

-and Webb (impaled or not) would find himself helpless and immobilized by the strongest Shackles Kasoria could conjure. Hand squeezed tight enough to bleed all color from his knuckles, Kasoria would ignore the inner trembling that warned him Overstepping was not far away. It was worth it: Webb had proven himself quite the, well, slippery cunt, and he wouldn't risk him getting away again.

Llyr didn't cross his mind. He barely even looked in the man's direction. His eyes would only be for the squirming, gasping figure on the ground. The karambit in his own hand, aching to be used and almost dripping with the pain it had already absorbed. With a twitch of his hand, the Abrogator would jerk Webb's body vertical, instead of horizontal... and he'd open his throat like a lamb's.

The Quacian would have to mind himself.

[Maltruism]

Frustration roared through Webb's very soul. Here he had just considered the betrayal by the Llywelyn fellow in allowing the assassin into his home, but had completely dismissed him as one who might make an effective contribution to the actual fight. A last time, his arcs of combat experience spoke to him. It was over.

But the follow-up to that fatalistic acknowledgement was the determination to bring his killers with him. He still had his knife in his hand. He needed only to ensure that the neck stab did not paralyze him instantly. In a flash, he assessed the likely position of the man behind him. In a flash he saw the killer reach for what was sure to be a throwing knife. In a flash he determined that he might maneuver the throw to strike the traitor behind him. And failing that, he might at least have the opportunity to hamstring him himself.

Even as he partially feigned his dodge to the side, he saw the little man adjusting his balance on the fly. It came as no surprise that the assassin had already assumed he would dodge to the side. And trying to reverse to the other side would not work, since the first blade was already in the air. As well, he felt the tip of Llyr's blade scoring the flesh at the back of his neck with the effort. No, there was only one move that might compromise both threats. Down!

The jerk to the side set the first blade a bit off track, but it was the sudden drop that allowed it to do no more than skim the top of his shoulder. It tore skin and fabric in the process, but did little to the tissue beneath. Whether its flight remained true enough to deliver a ricocheted stab to Llyr behind him, he would never know.

All of his enemy's instincts regarding the manner in which he would deliver the killing blow came to a freakishly sudden halt. Though the second knife did land as intended, Webb would never feel the pain.

Casting on the run can result in slight deviations from perfectly accurate targeting, as well as the wards in the room. The presence of Llyr, and Kasoria's divided awareness of the immediate killing vs. the follow-up, might have diminished his concentration. Perhaps even the knowledge of impending overstepping may have subconsciously hindered the full focus required to overcome the other elements involved.

It was all to be moot as the shackling force, meant to encapsulate the Marshall's entire body, while still mostly upright, slipped almost completely over the suddenly dropping body. There was a muffled snap as the lowest edge of the shackle gripped the target's head, but nothing below it. The Marshall's own downward and side-diving momentum snapped his neck as cleanly as an executioner's noose.

Kasoria may have still even charged in, not yet realizing the unexpected success of his shackle. But the morbid tableau of Webb's body, draped at a slack angle held up from the floor by only the head, would give a swift clue, as would the unnatural tilt of it as the shackle was released. The rich clang of master-worked metal sounded a peal of confirmation as Webb's knife fell from nerveless fingers.

Shouts and pounding on the door gave swift clue as well that time was up. There was a bar that could be put in place, the one Webb had set aside when he'd first answered Kasoria's knock. But could it be replaced before the door was knocked in? A sudden silence on the far side gave warning that the guards had given up on the courtesy of asking for entrance and were about to force the issue.

Llyr might also be wondering about the high-risk, throwing-knife strategy his supposed partner had used, assuming he was not bleeding out himself from the blade that had caromed off Webb's shoulder.

!	Message from: Maltruism
	Llyr, I leave that entirely up to you.

[Llyr Llywelyn]

The Raggedy Man threw a knife. The Marshall feigned a dodge. The stiletto dagger scoured the back of Webb’s neck. A neck that no longer held skull to spine. The fatal crack muffled under the din of the shouts of soldiers and the howls of dogs. Clever to move down. Webb was had been a clever man. Such cleverness had gained Webb his position; gained him prestige and the concern of the soldiers that clamored outside the locked door. Cleverness had not saved him, though, in the end. Not when faced with the brutality of Kasoria’s determination. The Raggedy Man acted as judge, jury, and executioner for a city the Etzori had once known, for the city that Kasoria wanted to persist, and for a future that did not include the Lady of the Spiders, the Maiden of the Web, the Webmistress Sintra.

Llyr had no luxury to dodge. The thrown knife caromed off the Marshall’s shoulder. It angled sharply from the change in momentum.

Kasoria’s knife struck Llyr’s heart. Or it would have, if the blade had sunk through the velvet black and gray silk of his bespoke doublet. The weapon glanced aside, not as if it hit fabric but as if it hit steel. From the spot, a faint glimmer of magic. Thin, nearly imperceptible, fissures ran through the fine material. The velvet and silk flaked away like dead leaves, broken by the force of the knife’s sudden impact. It continued to give way to his shoulder and left the youthful biqaj’s silvery-blue skin exposed.

Webb’s body hung in the conclusion of the assassination, but Llyr didn’t look at the neutralized threat. He stared at Kasoria as the brutal killer finished the task with a slice of a blade through Webb’s throat. Eyes of vivid red, a mixture of scarlet and crimson alike, the vibrant color filled the elfin shapes to the brim and flooded out around his lashes in a lantern-like glow. Had he not bolstered his attire - the knife wouldn’t have glanced away but would have sunk right into the vulnerable spot that now showed bare. He didn’t feel confused though. A necessary risk, one that made sense enough, though of course he didn’t anticipate or appreciate it.

A clatter sounded. Webb’s knife had fallen to the floor. Pounded knocks and shuffled feet at the door made it clear they didn’t have time to discuss tactical preferences.

“You must go,” said Llyr to Kasoria. “Cross and I will handle the rest here.”

Llyr prepared himself for what would come. If he could… but he felt… the death… nearby… he tried to maintain his composure, but the fleeting opportunity to flay the soul from the Marshall felt oh-so-near like the scent of a freshly baked pastry, or a wildflower in bloom, or… a soul for the taking. Webb could possibly become a ghost after all… His sparks pressed against the wards, they sung with hunger for more. More ether, more power, more… the Ambrosia that still ran through his veins helped some, but the Thirst proved immense and-

-and when had he stepped over the morbid tableau of Webb’s body? And when had he lifted him to look at the slack-jawed expression of death on what had once been the firm patrician features of a strong and clever leader… it had only been trills. Trills of lost time, and his breath shallowed when he wondered if he could still draw the soul from the body or not, or if it had fled already. Would that not be an important aspect of research to know? When did a soul exactly depart from a body? Immediate upon death or did a delay exist? Was it stuck to the body like honey that had to be peeled away and-

-and gods, when had his gloved fingers – so slick with the fresh blood that still poured out from Webb’s broken neck – when had the digits pressed into the Marshall’s mouth to widen it and when had he gotten even closer – and he wanted to flay – he wanted to flay – he had gone so long without since he had drank of Emmy’s soul. Since he’d taken the spark of Empathy into himself. He’d been so good even in places like Viden and Etzos where there were so many souls encased in meatbags that wasted their potential, wasted the inherent power within them! Souls could be so much greater if they brought him more ether, and nothing fulfilled like a soul, and he’d been so good for so long with his nearly-constant use of Ambrosia and other drugs to distract and mellow and throw himself into his business and his research and the pleasures of the flesh-

-yet how could any mundane carnality compare to the pleasure of devouring a soul? Llyr knelt beside the Marshall and cradled the snapped head in both hands. His bolster glimmered then faded in trust of the assassin his initiate beside him. It was not as if he planned to devour Kasoria’s soul. Webb was already dead, what use did he have- what use- he was dead already- it would be a waste- such a waste- shouldn’t waste anything, not when it could be used…

…but if yeh do… we’re done.

Y’ think youse can control it? That hunger? Y’ can’t. I know. I seen a few mages, thought they could. They ended up like fuckin’ animals, monsters. An’ I bet, right up t’ the point they couldn’t even think like men anymore, every one of ‘em though, ‘I’ve got it under control. I’m fine. It’s fine. I’m still me.’

…Y’ won’t be able to. An’ I’ll have t’kill yeh…

Cuz once y’ start flayin’, road only ends one way.

Etherist.

Becomer.

Attuner.

Empath.

Flayer.

_Monster.

^Monster.

Only a bit passed from Webb’s snapped neck, to the rush of blood under Kasoria’s blade, to Llyr’s descent to his knelt posture beside the corpse.

A single bit from the knife that glanced over his heart, and would have stabbed inward, if not for the bolstered attire granted by his spark of Transmutation – and within that same bit, he’d already forgiven Kasoria for the dangerous tactic. He did not – he would not – believe that it had been a purposeful decision in any regard. He knew how much the assassination meant to Kas. He would not hold it against his initiate to prioritize Webb’s death over anything else.

“I’ve got it under control,” whispered the young mage while he released his cradled hold on the dead Marshall’s face. “I’m fine. It’s fine.”

Llyr returned his red-eyed gaze to Kasoria, and he said in his southern-accented deep voice – pitch and tone perfected by Edashan magic into a seductive blend of sound that vibrated through the air between them, “I’m still me. I am not an animal. I am not a monster…”

“…but his soul might ghost,” he mentioned, a faint blush of silver across his perfected features. He no longer looked like the Quacian youth that Kasoria had once protected. His teeth were no longer vaguely crooked. His skin had become unblemished to an impossible degree, and the scars he'd once shared with the older man were gone. Yet he looked far closer to when they’d first gotten to know one another in the illusions of Emea. Magic seemed to fill his lithe body to the brim. The halo above his head cast a pale glow and his gossamer wings sent reflections of thin designs across the room. “Do you not aim to rid the Webmistress of her servant’s soul? It might be possible… but it cannot wait much longer. If I am to flay, it must be now. I won’t, if you say not to.”

A thudded boom echoed through the room. The soldiers had taken a more aggressive technique to knock on the door. Only a few more knocks and the lacquered wood would be lacquered splinters on the floor. Llyr winced and suggested in a hurried whisper, “To the Veil? We can buy some time through there. They won’t know to follow us. What do you want to do, Kas?”

[Kasoria]

It was not how he imagined it. Nor, he was sure, how it would be remembered.

Marshall Webb, Hero of Etzos, was a dramatis persona that demanded an end of dazzling theater. Of magic tricks and dizzying martial feats. A room torn apart by two opponents - one straight and noble, the other bitter and twisted (Kasoria knew how he would be cast, but cared not, for he knew the truth) - until the deadly game was one by a single brilliant move... or one was worn down by wounds and exhaustion. That was how it would be told, if not remembered, for of the three to witness it, only he would survive to tell... and he never would.

That was how he imagined it playing out. That was how his short future had been foretold within his mind, how his plans and tactics and feints and tricks and counters had been geared towards, and instead-

crack

Kasoria had heard that sound before. Standing in front of a gibbet. Looking up with that innocent, ignorant, amoral wonder of a child. Hearing the thieve's neck sob and his muffled sobbing die under the mask. That same sound. A wet, thick snapping of neck bones. He was almost surprised. As if some immature part of him still expected the bones of a noble, a Marshall, a general, a Hero, to sound... like what, exactly?

But he did all the same. As Kasoria froze in mid-lunge, hand outstretched, karambit cocked, Webb died with that single sound, and nothing more. No gurgling or choked last words. No pithy speech the bards would no doubt concoct. Nothing but a crack and a widening of his eyes. Then when Kasoria knelt down, very slowly, and looked into his eyes... he saw nothing but his own reflection in them.

"... fuck."

It didn't last long. The pounding from the door denied him any chance to introspect. Instead the killer shook his head and reminded himself that was indeed what he was. And a good scratcher didn't take chances. He gripped the knife harder, still keeping Webb suspended awkwardly, and with a smooth, almost gentle gesture-

The arteries on either side of Webb's neck and at the front of his throat popped open like grapes. Not nearly as wetly or forcefully as he'd expected, though. Bright red blood pissed out of the neat crimson wound, dripping quickly but not spurting. Already his innards were shutting down, disconnection from the brain telling the body to shut up shop, turn out the lights, we're closed and staying closed. Kasoria watched the blood pool and spread under the dead man. The clatter of his knife snapped him out of his reverie. He recalled his Spark, and Web splatted wetly into his own fluid.

“You must go. Cross and I will handle the rest here.”

It was speaking to him. The abomination. The half-breed. The hidden dagger that was, he was certain, ready to strike if he didn't do so first. The old man looked at Llyr with eyes made dull, for just a moment. As if the horror and weight of what he'd done had struck him down to the core. Though Llyr probably didn't think that. He was naive in many ways, but knew Kasoria and men like him well enough to understand that, at this point, one more body was just... well, one more body. The Raggedy Man blinked and nodded.

You know what you have to do. Do it now, before-

Like a wraith, like a ghost, like a monster, Llyr glided across the floor and seemed to loom over the corpse. Hunger radiated off him. Thick and gnashing teeth he could not see but his Spark could feel. That same feeling he'd caught before, wafting off a dark-haired waif with the same red eyes. Kasoria's lips curled into a grimace. Fates, it was... welcome, actually.

A Mortalborn. A Flayer. A liar. A traitor. What more do you need to know? How many more reasons do you need?

None. I need none.

“I’ve got it under control. I’m fine. It’s fine.”

He knew that tone, too. Had heard those words, or similar. The endless refrain of the junkie. Got it under control, not a problem, on top of it, stop whenever I want... all it did was add another reason to Kasoria's list. But he was fighting it. Llyr was fighting it. So hungry, so eager, teeth almost bore like fang and still... he stopped. He looked at Kasoria and he plead his case.

Because he wants to be better.

No, Kasoria told himself, hating the unstoppable honesty that was utterly unwanted in that moment. He doesn't want to let you down.

Because you're his friend.

“I’m still me. I am not an animal. I am not a monster… but his soul might ghost.”

Kasoria frowned. The pounding was getting harder now, the voices more frantic. They knew their master was in danger; Fates, they'd probably found the bodies by now. He could only imagine the panic rushing through their ranks, the fresh wave of reinforcements coming forth. Maybe even mages, come to tear down the door and the wall and half the room to save their master. And when it was clear that was impossible, well...

We don't have time for this.

Yes, we do. For this. Not him.

“Do you not aim to rid the Webmistress of her servant’s soul? It might be possible… but it cannot wait much longer. If I am to flay, it must be now. I won’t, if you say not to.”

Kasoria's face was still crumpled into a frown, but a swishing eel of malevolent cunning flickered into life in his mind. Flaying... he knew what it was. What it did and how it twisted a man. But he also knew it could be... distracting. Llyr would have to focus all his magicks on the task. It would invigorate him, for sure, but it was also ensure whatever kernel of ether and spark that made up Webb's soul was destroyed utterly. No chance for him to resurrect or be resurrected. Kasoria like the idea. Two birds, one blade.

“To the Veil? We can buy some time through there. They won’t know to follow us. What do you want to do, Kas?”

The Raggedy Man licked his lips and said hurriedly, "Fine, do it. Now, boy!"

He had to snarl because of the shock he saw briefly on Llyr's face. Their friendship had almost floundered and died one night because of Flaying, and now he was agreeing without so much as an argument. Yet these were different times. Different circumstances, and-

BOOM

That did not come from bands or feet. That was a fucking battering ram. Kasoria turned away from Llyr as the Quacian squatted over Webb, jaw seeming to distend for a moment, although that could have been his imagination. Instead he raised a hand, willed ether into it, so much it glowed and hissed with power. Black shapes wriggled at the edges of his eyes. Overstepping. Fates, he was close. But he couldn'r fail, not now. He summoned his Spark and with a punch of his arm through the air-

-crafted a thick, solid Shield in the doorway, on the room-side of the door under assault. Even if they tore away the wood, now they'd have a magical obstacle to deal with that wouldn't be coming down so easily. Kasoria swayed on his feet as the wards assaulted his ether, nipped and ripped at it like a shoal of evil fish. Kasoria spat to the side, contempt and grim resolve etched on his face.

Not now. Not yet...

He turned to the horror dining on a traitor. He watched until... whatever it was Lyr was doing, taking, sucking from the corpse, was gone. He remembered the Underground. The Naerikk he'd found down there... Aksinya, wasn't it? How everything he knew about his friend had been shattered and destroyed. The truth of his lineage. Not parenta... no, that was wrong. They didn't have parents. Just things that spawned them. For they were not human, and could not be trusted-

Llyr started to speak, and with a roar that seemed to shake the wars themselves-

-Kasoria sent the boy flying hard into the opposite wall with a push kick straight to the sternum. The blink of time it took Llyr to go from standing on the floor to his back smashing into the wall was time enough for Kasoria to summon his Spark again, hand snapping up and raised into a fist-

Llyr didn't fall onto the floor, or even put his feet to it. He couldn't go anywhere, in fact. Couldn't twitch a finger or even breath more than a shallow lungful. It seemed like the air around him from toes to scalp had been turned into lead, trapped him against the bricks.

More than that, he felt the air between both of them seem to groan and snarl with the weight of Kasoria's angry, aggressive, merciless Spark. Filling the atmosphere with his ether, his magic, his will. Turning the Shackles not just into bands against movement, but wards themselves, making any cast from him... problematic.

In front of him, Kasoria looked more animal than human. Sweat glistening and running off him in rivulets. Muscles twitching along with his eyes as his Spark begged him to stop. The wards were almost sizzling with exertion as this masterful Abrogator cast and cast again, ignoring them... but he would break first. Eventually.

But not in time to save the Quacian.

"You... lied... to me," Kasoria spat out each word as if they were soaked in blood. It wasn't far from the truth. Every word brought him a step closer. Fist shaking. Karambit twitching in his other hand. When he spoke next, it was in the tone of a curse, "Son of fucking Chrien..."

[Llyr Llywelyn]

————　❈　————

Llyr had planned for this moment. For trials and trials, ever since Kasoria had first approached him, he’d spent breaks upon breaks to figure how to make the assassination go as smoothly as possible. As flawless of an execution as manageable. In dreams, he explored possibilities and with figurines, maps, and notes, he considered different angles.

He had allowed himself the familiar role of unwary witness, of fearful bystander, of vulnerable innocent… for these were the roles that he’d been trained for through the arcs. The gore of death became as commonplace to the biqaj as plucking wildflowers, or playing jacks, were for other children. How many throats had his father cut open on paths through the jungles? How many good people had fallen to the trap of a pretty biqaj with sad eyes of shifting blues and purples and greens and silvers – only to be robbed and gutted by the shadow behind them. How many victims had he tied to iron chairs, knowing their flesh would be flayed and their eyes gouged out? How many did he delicately feed and clean anyway, while their minds broke and their wills crumbled, and they begged him for escape – any kind of escape – and Llyr refused.

No matter how much he planned, he had not expected the Thirst to feel so impossibly powerful. He had not acknowledged the potential. For he had been doing so well, refusing his urges in the most heightened of conflicts and intimacies. Yet, what logic did he have to refuse now? Flaying seemed practical to secure the very ambitions that resulted in the dead Marshall at their feet.

Kasoria had gone through the security of a cut throat even after a snapped neck. Was flaying not an extension of that same assurance? To deny the Lady of Spiders her servant’s very soul. To avoid any ghost of vengeance. Llyr knew ghosts. Kasoria knew ghosts. Hazel had turned to ghost after her death in Westguard... and Llyr could still recall when, surrounded by fresh death and the chaos of war, the killer had held the mage close in the compassion of a hug.

When Llyr saw the dullness to Kasoria’s marble-black eyes, he didn’t think much of it. Yes, Webb was just one more body. One more victim. One more crushed under brutal determination. Not just for Kasoria, though, but also for Llyr. He tried to feel otherwise, but how many had it been? How many had died within spheres close to him? Dozens? Hundreds? Thousands? Not by his own hand or foot, but in his witness regardless; where he could have prevented each and every one of them, if only he had chosen differently. Webb’s body added to the heaps in the dark corners of the young man’s mind where he kept those victims slaughtered by his loved ones...

…and the soul pulsed inside the body as the blood loss slowed. Llyr could almost taste the faded lifeforce. It begged him to devour it. And what point was there to resist? He’d managed so far, but what was just one more soul?

Despite everything that told him to suck the essence out of the dead man, he waited… and he handed the decision over to Kasoria instead. He wouldn’t, if the older man told him not to. The only possible discipline left within him… was if Kas told him no.

Fine, do it.

He barely heard the Now, boy! that came after.

Given the affirmation, he turned his attention back to the slack-jawed look of death on Webb’s glossy-eyed face. On his knees, he straddled over the corpse, and he opened the dead man’s mouth wide. His breaths turned shallow with anticipation. Finally, finally, after sixty long and arduous trials, he would give in to the constant hunger.

Slender of body, languid in his motion forward despite latent eagerness underneath, the mage’s spine curled, and his insectile wings folded upward. He lowered, and breathed in, and with the breath came the ether… and with the ether that winded up and out of Webb’s mouth, Llyr latched onto the Marshall’s soul. It felt beyond anything – even beyond his first tastes of Emmy’s soul – and intoxicating bliss demanded more… and more… ether and soul entwined in a resplendent concoction. He lowered in a hovered kiss against the limp mouth, and closed his eyes while the mage shamelessly devoured the mortal’s soul.

Somewhere, he heard a noise – something that was meant to be heard, something that threatened, but he could not care. He only needed trills… a few more trills… he could feel the soul draining dry, the ether flooded through his body. His four sparks sang in absolute harmony.

Almost there. Almost done…

Llyr’s wings had changed from their usual shape. No longer dragonfly-like, they had multiplied in layers of thin gossamer wings that seemed to vibrate with his iridescent ether. When he opened his eyes, ether filled the orbs past the thickly-lashed frames and his pupils vanished in the wash of opaline light. His skin glittered with the silver hues of his blood.

He lifted away, the last of Webb’s soul taken into him with all the ether he could channel along with it. The flaying had only taken several trills to accomplish. Spine arched rather than curled, he lifted his gaze to the ceiling in an ecstatic display of intimate posture. His silken blond hair fell around his pointed ears, drifted away from his sharp youthful, Edashan-perfected features. In a voice, heady with the momentary glorious high, he confirmed, “It is done…”

And if he thought to say more, he did not have the chance.

For when he moved to stand, to open an entrance to the Veil for them to cross through, Kasoria's boot landed against the center of his chest.

Llyr flew back, though his wings acted with instinct to slow the unexpected momentum. Far more concerning than the sudden deviation of how he perceived Kasoria, was the ether he felt summoned through the Abrogant’s spark.

“Kas? Why-”

The abrogant's ether hardened in the air around him. Llyr’s mind, quickened by the sap of Ambrosia, abandoned his trust without hesitation.

His belief in the older man shattered and crumpled in one fell swoop – as quick as the boot to his chest. Now wasn’t the time for confusion of grief or emotions. With surgical precision, Llyr focused on survival instead. The iridescence of his eyes changed, darkened as if oily tar seeped outward and the feylike shapes bounded shadows instead of light.

The mortalborn mage's four sparks furiously raged against the one aggressive abrogant spark that aimed to restrain him. But he allowed for it. He allowed for the restraint, for the moment, while his mind raced between his options. The thudded noise of the soldiers trying to break through the abrogant’s obstacle and... another mage had reached the other side, suspected Llyr from the unusual silence that sounded past the Shield door.

You’re overstepping...

His lips didn’t move. Eye contact trained on the assassin's dark gaze, Llyr spoke directly into the black-haired man’s mind. As if his own thoughts themselves, if not that it sounded like Llyr's voice.

You don’t want to do this, Kas.

“You… lied… to me…” insisted the man in such determined fury.

Lied? About what? About flaying? Was Kasoria truly going to kill him over flaying? No... that statement, the tone behind those words... this was something else. This was something that Kasoria had been planning. Had he been planning it since he first approached Llyr about the assassination? But... why? Llyr glanced at the karambit while the Etzori assassin approached closer... closer... closer...

Look at yourself! Everything within you is fighting against this.

“Son of fucking Chrien…”

You know it isn’t right.

Llyr let him curse. His focus split between the telepathic link as he kept his voice in Kasoria's mind (as long as the assassin didn't look away from his gaze), and a gradual drain of the ethereal shackles that bound him. Every step closer that Kasoria got, made it slightly easier for the etherist to absorb the other mage's ether.

“What do you think I lied about?” he asked calmly. Far too calm for the situation. He took a deep breath and continued to absorb the ether into himself. It would send Kasoria past simple overstepping into severe consequence if he tried to maintain the Shackles...

...but Llyr continued to Absorb. All of his sparks screamed silently within him, to be used in the world and bend the abrogant to his knees and make them all see what a mage truly was - the sheer power that could be revealed. The wards mattered little to the etherist, with the taste of freshly flayed soul on his very lips and tongue. “I’ve done everything you needed of me! And...”

And you threaten me? Now? Do you believe I would ever betray you like this?

The deep voice of the Quacian echoed inside of Kasoria’s head.

Shackles drained enough to loosen their hold, Llyr dropped to his feet. As soon as his boots touched the floor, he dropped instantly to a crouch and slammed his gloved hand to the floorboards. The wood rose in impossible waves of motion.

Shapecrafted into an ocean-like tide, the wooden floor lifted up and surrounded Kasoria in a spiraled thickly-barred cage. Llyr darted forward, almost too swiftly with his many wings that quickened his momentum. He sped around the cage and landed on the other side. He waited until the captured killer turned to likely snarl at him, but more importantly, to make eye contact again.

Do not use your magic again.

Llyr collected his dagger from near Webb’s decrepit soulless corpse. He knew they were out of time… They didn't have any luxury to discuss or deliberate, or even continue a fight. He lowly hissed breath past his teeth, and stabbed. The dagger's blade sunk into the floor near the cage. An opening split the wood apart beneath Kasoria’s feet. Reality tore itself apart from the dreamwalker's focused intent. Ether poured around them.

In a lurch of gravity, both men left Idalos and fell into the Veil. Llyr flipped around, wings chaotic but instinctual in their speed and he quickly mended the opened space so it wouldn’t be left as passage for anyone to cross along with the two dreamwalkers. He switched his direction and followed Kasoria.

“An Duine Luideach, You and I,” he called past the surreal Emean winds that rushed around the both of them. “We are not finished! Chan eil sinn chrìochnaichte!”

[Kasoria]

You should have killed him right away. Stupid old fool!

Kasoria had all of a trill to let that thought rattle through his mind before the floor turned into a fucking monster. He'd felt the Shackles loosen, like tight bonds in his hands made slacker by weakening muscles. His own or his Sparks', it was all the same. He felt it, all the same, and knew it was his own. Just like he knew the crisp, booming voice in his skull wasn't his own. He'd seen that trick before, and oh so recently. Llyr had clearly advanced beyond the magics Kasoria had known from him before; now he could bend wills as well as matter.

It sounded like him. But it wasn't him. Because Kasoria didn't think in these moment before a kill; it was just the simple act of-

But this wasn't a simple kill. This wasn't like the rest. This was his friend, and-

You've killed friends before. Never without reason. Never without cause. He swallowed blood and growled against the voice of Llyr that was not quit Llyr. And now he invades your mind, to twist you into his puppet.

Honestly, Kasoria should have thanked him. Such a violation would make whatever followed much easier.

And you threaten me? Now? Do you believe I would ever betray you like this?

"Gedoutta me 'ead yeh fuckin' Mort-"

Then his magic was weakened enough for the Quacian to drop and his hand was on the floor and then it wasn't a floor it was writhing and sloshing like sea, no, like flesh with purpose, that moved towards him and-

-the Raggedy Man snarled in fury as the floor surged and swamped him, wood flowing like water then mud and then solid substance again, caging him from feet to shoulders. The young noble flitted across the room with his insect wings, and Fates, for the first time Kasoria felt real, honest revulsion rush through him at the sight of the action. He wasn't a human. He was an insect. Literally and figuratively.

Do not use your magic again.

Kasoria spat blood at the man even as he turned away from him. "Learn a diff'rent trick, yeh cunt-"

Then he roared, as the ground beneath him vanished and a gaping maw to another plane of reality opened up. The compulsion to obey was so strong, almost physical... but he knew better. Some bitter and iron-shod kernel of defiance never blew out even as Llyr's powerful ether swarmed into him, seeking to control his mind. Which was both the problem, and the solution. Ether was a substance. It was real. Like the infinitesimal creatures that made up diseases. Like them, it could be purged. You just had to think small enough, and-

-as he fell, or started to, Kasoria bowed his head and screwed his eyes shut. Stopped out the booming voice of command and focused instead on his Spark, his power, his ether, howling and gnashing phantom teeth against him. He drew it up from what battered container was left within him, feeling his ether bubble up from the pit of his stomach and spew outwards through his body. Rush through his veins and muscle and bones and organs like lava up through a volcano. Acid through lead pipes, and whenever it found Llyr's ether-

Kasoria could almost feel the Quacian's ether being burned away and expelled from his body. Even when his ether flooded through his mind and he screamed in agony, falling, screaming, mind aflame literally and figuratively but still raging, still roaring-

-as he looked up suddenly and saw the mutated fucking Morty hurtling down through the Crossing towards him. Speaking in a tongue that sounded like shit in his mouth, his father's language, his mother's, and that seething, eternal hatred was enough to get Kasoria moving again-

going to emea veil first dont let him trap you go back

Thoughts rushed through his mind and his decision was made even as they became echos. First the Veil, then his Dreamscape, and Kasoria did not want to get trapped in that shithole. There, Llyr was a god, and right now, he was a wrathful one. So the moment the Crossing had snapped them into the Veil - a great ocean to Kasoria, a sprawling library to Llyr, and Kasoria had given up long ago how both of them could see the same things at once - Kasoria felt two things.

The first was the crushing weight of the ward in Webb's chambers vanish, left behind a whole other reality ago and unable to harm or limit him anymore-

-and the second was his palm start to glow as he slapped the surface of the ocean, just as he landed on it, and the placid liquid split into a sinkhole that he rolled into-

-another Crossing. Another tear between the worlds that taxed and raked at him. But he could not stop. His body screamed and his Spark wept, but Kasoria bore the pain with the endurance he'd survived on for decades. The wondrous stretching of a single moment that was the Crossing was lost on him now; instead he focused solely on the Brand he'd left in his old home, spent but a moment enjoying the firm, solid sense of the real world under his feet and then-

-slapped his hand against the wall with his karambit still clasped in the other and charged through without even pausing, not roaring now, as furious but soundless as a striking panther-

-exploding out into the Veil next to where Llyr stood, likely surprised the Raggedy Man had left so quickly and either planning to pursue him, or wonder if he would be doing the same. Kasoria assumed that a moment or two would be spent as the boy decided; probably not more than that. Llyr could be quite the tactician when he wanted to be... but he'd not killed long and often enough, fought bloodily and desperately enough, to have Kasoria's lack of hesitation.

The Crossing opened and Kasoria went careening into Llyr, hovering there with his hideous wings fluttering and vibrating like a coffin fly's. He wrapped his arms around him and did his best to savage what pale flesh or delicate wings he could with his karambit but the angle was wrong because-

get him back dont let him stay here your ground your advantage

The objective wasn't to kill him here, in the Emea, where his command of ether and magic was beyond Kasoria's. Granted, he was a tough cunt back in the waking world, too, but there at least the Etzori had some advantage.

-he commanded another Crossing to open as they hit the surface of the Great Ocean again, man and boy going thrashing through it. Back to Kasoria's rotted and gutted ruin of a home. Back to decaying reality instead of limitless dream. What happened next, what trick Kasoria would have to deal with from one of Llyr's many sleeves... well, he'd just have to wing it.

"Deireadh nuair a gheobhaidh tú bás, ollphéist!"

He hissed the words into Llyr as they embraced each other, bodies writhing and twisting as if in a hurricane, down the rabbit hole back to the real world from the imaginary, with rage and blood awaiting them in either. Kasoria screwed shut his eyes as he felt Llyr's Sparks again, outnumbering his own, delving into him yet again to siphon and absorb-

-until he exhaled, eyes snapping open, reactive layers of Abrogation bubbling up from his pores like crackling natural armor. That would slow him down, maybe. Not for long though. This would come down to blades and fists and brutality, he'd wager. Mainly because it had to. His Spark was already scraping the bottom of its metahphorical barrel. His muscles were twitching and spasming under his cloak; his brain felt like it was leaking out of his ears, and soon-

Soon it'll be just magic and then-

Kasoria growled and the thought vanished. No. No more thoughts. No more musing.

[Llyr Llywelyn]

—————————　❈　—————————

Hatred and revulsion, powerful and true, Llyr didn’t need the magics of Empathy or Attunement to recognize the sincere detestation that fueled the furious curses of his initiate. How long had such brewed inside the older man? A question for another time. Just as he would delay the inevitable grief that would come, so too did Llyr set aside his confusion and his need for inquiry. Though he could not help but feel a flicker of hope that perhaps Kasoria had come under some malignant force that had released when Webb had died. Some final ward or spell or manipulation, a revenge to make the victor turn on those close to them and-

-Llyr knew it wasn’t true, though. He knew Kasoria well enough to recognize that no external influence ruled over the man’s mind. Why, though, had he called Llyr a Mort?

Misunderstanding or not, they needed to leave the estate. This was a matter between them, and the addition of guards nearby only made it far more dangerous. The assassination completed, there was no reason to stay. Llyr attempted to settle the acute sensation of emotional hurt that welled inside, of being used in such a matter… to go so far as to flay to assure the soul of Webb would not bother his initiate… only for Kasoria to turn around and literally kick him aside. He desperately tried to ignore, but it twisted and warped into reflective anger.

His attempt to calm Kasoria’s rage failed before it truly even got started. The abrogant had scorched his empathic ether right out, with marble-black eyes screwed shut in refusal to connect with Llyr while they fell through the Veil.

He reverted to voice since he could not relay through the mind anymore. Truly, such had been a desperate case to distract so he could escape the Shackles. It had been a trick, as Kasoria had called it. Yet was he not allowed a trick or two when his initiate wielded magic against him and drew a dagger with clear intention to drive the blade into his broken heart?

For as much as he supplied Kasoria with new justifications, so too did Llyr shed the awkward morality of his youth that he clung to. As much as Kasoria’s hatred seeped to the surface, pressured by the swift unmasking between them, so too did Llyr’s core instincts of absolute survival rise over anything else. Llyr never had it in him to entertain the notion of being a martyr. Perhaps such a drive was why he survived four sparks within his divine-heritage soul, or perhaps it was why he ran from situations he could not win yet…

…and he did not run from Kasoria now.

The dark-haired Etzori was an abrogant, but he was also an aging assassin who didn’t understand the ways of Emea. Not like Llyr did. While once Llyr had taught him of the dreamscapes, and Kasoria had protected him through the plague-ridden lands of Etzos… they had both been apart of the war, in separate divisions on approach to Rhakros.

Every trial since he and Kasoria had parted ways, with the exchange of a purse of gold nel and a bottle of Upton’s Economical, Llyr had trained his body not only for magic but for physical prowess. He wasn’t defenseless.

Should have killed me right away.

Dagger still in hand, Llyr sped toward the falling assassin in hope to force them into his own dreamscape. There, he could lock Kasoria within and refuse departure. There, he could hide away while he let the Etzori run around like a mad dog until Kas grew too tired to do anything but talk. If it wasn’t something that could be talked through… then he would have to consider putting the rabid old man down.


His initiate had learned well, though.

Llyr’s shadow-filled eyes widened when he realized Kasoria had already opened a new Crossing. He hissed at the sight, and the etherist could feel the arcane strain of the overstepping that the abrogant had caused to himself already.

He sped toward the opened Crossing yet it closed before he could travel through. His feet landed against the glassy floor of a staircase and he swept his gaze over the Veil.

What did Kasoria think he was doing? He still had the man branded. He likely expected Llyr to follow… was he leading him into a trap? Was he working with Sintra or another entity? Was this more than some twisted vengeance and a greater plot to be had? Was Kasoria working on someone’s coin against him? Did he plan to ensnare him if Llyr followed? All these questions and more flooded through his mind while he tried to decide which move to make. He could see the bright light nearby of where he’d gone, and it grew brighter, brighter, BRIGHTER -

- and the Raggedy Man careened right into him.

“Fates!” was all that Llyr managed. Tangled up with the wildly ferocious man, Llyr fell off the spiraled staircase in his sole perception of the Veil. His wings didn’t know how to handle it and a few dissipated entirely on their own. The blade sliced into what wings remained on one side, and he felt stings at his back. The sharp karambit tore the entire side of his wings to shreds.

“Stop- Kas-” he breathed heavily while he endured the loss of his wings. He had his own dagger, though, but Kasoria had enough alertness to pin the arm so he couldn’t make use of it.

Llyr, however, used his legs instead. He kicked and swung his bony knees to land wherever they could. Whatever it took to separate them, so they weren’t locked in an inevitably deadly embrace.

They fell out of the Veil and into a familiar despairing hovel of a home. Llyr understood every word that Kasoria hissed at him, but he didn’t understand why his initiate said it.

“Ollphéist!?” he repeated in a shout. A wave of ether rushed through him as he connected to the known frequency of his initiate. The old floorboards underneath dangerously creaked, a tremor rocked through the house itself. If not for the Edashan potions that perfected the divine youth’s features, Llyr might have almost dared to appear ugly in the moment while he snapped, “Look in a mirror for once!”

Silken blond hair framed his brow, where shadowy black warred with crimson red in the ethereal gaze that locked onto Kasoria. His upper lip curled. In his naturally deep pitch, undeterred by his frequently controlled tone to make his voice sound silvery, he snarled, “You will murder yourself by your own foolishness. You. Are. Overstepping!”

Ether drifted through the fine bespoke clothing while he temporarily bolstered the attire again. He closed the distance between them, the spread of his long legs made for a swift change, not that they had gotten too far apart from the tangled struggle that had landed them in the old assassin’s sad little home.

Llyr’s dagger went out, in aim to stab through Kasoria’s gut – but the true purpose was to distract the karambit – while his other hand landed on the man’s shoulder.


The touch was unnecessary.

He did it anyway.

Llyr knew Kasoria already. As much as he suspected a living person could, he knew the man inside and out from dreamscape to soul and what else was left after that? Perhaps this was what the hostility was truly about. Llyr had gotten to know the assassin too closely for the old man’s liking. Perhaps all of Kasoria's companions in the trade met similar ends. Perhaps that was why the Raggedy Man was regarded as a lone killer... not because he was truly alone, but because he got rid of any who assisted him.

Regardless, the Quacian knew the Etzori’s Frequency, and he knew the Abrogation domain within. Llyr latched on, unlike the Empathy magic, and he forcibly Soothed the abrogation spark. As the purification channeled from Llyr’s soul through Kasoria’s soul, the assassin’s mutations vanished.

The marble-black eyes returned to the once-human eyes of Kasoria.

The shadowy cloak that pushed and refused, dissolved as if darkness banished by the blinding light of a sun.

Even the chains around Kasoria’s arms and the stars on his palms disappeared.

It was as if Kasoria had never become an abrogant, as if he were yet again an ordinary killer with no magic inside of him.

Not only did Llyr suppress the mutations, but he aimed to heal whatever overstepping his initiate had already undergone. Abrogant magic weakened, but not gone, Llyr’s spark of Attunement held strong between the link to his initiate's soul and to his connection with Emea...



…and he shoved the human through reality back into the Veil. Toward the dreamscape. He just needed to get Kasoria into his own dreamscape. From there, he would be in complete control.

“You cannot win against me, red-blood,” seethed Llyr while he used the brief shock of the soothing that likely seemed as if he had removed the abrogant spark entirely. He went for a kick, to return the favor from before, though he aimed far lower than the chest to impact the guts instead. The momentum aimed to send his initiate into his dreamscape –

- it went wrong. Momentum shifted under the Emean sands, and whether due to Kasoria or something else, it happened far too quick for Llyr to make sense of. All he knew was that the Veil gave out around them – and they were in a dreamscape – but it was not his own.

Nor was it Kasoria’s.

Llyr scrambled back to his feet, having fallen during the shift from Veil to dreamscape. He drew the second dagger from his boot. Holding the blade up and close, not in frantic defense but predatory readiness, he breathed silently.

He stared ahead, not at Kasoria, but at a fit redhead wrapped in a tight wetsuit with a handsome man close beside her…

...was that the leatherworker Drenick Laszlow with Kylauri, the Aukari bathhouse owner, from the Commercial Circle? The couple stared back at him with complete confusion as to why a half-winged biqaj with a dagger had just landed in a dream that was not his own.

More concerning, though, was where had Kasoria gone? Llyr turned around to survey the dream while he tried to attune to the wavered frequency, the soothing he had enacted faded and he knew the abrogant’s magic would strengthen as the mutations returned.

“…Yet we do not need to fight, An Duine Luideach,” he called out.

His voice echoed through the invaded dream, far gentler than it had sounded before. He tried to make it unlike his natural tone… in fact, he mimicked the voice of Lucretia with her posh Rynmerian accent –

- the voice that Kasoria knew as the black-haired biqaj girl who had giggled and blushed in the very bathhouse owned by the Aukari featured in the dream.

“We can talk about whatever this is. I won’t hold it against you, Kas. I only want to understand. Why do you call me Morty? Because I am marked now? Not all Immortals are against us... and I wouldn’t have flayed if you told me not to. You know that, Kas! You know it’s true because I didn’t before.”

Llyr Crossed while he spoke and fled the dream so he could get a lock onto Kasoria’s brand again. He stepped back into Idalos to find neither Drenick nor Kylauri… but one Garrett Langley asleep in a bed. The tabloid journalist snored, unaware of the mage that had just entered his bedroom through his dream. Llyr didn’t pause, and Unleashed in sudden transformation fueled by his Becoming spark.

The clothes fell limp around a smaller frame. The Quacian didn’t have time to discard them, when the abrogant’s ether and active frequency crossed into the room.

Llyr didn’t look like Zarik anymore -

- but like the dark-haired, dark-eyed girl who had once hugged Kasoria so close. Who had once looked into his eyes while nude and wet with bathsoaps. Who had once pinched at his lower lip in playful flirtation and sincere gratitude.

Llyr reached behind and forcibly tore the last of her wings out. She tossed the gossamer ether at Kasoria’s feet. Halo of darkness above her head, a veil of shade fell around her, as dark as her shadow-filled eyes.

“How long do you intend to chase me, An Duine Luideach?” she snarled. “Are you willing to die for this? Do you think you can actually kill me? Break my bones, bleed me dry, but do you think that will stop me? Do you have the resolve to dare and flay me? For if you do not…”

Llyr slid backward into the Veil, clothing awkward over her petite frame while she held up her hands in readiness to fight – though she knew she wouldn’t win in an actual hand-to-hand and that even with the flaying that aided her use of ether, the danger proved greater with every trill their wrestled magic continued. Despite this, not a hint of fear showed on the biqaj’s features nor in her voice.

She threatened, “…My first visit upon my return shall be to Westguard.”

[Maltruism]

The third strike had broken the door into the bed chamber. A dozen members of Webb's private estate guards poured into the room, one of them immediately diving into the very point where the twisted floorboards still formed a tubular barricade around Kasoria, his hands slapping the surface as a bright flash emanated from floor, walls and ceiling.

The Ith'ession phrase for "Raggedy Man" did not go unnoticed, nor did Mr. Lywelyn's conspicuous absence from the research lab. There was divided hope as to whether his body would be found murdered somewhere as well. A potentially undeserved fate being offset by the posthumous acknowledgement of his innocence of treason.

There was little to find in the way of substantial evidence that was not additional, unnecessary confirmation of Webb's death. His body was more than enough to establish that. There were now a dozen men checking off every item in the room against those items known to have belonged to the Marshall, in hopes of finding a lead beyond the single sound of "Raggedy Man" being said by the vanished perpetrator(s). Captain Rulen was not going to condemn on what could have easily been a faked lead.

Now he stood, facing one of his subordinates, a disbelieving scowl on his face, "Say again..."

"Dust, sir...Dust, slivers of wood, dead bugs, even bits of skin and hair." responded a man in comparatively casual clothes. This was Webb's private Dreamwalker, Gralin Corro.

As unrelated and irrelevant as his words may have sounded to someone just arriving on the scene, Capt. Rulen set his skepticism aside. "You can track him because of these...things?"

Corro gave a look of pending disclaimer and launched right into it, "No, not exactly sir. I said I hope to be able to track where they went. Then, IF whatever elements of this location may still be clinging to them, I may be able to track them. But at the least I should be able to track down the location in Emea to which they just fled. Hopefully it will have clues as to their identity."

Eagerness grew on Rulen's face, tempered still with some measure of doubt. "I thought you could only brand people." He said, by way of asking if the ability was more versatile than that.

Corro grew slightly straighter, enjoying the opportunity to show more knowledge than his superior. "No sir. You can brand locations too. That is what I did just now when I hit the floor. It is my understanding that anything in the affected area, including dust, bugs and etcetera..." his wrist rolled in the iconic movement used to encompass a list too long to bother with. "...would be included."

"It is very likely that some such debris caught on this or that article of clothing worn by our escaping perpetrators, and will shine like a beacon - albeit a small one - to one who knows what to look for" he grinned in anticipation of acknowledgement and assignment, "...One like me."

Rulen's face looked unfocused into past experiences as the Dreamwalker spoke. A few arcs ago, he had been with the Special Support Committee, out of Foster's Landing, investigating crimes involving supernatural elements. He nodded absently, finding many similarities in his own past efforts to what Corro was saying now. "So you don't expect them to stay in their first egress point, feeling like they got away cleanly?"

It was rhetorical, and Corro treated it as such, "Would you?"

Rulen nodded, "Take a dozen men. If you need any support for the...mystical aspect of this effort, go see Inspector Garnet. But be quick about it. I want to talk to these two NOW!" There was no questioning of the number of attackers involved. More than one of those who'd been at the door had confirmed only hearing two different voices.

"And Corro?" he halted the Dreamwalker in his tracks for a moment, "Good Job."

There were, of course, Attuner members of this party as well, One of them now accompanied a guardsman back to their captain, the trooper cradling a throwing knife in a cloth wrap. After a brief explanation of what the Attuner had detected, Rulen scowled anew.

"So, NOT one of the Marshall's blades....Blood on the edge NOT belonging to the Marshall...and sweat on the handle possibly being from a different source than the blood on the blade." he paced a bit in dissatisfaction. "So it would seem that our two perpetrators were none too friendly toward each other."

"One silencing a potential loose end after the job is done?" one of his subordinates offered. "We all DID hear raised voices other than Webb's in here...Or maybe one tried to stop the other. But failing that, didn't want to stay behind to take the blame?"

Rulen stared straight ahead as the woman spoke; turning then to reply, "That is why I want to talk to these men." He leaned in close to the underling, speaking low, "To find out whose side they are on." His gaze then flashed pointedly to the dead body of Marshall Webb as his voice lowered further. "As well as whose side HE was on."

!	Message from: Maltruism
	This is not intended to extend this into another long chase and/or fight. It is just to set the stage for future interactions, and to suggest that the late Marshall's Guard Captain may be a possible ally.

[Kasoria]

It wasn't like he needed to be told. He knew. He'd always known. But that was the price you paid.

There was no time for reflection, though. There was only the blind, bloody madness of combat so close you breathed the same air and tasted the sweat flying into your mouth. All around them ether and reality merged, then split, replaced by the hovel that Kasoria called him. No place more real than that, was there? Not a dram of magic nor wonder for decades. Now Kasoria felt solid wood under him, faced the Quacian over a handful of yards, both of them surrounded by even more solid brick and here, here was where it would be decided. Not by magic, not in the Emea. In the real world.

Well. Maybe a bit of magic.

Kasoria grunted as Llyr's dagger glanced off his Abrogative armor, point of impact shimmering and sparking like the surface of a pool where a rock had landed. The tip of the weapon punched through the shielding and gouged a shallow, angry cut across his stomach. Kasoria ignored it. Ignored the pain, the exhaustion, the Overstepping leching into his mind and his soul, the growled warning about Overstepping from the man he sought to kill. Instead, he reacted-

-karambit slashing down, quick as a flying arrow, slicing the meat of Llyr's inner arm-

-or would have, if some fresh wyrd of his hadn't made his tunic hard as granite, so instead he settled for the simpler solution-

-bringing up his knee and smashing it into Llyr's wrist, breaking or at least benumbing it, robbing him of his weapon, and now that was handled-

That's when he felt them go away. All of them.

Kasoria's hiss turned into a shudder as he felt all those mutations, all those cancers of his Spark made manifest, drain out of him like blood from a wound. He could feel them crumble and fade away. The wind that forever whipped about him. The writhing chains across his arms. His Spark howled in confusion as he felt... he felt his eyes... not pain, not even irritation... just awareness that now they were gone... and as he raised a hand to his face, he saw his witchmark went with it.

He was himself again. The man he'd been before becoming a mage. As ugly and scarred and whole as ever he was... but that meant-

"You... Y'took my ma-"

The Quacian had not, in fact, taken anything from Kasoria that would not be immediately restored the moment he got away from the bastard. But Kasoria wasn't to know that, which was the point. It confused and befuddled him, made him pause, question, hesitate, and even as an animal fragment of his mind berated him for such stupidity in the middle of the most mortal brawl of his arcs, he felt that impact against his stomach-

-reality shudder and split again like a knife parting silk, and he fell back with a snarl-

-back into the Emea, in Llyr's Veil and-

No.

No, this-

They-

They?

There were things, seen in the space of a blink, that could have been explained a hundred times over as hallucination, exhaustion, mad imagination or simply fear of the unknown. But in that torn space between Reality and Veil, Kasoria saw... things, in the Emea. Things whose minds and intentions were as malleable and formless as their bodies. Things that existed but not as wholes, not as creatures, until their interest had been properly aroused. Now... now the fast-Crossing, brawling, magic-flinging mages had basically lit a bonfire in the middle of a midnight desert. And all around them, in the vast darkness that would make that desert seem like a handful of sand, things were paying attention.

Hungry things.

"Oh... oh my word..."

Wherever Llyr had wanted to send him, he'd wager this wasn't the place. A man with wings and a woman wearing... something that was probably best kept in a dream, were both staring at him. The man was very much naked and the setting reeked of the sort of sex that men dreamed of their whole lives, until actually confronted with it. Kasoria rolled to his feet before the woman had finished speaking. Karambit still held ready, throwing knife drawn in his other hand... before he came to his senses.

Not here, fool!

He cursed savagely. Colorfully. Bilingually. But he did not stay. This was not the ground of his choosing and he knew Llyr would want to keep him here. He could feel his mutations coming back, though. Not vanished, just receded. Wiped away by the Qucaian's ether, but not cure, oh no. Magic had a price. Always. You could camouflage it, hide it, pretty it up, but it was always there. Now he could feel them come back. The marks on his hands, the chains, the wind... and as he opened his eyes again, right before Crossing, he knew in some infallible, intangible way, his eyes were black as pitch yet again.

Kasoria swore anew. One more insult to pay the cunt back for.

With a crack of splitting air and a shower of dust, Kasoria landed back, wait-

"Oh, fer fuck's..."

He didn't finish the curse. He might have woken up the very small man in quite a large bed. In fact the dwarf did snuffle and grumble as he slept, but only turned over away from the Raggedy Man... breathing heaving and more than a touch confused in yet another strange place. What was going on?! He'd tried to latch onto Llyr's Brand, but instead of back in that strange little sex dungeon, he was... wherever this was. Though oddly enough, it smelled like Etzos. Had that same industrial, urban aura about it.

Focus!

The Quacian would be in the 'scape he'd just crossed from, probably only moments behind. The Etzori licked his lips and took a moment. Reached inside... and found a Spark practically curled up and weeping at the bottom of its well. It was so tired. So abused. Unable to recover the strength it had lost, because he wasn't giving it time! Kasoria shushed it in those few moments, and tentatively tried to draw some of it out-

-he frowned. He... could. There was no spike of agony like he'd been expecting, no blinding, hideous mutation of his skin as he Overstepped. But he should have felt something, surely? He frowned, not trusting even his own body at this point. But what he thought on didn't help.

Llyr. He'd felt him... mending the damage. Reversing the effects of the strain he'd put on his Spark even as he'd burned away the obvious signs of his mutation. He'd helped him. That alone didn't make sense, didn't track. They were trying to butcher each other now, what point would there be in Llyr healing his Spark? He spoke of wanting to talk, wanting to discuss, but Kasoria wasn't fooled. He'd seen what an actual Immortal could do with a few careful murders and an ocean of cunning words. He wasn't about to let some mongrel-blooded spawnling of theirs do the same.

He helped you. He tried to control you. Tried to stop you.

Has he tried to kill you?

Kasoria grunted and felt the wound at his gut. Yes. Yes, he had. He banished the doubting voice and it fled like a hre before the hounds. Enough of this maudlin twaddle. His magic wasn't gone, but it was weak. Llyr's was strong. He couldn't rely on his Spark, so... fine, then. Old ways it would be. Old ways and being a cunning bastard.

Cautious, too. Second time he's caught you off-guard. Won't be a third.

Face set into a death mask of simmering hatred, Kasoria Crossed back to his home, his hovel... and still, no Llyr. No tingling in his mind as the Brand he'd put on the thing guided him unwillingly to his prey. Though really, who held that title anymore? In a pursuit across dream and fantasy, Llyr was clearly the hunter. Then again, Kasoria thought with a grunt, hunters got killed by their quarry. Depending on the prey.

Then, there, he felt it again! He focused on his ether, if not directly his Spark, and slashed a hole through the musty air with his karambit... that turned into a Crossing portal. Licking dry lips yet again, Kasoria crossed over through that strange, bleeding intermission of reality-

he saw them again. larger now. bloated or spiny shapes. circling and drifting, swimming and loping. but when he tried to focus on them, looking directly their way, all the colors and shapes and contours vanished and he was-

“How long do you intend to chase me, An Duine Luideach? Are you willing to die for this? Do you think you can actually kill me? Break my bones, bleed me dry, but do you think that will stop me?”

The woman he'd known, on the dead roads of Etzos during the Season of Sorrow, was there to spit bile at him. Because of course she was. Why would an enemy so fiendish and inhuman stick to a single form? Now he likely sought to play on memories, nostalgia, vulnerabilities of Kasoria forged when he hadn't just been a guide, but a protector. Why she'd bother with that and then hurl such arrogance, such vitriol at him, he didn't know... but he did appreciate it.

The Raggedy Man gave a twisted smirk and nodded.

"Now y'sound like a fuckin' Morty."

The Crossing opened, because of course it did. Whatever power Llyr may have had in the Emea, it was unassailable in his own Veil, his own dreams. That's where he wanted Kasoria to go... and damn him, that's where he'd have to drag him from. So he braced himself, and tried to make ready. Just as he made ready for more barbs, more words... and the mention of Flaying. Kasoria didn't even stumble over that, mentally speaking. That hadn't occurred to him, that he might need to go so far... but unlike Webb, who was a political supernova but a magical sodden candle, Llyr could probably come back from death. The myriads of that magic were a mystery to him, but if anyone could do it...

This is the price you pay, he told himself again. And you've gone too far, now.

“…My first visit upon my return shall be to Westguard.”

For just a flicker, just a blink, before she Crossed back into her Veil, the Quacian saw the red-blood's eyes flash with color that should have been impossible. But something came into life there that she'd never seen before. At least, not directed at her. Even after all the hate he'd hurled at her for the last few bits, the dripping, rotting loathing he'd hidden from her and in the hiding made it into something f shocking disdain, he'd never looked at her with such pure loathing.

He stirred a foot and then-

Fucking idiot!

He did not cross. This was the game. This was the trick. The lure. How many times had he used family and kin against one of his targets? To bend them to his will or blind them with grief and rage? Many times. So many. And why? Because it worked. Because bonds of blood and love were worth dying over, heedlessly so. Men like him had used that throughout history, and now the fucking abomination he sought was doing the same. Why else make such a blatant threat? Why else do so the moment before Crossing back into its own domain.

Two times. Not a third. You have to think.

So he did, but not for long. The longer he waited, the more the spider would know the fly knew about the web, and would plan accordingly. So he settled for rough and ready, opening a Crossing to Llyr's Veil, just wide enough for him to slide through... long enough for them to notice it-

Hope this works.

-then sent two throwing knives whipping through the aperture, one after the other. A pair of flying slivers of lightning that exploded out into Llyr's Dreamscape, flying towards him, making him either duck or distracting him-

-as Kasoria closed the one Crossing and opened another-

Focus... not next to him... not below...

-directly under his feet, dropping straight through the now-liquid floor like a hanged man going through the trapdoor-

theyweresoclosenowsohungrypressingagainsttheglassofthecrossingtongueslappingclawslollingwhisperingwordsoftonguesdeadwhengodswerebabes

Without a word or a bellow, Kasoria popped into existence above Llyr, or Zarik, or wherever the fuck's skin the half-blood bastard wore, and plummeted down onto the Quacian like a hairy asteroid. He might have thanked him, for choosing a smaller form: made it much easier for him tough but slight body to knock the yelping mage to the ground, and as his arm came down-

-now he bellowed, roar of rage for a moment eclipsing his Spark's howl as he sent what ether he had left exploding out of his skin, flipping the air around them both to his ether alone. Maddened almost beyond sense, his Spark devoured and dissolved any magic not its own, as Kasoria's free hand went around the mage's throat from behind, starting to squeeze-

"Die."

SHUNK

His karambit was gone. Sheathed at his back, replaced by something more... multifaceted. A short, straight throwing knife. Not perfect for the stab he'd just delivered, straight inti Llyr's back... but the poison coating it?

Scarf Rot instantly started to circulate Llyr's body, his pounding heartbeat only speeding the process. Within a handful of bits his limbs would start to seize. Already he could feel them tingle, patches of skin become numb, muscles begin to betray him... but not his ears. Those worked fine.

"That Naerikk, one who was huntin' ya?" Kasoria rasped, twisting the blade even as Llyr struggled under him. "Should'nae sent me after the cunt. She told me, 'fore she died. 'bout what yeh did back home. 'bout yer father." He squeezed. Cutting off air. Gouging deeper. "Son. Of. Chrien. Not a man. Not an Immortal. Spawn a' both."

With that word he took his hand off the knife, leaving it sticking in Llyr's back, and slapped his hand on the floor under them-

-turning it to frothing liquid Emea with a thought, sending them both plummeting down, back to his home-

So engrossed he was, so focused on this last murder, he didn't notice the thing following them.

[Llyr Llywelyn]

—————————　❈　—————————

The break in Llyr’s wrist snapped clean. Bones familiar with abuse, fractures of moments in youth when joints served evidence to the image of a vulnerable pitiful creature of a child – to distract and draw the best intentions out of people. Distract them while the lurking shadow of a father could cut and gut while the unsuspecting targets busied themselves with their respectable goodness.

Pain was truth, and it was perhaps the only truth, of this Llyr believed. Of everything in all the worlds; Emea, Idalos, the world of spirits and ghosts; all of it formed around the singular truth of pain.

Nothing remained as true, nor consistent, compared to how pain conquered all other possible sensations. Pain of broken bones, of abused muscles, of weak flesh, of minds stretched thin, of hearts shattered, of twisted morals, of observation and witness, of sensation and experience. Pain did not discriminate. No one was above pain, nor did pain ignore people otherwise forgotten. The profound tranquility Llyr had once discovered during his first lucidity within Emea, upon the acceptance of his first spark into his soul, that mountain peak in which he felt – for the first time in his young life – truly safe from pain…

That sanctuary had been a lie.

A mere illusion.

Emea could not hide him from pain anymore than Idalos.

The vastness of magic would not protect him anymore than a knife and darkness could. Though he’d already felt this in a logical sense, while Kasoria chased him between the spaces of the worlds, that truth burrowed its way deep into his mind and heart – into his very soul where it would likely never dislodge again.

For Kasoria had great power, and not only in combat or abrogation, but in what the man meant to Llyr. Initiate, certainly, and yet he had met Kasoria during a time of his life when everything was put forth to immense questions. The sort that Llyr never thought he’d have to find answers for. The last shreds of his decrepit naivety, his gullible hope, and foolish insistence that he might retain an innocence he never had.

After his father’s death, he had exchanged blood with the human in agreement. Blood exchanged like he had performed with his husband in ceremony under the church, and yet under completely different circumstances. It had been Kasoria’s idea… but the symbolism had not gone unnoticed by the susceptible young mage. Some part of him, after traveling with Kasoria through the wartorn Etzori territory, had twisted his perception of the assassin into an agglomeration drawn from spectral shadows of a sadistic father and a brutal husband. Yet, it comforted Llyr. The familiarity combined with friendship – a relation he’d never truly had. Llyr had never been allowed friends before. In Kasoria, the triangulation had created a cathartic bond.

So it was, though he felt the pain of his heart, Llyr did not feel surprise when Kasoria looked at him with pure loathing.

It hurt to threaten the older man like he had. As upset as he felt about the forceful direction in which they had fallen within the rapid last few bits since Webb’s assassination, Llyr could not sincerely find that sense of shock anymore. He’d felt it when the boot had landed against his chest. Felt it when he realized that the knife which glanced over his heart hadn’t been a simple act of prioritization, but a purposeful attempt to literally kill two birds with one stone.

But he didn’t feel surprise anymore.

Anger had come next.

Bold and brash with all the fury of the rage that always simmered within Llyr; so carefully locked away and delicately cultivated into refined behaviors rather than the chaotic primal wrath it begged to be otherwise. Llyr hid his anger well, until moments such as these.

Moments that Kasoria had witnessed before.

Moments when it broke through the dammed structures meant to hold the massive tidal waves of raw passionate ferocity.

Moments when Llyr’s boot became as vicious as his words and he sought to bend all in his path until everything broke under the force of his grip – and to cause anguish, so as to teach the truth of pain to those unfortunate enough to be in the young mage's merciless path.

Kasoria should have killed him right away.

Should have let him die in Westguard, alongside Hazel to burn to ash in the chaos like the broken shards of his Emean mentor had.

Should have killed him on the dark night when the assassin had the knife against his throat, held close after overhearing the desperate prayers to the Wounded God of the southern lands, in witness of the blood that Llyr had shed for the mere hope that some entity of great power could hear him.

Should have let him die on Orm’del Sea, under the might of a reminder about the sheer madness that overcame mages allowed to reach seeming godhood.

Should have killed him when the Etzori first observed the young biqaj’s inherent enthusiasm about mutations in that invaded dream, while they stood next to the burning shack that hadn’t bothered Zarik, even though he knew it burned because there were corpses within – just as he hadn’t been bothered by the severed heads on the mule that Karim had couriered across the wastelands.

Should have but didn’t.

Llyr didn’t want to hurt Kasoria, despite his anger and pain. Though he’d paid the man in both nel and favors (to the point of assassination of a celebrated figure in the place he had wanted to make his new home), he still felt as if he owed the older man something. He didn’t know what. He didn’t know if he’d ever pay it back, or if there was ever a limit to how much part of him wished to give and give and give to the abrogant.

The dagger had fallen away from his broken grip, but he’d never intended to truly use it in fatal harm. Not even when the wild assassin clearly aimed to slaughter him for unknown reasons.

If only he could get Kasoria to his dreamscape, then there would be plenty of time to figure things out. Talk it over. Whatever it was, Llyr felt certain he could convince the man otherwise. There, under the hand of his powerful control within his own dreams, they wouldn’t be torn apart by the cyclone of battle fever in some mad race to certain death.

Yet his initiate refused with every ounce of furious instinct.

Focus was imperative, because though the flaying provided Llyr with ether unlike any natural source, the Thirst practically screamed through the pulse of his own anger to just grab onto the puny abrogant and suck him dry and end the nonsense of trying to keep the old man alive. Would he truly allow himself to be killed because he didn’t want to flay his initiate?

Follow, just follow…

The mage drew closer to his her dreamscape. Kasoria just needed to step through, then she could grab on and pull him into the controllable dominion. Her threat almost worked. But almost wasn't good enough.

As soon as Kasoria stopped himself, she recognized the hesitance. The recognition showed obvious on Llyr’s feminine face with the same sort of expression made when one missed landing an aim. Her tongue clicked against the roof of her mouth. She quickly dismissed the failed attempt. Llyr’s mind still had Ambrosia in it, after all, and combined with the flaying from only bits ago, the mage's thoughts sped even faster than usual.

Llyr slipped through and closed the Crossing.

If Kasoria was to be stubborn, then he would simply take the man's refusal as opportunity to flee again. This time, she’d go farther… outside of the city if possible… She needed her wings back.

Only Kasoria moved to follow within trills. Or not Kasoria. His knives. Llyr caught sight of the thrown blades, just barely and because of her hyperalert state. A Vahanic curse escaped from the biqaj woman. She ducked with little thought other than the knives flew past without harm.

Llyr’s adrenaline shot through her newly formed body. It felt different, in Lucretia’s totem, than in the mage’s natural born form. Lucretia was not so used to pain and panic like Llyr. She did not have a lifetime’s worth of enduring hostility embedded in her bones. Her heart raced against her chest. Dagger… dagger… did she have any blades left on her…

She looked up too late. Just a trill before Kasoria fell right into her.

No longer did they have much difference between their heights, and Llyr scrambled to get out from under the man but had little success.

“Get away from me! Kas- your soul… I don't want to flay you,” she warned.

Her nails scratched across the assassin’s face, while she fought against her many sparks within her that encouraged to rend the soul out of the man. To grab onto his lips like she had with Webb’s. To force the ether through the other mage’s soul, and the ether – the ether was overwhelming. So hot, sweat beaded her silver-blushed skin. She would burst on fire at any moment, she felt so certain.

More than just the heat of the fight, this was… she broke for a moment and screamed in hope that the volume of her voice would jolt the zealous assassin to obey, “Stop using magic! You’re going to kill us both!”

Yet all that returned was a simple response of, “Die.”

The pain jolted through Llyr’s back. Though the biqaj could not see it, she felt the blade run through to the hilt. An involuntary cry escaped, mangled and high-pitched. Her hands grabbed Kasoria’s collar as if to not let him retreat. Eyes wide, full of shadows and dark as night – at first – and then a bloom of sapphire blues and seafoam greens glowed instead.

Between the Ambrosia, the adrenaline, and the panic of Lucretia’s totemic form, the poison rapidly spread through her silver blood. Tears gathered, and fell in heavy droplets. The young mage pulled close, while she felt the tingled sensations of gradual onset of paralysis. This was not the first time she’d been sedated, neutralized, and paralyzed… and she pulled Kasoria closer in a fierce grip of her fists on his clothing.

“Kas…” Her fingers started to seize. She needed to transform again, like she had with the spiders venom in Westguard, but they were still in Emea, and… she still felt like she was on fire.

Her cool-toned eyes widened like saucers when she heard what Kasoria rasped while he twisted the blade inside of her. A choked sound caught any sob that might otherwise escape, but she found herself unable to restrain an expression of the multifaceted pain between his words and the dagger in her back.

What was he talking about? The Naer… yes, the Naer… but about Zalazar? About…

“What…?” responded Llyr in a gasp. “I… no. That’s… It…”

…made perfect sense. Too much sense, in fact. Llyr’s mind fell into overworked fury. Son of Chrien? A mortalborn… himself, a mortalborn? But it explained his father’s cultish worship of Chrien… and he knew it was possible. He had met Eliza Soule, and then there was Doran Thetys, and he knew… he knew… somewhere inside of him, he’d always known.

Llyr rolled her tear-filled eyes and averted her gaze from Kasoria. She’d gone silent and still. The Scarf Rot? No, not yet… not yet… though it made its way through.

Chrien… Of all the Immortals. That was what had caused the hatred in Kasoria, the brewing betrayal that clearly lingered for longer than Llyr had even been able to realize. Since the Naer? After Viden… and the mage hadn’t even noticed. Or perhaps, she hadn't wanted to notice.

“Yes...” she whispered, in admission, not bothering to explain her initial confusion. Her aquamarine-glittered gaze, soft with all the submission of a beaten foe, returned to look at the other man.

“…Kas…” it was getting harder to speak.

“…I…” She swallowed with some difficulty. The floor met her backside as they fell out of Emea and landed back in Kasoria’s home.

“…I am sorry,” said Llyr. It wasn’t a plea, but a confession. She stared up at him, fingers relaxed as she used the last of her mobility to let go. She stared up at him, waiting for him to take the karambit and cut her throat like he had with Webb. But that was when she saw…...

...what had followed them through.

Her eyes widened. The blue gave way to red in sudden waves of color. She stared past Kasoria’s shoulder but could not point because she could not move her arm anymore.

Llyr’s skin turned silver, then dripped away. Away from the bones, the flesh melted to reveal the skeletal form underneath. A mess of silver blood and cracked bones under waves of ether that refused suppression from the weakened abrogant spark. The Becoming spark almost roared into life while she transformed right underneath Kasoria.

It would take one whole bit to transform back to the mage's natural born shape, witih the paralysis abandoned and the wrist fixed. But it was necessary. Because whatever monster had just followed them from Emea into the waking world...

One thing was for certain: it didn’t belong in Idalos.