A Tourist in Surt

At this point, a bit over a month has passed since you first set down stakes at your new location. The exterior walls are complete, as well as the core government buildings and lodgings for most of your citizenry. Most of the city is still under construction with shops, forges, and whatever other commercial structures are needed coming up by the day. The sound of hammers and progress is a constant din.

The Hunger instructed the guards to keep out extra watch for those pesky blade elves for a few months. None of the Triumvirate believe that Ehra would intentionally try to sabotage them, but he is a busybody know it all who might send a “friend” to “check up on them.” The fire elves want their privacy, and want their distance from the blade elves. The self-righteous “wisdom” of the blade elves and their insulting pity can stay at the gate.

Late in both the season and the day, Hunger catches a break. One of the gate guards comes tromping up to his office, wearing a somewhat concerned expression.

The guard makes a somewhat rushed report to the Hunger. It seems he was right, the blade elves have sent an interloper, and in typical blade elf fashion she walked straight up to the main gate and asked to be let in.

“Well now that’s just silly,” the Hunger says. “Terrible spying behavior right there. Not even bothering to go in the back way?” He sighed. “Well, bring her in.”

The guard shuffles awkwardly in his armor. “That is… kind of the issue, sir. Captain Doukas decided that would be our course of action. We let her in, and she requested directions to an inn. The Captain agreed, intending to lead her into a back alley so she could be captured for questioning, but, well…”

He coughs, “Sir, she’s… about six foot six, wearing a mithral breastplate, and carrying a sword the size of a teenager. Captain got a bad feeling and wasn’t sure we could handle her, so he’s currently leading her on a… um, delaying action while he sent me ahead to request assistance. She could be a handful.”

“She hasn’t… actually threatened anyone yet,” He explains, “But she just seems… dangerous.”

"Oh, well, this will be entertaining," the Hunger said, his smile almost seeming to permeate his mask. "And she's wearing mithral, you said? Let's see... go and knock on the Militarum office broom closet, would you? The Terror is probably having an afternoon nap at this point. Tell her I'll meet her at the entrance to the Agora, and we'll both head over to meet our 'guest'. I'm sure the Terror would love to meet her."

“Yes Sir, I’ll… ask her right away,” The guard salutes, “We may want to hurry, as she seemed suspicious of our intent when I left.”

The Hunger proceeds down to the Agora while the guard hustles off to find the Terror.

Though in its infancy, the Agora has been more than meeting its purpose. The open space is normally full of merchants and tradespeople selling their wares, as well as public officials meeting their constituents. It’s normally a bustle, even more so since it’s half under construction, but right now the atmosphere has changed.

When the Hunger steps into the Agora, it seems the situation may have escalated. A modest crowd has gathered around the edges. In the center stands the blade elf in question, along with the Captain and four or five other guards, all standing with weapons at attention in a rough circle around the two.

True to description, the Blade elf is quite an imposing figure. She is clad in simple black and grey traveling clothes and indeed wearing a mithral breastplate - though it is completely plain and unadorned. She stands several inches taller than the Captain. Strapped to her back is what does appear to be an absurdly large two-handed executioner's sword, though it is wrapped in black cloth. She has traditional sharp blade elf features, tan skin, long platinum white hair, and bright blue eyes that are currently giving the Captain a withering glare.

The Captain is currently stammering out some kind of excuse while she stands with arms crossed. The Captain is pale faced, his eyes wide. This is out of character for him. The Captain is not a coward, he was at the battle of Skaplyndi.

As the Hunger approaches the Agora her eyes snap up and focus on him, though she does not move.

"Trouble, Captain Doukas?" the Hunger said, his eyes fixed on the Captain's. He spread out his hands, keeping the palms open and pointed towards intruder -- a placating gesture, that coincidentally happened to keep his hands close to the ceramic bottles concealed under his tunic.

“Sir!” Captain Doukas turns to the Hunger, “I apologize Sir, she-”

The elf turns away from the Captain, ignoring him completely. She gives the Hunger a steady look, as if assessing him. Her blue eyes fix on his face.

“The innkeeper, I presume?” She asks dryly. 

"A lucky guess," the Hunger said smoothly, turning his gaze to meet the intruder's. "I'm afraid you've arrived at a rather awkward time; the inn is still under construction. No doubt the good Captain was trying to delay you long enough for the workers to complete it."

He took a short step forward, and waved a hand at the Captain, to try to indicate he could step back. "What brings you to Surt, miss...?"

She keeps her eyes fixed on the Hunger as the soldiers take a step back, though they are at a relaxed ready.

“Strong talk, for a man in a mask. I came here for a place to eat and rest with a roof over my head for once. It is clear that I am not going to find that here, so I am asking you to call off your dogs and allow me to leave.”

"I see no reason to keep you," the Hunger said. He waved at Captain Doukas, and then gestured towards the road leading back outside of Surt, and took a few steps in that direction. "Come, I'll walk you out."

As the soldiers step back, the elf stares at the Hunger's face. He gets the disturbing impression that the mask he's wearing is made of glass, like she can see straight through it. Her expression doesn't waver for several seconds.

“Fine,” She relents, “But do not play games with me, elf.”

The Hunger nodded. He started walking towards the city gate, setting a fairly sedate pace, and deliberately slowing to let the guards move the crowd out of the way.

He gave a few seconds to make sure the intruder was following -- though hopefully not too close -- and then continued. "You'll have to forgive Captain Doukas. We don't get many Blade Elves like yourself here; there's a bit of uncomfortable history between us."

“That is… evident,” She walks next to him. She scans the crowd for a moment, her brow furrowed.

“Who are you, that wears a mask to greet a stranger?” She asks.

"The innkeeper," he replied. "It’s a badge of office, really. And much safer during bar fights… And you? It’s not everyday I see an elf in mithral."

She stops dead in her tracks.

“Do not lie to me. Do not stall. Stop hiding behind a mask and pretending to be a friend,” She nearly snarls.

As the Hunger turns to face her, he meets her eyes. There is an intensity behind them that he has never seen outside of the Terror herself- and never focused so directly at him. She looks at him with a disdain so dismissive he feels like she’s ten stories tall and he’s a child. For a brief moment, it’s as if she rips away all the layers of deceit and webs of half-truths he had convinced himself he wasn’t surrounded by and stares directly at the truest part of him. She is not impressed.

“I am going to ask you once, and only once. Are. You. Letting. Me. Leave?” The words are as threatening as a naked blade.

The fear that ran through the Hunger's veins was uncomfortable, but not unfamiliar, and that familiarity pushed him to a conclusion that had been bouncing through his mind since he heard the word 'mithral'. He swallowed. "If you will leave peacefully and tell your brethren to stay away, yes. The people of this town have seen enough Lycan violence for a thousand lifetimes. If you do not...

"...You're right, I'm not the innkeeper. I'm merely a public official -- one of three, and probably the nicest of the lot. The meanest is a few hundred feet away, and closing fast. And she will not be as kind or permissive as I have been."

He glanced back. The crowd at the far edge of the Agora was stirring; a blue crest of feathers was visible just over the top of it.

He turned back to the "elf" warrior. "You should probably run."

“Hel,” She curses in Skaplyndi under her breath.

The Lycan clenches her fists and closes her eyes. She takes a slow breath in, and out, then opens them.

“For the record,” She states, calmly, “I asked.”

The threat is obvious, but the fire elves are ready. The guards step forward. The Terror begins to shove through the crowd. The Hunger starts to throw his arms forward, a practiced gesture that will throw a firebomb from his sleeve in an instant.

They are all far too slow. The Hunger is barely able to perceive motion- a flash of platinum white fur- and searing pain shoots through his chest. Faster than he could blink, she shifted and was upon him. Hunger feels the horrifying pain of teeth digging into his shoulder before he is hurled to the ground like a chew toy.

The wolf stands well over seven feet tall. Her fur is the same platinum white as the elf’s hair, her eyes the same blue- now staring at him as if he were a piece of meat. She slowly draws the sword from her back and the black cloth falls away.

Hunger has a brief moment to notice that the heavy executioner’s blade is, bizarrely, made of silver and covered in intricate runes before a thought crosses his mind.

Lycans kill what they bite.

As the sword clears her back, she throws her head back and howls. The sound is startlingly loud, jarring like a cut to the bone. The sound cuts to a deep and primal part of the mind, a reminder to everyone in hearing range that they are prey.

The Terror knows this sound. The shock of fear it sends down her spine is familiar. She has heard it before, once, on the bloody fields of Skaplyndi. The howl of a werewolf of the bloodline of Lords is not something she has the privilege of forgetting.

"And for the record," the Hunger mutters, levering himself backward on arms that are now pale pink. "I said yes, damnit."

The crowd split, dashing for the Agora's exits, trampling over the guards and anyone else who happened to be in the way. Anyone except the Terror, whom they skirted like the sea parting around a rock. A very angry rock.

The Terror charged, a blurred mass of mail and hammer, stopping just in front of where the Lycan had dropped the Hunger, and letting momentum carry her earthshaker towards the wolf's left kneecap. There was a slight hesitancy to the motion; her eyes stayed warily focused on the Lycan's face.

The wolf twisted; the hammer caught on its shin and scraped off, taking a large scrap of skin with it. Blood poured onto the newly-finished cobbles.

The wolf howls in pain, staggering from the heavy blow. It looks for a brief moment like she might fall, but instead she throws her weight into the spin. She places both hands on her sword and turns that momentum into a heavy blow.

With a furious snarl that sprays blood soaked spittle onto the Terror’s mask, the wolf brings the executioner’s blade over her head and brings it down straight onto the top of the Terror’s helmet. The blade passes through an inch or so of the feathers on the crest before the Terror’s body snaps into a magical mist.

Instead of cleaving her head in half, the blow tears through the Terror’s misty body, dragging through her concealed form and leaving a splatter of blood on the ground. The Terror does not falter. Instead, her form returns to a blurred state, trying to fool the werewolf into missing.

Her eyes, wide and glowing with fury, lock directly with the Terror’s. She is not fooled.

The Hunger leveraged himself into a sitting position. "And what sort of... precedent," he gasped, pulling himself to his feet, "do we set if start killing people for the crime of... walking into town."

The Terror grunted.

"You know I'm right," he choked, stumbling backward and away from the wolf.

The wolf appears unconcerned with their petty squabbling. She raises her Sword above her head and growls deeply. A pale, barely visible light washes from the sword over her body before she brings it down at the Terror again. 

Snarling and snapping, she brings the blade down at the Terror. A wary warrior, the Terror does not fall for such an obvious blow again and ducks to the side. The wolf redirects the blade suddenly, and the heavy blow slams into the Terror’s leg with a disturbing crunching sound. There’s a squeal of twisting metal as the wolf rips the blade away from the Terror’s armor and pulls back to a defensive stance.

The Terror staggers, and then suddenly lunges, bringing her hammer around for a strike at the wolf's side -- a lower blow, as if trying to avoid hitting vitals. The hammer bounces away, as if deflected by the air itself. The aura flares momentarily as the Terror’s wrenches control of her hammer back.

The Lycan swings her sword in a wide, low sweep. The Terror brings her hammer back up, placing the haft between them. The heavy blade slams into the haft of the weapon with a splintering noise, but the hammer stays in one piece.

The Terror grabs the blade with a spare hand, wrapping her forearm around the edge of the weapon and holding it pinned to the haft of her hammer. The Lycan snaps her jaws towards the Terror’s face but the Terror snaps her head forward, slamming on the tip of the Lycan’s nose. Even through the magic aura and the Lycan’s nigh impervious hide, the blow draws blood from the Lycan’s nose and she staggers back a step with a yelp.

The Terror presses her advantage. She flings a hand toward the Lycan and fiery sparks of magic energy flash into her torso with a sound of searing meat. The Lycan snarls and swings back wild in response, but the Terror has already stepped backwards. 

The Terror lunges forward with a low blow, striking the Lycan in the stomach. She sputters and staggers back a step. The Terror pulls back, swinging for another blow on the reeling werewolf.

Suddenly, with a flash of white light, the Lycan isn’t a towering werewolf anymore. Without even time to adjust, the Terror’s hammer hits nothing but air. In her wolf form, the Lycan darts behind the Terror.

The Terror tries to adjust, but the Lycan has already snapped back to her werewolf form. She seems able to change shape in the barest instant, scarcely even changing her stride. The Terror is still pivoting as the Lycan brings down another merciless overhand blow.

With no options left, the Terror draws on her magic again, becoming as steam so that the blow may pass through her. The Lycan’s sword starts to pass through, but this time the Lycan stops. She halts her swing, with the blade held in the middle of the Terror’s insubstantial stomach.

Realizing what’s about to happen, the Terror attempts to twist away. The spell, only viable for the briefest moment, fizzles out. The Lycan twists her blade and rips it sideways. The Terror avoids being bisected entirely, but there’s a sickening crack as the sword rips through her armor from the inside out.

Blood splatters on the ground. The Terror realizes she has fallen to her knees. Her hammer clatters away from her on the cobblestones. Out of her peripheral vision, she sees the panic and confusion on the Hunger’s face. He is frozen to the spot. She tries to hold her guts in place. The Lycan takes a steady grip on her sword and steps in front of the Terror.

Dying on my knees before a Lycan.

The Lycan starts to raise her sword.

“No.” The word rattles out from under the Terror’s helmet.

Somehow, the hammer is in her hands. She screams in pain and rage and throws her entire body weight behind swinging the hammer straight up at the Lycan’s face. The Lycan, surprised by the speed of the blow, does not react in time.

The Terror twists the hammer at the last moment. The broad top of the hammer connects with the Lycan’s chin, and the Terror puts every ounce of strength she has into carrying the blow through. 

The blow lifts the Lycan off the ground bodily, hurling her nearly ten feet backwards into a partially constructed concrete wall. The wall and the incomplete shop around it collapse in a pile of rubble, dust, and smoke.

With blood in her mouth, the Terror stands slowly. His wits returning, the Hunger finally gets to his feet as well.

From the settling pile of rubble, two points of blue light become visible. Eyes afire, the Lycan steps out of the rubble, her jaw broken and hanging at an odd angle and her left arm dislocated. The sword is nowhere to be seen.

The Lycan grabs her shattered jaw and shoves it back in place. She grimaces as there is a popping noise and the bone begins to visibly reset itself. She growls, a sound like grinding stone.

“I think I have heard of you,” She grunts as she pops her arm back in the socket, “You’re the Terror, aren’t you? Not many like you. You uphold your reputation. You could have taken my head off with that blow, but you turned your hammer. Why?”

The Terror's knees wobbled. She let the head of the hammer slip to the ground, and with her free hand pointed towards the Lycan. And then towards the path out of Surt.

The Lycan cocks her head at the battered warrior, “You’d truly let me just walk out of here, after everything I just did?”

“She would probably prefer to knock you senseless and then evict you,” the Hunger said, keeping a hand on a jar at his belt. “But clearly that isn't happening. And you haven't technically committed a crime yet… well, except for assault, but I'll put that down to a misunderstanding. Perhaps ‘run’ was a poor choice of words.”

The Lycan turns to the Hunger. She gives the bite wound on his shoulder a long, unreadable look before addressing him.

“You understand I cannot simply take you on your word. Though… that should be long enough. This was… not what I had hoped. Not what I wanted. I was wrong to come here. You need not make any threats or ultimatums to me. I will not be returning. Goodbye, innkeeper.”

With that, the werewolf’s form fades slightly, then disappears into scattered motes of pale light. Both the Hunger and the Terror know enough about magic to recognize an illusion being dismissed when they see it.

The dust finally settles from the collapsed building. The crowds pressed to the edges of the Agora slowly fall silent. The guards bring up their shields and wait. Several seconds pass, but nothing happens. It seems the werewolf is indeed gone.

Both the Hunger and the Terror feel the ache of their wounds.