The Masquerade: A Family’s division.

[The Carrying Blade]

This was perfect, the fools had no clue what would happen now that their plan could come into fruition. Laughter echoing through the trees as the trio made their signature 3 point attack.

“Grab’em Bear!” The girl screamed, appearing to Francois’s front right with a shit eating grin upon her face as she exited from the shadows and revealed she was nothing more than an almost adult in an odd mask.

”MY PLEASURE hhaahaahahhh!” The third lumbering figure appeared out of nowhere behind them, a silent giant that stood over Villion by an entire foot. His arms would go and wrap them around his person, going to entrap Villion in a massive bear hug.

”Pointy, time to double stab!” She yelled, dagger in hand as she prepared herself to attack.

”Stabby, Stab Stab!” The tiny bugger screamed, lunging from the darkness straight at Francois’s face with a sharp knife in hand, going to ride on top as he made to go stab.

”Fools! You’ve activated our trap move! Facethrice!” She laughed happily, following Stabby’s attack with a slash at the knights cheek before running past him and aiming to drive the dagger into Villon’s leg.

[Unter]

Francois' heart stopped. They finally came. A breath of relief, his blade would finally taste blood ! He was as sure of his capabilities as any veteran of any crusades. He wasn't a recruit. He wasn't some mere peasant with a blade and armour. No ! He would prevail. No, he would...-

He didn't even have time to erect his shield. The masked figure jumped for his face, and cut the leather ties that kept his helmet on. One heartbeat later, three sharp pains could be felt on his face. Dark and hot blood poured from his wounds, but his jaw was closed shut. He couldn't even shout. 

With terror, he saw the torch attached before to his shield fly away from the knight. Blasted. He must have attached it poorly. The flame flew right into a dry bush, and bigger flames started to rise. The Light was with him. Finally !

His spirits renewed, he shouted. A wordless cry,  he lunged forward, trying to smite whoever was trying to kill him.

[Kidney]

Dewitt had tried. 

With rage burbling within his gut, the angered cretin sprung forward, arcs of bloody vine escaping his fingers like water through a strainer. Small thorns adorned them, and Dewitt meant to strike down the man before him in a fit of rage. From his mouth escaped a splash of hot blood, boiling like soupwater. 

Porter would see upon the back of the beggar-man sprouts of blood, seeping through the cloth and escaping it to form what appeared to be very small, ornate roses. 

[relentless]

This was a pile of shit.

Attacked from left to right by a bunch of drugged up kids in pitch black (before Francois threw the torch), there was practically no point in even trying to rescue the supposed child in 'The Masquerade'. More than likely, these freaks had probably drugged the kid up, or killed him.

"Piss it all to hell!"
Villon growled as he used the lack of tightness around him to slip free, but as his feet touched the ground, he would feel a slash against his calf. It wasn't deep, and thanks to the ruggedness of his clothes, the wound wasn't all that bad. Still, it was enough to make him hiss, and piss him off. With the addition of the bush burning bright, he was able to see what was attacking them, but not only that, he'd be able to get a clear shot off. With a scowl, he gritted his teeth and gripped his axe tight, "Nice one, fat cunt!" Villon barked harshly at the giant, bringing his axe in an overhead motion and swinging powerfully at the mans stomach.

[The Carrying Blade]

Juliet watched in utter disbelief, what was before her eyes was something she didn’t think could ever happen. Pointy was stabbed through the throat, choking to death on his own blood as he reached out weakly to his sister before dying at the knights feet. While for Bear, well it was gruesome to say the least, to be cut fully in half with a dumb look on his face before his lower body crumbled and his top half slid off backwards revealing guts and innards that spilled out from the clean cleave.

“This can’t be happening, we should be killing you Masquerade rejects. You should be melting in a pile of your own flesh! You can’t...you shouldn’t...no, no, no! This isn’t right! First you take our parents and now you take our lives?! When will you fucking monsters finally leave us alone! The shaman promised...he promised us you wouldn’t ever win. Bear. Pointy. I’m sorry. Game’s over, for all of us.” Juliet cried out, she was backing off from Villon and Francois. Fear in her eyes as she took her red mask off, showing a face scarred 10 times over as tears rolled down her disfigured face. For once with the blazing fire behind her, despite being cocky and violent before she seemed a quivering wreck as she took step after step backward towards the fire.

For the knight, he would see something clearly wrong about this picture, the choice of her words, how quickly she had turned in personality, her scared face. While for Villon, well, he was too pissed off to really care about it all, they had a mission and this was a pure annoyance.

[relentless]

And that was that, Villon thought to himself as he watched the giant get cleaved in half, blood staining his axe blade with delight. Moonlight shone upon it's tainted edge, and he merely watched the poor chap fall into the ground. With a breath of mild relief, he lowered his axe to his waist, before he breathed deep and closed his eyes.

"Francois."
He opened his eyes,passing a harsh glare at the mentally troubled bandit that had given them so much hassle, then back to the knight. A hand came off his axe as he held it by his side, hand shuffled up to the blood speckled head, still gripping the shaft. Driving into a small sack he had purchased before they had made their way out of the hamlet, he had picked up three torches, a couple rations, tinder box and a pouch of water. One of them had just been thrown at the bush, illuminating the area around them, the other two were small in length but properly made.

His head turned toward the womannbacking away from the fire, his cold gaze fixed on her. It was a vindictive glare, one he had given underneath his pointed executioners hood, toward the guilty. His hand fell out of his pocket, away from the torches, and he turned to face her, bringing his axe around to grip it with both hands. Fingers massaged across it's beaten wooden grain, old and dirty, thoroughly used. The mark of the headtaker, and he eyes her neck rather than anywhere else.

Villon wasn't close to her by any means, but he could certainly lunge at her. But first... he wanted to take advantage of her current weakness.
"You."
The man said low and dark between the shadow and flickers of the bushfire, giving appearance to his unreadable, aged expression. It was a cold, unmerciful look, the kindness of a warm elderly man had perished, the glare of the headtaker, The executioner was upon her throat.
"I will paint this very simply for you, criminal. You will drop, to your knees, and you will beg."
Villon let the cold words sink in, tasting the malice in the air. It was just right, a dash of menace, that was all too real... A malice that he didn't take lightly of using.
"You will beg for your life, you will cry, cry on my boot. And maybe, maybe I shall spare you."
Villon let it linger again, chuckling in an amused manner.

"Y'know. A woman told me after I had been hit by a bomb, bleeding against the same wood that surrounds us: 'You can take this dagger, and die alone. Or you can suck it up, and keep living."
Villon rehearsed the words roughly that Taas
had given him on deaths door, and he couldn't help but snicker. It was not an act of kindness, It was an act of discipline, to keep living no matter how disfigured you may become.

"So what's it going to be, criminal? Give yourself up? Or taste the blood of your friend on my axe."
Villon stated plainly as he already began taking steps to the woman with axe in hand. He had no intention of idling around for reasons, he wanted an answer, plain and simple.

[orwelles]

This province had proven itself impressive twice over. There was little question that the man before him was of a class completely bereft of anything, including ( based on this), basic human impulse control. Despite that fact, however, he possessed abilities far beyond the average man. If the dregs of the Hamlet were capable of such feats, Porter had to wonder: What could the nobles do?

Such thoughts would have to wait. Dewitt had proven himself volatile, to be true, but this was beyond acceptable behavior. If the attack went through, it was doubtful that their presence at the masquerade would last beyond the time it took to kill them both.

“Easy there. no need to fight.”, he said, placing a hand on Dewitt’s shoulder. At the very least, his attention would be drawn.

[The Carrying Blade]

Dewitt would try his hardest to hurt the Jester from the looks of it. Turning into bloody killing rage with what looked like blood magic sprouting from his body. This only caused the Jester to smile, as this would prove too easy.

“To think, she had such hopes for a miserable cretin like yourself. Oh well, I warned you.” The colorful Jester said with deep disdain in his voice, a harsh flipof the mirror for his attitude before. 

Dewitt would feel his body freeze up, the vines with roses sprouting from his fingers and the roses on his back would seem to harden. This would trail through his blood like a poison that slowed all functions, the magic blood already out of his body breaking like ice to the ground in chunks.

His fingers were barely 6 inches away from the Jester, who stood there smiling still, wider and more unsettling. While Porter would feel the body of Dewitt almost freeze in place as his boiling blood cooled quickly. This was the work of the Masquerades innate power to favor and disfavor specific arts of fighting. Magic was disfavored heavily tonight, an important fact Dewitt would’ve heard if he only waited and did not attack like a rabid animal.

[Kidney]

Freezing. Cold.

Fear gripped the man's heart, followed by more rage. A burbling, fiery rage that threatened to break his blood apart, the beggar-mage frozen in his spot. He found himself in immense pain. Expanding blood, freezing from this...magic, ripped his capillaries open. His skin mottled with bruising, coughing up...nothing.

His throat threatened to rip away from his own hardened blood, and no muscle in his body would move. 

His heart stopped, Dewitt could feel it. His lungs were frozen, his organs froze to a stop. He was dying now, stuck up like a scarecrow. He hated it. 

Dewitt's body sat, motionless, for a few minutes. He could not agree, or not agree, though all he wished to do now was to rip this person in half with his arms. Though, he felt as if life around him was decomposing. The shadows drew near, the red realm about him reaching out to clutch at his valuable form. He saw a Rose crawl from behind a tree near him, and as the darkness of a dying brain encroached, another appeared, too close.

If he could, he would have screamed.

There and then, Dewitt died. Though no one could probably tell, he was still motionless, and nothing seemed to change about him. Should the magic wear off, he would flop lifelessly to the dirt. All blood extended from his form would liquify and slop to the ground, souplike. 

[Unter]

François' eyes flickered to right and left. The flames in the bushes gave a radiant light, but it wouldn't last. He had to do something. The peasant that attacked them surely wanted to draw them in a trap, but the knight had nothing to react. He only saw Villon approach slowly to his inevitable doom. By the Light... He wouldn't go there. He feared the darkness as much as he valued his own pride. And that was saying something about his terror.

Villon had stuck with him, and he wouldn't abandon it. But he wouldn't die here. He shouted.

"Villon ! By the Light, stop where you stand ! We need to go, leave the peasant here. She's preparing something."

And with his words, he acted. He launched his shield to the girl's face, the only thing he could throw that wouldn't doom him to an inevitable death. (I rolled an 18)

With this, he turned his heel and began to try to find the road again. He didn't want to die here. Prayers flocked to his lips with the haste of dispair. He only lost his helm and his shield. And his honour.

Light willing, he would survive.

[orwelles]

And just like that, the man died. In an instant, frost trailed its way along the grasping vines, reducing them to little more than crimson powder. The roses on his back briefly surged outward, before they too were overwhelmed, dropping from their perch and leaving a series of bloodless holes where they once bloomed. How? The vagrant had powers that surpassed anything he had seen before. It was inconceivable that he’d be brought down in such a manner, let alone against a foe that, up until this point, showed little sign of resistance at all.

Porter stared at the frozen corpse, weighing his options. If it came to a fight, he’d stand no chance. The best choice would be to play along. Straightening himself, he turned his gaze to the jester, adopting a casual, but guarded expression, ensuring the body was still within eyesight. “You were saying?”

[The Carrying Blade]

The Jester watched until the body completley froze over, waiting until there was dead silence until he spoke once more to Porter with his smile back and cheerfulness returned.

“So, next on my list was to tell you how the Masquerade has the power to nullify and strengthen different attributes depending on the events in play. Tonight we favor brawn and brute strength, physical activities, punches that destroy stone! That kind of thing.” He sauntered around Dewitt, his hand gliding across his back as he pushed the iced corpse to the side, his smile back to unsettling.

”Meanwhile, we disfavor anything magical, such as your friend here. It varies from subject to subject given what they use and it seems to have gone a bit overboard. Though to be fair so did he, trying to attack me out of all people? Must’ve sent the disfavor harsh for my protection! Oh well, I did warn him didn’t I? Hopefully the rest of you don’t have the same problem~“ He ended in a sing song, kicking Dewitt lightly as he backed off. 

[The Carrying Blade]

The girl looked up at Villion with tears in her eyes, about to speak before Francois released utter punishment. The Shield flying strong towards the female, successfully decapitating her like it was nothing. It flew past into the fire, the silence deafening as the sickened sound of Juliet’s head fell off to the dirt with a face of pure horror. But this would not end so quickly for the two men, with the children dead, there was still the parent to deal with.

Villion would not be prepared as the fire moved away again, the knights shield coming back but this time flat towards him so as not to cut into the man though pushing him back extremely far. He would be fine, if only a little sore, the shield safe and sound if only a little burnt with a handprint on it.

A voice echoed around them, strong, wise, old, angry, it would originate from the fire that burned in its glorious pyro.
”As the fire blooms and corpses litter the earth. We have the rejects who forsake their own birth. But they are forsaken from death, and will rise as long as I am alive. But away these souls go, for you are no hive. Beg for their lives, or for your sins, choose now men, or become my new faceless.” The voice spoke, and soon a figure would be joined with it. As the old faceless leader walked through the fire barefoot with a staff in hand, hobbling forward as if weak, eyeless holes of a mask staring at the two men with a hidden ferocity.

Attachments:

[orwelles]

It was at this moment that Porter realized his error. He had come into this town thinking that the people within it were somehow different, somehow special, that they were capable of something the ordinary people couldn’t comprehend. However, as the sad, broken body of this blessed vagabond proved to him , nothing could be further from the truth. Those who skulked within the Hamlet were little more than empty shells, conduits for whatever dread power flowed through them, be it through happenstance, dedication, or misguided faith. It could inhabit a vagrant or viscount, cleric or charlatan, but the fact of the matter is, who they were before their abilities is inevitably superseded by the boons bestowed upon them, in an attempt for whatever being granted them it to survive and propagate. These “people” are nothing more than waiting, sometimes willing incubators, using their very existence to fuel the cycle of death, birth, and boon.

Except for him. He’d play along with their games, listen to the Vessel’s woes, and perhaps he’d even believe the stories they’d tell themselves. But at the end of the day, he’d seek out the cause of this lunacy, and lay it bare for all to see, no matter what the power’s pawns might say.
Until further evidence  provided itself, he would have to assume every man, woman, and child in the area was compromised. Fortunately, it wouldn't be the first time.

Thus emboldened,  Porter turned back to the cavorting Jester, his face a composed mask of uncertainty. "What exactly is this Masquerade in honor of?"