Vitiator and the Vitiator.
Both name and class.
The truth of the former known only to a few of his kind by dint of distance and the inexorable passage of time. Mortals had taken it with them into their inevitable deaths. As for the long-lived and the immortal… well, he had kept them away and remained in the shadows.
All to carry the sacred charge from the Sun of his people.
To go forth to other worlds and prepare them.
Centuries of travel for experience and levels had brought him to this world for his first true attempt.
Shameful failure.
To be defeated by primitives new to the spires and forced deeper into the shadows like a parasite suckling off inferiors.
He hadn’t accounted for class-less having such power.
Once again forced to flee, he stepped out of his conjured doorway onto the edge of a forest a vast distance away.
Innocent blood had increased the potency of the spell.
None on this world had the strength of magic to follow.
He was safe from the familiar presence that had suddenly triggered the myriad of detection spells he had laid all over the slavers’ city.
It seemed impossible that one would just appear like that in the middle of all his spells.
Was there no safe place?
The thought chilled him. Him!
A flare of magic interrupted his ruminations.
Impossible! he thought.
He recognized the way the spell felt from one instance seared into his memory from centuries ago when he was but a humble student. An archmaster’s simple demonstration to show them all the possible heights they could reach after a millennia of diligent study, a ravenous hunger for knowledge and leveling to the exclusion of all.
That was all he recognized.
Only the sensations.
He couldn’t pierce the spell’s construction. Couldn’t grasp a hint of a signature.
Its presence on this world could only mean one thing.
The thought filled him with more dread than the Earth human.
All this he processed in the span of a second with his superiority of mind.
The radiant gateway disgorged the two vengeance-seeking children.
They were of little concern.
Many such had sought him out over the centuries.
Whoever cast their conveyance was his only concern.
The gray-armored one charged.
Darkness flowed over the grass, reaching out like fingers in the clear, moonlit night.
Shadow magic was easy enough to render impotent.
A gesture conjured a bright orb of light to sear away the shadows.
That was when the second child acted.
Fingers and hands danced, magic pulsed within the child’s chest.
“Terronora’s Shroud.”
It flared out, swallowing his orb.
Thoughts processed.
Magical artifact instead of a heart. He didn’t recognize the spell’s name, but when it came to such things there was a lot of overlap in effect even if differences existed in construction, mana consumption, signature and so on and so forth.
Any other time he would’ve hungrily taken the child and extracted every scrap of knowledge he could learn before ripping the artifact for further study.
Instead, he would overwhelm them with his superiority.
Fingers twisted and arms gestured.
Each one sending a spell to burn, rend and destroy.
The child with an artifact for a heart raised panes of magic ahead of the armored one.
Each shattered in turn.
A thick shield coalesced in front of the armored one’s arm from the writhing shadows following him like an insipid pet.
Solar Lance of Acanthedor burned straight through the dark gray shield. A simple Dispel Summoned Item used the opening to get rid of the shield completely. Renzavore’s Claw followed an instant later to carve deep gouges into the dark gray plate.
They closed, but not quickly enough to conceal the red.
“First blood,” the Vitiator sneered. “Although, if what you claim is true then I’ve already done that. Who are you? I don’t recognize either of you. That is understandable, of course, I’ve passed many chattel through these hands,” he spread long, thin fingers wide.
Elvandoran’s Searing Spray of Agony.
Twisted glee spread across his face as dark red liquid sprayed across a wide arc in front of him.
He so enjoyed sharing his knowledge with inferiors.
The armored one ran right into the spell.
A hiss escaped his full-faced helm.
Glowing eyes dimmed as he fell to one knee.
“Yes!” the Vitiator hissed. “Go, take your natural position. Such is the way of your kind.”
“Kill you,” the dark armored one rasped, “for… family…”
“Always that, isn’t it? And yet here I stand. I’ve forgotten how many inferiors have bathed me with they pain, blood and suffering. All for my power to grow. Centuries done. Centuries more to come. Then… eternity.”
“Malaviransor’s Rebuke,” the other child grunted.
The powerful spray dwindled to a trickle.
Slight pain flowed into the Vitiator.
An irritation more than anything substantial.
He couldn’t even use it for strength or to replenish his mana.
The armored one surged with surprising quickness.
Mildly impressive endurance.
A thrusting spear coalesced in his hand, hungrily seeking the Vitiator’s chest.
Trust the enchantments in his robes or not?
He weighed probabilities in a split-second with his mind’s superior processing capability.
His initial attempts to analyze the two children had failed or rather been blocked.
He surmised that both were in the low Level 40’s or the equivalent in the case of the child with the artifact in place of a heart. He didn’t know whether the latter had a class or was entirely powered by the artifact.
Trust.
The dark spear struck him in the chest, driving him back several steps, but failed to pierce his robes.
Pain radiated from the impact point and knocked the air from his lungs.
This time there was enough to immediately turn into a spell to power his own strength to catch the second thrust.
The spear quivered in their hands as neither could budge the other.
The weapon vanished into immaterial shadows, only to return as a descending axe.
He raised a sleeved arm to deflect.
“Valynn’s Bindings.”
Ghostly ropes wrapped around his wrists and pulled taut.
The axe fell.
Superior strength, quickness and reaction allowed the Vitiator to shift, pulling against the magic ropes to move just enough that the axe blade missed his forehead.
Instead, it sheared through the lesser protections around his physical body, strands of his perfect, flaxen hair and half of his left ear before glancing off his robed shoulder.
“How dare you!” he gasped.
How dare they give him true pain!
He shattered the ropes and blasted the armored one away with a wave of his hand.
He gestured toward the other child, hand grasping.
A dark swirl of energy coalesced into an enormous clawed hand crushing around the child, lifting him off the ground.
Sharp barbs on the inside of the giant fingers cut armor and clothing, drawing blood.
“Yes! Struggle! More pain!” the Vitiator hissed. “You are an insignificant child! Casting spells with words is the domain of the ignorant and weak. Learn… is what I would say, if you would but have the opportunity,” he touched his ear. Blood darkened his fingers, followed by his features.
“We know enough to make you bleed!” the child’s face twisted. “I know enough to make you pay for what you did to me!”
He pulled the child close enough to touch, so that the unfortunate one could bathe in his superior presence before death.
“I am important to you. That much is clear. And yet… I don’t know you. Your face is one among many. All the same. All anonymous. None worth remembering. You will all be forgotten. Mere notes in the telling of my legend. Once I deliver your world, your people,” he sneered, “my Sun will shine his rewards down on me, bathing me in his everlasting glory.”
“Dreadlings, kill!” a raspy voice roared.
Small, dark, misshapen creatures gibbered out of every shadow, swarming over the Vitiator, biting and clawing ineffectually against his robes.
“Summoned hordes too weak to even scratch me are a waste of energy. You fight like a petulant child, hurling everything you have with no thought to efficiency.”
“Distraction,” the dark armored one rasped.
Neighing heralded a thunder of hooves.
They struck the Vitiator in the back, scattering the dreadlings and driving him into the hard, grass-covered earth.
Over and over again the demonic steed’s hooves rained down like hammers on an anvil brutally forcing metal into shape.
The robe’s protections held.
The pain grew to heights he had last experienced decades ago.
It flowed through him and became wrath.
Aura of the Corrupter: I Share My Wrath.
The child cursed.
“Protect me!”
The artifact in his chest burned in his chest like the heart of a furnace in response.
“Sinaht’s Razor Birds!” he gasped.
The spell swarmed over the dark grasp, shredding the fingers enough for the child to tear his way free.
“Dread Paladin! Keep your distance!”
“I know,” the dark armored one rasped.
The demonic shadow steed stomped with abandon, but her focus had gone solely from the Vitiator to everything in range.
She trampled dreadlings by the dozen even as she landed thunderous blows on the Vitiator.
The dreadlings gibbered madly as they clawed at the steed, the Vitiator and each other.
The Vitiator rolled away.
“Distance will not save you from my influence. You’re rage for vengeance. That which you think gives you strength is mine!” he snarled.
The child with the artifact in his chest flinched and backed away, averting his gaze.
The other one roared and leapt, axe held high.
He drew his own blade out of dimensional storage.
Slightly curved, the impossibly long, single-edge sword swept up in a parry, followed by a diagonal cut across the chest.
Superior metal work inlaid with enchantments cut deep into the dark gray plate and made wounds that remained open regardless of healing.
Axe struck.
Sword parried and returned.
The pattern unfolded repeatedly in the span of seconds.
He wielded a sword as long as the giant two-handed versions of the inferior species in one hand with superlative technique despite not holding a martial class.
That was the advantage of a potential lifespan measured in millennia.
The short-lived could only master few disciplines, perhaps only one, within the span of their lives.
As one of the High, he had time.
Speed, strength, grace. Every physical attribute was superior.
Unlike those Low savages hiding in their dirty forests and jungles, who had diminished themselves over the millennia, his kind remained in the fullness of their power.
Such was the cost of turning away from the glory of the Sun.
Still, the armored child was much stronger.
It took increasing his own through the pain in him and the rage in everyone to close the distance.
A slight shift of his body to one side allowed the axe to crash into the ground, sending a shower of dirt into the air.
He took a step up the long handle to land a kick on the full-faced helm, flip over and drag a long cut down the back plate through to the flesh.
Delicious pain.
A surge of wrath.
He drew on both to gain the strength to cleave through the axe shaft as it came around for his head.
The weapon dissipated into shadow.
The so-called Dread Paladin charge forward, shoulder down, low to the ground.
Had the child reached the limits of the summoned weapons?
The Vitiator danced around the clumsy tackle on light feet that seemed to move perfectly. He bent back mid twirl to let the other child’s angry red spell pass harmlessly.
A lazy gesture returned a spell that had the child diving for his life.
He laughed.
The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
It wasn’t much of a challenge and he wasn’t going to gain much in the way of Universal Points or levels from killing the two children, but it was certainly enjoyable.
To be so much stronger than an opponent that one could play without concern with the outcome already decided was glorious.
A whip lashed out of shadow.
He cut it in twain, length-wise, both halves returned to their nothingness as they parted around him.
The demonic steed, much hurt by the dreadlings, loomed behind.
He spun, bending at the waist to just avoid the biting teeth. Planting one hand on the steed’s head he flipped, balanced upside down for a moment before riding the head’s bucking motion into a flip that landed him on the steed’s back.
A simple slash parted head from body.
“From the shadow it came, to the shadow it returns,” he said lightly as the dark body melted beneath his feet. “Tell me, before I take your life, is the creature dead in truth? Is it a singular, unique entity?”
The Dread Paladin remained silent.
“You don’t know,” he sneered. “Well, that knowledge will remain lost and unknown… alongside your corpse.”
Two strides carried him to striking distance.
Sword to sword.
The Dread Paladin parried the first and second strike.
The third cut through his plate drawing blood across his thigh.
Fourth. Fifth. Sixth. Seventh. Eighth. Ninth. Tenth.
Eye blinks of time.
Blood leaked from every limb.
The thick plate was cut like paper.
“Know that you die to skills I have not practiced in over twice your lifespan,” he presented his sword with a flourish.
A flash of movement out of the corner of his left eye.
A sneer.
A dark spell.
A burning hole through the chest of the child with an artifact for a heart.
A pity and a surprise.
An item displaying such power shouldn’t have been destroyed so easily.
He regarded the child staring at him with with eyes and slack jaw.
The hole in his chest smoked.
Yet… he noticed something.
Where was the pleasant smell?
The child shimmered and vanished into little sparkling lights.
“Quicksand.”
His feet sank into the suddenly soft ground, stopping at his knees.
He turned to his right.
The child stood on unsteady legs.
The heat in the child’s chest stood out dangerously in the Vitiator’s magic enhanced vision.
Too much mana used in a short span of time threatened the wielder’s life, class or none.
This one was on his last gasps.
“Grease Shower.”
Sticky, unctuous liquid rained down on the Vitiator.
It had a strangely appealing odor, despite marring his fair-haired countenance as it oozed all over his robes.
“Firefly,” the child gasped, collapsing at the last.
The small spark zipped across the distance.
The Vitiator erupted like a dry tree in a firestorm.
“Mundane fire is nothing,” he laughed, pulling himself out of the mire even as the flames tickled and warmed him… a little.
The Dread Paladin struck.
Swords danced in a blur of sparks until the dark gray blade snapped.
“I’m on fire and yet still prove superior. Your armor, your weapons, your Skills and class. All are nothing compared to me,” he grabbed an arm, crushing the bracer as he hurled the armored child into a tree.
“You’re wrong about one thing,” the Dread Paladin rasped, slowly rising to his feet. “I haven’t used all my abilities,” he raised a hand and clenched his fist. “Dread Smite.”
Wide beam of dark light shined down from above, bathing the Vitiator.
He felt what it was supposed to do, but it was too weak to get past his protections and his inherent attributes.
The dread washed off him.
“Enough,” he extinguished the flames with a gesture. He spun his sword in graceful arcs as he went through a few of the forms. “This has been invigorating. It was good to be reminded of who I am truly. Years of hiding in fear was not me. The two of you have shown me that I am the one to be feared. And know this before you die. I will repay what you’ve given me to those that you leave behind.”
The Dread Paladin collapsed to his knees.
The other child struggled to raise his head from the grass.
“Your quest for vengeance ends in failure.”
He felt sudden and powerful magic swirl around him.
Eyes widened.
It was just like—
Multiple gateways winked into existence in a ring centered on the Vitiator.
“Ah, but failure can take many forms. In some cases they could be said to be successes.”
The voice made his sound like a badly tuned violin.
“No…”
It couldn’t be?
One of the High on this world?
But… the Sun had chosen him!
“Ms. Teacher, you’re being cryptic again,” a child’s voice, high-pitched, grating.
The gateways winked out.
The High stood directly in front of him within touching distance.
When had she closed?
The gateway had been at least five times that distance.
He brought his sword forward in an aggressive guard.
Perhaps a dozen others surrounded him at a much more respectable distance.
More children.
“This is an example of those that would take your world and use you for all manner of unspeakable ends. Look at him. Take him in. Feel the nature of his magic,” the other High said.
“Are you… lecturing?” he frowned. “Are you teaching these— these primitives our magics!” he snapped. “That is the unspeakable!”
“It’s making me feel sick, Ms. Teacher.”
“Do not let his mana blend with your own, Rupert. Touch, but do not touch. Keep them separate.”
“You dishonorable traitor! The Sun will know of your treachery!” he snarled.
She quirked her head. “You do not know me? Interesting. My objectionable uncle did say he would erase me from our very history. Tell me does your ‘Sun’ still have the scar across his face?”
The Vitiator’s eyes widened a fraction.
It was enough.
She laughed like music.
“I’m pleased to know that even after all this time my touch remains upon his face. Though, from your existence it appears that he failed to heed my advice.”
He caught the barest hint of smug satisfaction on her dark-skinned face.
“Enough!” he lashed out with a spell of titanic proportions.
Dark, ugly magic twisted from his hand to her face.
She twirled a finger, gathering his spell and sending it skyward to dissipate into nothing.
“Did you observe, children. Rudimentary casting ability, but quite advanced for your young world. You can do the same one day, but it will likely take more years than you have. Naturally, that is.”
“Is that why you encourage us to learn life extension spells?” a glasses-wearing girl said.
“That is correct, Cammi.”
“But what if that’s wrong, Ms. Teacher?” another girl spoke with concern.
“Right or wrong is a matter of perspective. I know of your religion’s concerns toward… what did that elder call it… ‘perversions of God’s plan’. Who is to say what God’s plan is? Rationally, we are all far too limited existences to comprehend the thoughts of a hypothetical, omniscient entity. Even its existence is incomprehensible by our very nature. After all, how can finite beings understand an infinite one.”
“You are the one in the wrong,” the Vitiator breathed deeply. “We are immortal.”
“Perhaps, under the right conditions. We die just as easily as all the other species.”
“No. That is not what I learned.”
“Oh? And what house of learning did you earn your knowledge?”
“Cornawindor.”
“I know that place. Fourth tier. Primarily used by the Circle of the Immortal Dawn to give their lesser members an easy path to ‘earning’ the right of admittance to—”
“That is a lie!”
“Perhaps things have changed. I have been away for a very long time.”
“What is it you want? Let me leave and I will not inform the Sun of your presence for ten of this world’s solar cycles.”
“Is that day or year?” a boy with a crooked grin said.
“I do not speak to chattel, but I refer to the latter.”
“Generous,” she said lightly, “but you are in no position to bargain. Children, I present to you, your lesson for the night. Morality and ethics. A matter of perspective or immutable laws? When is it right to take the life of a sapient being?”
“I will not be a part of your lessons,” he cast his own gateway. Short ranged, but he needed space.
“No.”
A gesture dispersed his gathering mana.
She was as far above him as he was the children.
That was obvious now.
“You will stay and be judge for the crimes you’ve inflicted on this world’s inhabitants by their representatives.”
“I will not be judged by a dishonorable traitor and chattel children!”
A gesture conjured a golden cage around him.
He felt his mana drain instantly.
Limbs suddenly felt weak.
He couldn’t even raise his arm to strike with his sword.
“Um… should we be the ones doing this?” Rupert said.
“Yes,” she said.
“I mean he’s totally evil. You can tell by the spells he threw around,” the grinning boy said.
“It’s the user and usage that weigh the heaviest on the magic being good, evil or in-between, Rand,” another girl rolled her eyes.
“Emma’s right.”
“Yeah, of course you’d say that, Jennylyn. You guys are always on the same page, like butt buddies,” Rand snorted.
“You let them prattle on like this?” he said. “Disgusting. This is what you’d teach the secrets of our magic to? The Sun will scorch you all from the face of this world.”
“He does give off an evil vibe,” Jennylyn said.
“I agree,” Emma said.
“Of course!” Rand threw his hands into the air.
“Ms. Teacher, we still need evidence and witnesses,” Jennylyn said.
“What about those two?” Rand pointed.
The young men had managed to stagger to their feet, but not much more.
The Dread Paladin leaned on his broken sword like a cane. “He killed my family. My entire community. His Cabal raped and murdered everyone. I will have my revenge,” he rasped.
“You can barely stand, bro,” Rand snorted.
“Not cool,” Rupert whispered.
“Your cause will be given its full due,” Ms. Teacher said.
“He’s one,” Jennylyn said. “What about you, er, sir?” she asked the other young man.
“Sadly, the same story. Except it was me that spent time in the Cabal’s hands. I want revenge too, but I’m not as particular as my friend. I’ll be satisfied as long as that piece of filth no longer exists.”
“Chattel will nev—”
“Silence.”
A golden plate appeared over the Vitiator’s mouth.
“Now,” Ms. Teacher continued. “We have two victims here.”
“Yeah, but he needs a defense,” Jennylyn sighed.
“Does he?”
“Yeah, it’s not nice, but even the worst scum need to always have a defense because sometimes the accused might not actually be guilty. At least that’s how we do it here, Ms. Teacher.”
“Yes, you have a similar system though without methods to discern truth from falsehoods I’d venture that judgments were made in error in far greater frequency than true justice demands. Fortunately, you now have them.”
“But you said truth spells can by fooled by those that were strong or tricky enough?” Cammi said.
“Perhaps, but not mine. Although I had a different lesson in mind. Some of you wish to learn magic to fight those, like this corrupter,” she gestured to the caged, “that come to do ill on you and your world. I would be a poor teacher if I didn’t show you what that truly means. Witness the crimes of condemned. See what awaits you on that path.”
The Vitiator’s resistance was swept aside by her spell like a wave does a sand castle.
She plundered his memories and rendered them in perfect detail for the children to watch.
The sights, sounds and even the smells were replicated in perfect detail.
It was a close to being actually present for countless acts of brutal depravity carried out by the Vitiator.
Years experienced in minutes.
Leaving children in tears.
Most had vomited onto the grass.
“It was harsh, but be armed with knowledge. He is one of many. That is what you choose to face. You may suffer the same fates as those you watched.”
“Babies…” Emma cried.
“Judgment?”
“He has to die,” Rupert said.
“But make it slow and painful,” Rand said.
“Yeah,” Cammi echoed.
“No. It has to be clean and not for, like, revenge, or to make him suffer, but because it’s the right thing to do so that he can’t ever hurt anyone again,” Jennylyn said.
“You won’t take my vengeance,” the Dread Paladin rasped.
“Nor mine,” the other young man said. “And you had no right to make me relive that.” Tears streamed down his face.
“The past is behind. Do not look back to live it, but use the memory to your advantage for the future,” Ms. Teacher said. “As for your vengeance…”
The golden cage around the Vitiator shifted into chains pulling him to his knees.
She freed his mouth.
Vile curses spat forth, but nothing more. Her chains sealed his magic.
Promises of retribution and such.
She had heard it all before.
He certainly was a follower of the Sun.
She flicked her wrist stripping him of all his protections.
“It is yours.”
The Dread Paladin staggered forward until he was close enough to touch.
His helmet dissipated into shadow to reveal a youthful, tear-streaked face.
Eyes shined with eerie light for a moment before fading to their natural color.
“I made a Vow after you took everything that mattered. I fulfill it,” he stabbed his broken blade into the Vitiator’s gut, twisting before withdrawing. He glanced over at the other young man. “Ghost Sorcerer?”
Rayna’s Ranger hobbled over and stared into the Vitiator’s pained eyes.
“You look normal,” he said after a long moment, “Cooper, you’re entitled to whatever you feel, but I think, I agree with them. The girl’s right. Kill him to save future victims. Once he’s dead my revenge is finished.”
“Ms. Teacher,” Cooper turned, “will he die from that?”
“Yes, eventually.”
“Can you hold him like that till the end?”
She nodded.
“Thank you. I’d like to watch the light go out of his eyes.”
“And you shall.”
The Vitiator spat curses.
Cooper never wavered, never blinked. His eyes remained locked onto the Vitiator’s until the once superior being looked away.
The words failed soon after as the Vitiator barely managed to keep gasping out breaths as the lifeblood flowed out of his gut wound to stain the grass.
“I will not fall to inferio—” he whispered.
Death came.
Traumatized children wept. Not for the condemned, but for all those he had left as discarded bones in the dirt.
Revenge?
Justice?
It was a matter of perspective for some.
For others it was absolute.
One fulfilled his Vow and felt emptier than he had ever been.
Another saw his revenge carried out and saw the weight lifted from his shoulders after so many years.
An unknown future awaited the two young men. For the first time in years they had nothing to drive them forward through all the painful memories.
As for the ancient being from another world?
She regretted the necessity of a hard lesson her students needed to learn.
The Vitiator was just the first.
----------------------------------------
In a rain-drenched city humans and monsters painted a tragic tableau of desperate and senseless violence.
Rich and powerful nobles learned the true cost of their oaths to the king when the protection afforded their homes vanished at his will in an instant. Grand mansions that were once bastions of safety turned into besieged death traps with collared monsters or freed enslaved battering at the doors and windows. All the while a slasher prowled in their midst killing her targets one rich bastard after another.
Regular people out in the bars, pubs, taverns, restaurants and clubs suddenly found themselves under attack as the suddenly freed vented righteous fury or collared monsters struck seemingly out of nowhere.
One such establishment was in the middle of hosting a Freedom Championships party with a great coup.
The small bar had somehow managed to book Casey Cool and the Glitterbombs fresh of their star-making turn opening one of the marquee Gold Division matches.
All was going great halfway through their set when everyone got the spires alert.
“What the fuck!”
“Does this mean—”
“We’re not safe!
“How?”
“Why?”
The music stopped mid song as Casey saw the same message, heard the spires’ voice in her ears.
From the looks on her bandmates' faces, she wasn’t imagining it.
“Should we get out of here?” she said.
The screaming started before anyone could answer.
Blood-covered people poured into the bar yelling about monsters on the street.
Most everyone inside was at least armed with something. A pistol, a machete, knives, usually a combination depending on their classes.
Practically no one was armed with anything bigger.
No one was armored in full kit.
They had trusted the King’s safety.
The first monster crashed through the big window.
A mutated panther tore the first unlucky person it saw with a swipe of its plate-sized paw.
The people fought back.
Skills activated.
Guns fired.
Blades hacked.
The panther killed another two before going down.
Monsters swarmed the street outside.
Screams filled the night.
Blood and rain painted everything.
“Use the tables to block the windows!” Big Tamo, the bouncer boomed over the din.
There was no way out. They were trapped. Under siege.
How could things turn into a nightmare so quickly?
“Guys, we have to try it,” Casey implored her band.
“We’re not bards,” Rachel Rascal said.
“They’re breaking through!” Big Tamo roared. “Hold!”
“If I’m going to die, then I’m going to do it singing.” The glitter on Casey’s cheeks sparkled in the lighting.
“Sure,” Rachel sighed. “We can’t fight worth shit, so it’s either that or get chased down and eaten. Might as well do what we do. You know?”
The rest of the band agreed.
“Guys, please, everyone listen,” Casey spoke into the microphone.
Some heads turned her way. Others split the difference between the small stage and the breaking barricades.
“Um, I’m not sure if this will work, but please listen to our song. I hope it’ll help you fight,” she finished.
The band shredded.
Casey belted.
And the half-drunk people fought like champions all night long.