The goblin duo of the Glora Clan embraced. The shorter, not even three foot Spoke smiled as he embraced his mother. Pulling away, he took in the enchanting sight of her coat splattered with artful drops of blood. His grin grew as the scent of burned gun powder tickled the nostrils. His eyes sparkled as he looked around the warehouse.
“Oh Mama, ya always have the fun when I ain’t here… How am I t’ write our songs o’ praise if I can’t get to see them?” He playfully chided his mama, poking his small, dexterous fingers against her glamour leather.
“Hehe, you’se are right son, you’se are right. I’se can promise only to try better next time.” Her head bent slightly in a mock bow of apology.
The eldest siblings looked down at the only two of the clan who shared something besides adoption with their mother. Spoke knew they felt a tinge of jealousy about how he was raised. Straight from a babe. Not forced to endure only to be rescued by Glora.
His mama knew this as well. And while Spoke was the youngest child, he was not given the same leeway many soft skins gave their youngest. And he was the most harshly reprimanded of his siblings when he failed. As far as he knew.
The gnoll stood next to his sister, but was subtly further away. His shoulders were hunched more and eyes shifted with more enforced awareness, rather than the alertness beaten into them all. Spoke could tell that whatever Dag had done, angered his elder sister and mother in a truly unique way.
Tanny stood right at the left shoulder position of their Mama. Holding the place of a dedicated and loyal guard or advisor. Her stance was more tense as the gnoll got closer to her, or more lax with more distance. And their brother was not in the place of a right hand guard, but further back. Almost like he was being lead there, like a pet or servant.
Spoke’s deep, navy blue eyes that were almost onyx, shared a brief hold with his mama. Their words were silent, quickly exchanged. But he knew that his mother was painfully aware of her eldest children’s behavior. She was not quite hurt by it. More that she was hurt by the disappointment she felt. Both in her eldest son, and how her eldest daughter reacted.
Spoke turned from his mama and smiled up at his siblings. His warm presence cut through the seriousness and dutiful air they would usually put on. Drawing barely noticeable smiles to their lips.
“Well, I know ya both watched her dance with bullets and flair. So ya will tell me ‘bout it tomorrow. The assault with begin on us once they realize who our reinforcements-“ All in the warehouse froze as a wave of an unmistakable flavor, a druidic, natural energy, surged from the back side of the building, from the direction of the offices.
“The Weavers… They’se did come, early too. Yal works magic indeed…” Glora spoke for a moment, their eyes of white and black losing focus for a moment as nostalgia washed over her form and words
“The Weavers? The Green Weaver Grove?” Tanny asked, her confusion clear on her face. As Spoke looked to her in surprise
“Ya know who they are? Mama wouldn’t tell me!” Spoke grumbled as he remembered his mother teasing the people who the mayor was working with. He had spent hours and days trying to find a connection when apparently his sister knew it all along.
“Yes, they’se a serious bunch. Druidic and Cleric order of Madra.” The elder spoke, her head shaking as the memories of the past were stuffed back where they came from.
“They also are all drow. And are currently the only group on the Isle that openly challenges the Drow Empire.” Tanny continued, explaining to her brothers as they looked on. “The Empire claims they are traitors. They caused the Dark Spring in the Underdark so long ago. And without them, Spoke might not even exist.”
The young goblin man looked at his mother sharply, but knew better than to ask in the moment. She met his gaze and simply nodded ever so slightly. He let out a sigh as his gnoll brother placed a hand on his head.
“We, heh heh, can talk about that later. Brother, we have a war to fight. And you, hehe, are our support.”
****************************
The Black Hands Council was not surprised after the Alpha Squad entered the building, when the first of the shots echoed out. Almar stood on the ledge of the rooftop, his body hunched forward and ready. His thin, lithe, and beautiful high elven figure was tensed and ready. Minutes, just a few more minutes and he would get to rip the failure of a goblin into chunks of corroding meat and paste.
The light of an explosion was carried out, and then more shots. His left eye turned to see the western sky, the orange giving way to light purple by the second. The dilated pupil came back into sync as Almar lifted his hand to give the signal.
And shouts of bewilderment echo out from all around the other positions around the warehouse. The west and east entrances were under attack. The 40 pieces of fodder at each were suddenly fighting back a mixed group of different races. On each floor of the building, battle was being carried out.
The leaders of the elite squads acted quickly. Sending orders to the 30 regulars at their location at the south entrance to assist the groups there. And as they were about to send messages to the group on the north side to do the same, druidic energies pulsed from it. And the roars of different animals and beasts carried after.
“What grove was that?!” Almar spun to his councilmen, looking at their hunter and ranger, the closest they had to an expert on nature, Lyphase.
“Sir, I do not know. There are only two groves on the planes or dunes within any significant distance and are only a dozen in numb-” The wood elf held a squint of concentration as he raked his memory before pausing and forming a frown. “That, that cannot be... The only grove that could field a group of that size would be, would be the Green Weavers, the grove of the exiled drow...”
The elves looked at each other in disbelief. Why would the Underdark fools care about this battle? The Refugee had nothing to do with their war with the Drow empire.
“Boys,” the aasimar spoke up, interrupting the elves and the remaining two’s confused looks. “There were eight roars. I can see at least three different volleys of arrows that came up at the lookouts. The men there can’t withstand that number and force.”
Her words were true, and stung the pride of them all. Eight second circle druids who could wildshape could be killed by the 40 men there. But while they were pinned by the grove’s ranger and archer groups? They would be devoured man by man or riddled with arrows if they tried to rally. They needed more full on might.
The council looked between itself, and Jewel spoke up.
“I say we send the elites over. They can leave a squad at each scuffle, and reach the north side as reinforcements. 20 of them should be a match for the druids. But by the sounds from inside, they wouldn’t be enough to help us.” His dwarven drawl was subdued. His passion slightly stamped on by the failure and succumbing to this sudden attack.
“We, hehe, need to end this now. They have more tricks than we, hehheh, expected.” The gnoll was similar in position and feeling as Almar. He had eyes on the warehouse, for the battle inside. Nothing but that mattered to them now.
“... Fine, Commanders, split up, leave a few men to assist at the east and west locations, and focus on the druids. We cannot have them interfering in our battles.” The high elf looked back down at the warehouse, his eyes locked on the center, where he could feel his spirit scream that he needed to go there.
The commanders saluted silently, and divided themselves. Rushing forward like the first squad, but away from the entrance and towards the rest of their guild.
Once only the five stood on the roof together, and ensured no other surprises were forthcoming, did the sky turn fully purple. Dusk setting in, did the five step up and off the ledge of the building, to land and approach the entrance with confidence and determination.
The high elf at the lead, the dwarf and gnoll on his left, and the aasimar and wood elf on his right. Gazing into the open doorway, his eyes came upon a short stature with two much taller figures standing on either side of them.
No words were exchanged between himself and the rest of the council. Their steps sounding as they walked in and stopped, around 60 feet from the Glora clan. The fur covered pieces of filth behind the goblin slowly started to walk diagonally away from their leader. As the goblin patriarch walked forward.
The pairs on either side of Almar separated from him. Each one walked with the clan members down the wings on either side of the warehouse. Staying only about 60 feet from each other. While allowing their head to walk completely toward the southern wing.
None of the combatants spoke. This conflict was not a simple free-for-all brawl. This was a battle of reputation, power, and position. For this battle, no matter the way it swings, required this war to be fought between the fodder and leaders, separately.
****************************
Tanny watched her mother walk silently away and towards the high elf. Glora was a woman of extreme power and dedication to her craft and duty. And of the few times she had seen her mother truly enter a battle, this was different.
The gate, the almost lifeless steps that did not echo sound, but rather radiated a sense of finality and a paradoxical wrathful apathy. Tanny had been taught by her mother how to torture and kill someone. She had guided her hand and claw along the necks of livestock or captured animals to teach her the proper techniques of assassination. And during those moments, she had more life and emotion than what she displayed now.
It was a humbling and horrifying display. But her gaze shifted away from the goblin and high elf who stood nearly 200 feet away. Tanny’s large eyes narrowed at the two before her. Taking them in as they returned the favor.
The tall elven man was holding an oversized bow. His quiver holding the custom made arrows meant to fire from it. Across his body was a darkened fur hide, most likely a panther. His pointed ears were not as defined as most elves, indicating a more mixed lineage, maybe an eighth or less of human. His grey eyes were sharp and vivid. Scanning everything as he put distance between himself and woman before him. He placed his back against the far wall of the wing and seemed to stop, looking at her with an odd gaze of pity or resignation.
The shorter, maybe only an inch or two shorter than Tanny herself at 5’4 or 5’5. Their eyes held a vivid blue glow, like looking through ice at the moon or stars above. Her frame was wrapped in a skin hugging fabric, atop which was a much cleaner or more defining than the hide of the hunter’s. At her waist hung a dozen daggers around her belt. Some down her thigh, and many other undoubtably hidden all around her admirable frame.
The eyes of her opponents were met with the classically lithe and lanky body of a tabaxi, wrapped in what appeared to be simple leather armor and a cloak. No weapons were visible on her hips or in her hands. Just leather gauntlets with studded knuckles that slipped between her clawed fingers. The fur across her body was like that of the dry and yellow grey sands of the dunes to the east. When she pulled her arms into the cloak, it was almost as if the shadows within swallowed them rather than concealing them.
****************************
The Hunter, the Afterimage, and the Wraith all looked between themselves. Each watching and sizing the others up as they subtly moved between and around the boxes and shelves.
The Hunter always kept his eyes moving, observing, aware of the reality of danger and threats that a foe like The Wraith of Glora can pose. His gaze shifted from positions of cover to paths of escape and ways to avoid attacks or traps.
Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.
The Afterimage was a fallen of her kind, one whose heart was blackened by the training and rituals forced upon her to further her power and development. And these left her with an affinity for speed and shade. Her hands held and twirled daggers in a hypnotic dance of skill and dexterity. Waiting for a sign to begin.
The Wraith was watching and planning on how this fight would go. Strategies and possibilities flowed over her mind as she shifted further into the wing. Once she was around the position she wanted to hold, a brisk 45 feet into the wing, she stopped and allowed the two to find a suitable place. Her hand slipped into the shadow of her cloak, and grasped from the enchanted depths, a familiar stock of wood and metal.
When they all stopped, they waited. Unwilling to be the start of the bloody war to come. But only half a minute passed before a gunshot and the loud crunching of stone and wood marked the start. With a dash, the tabaxi slid down and into the shadows like a natural part of them. Their movements were silent as they dashed down the aisles and stacks of random boxes and shelves.
The hunter, however, did not slip into the darkness. Instead, he readied himself for attack and knocked his bow, two more oversized arrows hung in his fingers, prepared for rapid launch. While the afterimage mimicked the wraith. Ducking down and merging with the shadows like she was one herself.
This started the game that frustrates those skilled in stealth. The patience and waiting before sudden and rabid stents of violence.
Slowly, the women would slink among shadows, seeking a mistake, a weakness to pounce upon. The sounds of violence, growling, screaming and destruction from both outside and within the building did not matter to these three.
As the seconds of tension built, they finally snapped, or cracked, as from a cloth wrapped length of a rifle’s barrel, came the crack of fire and lead. The crouching and hiding figure of the afterimage rushed into a dive. With a speed empowered by the blue glow of her eyes pulsing across her body, she managed to shift enough to avoid a shot through her heart, and just grazing her arm.
But even before the tabaxi could work the action to load the next road, three arrows whistled through the air. Forcing her to dive down and barely avoid two new slits in her ears.
With a roll, the Wraith slipped into the shadows again. Dashing along, pressed against the crates. Barely escaping the sight of the afterimage. From below, the aasimar was swallowed by shadow, leaving only a shadowy outline behind her, and appearing just beside where the wraith had been a second before. With a hiss of wrath, she sprinted down the path she assumed the cat took, towards the center of the warehouse, away from where the arrows that barely missed her flew from.
With a roll, the aasimar slid into the shadows again, seeking to catch the tabaxi again. But, once again, she could not find a hair or whisper of the cat. And once again, the game started. And repeated the same way.
The hunter shifted closer, ever vigilant, ever watchful. His feet never making a sound as he stood prepared to launch an arrow from his bow, to ram it into the Wraith if she appeared to strike.
His eyes shifted to where he could see his companion. She was flustered from being so easily hit and then evaded. Both she and he knew that his was how the Wraith hunted, however. Sudden, devastating attacks with her rifles, before slipping away like a ghost into nonexistent shadows or corners. No signs, no warnings. She was a wraith in all the ways the word entail-.
Another crack of sound and flash of fire. This shot was not a small doge, a simple projectile to miss her. This burrowed into the sternum of the angelic woman, spewing up from her throat, a swallow of blood. But again, arrows rained down towards the wraith. Followed by three daggers, hastily thrown by the wounded woman. No noise was made by the cat as she moved, the only noise that emitted from the assault that flew at her, was the sound of the third arrow not slamming into stone or wood, but leather and flesh.
With a single arrow, the wraith escaped into the shadows, expecting the shadows to rise with the woman again. But instead, the aasimar retreats towards the hunter. Blood clearly trailing behind her before she removes from a pouch a small vial, and pours it over the bullet hole in her stomach. The pain a bleeding quickly stop, as a lead projectile falls to the floor before her and the hunter.
The comrades share a look and nod, shifting to a position along the wall with a shelf and crates aligned in front that provided good cover. Both had been aware of the reputation cultivated by the wraith. They both knew that her reputation was earned. But neither of them expected the rumors to not do her justice.
From the shadows, the tabaxi slowly and carefully broke off the end of the arrow lodged in her shoulder. Blood pouring free with each shift of shaft. But it enabled her to get a better look and assessment of the damage. The arrowhead was thin and long. Meant to pierce and sink in as far as possible. This one was nearly two inches into her flesh, having clipped her collar bone. She groaned internally as she braced and slowly, silently, withdrawing the head and quickly pressing a bandage that was lightly soaked in a potion, to close the wound and stop the bleeding.
There was no movement for the next minute on their side of the warehouse. Both sides taking a moment to recover. When the next burst of violence came, the two felt that they had been ready. They were not.
The two had expected the wraith to remain at a distance again. The afterimage had been prepared to jump instantly as she saw the flash and try to land a hit on her. The hunter had expected the same, keeping his three arrows prepared. They had not expected the wraith to be bold enough to rise from the cover they both were standing behind to fire a shot of buckshot from less than ten feet in front of the two.
The scattering shot peppered the woman’s stomach with several new, smaller holes. But this time, that wasn’t the end of the attack. From a dangling necklace of the wraiths, one of the five small trinkets attached to it grew a ghastly green. A spectral form flew from the crumbling trinket, through the woman and then into the elf as he released only two poor shots at the wraith’s sudden appearance and close range. The bleeding woman also managed to throw the one dagger not dropped to the ground as she clutched her sternum. The ghost burned a green patch into his skin that felt as if he was stabbed with a necrotic poison.
Neither managed to touch the wraith as she sunk down below sight again. The injured rouge fell onto the crate with a heavy gasp, and slid down, clutching at her stomach while rage burned in her eyes. The hunter returned his bow to his back and knelt, removing a second, more potent vial from the pouch at the aasimar’s waist. Quickly, he removed the stopper and shoved it into her mouth. Letting her swallow, before reaching into his own pouch and removing one of the pair of claw knuckles and sliding them over his left hand. They had not been prepared for close quarters, which was exactly the reason she chose that way to strike.
“Pussy cat cunt.” Ollya hissed as the lead was slowly pushed from her flesh again. Her breathing was ragged, but she held a smile of mad excitement. “I’ll collect her hide for my new armor set.”
The hunter shook his head as his eyes scanned the room. This was not to their advantage. They needed to change something before this turned into a losing battle of attrition.
“We need to move. Get closer to the center.” The woman looked up at him with a glare. “At the corner, we can stand so she can only come at us from one quadrant. And the crates over there are mostly destroyed. We hold a good position and can assist anyone while we wait for her to appear again.”
He did not give her time to consider it. He merely hunched down and slid through the darkness toward the corner with the office entrance. The aasimar sighed and followed him.
****************************
Tanny watched and followed the duo through the crates, slowly stalking them from the shadows. And when the moment was right, she struck. With a wave of her hand and an utterance that did not belong to this realm of reality, a thin, long tentacle slithered from her shadows and into the path of the two. Without warning, the appendage shot up and through the exposed and abused sternum of the aasimar. But instead of blood and viscera pushed from the exit hole, a bloody tentacle exploded from a now transparent form.
****************************
Afterimage had become just that. Her body turned hazy, indistinct as the tendril burrowed into nothing tangible. With a sudden spin, the hunter slammed his clawed fist three quick times into it, only to be met by the same green spirit as before. This one, however, flying into his eyes and causing him to lose himself for a moment as he wildly smashed the tendril to paste.
The aasimar reformed a moment later, looking around franticly as the tentacle faded out of reality, destroyed. Nothing, no trace, no hint or sign of the wraith. Turning back to her partner in this battle, she came face to hilt with a floating rapier that stabbed through her shoulder with a dainty flair.
A floating sword, tendrils of darkness and aliens, the shadows that were the home and blanket of all assassins, had turned itself on the two. And now everything seemed to be spiraling. She grabbed the shoulder of her fellow and they tried to sprint away towards their desired cover.
But just as they tried to duck around it, another crack of haunting pain echoed and slammed into the shoulder of the aasimar, spinning her and the elf into the cover behind a large crate. She turned to see a third spirit following the hunter and sinking through his calf.
This was insane. Especially as the rapier she had dashed away from appeared above her to swing down again. With a quick reaction, she managed to avoid the meat of the two quick stabs. Stabbing at and hitting the thin blade hard enough to have a crack release from the blade. A clear and visible crack ran up and down the blade. As it pulled back and away to wherever it came.
But the pressure did not relent. Because as the metal of the sword slid away above the crate, the barrel of a metallic shotgun appeared and hovered straight down at the eyes of aasimar. The crouched and shadowed figure of the Wraith of Glora held the shotgun. She appeared as if she was nothing but a ghost on spectral winds. And was the last thing the soul that was born with the blessings of the god of travels, who was tainted and betrayed their oath and heritage, saw before their blackened soul was whisked away to be devoured and destroyed by the beings of shadow that fueled her current state.
But as the soul was being ripped apart, another hand reached out and grasped a fragment. A hand wrapped in the fur shaded by the ghostly dunes to the east.
****************************
Tanny gripped onto the soul fragment as she rolled backwards, away from the flying fists of the hunter. The claws were sharp, dangerous, and dripping with a nasty poison. She barely missed the strikes, as she slipped back into the shadows. She saw her brother’s damaged blade fly back and into a crate where he was hiding. It seemed that was it for his tricks with that for now.
She came up in the shadow of a crate, feeling the gaze of her last opponent slide past the spot she just was, and further past. She was unnoticed once again. With a slow and silent cocking, she worked the lever that extracted the rifle round, catching the brass before it flew more than an inch from the port. And just as silently worked it back, loading the next round.
She had two more shots in her shotgun, and two more in her rifle. But she debated using the remaining shells for a moment. The hunter had only managed to hit her once, but he was fast enough to launch three arrows in the heartbeat it took her to duck. He would catch her sooner, rather than later. The odds just were against her.
With a subtle shake of her head, she slid the shotgun back into her shaded space, and withdrew two items. A snub-nosed revolver covered in a nonreflective black finish. And a similarly darkened short sword. Clutching both in her hands, she slowly peaked out from behind her crate, just 15 feet from the hunter. He was crouching just over the lip of the crate, prepared to either shoot or punch, she wasn’t sure.
But she did not care. With a force of will, she filled her armor with intent and desire. She requested of the shadows that she felt were a second home for her, to bring her to a spot. Just around the corner from where the hunter was. And with a swirl of dark smog, she slipped into and then out of the shadows just beyond the hunter.
With a tightening of her grip, she dashed forward and with her hand poised, she lunged. Her sword comes up and slashes at the back of his crouching legs. Before he can react, she brings her revolver up to his back and fires through his gut.
But before Tanny has the chance to dash away, the hunter comes up with a ferocious spin on his bleeding legs. His clawed fists come up and catch her square across the chest for a devastating blow. While her eyes are spinning and burning her vision with pain, a second, equally as vengeful and violent slash across her face rips in and fling blood over a dozen feet across the warehouse.
The sudden, mind rattling slashes and slams send the rattled kitten back into the training she had been beaten with for two decades. To flee with you lose the advantage you require. With a spin on her heals, she doges the third swing trying to catch her and sprints off with the alacrity only a feline possesses. The hunter, however, rushes after her. Following her into the scattered crates, but she outpaces him. Falling into the shadows again when she has enough distance.
****************************
Lyphase, the Hunter, was infuriated, bleeding and through with this game. He was through with the wraith. And with his very hands, delt her more damage than he had been able to with his treasured bow.
This nonsense needed to end. He was bleeding, burning as the necrotic ghosts had inflicted him with something that would not fade, even if it wasn’t truly harming him.
With a deep breath, he exhaled. The tainted magics he hated that had been forced upon him in training, rushed around his hands and claws. The shadowy magic coalesced into a blasphemes version of a smite. With careful attention to the direction the wraith had gone, he began to crush and smash crates. Destroying her cover and presenting himself as an opportunity to strike.
She had yet to see his own Shadow Step and would hopefully not expect it from him. So, he began. Crushing boxes and crates with unholy slams and slashes. Creating a cleared area in half a minute from one side to the other of the warehouse. A line she would need to cross in the open to reach him.
He truthfully expected her to already to have taken a shot. Thinking he was in a rage from the death of his guildmate, or from pain. He had little actual hope for his actions to affect the battle or wraith’s skills. He had hoped to entice him to fire upon him.
But with his plan failed, he turned to the sea of crates where the wraith hid. And started to crush his next crate. Only to be met, once his fist went completely through it, he was met with a familiar sight. The barrel of a lever action shotgun.
With two quick shots, he staggered back. Fighting to stand as he felt his stomach was punched through. His lungs clipped and ripped open by balls of lead. But he was still alive. He could catch the cat again-
There was a glow. A light had bloomed from the bracers and hands of the cat as she had fired so quickly, he could barely follow. And now, those same claws were swinging up. Extended, razor sharp, and deadly. Catching him and punching up and into his throat.
The light faded from his eyes as the wounded tabaxi held his gaze until his final moment. His soul leaving his body to be crushed and devoured by the beings that gave him power after his broken paladin oaths. With a single piece snatched by the blood dripping paw of the Wraith of Glora.