Witch Hunt {Riten}

[abigayl dalkholme]

~ABIGAYL~

A resounding snap sounded through the ears of those collected around the newly caught prisoner as a heavy, balled fist found his nose for the third time, finally breaking it. Despite his struggles, the two heavy set men either side of him had him forced to his knees, their arms locked around his, open palms pressing down on his slim shoulders. Were he even able to break free, it would lead to an unfair and remarkably one-sided fight. He had no muscle. He was no warrior. There was little chance he'd escape the wrath of a group of armed, trained soldiers.
Before him, a tall, dark clothed man paced back and forth, stroking a short but thick white beard. He was close to bald beside that, and his age was etched obviously into his face, as was his occupation. Where the lines that wrinkled most elderly faces were warm and deep, crows feet surrounding the eyes and laughter lines creasing the cheeks, the wrinkles on the High Judges face were deep set, looking more like scars, certainly suggesting that he never actually smiled, let alone show any other feeling than a passive agitation.
'I ask again boy, how do you plead?'
His voice was deep, gravelly, yet strangely melodic, giving the huge male a strangely discomforting aura, something so emotionless expected to have a monotonous drawl, rather than a sing-song lilt. It offered him an almost parental authority, although all those around him knew that it would hardly last, and would quickly be replaced with abject annoyance.

The silence that followed the question was hardly unexpected. The High Judges interrogation methods left much to be desired, his approach heavy handed. His last blow had probably stunned the man into silence, and Abigayl often wondered why he bothered with the same approach each time, why he didn't just let her do her job. Still, it was not her place to question his demands.

'Not...guilty...'
The response was reedy, barely sounding, the constant beating finally taking its toll on the middle aged other. He said it with little conviction, more out of habit than meaning. A thin sigh escaped the High Judges lips, and he shook his head slowly, striking one more blow to the face, hitting the upper cheek, causing the prisoners eye to swell almost instantly. Massaging his knuckles, Eres turned to Abigayl, finally, and nodded, stepping to one side to allow her access to the captured trader.
'Ask this vermin the same question Abigayl. Find the truth.'

Her orders were simple, and she approached her charge slowly, the fingers on her right arm outstretched. He cowered as she came closer, expecting a slap, a punch, but none came. Rather Abigayl traced her outstretched fingers over the mans face, bringing her middle finger to rest on his forehead. There it sat for a few moments, bringing confusion to the face of the prisoner. Closing her eyes, and taking a deep breath, Abigayl repeated the Judges question.
'How do you plead?'

As he replied, stronger this time, images raced through Abigayl's head. She saw him in the citadel, the high courts, stealing fruits from markets, taking truck loads of unknown cargo to dark caves, talking to masked figures, plotting with...

Pulling her hand away from his head, Abi let out a slight yelp as she distanced herself from the mind of the other, the images vanishing, leaving her momentarily disorientated. As she regained her composure, she noticed the other Hammers looking at her with respect, with hope, and the prisoner looking at her with a disturbing mix of confusion and fear. She pressed her left hand to her head, rubbing slender fingers against her aching temples. Her right hand dropped to her waist, finding the butt of her revolver, and she drew it in one fluid movement, causing the sedated man before her to start squirming against the holds of his captors.
Hooking her index finger around the trigger, she pressed the barrel to the mans chin, forcing his head back as far as it would go, so his skull was almost horizontal with the floor. She bit her lower lip for a moment, feeling the uncontrolled rage of those around her racing through her, pressing against her conscience. She couldn't, indeed wouldn't, let it overpower her. Taking a measured breath, she looked the thief, worse, the Coventry supporter in the eye, and allowed the hate to show in her dark eyes.

One word was uttered before she pulled the trigger.
'Guilty.'

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The gunshot echoed like thunder around the open square, causing roosting crows to caw and flock to the sky, a dark tide of beating wings stained red with arterial spray. Abigayl shook her head a little, and quickly re-holstered her weapon, turning away from the now sagging body, the exit hole in the top of its skull huge, splintered bone hanging from the wound at odd angles. A hand on her shoulder made her breathe deeply, and she inclined her head a little, taking in Eres huge smile. He squeezed a little, momentarily tightening his grip, and then released, slapping her on the back.
'Well done girl. Well done.'
Silence resumed for no longer than a few seconds, before the High Judge turned to others and made a few hand signals, finally stopping on the two still holding the collapsed prisoner.
'Burn the body. Offer it no solace.'

Around her, the Hammers seemed to dissipate. The two holding the corpse let it fall to the floor, and then one reached a finger to its back, setting it alight with a simple touch. The foul stench of rotting flesh filled Abi's nostrils, and she snorted in an attempt to clear it. She had no such luck.
'You looked perturbed Abigayl.'
Eres raised a questioning brow, and Abi only nodded in response.
'What is on your mind child?'
Taking only a moment to contemplate telling her master the entire truth, she bowed her head to the floor.
'High Judge...when I entered the prisoners mind I saw the Coventry. It was as you suspected. The things he thieved from our markets he took to their outposts, helped their spies gather information on our activities...'
Looking up, she saw Eres face darken, and he no doubt cursed under his breath. She continued before allowing him to speak.
'I think...lord...that I know the whereabouts of one of their outposts. It was an image that- frequented- my mind. He thought alot of it during the questioning, and he felt fear when he did so. I am sure it is them.'
Shaking his head slowly, Eres face seemed to dissolve into an emotionless slab, his features less apart of his face than a statue showing unabashed hatred.
'How close are they Abigayl?'
'If the images are...were...to be believed, then the outpost is close. I do not know if it remains after the taking of their informant, but if we move with haste, there is a chance we can catch them off guard.'
Nodding, the High Judge lent close into the young woman, and lowered his voice to a whisper.
'Go then Abigayl. Take a few of our most trusted warriors, our most trusted friends, and head out toward the place you saw. Assess the danger there, and keep it under constant surveillance. Do not act unless it is ultimately necessary, or unless the settlement is small. I will go to the courts, gather a larger army, and meet you there as soon as I can. Set up a way point, and I will find you.'
Smiling to herself, Abigayl bowed quickly, and turned on her heel, heading toward the city walls, signaling to two warriors stood around the sides of the square, who quickly fell into step behind her.
'Abigayl, I trust you. Do not fail me.'
The Judges voice pressed heavily on her shoulders, the pressure great; she could not allow herself to lose the great honor he had just bestowed upon her.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

From where she stood, looking down at the Coventry outpost, she was both angered and awed; angered that it was still in operation, and awed at the pure size of it. How had such a strong outpost survived for so long, so close to the city of Xanyni? It had been right under the noses of the Magistrate courts, and yet not a word had been spoken of it. From what she could tell, and from what small scout details had reported, the settlement numbered a good 300 people, not all warriors, but most. There were a few suggested wolves, but non that looked beyond the Magistrates ability to handle. In the back of her mind, Abi wished she had brought more soldiers with her. The 20 she had were at a loss compared to the larger horde before them, and she had wanted to remove the problem before the High Judge came to join them, before he claimed the day as his own.

Beside her, one of the officers she had chosen shifted uncomfortably.
'Abigayl...what would you have us do?'
Sighing, Abigayl waved a hand in the direction of the others, who had taken to huddling together a few meters back, whispering among themselves. What they were discussing, she didn't want to know, and nor did she really care. Were it a plan of attack it would have to wait. Were they questioning her leadership skills, they would have to like what she said. She had been designated as head of the movement by the High Judge. Among the Hammers, his word was law.
'Go and stand with them. We wait until nightfall. Keep an eye of the camp. We want no...unexpected visitors.'
And with that he left her alone. Turning her face to the wind, she let the cool breeze caress her cheeks, before she took a step away from the others.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Closer to the camp, she heard raised voices, felt the strength of raging fires and smelled the burning of raw meat. Abigayl had not stopped to tell her team where she was going, what her plans were, but then, she didn't need to. She just wanted to do a little reconnaissance of her own. Skirting the very edge of the settlement, she moved among shadows, keeping her form hidden by rocks, knife in hand in case she should come across any sentries, she tried to get a closer look of those who would soon fall to Magistrates Justice. At her shoulder, Cassiel hovered, having transformed into a small glowing orb of light, not wishing to add another body to a mission of which he did not approve.

[riten miyam]

•RITEN MIYAM•

[/color][/center]

There was a raging desire in his soul that smothered out the common sense that lurked behind his eyes. He needed to be calm, to be rational, but Riten wasn't adapted for such planning: his mind had broken years ago, and in the cracks of that brilliant mosaic was nothing but mold. It slithered through the layers of thought, caressed the very essence of who he was beneath it all and provoked it, urged it on with whispers of doubts: there was no greater weakness than doubts, and Riten was being overwhelmed by them. This required stillness, but the edginess that trembled up the lines of his legs, of his arms, burrowing into the very nerves of his feet made silence and quiet impossible. He moved, he moved when perhaps he shouldn't have -- moved because the thought of stillness was revolting, disgusting, turning his stomach over with unease.

Something was wrong, and it wasn't anything he had any control over; without the control, there was nothing. He knew that, knew how elusive true power was, and he would be damned if this negligent little emotion overpowered him and sucked what little respect he had garnered into the funnel of failure. It was a void he was sure he could not overcome, even if he managed to live to two hundred. No. -- and it was a strange thought, a cold, slicing thought that made his eyes raise from where they were restlessly roving over the frozen earth. It was cold, his breath fogging the air before him, pricking at his bared, open skin. Was he blue? He didn't care, but tried to think of it anyway. Anything but the worry, the wariness. He had lost his chance at true power -- but to have his gut abandon him as well was a problem he was not sure he could fix and survive intact. Would he die here? --- what were these god-damned thoughts? He hissed, his breath slicing through the hard edges of his teeth, eyes narrowing, fingers clenching.

Those around him moved deftly from swinging range, knowing his rage was as unpredictable as his loyalty. Who cared who was beneath his blade as long as it was a Witch? Oh yes, the witch, and the desire there, that unslaked desire for vengeance licked up his neck with a whore's childish glee. Dark eyes, as coal, as the void he imagined his own life being extinguished beneath swerved to the side, caught the mild fear starting to grow on his fellow witches, his comrades in arms, and as if to further agitate him their eyes slid to the side, caught on an invisible creature. Familiars, he thought, spitting in the direction that the witch's eyes had been inevitably drawn. Anger was quick to squirm under the contours of the Witch's face, darkening, tempting -- "Do it." He nearly hissed, his voice dragging lower with the desire for it, to vent his frustration, to wet his appetite for blood, for the battle that should have been ongoing, but had been stalled. What were they thinking, being so calm when they were in the midst of a war? The Witch was tempted -- it was obvious in the way her eyebrows pinched, in the trembling anger stringing out the muscles in her wrist. She wanted to strike out, to bring the dumb beast low. Leering, he dared her, wanting the challenge --- there was nothing sweeter than putting a true witch in her place.

"Riten!"

A pause as the others shifted uncomfortably, directing their gazes away. So. he thinks, knowing the unease was not just his own senses of paranoia --- though he definitely had plenty of that. Not so easily swayed, it took Riten the span of a few heartbeats to turn his gaze away from the fidgeting Witch, the baleful annoyance flickering between the line of his eyebrows, pinching his lips in a strange, enigmatic way. "It was a Hammer, sir."

---------------------------------------------------------- Silence.

"A Hammer?" he reiterated, his eyes narrowing in thought, in frustration. Damned, fucking bugs; chewing his tongue thoughtfully, he shifted his weight to the side, fingers sliding over the line of one of his nondescript knives. Nothing so fancy as the other Witches --- oh that bitterness ate away at him! --- but cold hard steel nonetheless. The ramifications came slowly, for Riten had never truly been a man of his mind, his intelligence marred by the blast of power that took everything good away from him, isolated and fed the bad. The very, very bad. A snarl as he whipped around, "Then he's probably dead. Those who fly, go and get the wolves. The rest of you just get out of here." he paused, feeling as if control were slipping away from him and hating it, reviling it, "and someone get me a new damned leak!"

Catching wind of his fear, the others reacted accordingly, witches springing to the air with alacrity, seeming to be nothing short than a nightmarish horde of sirens, slipping through the air without much heed for caution. The others departed, leaving the wagon loads, the horses -- peeling away on their bikes, knowing that there was no reason to hide the tools when the shed had been found. Quick -- they all knew their job well and rushed to fulfill it, knowing with a keen urgency that the higher ups needed to be told --- and it wasn't as if Riten could get in touch with them. Feeling their scorn like a lash on his back, the burn-out witch turned his shoulder on them, racing through the forests toward the outpost, the others hot on his heels, their engines nothing less than sibilant whispers, tires slushing through frozen mud; there was no need for care, they rushed, knowing that speed was of the essence. So it was that the wolves were ready when they got there, the Flight witches looking a little paler than usual bidding the hired slaves out to do their will.

"You know your god-damned job!" Riten hissed, leaving the bike to fall to the floor, uncaring as he turned his dismissive eye away from the moving wolves, watching with only the slightest bit of envy as they shed theirs skins and flowed like liquid shadows into the forests, into their strengths. Someone had to be out there. If not, well --- no one would ever blame the paranoid freak of being too cautious. Heart racing, he followed the wolves, sliding through the forests toward the only company he could stand. He left the witches to their own, knowing that the moment he did, their eyes turned ugly.

[/size]

word count;; 1112
tags;; Abi ^^
OOC;; ---

[/size]

[abigayl dalkholme]

~ABIGAYL~

Abigayl could only watch with baited breath as the camp she was so close to seemed to melt into chaos, witches of every kind overtaken by fear, running from place to place, dropping what they were carrying. Some took to the air, others reaching their vehicles as fast as they possibly could, thrashing the engines of their bikes against the cold evening. Those that remained banded together, running toward the sprawling forest lying at the back of the settlement. She was unsure as to what had startled them, knowing that had they spotted her they would not have run, rather executed her on the spot. Had the High Judge arrived? Impossible. It was too soon. Had they seen another Hammer, one of her soldiers? More likely. Nodding to herself, Abi ghosted to a large, outlying shed, closer to the camp, hoping to gleam further information on the outpost.

The building offered her far better cover, but her visibility was severely decreased, popping her head around the structure remarkably risky. All it took was for one of the Coventry to see her, attract a little too much attention toward her... She doubted that in their panic they would stop to take her prisoner, to question her. Those left would flock to her, butcher her, and then continue their retreat. Pressing her back to the cold wood, she slid to her knees, and closed her eyes, sacrificing her vision so that her other senses, namely her hearing, could take precedence, could guide her actions.

The ground under her was hard, soil more like concrete. The frantic footsteps of the Coventry pounded against the floor, blocking much of their intermediate conversation from her ears. A few names, a few barked orders, a few questions...she only caught odd words, and could piece together little. One name continued to be mentioned however, 'Riten', and while it was used often, those doing so seemed to do so with hints of both fear and scorn. She figured that he, she...it, was in charge of the camp, that they were fleeing on his...her...orders. Her concentration was broken when, in her left ear, a gruff whisper sounded.
'This plan of yours is going sour Abigayl. We should return to our soldiers, make sure they are safe.'
Turning to the glowing orb floating just left of her ear, she pulled the most stern face that she could, clenching her jaw and widening her eyes.
'Hush Cassiel! They are moving away from our position, away from the others. No doubt they saw one of the scouts and believe us to be greater in number.'
'Then what more do you have to gain from sneaking about their camp Abi? They are abandoning their stations. We haven't the count to chase them down.'
Swatting her familiar away, she hissed under her breath.
'There is still knowledge to be gained while their guards are down. The name of their leader for example.'
'Oh?' the orb seemed far from convinced.
'Yes, Riten.'
'How can you possibly...'

Abigayl quickly became disinterested with Cassiels lecture, and put his words from her mind, fading his noise into that of the background. He was, of course, partially right. She had no solid proof that this Riten was ranked at all, but she had a strong gut feeling, and she was one to trust her natural instinct. However, what use was that information when she had no face to link to said name, or when he was fleeing as far from her current position as he could? Perhaps if she had at least a little idea of who, or what, it was, then she would be able to aid the High Judge at a later date, when all of the Coventry that had lived so close to Magistrate boarders were brought to their knees and interrogated, judged and executed. She would point out their leader, and watch with pleasure as his mind was picked for information pertaining to the Coventry's plans, to their whereabouts...and how she would be thanked...how she would be respected...

Using that thought as a base, she steeled herself against her fear and lent around the cusp of the building, eyes wide, hoping to see...
She wasn't sure what she was hoping to see, but it was hardly what she found. There were few witches left, most having flown or ridden to safety. Only a few, large individuals remained, non looking to bear any sort of command, rather they were a rear guard, a few battle hardened and stupid brutes instructed to hold any possible threat to their leader off for as long as possible. Cursing openly, Abigayl retreated back behind the wall, letting out a short sigh.
Resolving that she had little reason to stay, sure that her foray into enemy territory had gone unnoticed, she waited but a moment, to compose herself, before she set off at a sprint back to her earlier hiding place.

She had barely made it halfway when she was knocked into, a dead weight hitting her full on in the side, lifting her from her feet with ease. Not ready or braced for the impact, her body flew through the air like she weighed as little as a rag doll, and on hitting the floor the wind was knocked out of her, her limbs spread eagled. Confused, a little dazed, yet still conscious, Abi pushed herself up with a yelp, one of her ribs aching with the exertion, a dull pain spreading through her entire body. Before her, shoulder lowered, was one of the brutes she had seen not moments ago. It had appeared large at a distance, but up close it was monstrous. Standing well over 6', it was reminiscent of a story book giant; bald, scarred and muscled. It looked as though it could crush rocks with its bare hands, perhaps why it wasn't armed, and it clearly had a speed that belay its size.

Seeing her still in one piece, it approached her, a lopsided smile on its ugly face. Frantically, she looked around for the others. They had begun walking toward her, following their friends footsteps, although there was no rush to their movements. Clearly, they thought their joining the fight was overkill, and expected it to be over in seconds. Abigayl thought similar. She had barely time to reach for her revolver when her attacker was on her, lifting her by her clothing, and flinging her effortlessly back the way she had came. Her back collided with the wall she had moments before used as cover, and with a sickening crack her head snapped back, dropping her instantly.

Through slightly hazy eyes, she watched the feet of the other draw closer, and, with his fist raised like a hammer, he was ready to break her face, to finish her. A blinding flash of light obscured her vision, and a high pitched scream echoed in her head. It was not her own, but it was close enough to have been. As the light faded, a small quake shook the ground around her, and where before she had seen the giants feet, she now saw his head, charred flesh pulled back from bone, a hand print burned onto his cranium. A strange warmth replaced the pain she felt, and she felt her composure returning. A familiar voice, gruff, told her to rise.
'Get up.'

Cassiel. Pushing herself to her feet, she noted that he had taken his favored human form, that of a tall, blonde haired man, a white aura dancing over his pale skin. Amber eyes stared defiantly at those who were rushing at them, and he repeated his order, rushing her.
'Get up Abigayl.'

All of her aches gone, she was able to concentrate on the task at hand. Removing her revolver from its holster, she barely had to aim before taking two measured shots at the advancing adversaries. One dropped instantly, while the other fell back, clutching its shoulder. Her gun recoiled twice more, causing the beast to fall atop his ally. Had the fleeing Coventry been unaware of a dangerous presence before, they certainly weren't now. Off in the distance, a number of howls tore through the night air, and with wide eyes she turned to Cassiel. They hadn't been fleeing at all. They had been regrouping, getting ready to attack, and in their numbers they would tear apart her assembled Hammers with ease. Something off to the west caught her familiars attention, and he pushed her in the shoulder after a moment of concentrating on whatever it was that preoccupied him, directing her back to her fellow warriors, back to her small scout team.

'Wolves. Run.'

He was not required to tell her a second time.

Tag; Riten
Words; I have no idea.
OOC; I hope that post was okay. On reading your post I figured that Riten was getting paranoid over one of his bod's having spotted a Magistrate, and so was going to get the wolves to mount some sort of full frontal attack? If he was fleeing then that works as well, as poor Abi has no idea which way the wolves are running! XD

[riten miyam]

•RITEN MIYAM•

He wasn't equipped for this situation; not at all. It wasn't in his nature to lead, to give advice, sage or not. Riten was a dog, a creature with only one thought in his head, a weapon of the basest level. You point the way and he goes, goes fully, with a smile, with gratitude, knowing the lines in the play that must be spoken, knowing the role he must play, and the part of the victims. He understood the hunt in all it's simplicity, understood the blood lust, the howling rage -- it was his attraction to the wolves that so tormented him with his inability to turn, with his inability to be anything but a spot on the wall that tried to be everything and failed. Nothing but a shadow, nothing but a tool to be used and discarded ... and the moment he had come to terms with that, was the moment that Riten had become a power of his own. It didn't matter to him that the others sneered, though to see their lips twisted in scorn sent his blood boiling.

No, no, it was the condescension of witches that turned him into the a maddening, frothing animal with no thought, nothing but the possessed, vicious desire to destroy, to kill, to satiate the bitterness in his bones. To push himself, yes, yes, the physical allure was something he had been hooked by, the sharp edges slicing through his flesh and catching him in the gills. No matter how hard he squirmed he only managed to swallow the hook deeper and deeper, knowing himself doomed and yet adoring every blessed moment of it. It was the reason why he was here, and not back in Perinthas. He had needed movement, or chaos reigned. His handler had understood that, and sent him to be a carrier, a dog-messenger. Except of course, this had happened. The leak had spoken, probably killed on the wrong end of a blade or a gun, and left the others to rot. Whatever he could salvage he must .... so he did the only thing he knew to do: he hunted.

Feet nearly silent on the frozen ground, bared of leaves and roots, his narrowed bony shoulders hunched over, he seemed to be slipping through the dappled sunlight, emerging from one shadow to the next, eyes as dark as the shades, black as coal as nearly twice as intense. A burning desire was there, opening itself up to the rage, to the hunt, to the adrenaline, and it was with a snarling smile that he slipped through the trees, blade at the ready, the flat lying against the inside of his pale, marbled wrist. If they were here, the wolves would be on their ta----

A howl. A ring of howls, and blood surged forward like a storm, pounding away at his ears as if between one and the next was nothing but the endless ocean. Waves to crash against the curve of his skull; waters to boil and heat, to dilute the blood and make it thrum faster, ever faster. The smile remained, but the world was turning, as smoke, as visceral agony as he darted through the forest, light on his feet, quick on his feet, moving as if wings were attached to his heels. run, run, before the wolves have their fill, run before the prey gets away. Elation did not fully describe the emotional tide which swept away his heart and left nothing but the utter, fearless joy of the hunt -- success was but a few meters away.

the howling rang in tune with his squirming, demented soul. It's tattered remains seemed to swell, bursting up at the seams and spilling into his hands like live energy; it pulsed in his temples, made the curve of his lips twitch, the eyelashes at his eyes flutter in excitement. Adrenaline was nothing to this. The run was but the beginning tide, the swarm of vicious pleasure making limbs warm, heating them up with a slow, easy burn. Licking up like the flames of his memory. He remembered, he adored, he wished fervently for that heat to pool between his hands, but caught between reality and the surreal realm of his dreams, Riten shook himself as he stepped lightly, hearing the howls quiet, then move -- a constant flow and tide. They were on the hunt, too.

Quickening his step, he leapt over the fallen mercenary, without sparing a thought to health. Death was just another aspect of the game, and the game, he had always found, was best when hot and bloody. Pursing his lips, he cocked his head, listening for the howls, mapped out the forested area in his head and dashed to the left, in hopes of cutting off the pursuit. "Come out, come out, little pigeon," he sang, his voice light and airy, trembling on the edges of visceral excitement. The howls continued to rise to his right, but whether they would herd her in his direction was anyone's guess. Werewolves, he had come to understand, were only as predictable as their tempers allowed. It was, he thought, one of their more endearing qualities.

word count;; 869
tags;;Abi
OOC;; Not one of my best, sorreh. And, yeah, it was more of a 'crap someone might be coming then' sort of reaction. Riten'll probably leave everyone to die if he finds out exactly who's after him though xD

[abigayl dalkholme]

~ABIGAYL~

The wind sang to Abigayl as it beat against her, desperate to knock her backward, make her easier prey for the wolves at her heels. It had barely seemed a slight inconvenience as she had made her way into the camp, but now, fighting against it, it was a fine line between life and death. As she pushed herself forward on now aching thighs, she wished silently that she, like so many of her sisters, had been granted the gift of flight. Alas, she had no such luck. Turning to look over her shoulder, she looked to see if any of them were visible yet, but all that was behind her were trees and the sound of speeding paws. Off to her right, Cassiel darted off at random angles, attempting to lead a few of the beasts awry, and occasionally there was a high pitched yelp, no doubt him burning the wolves that snapped at his angelic form.

Running harder, she tried desperately to remember which path she had taken from her original position, but gripped by rising panic, all of the natural features looked the same. She had not expected to be quite so rushed on her return, and she now chastised herself for not leaving some kind of marks showing which turnings and possible paths she had taken. All that she knew was that other Magistrate warriors lay off to her right, and that despite their seeing the entire camp flee, they probably hadn't known she was among them, or that she was now in peril.

Her train of thought was interupted as Cassiel appeared at her side, looking a little flustered, his normally stern brown more lined that usual, his face grim. A few cuts lined his arms, no doubt from his wolf encounters, and despite the blood trickling from the gashes, he looked to be in no real pain.
'Tell me you haven't forgotten the way back to the others...'
His sarcasm was biting, and Abigayl hardly appreciated it. In another situation perhaps, but facing potential death, or worse, potential mutilation followed by a slow death, his slight just stung.
'Not the time Cassiel...'

Using a rocky outcrop as a footlodge, Abigayl placed her foot firmly, and then propelled herself over a fallen tree, rolling as she hit the other side. Barreling twice, she sprung to her feet, and continued moving away from the howls that followed her.
'We can run as long as you want Abigayl, but I think you know that if you don't come across help soon, we are going to run into a wolf or Coventry vermin sooner or later, and then it is only a matter of time...'
'What would you have me do Cas?'
Her voice was heavy, laboured, her body tiring rapidly from the constant movement, and she had to admit that the only thing that was keeping her going was the adrenalin that was pumping through her body, perhaps the fear of her life ending.

His silence was as much of as an answer as she needed. Nothing. She could do nothing.

It was with that thought weighing on her mind that she noticed a movement off in the forest that was neither wolf nor Cassiel. Indeed, it was too small to be a werewolf, and moved damnably fast, but like a human never the less. She was only able to watch it for a moment, before it was hidden once again by foilage. Unable to stop and research the new being, Abigayl hoped that it was too was not on her tail.

OOC; Blah, my post disappointed me. Im a little written out today after finishing an essay on William Blake. Hope my next post will be back to standard. Poor Abi. Shes got Riten and Wolves chasing her now

[riten miyam]

•RITEN MIYAM•

The air in his lungs burned. The fire in his legs sizzled deeper than tissue, agony ripping through bone and boiling the marrow. The tremor in his heart only testified to his mortality; he was shifting between life and death, moving through the slanted darkness of shadows cast by overreaching trees, and the sun-dappled rays of light that shifted through the canopy; darkness and light, and he a creature that fell through the cracks of bone, unable to meet up to standards set forth by pride and greed. He was good enough to use, but not good enough to reward, not good enough to greet as an equal, and it was this bitterness which seized him now as the world narrowed down to the hunt, to the werewolves had taken before him, to the witches (he presumed) that had stepped out and into their camp.

The others -- who cared. There was only this, and in this, he could do no wrong. When there was action, when adrenaline was able to slice through the fog of doubt, he was at his most certain, at his thorough potential. Here, he could do no wrong -- and he did not: flinging himself into the forest, trusting his instincts and his body, he moved like a wraith, his feet barely touching the ground before they were raised again, his lungs burning from the pyretic poetry sliding through the line of his heart and his tongue, cut off from thought and manifesting in the physicality of his growing fatigue. Who cares? - and he brushes by the exhaustion, fills himself with the greed and the speed, with the certainty of this particular hunt. He would find this person, this trespasser. It was only a matter of time, only a matter of when, not if, and he sang as he moved, his voice strong for all that his breath was precious, for all that his shadow cast a dark line behind him. Magic had once sizzled in his veins -- now nothing but ash there was only left what he could scrounge up to survive: gun in one hand, he grabbed a tree branch, heard the sudden motion of running, of footfalls unmatched by voices and grinned, crooning out in his strong singing voice, "Hear me, child," -- his voice lilted as he hopped over a log, following closely in the shadows, catching up, swinging around --- "- the sentry hovers near us, so don't cry!" he ducks and grins, knowing the world was rolling round and round, stopping only when a nudge of his foot bade it to stop. He was in control, now, and a deep satisfaction made him smug and cruel as he sang out, loud and mad, "He might shoot, if he discovers someone didn't die!" and the gun rose up in his hand as he slipped into sudden sight, his flight stopped, his breath freezing in his lungs.

A pause, as his eyes flicked up, dismissed the Familiar, stared at the Witch, and hated. A hammer they had told him -- and who was to say this wasn't the same Hammer? He chuckled, raising his gun to point at her, "Surprise, surprise, a little thing like you took the werewolves on a merry little chase, hm, hm?"

Breath is a precious thing, it kept the body alive, made the blood pump through veins, made magic possible by merely existing. In this world, with this gun pointed at this woman, and this man, half-mad with the run, half-mad by sheer nature -- and witchkind's own sense of cruelty -- Riten's grin only widened to bare flat, bunt teeth. No werewolf this, but a witch himself, though magically brutalized. Let the Familiar sense what he wants, his finger twitched on the trigger, "Attack me," he murmured musically, his eyes sliding effortlessly toward the Familiar, "and we'll see who's aim is truer, my bullet in your Witch's brain, or your hand, in mine." despite the severity of the circumstance, the need to laugh was a growing insanity tightening the coils of his intestines. He needed to laugh, to release the energy, but satiated himself with staring at their expressions, counting their breath, the way in which their shoulders were positioned. Let them attack, he hopes, wanting to see another Witch crushed under his boot.

The madness rises, rises, and falls over his eyes, drowning his sense in a wash of vengeance, slipping through the cracks of decay that have left his mind open to mental maladies. He was dying in his own fashion, but as long as he took the world with him, he was well satisfied.

word count;; 773
tags;; Abi
OOC;; yah... I'll get a handle on him, soon Y_Y