Otaria Rising (Magic the Gathering)

Years ago, there was an apocalypse.

There was the plane of Dominaria; a living, beautiful world of life with all the promises of freedom and adventure for those who would seek either.

There was the black plane of Phyrexia, a nine-sphered construct of pulsing machinery whose very atmosphere was a noxious and lethal mist.

And there was the plane of Rath; an artificially created hostile world whose every lifeform was at best savage and predatory.

Years of planning from both sides culminated in The Invasion; when Yawgmoth, The Ineffable, The Father of Machines, overlaid Rath with Dominaria itself, fusing the two planes and causing untold devastation as his Phyrexian armies began their assault on the Coalition Forces that rose to protect Dominaria. Humans allied with Elves of Skyshroud, the Talruun Minotaurs, the Primeval Dragons, and even the Necromancers of Urborg to fight back against Yawgmoth's forces.

At the height of the war however, Yawgmoth entered the fray himself. He had long been barred from entering Dominaria by the benevolent entity Serra, but with Rath overlaid, he was perfectly capable of moving his very essence into the artificial plane, and by extension, the land it was now a part of.

That might have been the end of all things, but for the unparalleled foresight of the planeswalker Urza. Almost as soon as Yawgmoth swept into Dominaria, Urza put his own plan into effect; one that had been ages in the making. With the aid of a mere human, and his silver golem creation, Urza's power was focused through an array of artifacts collectively known as the Legacy Weapon. At the height of Yawgmoth's power, he was unexpectedly brought to ruin. Though the land was scorched, civilizations were ravaged, and countless lives were lost, the plane of Dominaria had been spared the reign of The Father of Machines, and the evil of Phyrexia was never to be felt on that plane again.

In time, the inhabitants of Dominaria began to rebuild.

On the southern end of the planet, there was an island continent that would soon be known as Otaria. It was a strange land; uninhabited by any sentient beings save the merfolk and cephalid races that lived in an uneasy peace about its coastlines and bay areas, as well as the Goblins who lived in the peaks and crags of the Pardic Mountains along the continent's western coast.

After the Apocalypse, it was settled by Elves who chose the southern forest as a new home after the decimation of their old lands. The northern forest, Krosa, had been deemed too wild for them, and so the gentler region they settled in was named Wirewood.

Man came later, and war-weary as he was, he chose to live on the eastern area of the island; away from the Elves in the south and the Goblins in the west. The merfolk and cephalid had several outposts in the bay area, but their primary territory was further south, and they seemed to regard humans with a simple view of "leave us alone and we'll leave you alone."

In time, a new group of settlers calling themselves The Order of Urza became the dominant force in the eastern Otarian settlements. An inclusive order comprised mainly of humans, and Aven, the Order began building twin cities around which were clustered the other numerous human settlements.

Now complete, Baphel and Utuul are testaments to the determination not only of the ruling Order, but of all the settlers of Otaria who have finally had a chance to make a new home for themselves and show their elders who had witness the Apocalypse that the world could truly rebuild.

Phyrexia is gone from Dominaria.

The plaguelords and defilers are no more. The noxious scent of the glistening oil will never again herald the coming of a battalion of scuta and strossus over the hill.

But to assume Phyrexia was the only evil is the height of foolishness. There is another order in Otaria; a Cabal has begun to form in the shadows, and their intentions are certainly nothing remotely noble or moral...


GAWD THAT WAS LONG.

At any rate; this should leave things fairly open. Is your character part of the Order? The Cabal? An unaffiliated settler? An Elf? The race picks are more than a little open here, as could well be your character's occupation.

Well, really the only guideline for character occupation is that your character can't be one of the leaders. The leaders, when brought in, are going to be NPCs.

Also, no Planeswalkers. The time setting for this story is when they're still practically demi-gods.

So without further ado, the profile skeleton:

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[b]Name:[/b]
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[b]Creature type(s)[/b]

[b]Appearance:[/b]
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[b]Color Alignments:[/b]

[b]Capabilities[/b]
[list][*]
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[b]Personality:[/b]

[b]Backstory:[/b]

Profiles go HERE!

...Actually I should take a second here, as you might have seen this bit:

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[b]Color alignment[/b]

A reigning premise in Magic is the "color wheel". Magic is divided into five colors, each with their own focus, some of which can overlap...

White: Purity, holiness, but far from passive, for justice can require measure of force.

Blue: Trickery and deceit for the sake of knowledge. Knowledge is everything.

Black: Darkness, pain, sacrifice, the works. Most stereotypically associated with "evil".

Red: Fury. Rage. Fire. Lightning. If it's wanton destruction, it's red.

Green: Nature. Unbridled growth to the point of wildness and savagery.

Bear in mind as well; spells your character may cast require mana, and mana of a certain color is more easily drawn when you are in that particular environment. White for plains and fields, blue for bodies of water, black for swamps and areas of decay, red for mountains and peaks, green for the forests.

Let's make some magic

*shot*

 

Years Ago

The smoke was still rising from the crater where the fortress had once stood. The blast that brought the structure to ruin had torn a jagged and uneven hole in the ground and whatever was left to show that it was an even other than natural was a fine blackish-grey ash of indeterminate origin. There was no stone ruble, no masonry, and perhaps most unsettlingly, not a single remnant of anything living.

It was as if some deity had decided to, in its unfathomable wrath, eradicate any and all signs of life in that single immense area.

In a way, that notion was not far off. By all rights, the tall man standing at the edge of the depression should have held himself at fault. it was his desire for power and overconfidence that had resulted in the destruction of his stronghold.

The Kuberrans had established themselves on Otaria some time shortly after the Order of Urza, setting up their fortress in the level expanse between Krosa and the Pardic Mountains. Finding little cause for war or indeed any conflict at the outset, the Kuberrans and the Order had kept to themselves at first. Eventually however, the black-aligned cultists had begun to crave a greater influence; to expand their belief system and lifestyle across all Otaria.

His experiments had come later, and now as a result of a paticularly powerful one, the Kuberrans were largely wiped out; their numbers reduced and their home obliterated.

And despite his own faults, Maglan refused to hold himself at all responsible for the destruction.

Turning, he looked to the surviving faithful, his black eyes glittering in the moonlit night.

"This is nothing more than a setback." He growled. "Our methods may have to change, but we have not lost...the..."

That was when they heard the humming. It had of course, started earlier just before Maglan spoke, but over the sound of his voice, no one had actually heard it rise until it threatened to drown him out.

A crackling bolt of white lightning sparked from the center of the crater, striking the ashen ground and sending flakes whirling. As the other worshipers moved to the edge of the crater, a second bolt of lightning lanced out and struck the blasted ground. Then a bluish bolt struck, then a green, and before long small bolts of every color were lancing out at random.

Immediately, one of the elder mages dropped to a kneeling position, holding his hands out in front of him. Black mana poured from his palms and in an instant, several bodies around them boiled violently and disintegrated into clouds of pure shadow. The clouds coalesced around the observers and a shield took form around them, looking like fragments of faded stained glass.

At that instant, a particularly large bolt lashed out and struck the shield. Even as it dissipated on impact, another body nearby crumpled to ash and the mage with his outstretched hands winced.

There was a violent burst of black mana from the center of the lightning cluster, and something crashed to the ground, scattering another ash cloud.

Maglan waited for almost a full minute as the ash subsided. The body in the crater stirred, but showed no signs of attacking. Raising one hand towards the body, he gestured with the other to the mage casting the enchantment.

"Kuberr thanks you for your dedication." He whispered, moving towards the edge of the shield. Behind him, the mage smiled sadly and lowered his hands. The glass-like construct around the others wavered and contracted, whirling about into a ribbon of mana that shot into the chest of the caster, blackening and shriveling his body instantly.

He collapsed, a disintegrating skeleton in black and red robes with golden trim about the edges.

Maglan had spoken to the old mage, intentionally giving the figure in the crater time to properly awaken. It was therefore no surprise when he attacked, pulling two short swords from a set of sheaths at his right side.

"That won't do at all." He sighed, sidestepping the twin slashes-

And finding himself on his back with both blades crossed over his throat. He blinked, staring up at the hooded figure. A metal mask was fixed over its face, and beneath loose, flowing clothes, it was wrapped tightly in bindings and black bandages that covered every inch of its skin.

"You're going to have to try harder than that if you want to live." The swordsman hissed, his voice sounding tinny from behind the mask.

"I wasn't even trying." Maglan said, gesturing with one hand.

The attacker's hands suddenly shook and he dropped the swords, staggering back. Reaching for what looked to be a concealed knife, he pulled the blade free and promptly dropped it. Fumbling for the blade, he caught sight of the small creature curled wickedly about the leader's feet. It was purple in color and aside from a head that seemed more fanged mouth than anything, no proper appendages could be defined.

"What did you just do?" The masked man asked, trying a dagger and nearly lopping his thumb off.

"I did nothing." Maglan said with a patient smile. "This little pet of mine leeches thoughts and memories from my enemies. In your instance, it has taken your skill in blades. I can of course, keep summoning th-"

A black aura flashed from beneath the man's hood and the tiny fiend stiffened. As Maglan looked on with curiosity, its flesh began to dry and crack, taking on a flat and pale look before it crumpled into a fading cloud of mana.

"I'm going to guess that its effects fade once it dies." He said easily. Before a reply could be given, he'd reached behind his back and pulled a serrated dragger from a hidden scabbard strapped flat against his back.

His speed carried him close, but even as he closed in on Maglan, there was another eruption of black mana. Out of seemingly nowhere, a thick, sinewy arm covered in barbs blocked the dagger and knocked him back with a single swipe. Looking up, the masked blademaster saw his opponent leap into the air land at the just outside the crater. Coming to his feet, he was tensing for another leap when the spike-armed creature screamed.

It wasn't an ordinary scream either. It rang through the air and in his mind. Eyes bulging, he felt his brain throbbing painfully and was barely conscious of one mage who had remained too close to the crater's edge screaming as well. Tearing his hood free, he struggled with the buckles and straps that held his mask in place and now seemed to be constricting around his aching skull.

Maglan watched as the head coverings came away and a matted mane of white hair spilled out. Staring with interest at the dark-skinned creature's red eyes, he could already sense potential. Smiling inwardly at the thought of success coming so readily on the heels of failure, he stretched out one hand and the Mindslicer's head burst apart in a violet haze.

Passing by the toppling horror and stepping towards the weakened vampire, he let the mist swirl about him before he absorbed it. Almost immediately, there was a briskness in his step not seen in days, and his eyes seemed even brighter.

"You fight well, Vampire." He said with a smile. "Instead of persisting and getting yourself killed-"

He paused as the vampire lunged to his feet and locked a hand around his throat in a viselike grip. Maglan allowed himself a gurgle of surprise before he pulled back, watching with disinterest as the vampire's hand, and then arm began disintegrating; aging and dying in a matter of seconds.

"That was a rather poor idea." He sighed, paying no mind as the vampire struggled to regenerate the limb against the flow of decay. He picked up one of the discarded short swords that had been dropped earlier. "And don't bother trying to regenerate your limb against my touch."

He sliced the hand off at the wrist. Almost immediately, the severed hand disintegrated into nothingness and with nothing to hold back the regenerative properties, the stump began bubbling and shaping bone and muscle alike almost instantly.

"You...have made your point." The vampire sighed. "If you're not going to try and kill me, you might as well explain what you do have in mind, otherwise I'll just be on my way."

"You are of the Sengir." Maglan said, pleased that the other's eyes widened at the mention of the name. "Yes, I know of you. Others of your kind have made their way to Otaria in recent years. You are not the only breed of vampires in this world of course, but the Sengir have a uniquely sophisticated savagery about them that's easy to identify."

"Calchaxus." The vampire said shortly. "I'd shake your hand, but apparently that's a...poor idea."

"Virot." He said pleasantly, turning the sword in his hand and extending it hilt first.

Calchaxus flipped it back into its side-sheath. "So this is the part where you invite me to join you and live with the rest of your unhappy looking order in a...ah.."

He looked around, seemingly noticing where he was for the first time. As he turned back to his former opponent, his mouth curled in a mocking half-smile.

"We've had a bit of trouble recently," Maglan admitted, "but if you're up for a new challenge and would like to witness the rise of a new rule in this land, I can offer you a front row seat."


Now

Baphel stood on the eastern end of the Otarian continent, a walled city that towered over even the low hills that dotted its western border. Its highest towers tickled the clouds on overcast days, and those who beheld the northern city of the Order of Urza from far away were filled with a humbling sense of smallness. Whether the city was truly as big as it looked from afar, or whether some ancient magecraft was upon the walls, the desired effect was obtained.

The interior was no less impressive. The inner city was was built on a raised foundation that created a deep moat between the wall and the cityscape proper.

It was into this moat that a cloaked figure dropped, unseen by two guards in conversation near the front gates. They'd seen another patrol come back in with a motley group of refugees and potential order recruits. It was just as well. Wallguards in the Order of Urza had been vanishing in recent weeks, and the number of recruits was outmatching the disappearances for now. Both guards in question stood at attention, one human and one aven; their hardened gazes flickering between each other and the exhausted man who had been the head of the recruiting patrol.

"Another convoy was ambushed today." The man gasped..

"Let me guess, it was those "Cabal" freaks?" The aven asked, taking the leader's hevy satchel and motioning the new acolytes through the doors.

"Who else would jump an Order convoy like that?" The human shrugged. "You guys lose anyone?"

"Not this time no. We were lucky. They had a Dementia Caster with them though. He would have taken us all out if one of the new guys hadn't been close enough to put a lava dart through the Caster's face.

The aven guard turned and cast a surprised eye over the recruits. Upon closer inspection, he noticed the mail and robes of one of them were scorched in some areas and stained red in others. "About time we got some competent people around here again."

Beneath where the guards stood, the figure who had dropped into the moat-chasm clung to the stony underside of the bridge connecting the gate to the city plateau. Listening for a short while, he dropped into the darkness.

Catching a chain anchored at two points in the wall, he swung in a lazy half-circle before letting go and dropping again, claws jutting from his fingers and toes and latching onto the water-slicked stonework. Turning himself until he faced downward, he took a breath and climbed down the wet surface, eventually finding the grating he'd been told about.

One wrench of his hand sent the metal frame and bars spinning off into the black void, and he was inside in seconds. A short, grimy tunnel lid him around a couple of turns and into a blazing light.

Beneath him was an arena.

Built from the supporting beams and arches that held up the city above, The Pit was a testament to both the skills of the engineers who built it and to the madness that the Order of Urza believed they were on the verge of driving from Otaria. Circular in shape, there were rows and rows of seats carved into the bedrock above a circular section that could only be reached by sliding down a loose sandy embankment. A pit indeed. It had been done in secret -he suspected wurms had been involved- and apparently its underground location was not just due to the illegality of the whole thing, but to actually keep the arena itself out of the light of the sun.

All in all, Pentarax supposed much of the location and construction style was symbolic as much as it was secretive. It could only be accessed by specific secret entrances like the one he'd taken through the inner city's moat; a design likely intended to prevent armies or the armored guard from ever penetrating it fully. Having made his way upside down hand over hand across several connecting chains, the halfdragon had found himself on a narrow walkway above the arena and had taken mere minutes to descend two more ramps, go up one ladder, across one narrow bridge, and make his way through the criss-crossed pathways to the chattering crowds.

"About time we spilled a little blood!" A high, juvenile voice called.

The arena fell silent.

The rumbling crowd parted, and a girl stumbled through them. She didn't look to be older than ten or twelve, and was clad in black robes that looked to be a full size too large for her. Nevertheless, the red and gold trim along the sleeves and collar marked her as a Cabal initiate. Anyone who knew anything of the underground organization wouldn't dare lay a hand on her, and anyone who didn't know and crossed her would more than likely pay with his life.

Climbing the railing easily, she slid down the steep embankment and hit the sandy ground feet first. Bouncing nimbly into a hop-skip; she spun into the center of the arena, her braided hair twirling madly about her as she skidded to a stop, kicking a dust cloud that swirled about her small body.

"Lunatics, fanatics, and people with anger issues!" She yelled, her voice ringing through the underground chamber with force surprising for one so young. "We," she said with some emphasis, "wish to thank you for coming to this evening's series of fights! Rules are simple. Pit fighters are selected at random. They enter on opposite sides of the arena. They fight until one either dies or gives up, or gives up and gets their ugly head hacked off anyways!"

Almost immediately, everyone began shoving. They didn't so much shove one another into the center as they did shove others away from them so that they wouldn't be shoved in turn. That was about as "random" as it got, and as he knew full well, the Cabal always kept enough people scattered throughout the onlookers that if they needed a match fixed they could almost always ensure the "random selection" yielded the matchup they wanted.

Almost.

Pentarax was feeling like a bit of a challenge that day, and faked being chosen, sliding akwardly down the slope with practiced unease and clutching his cloak tighter about his body to hide his face. Clawed feet kicking up sand, he turned around several times at the bottom as if he were shocked that he'd somehow ended up in the arena. Satisfied that everyone was predicting a rapid finish and a massacre, he turned to face his opponent for the first time.

He was disappointed. There was a woman facing him; clad entirely in black and wearing a shawl over her head and shoulders, concealing her face. That was all the audience needed. Two people going for the spooky hood look and trying to throw off some sinister vibe. Sighing, he threw back his hood, revealing his gray-scaled features and red eyes. His mouth split in a fanged grin as he flexed his fingers and let sparks dance from his clawtips.

Without even turning to face him, the woman tore her shawl free from within; multiple barbed tendrils from her head ripping the fabric to pieces as she straightened, her bare back muscles tensing and relaxing almost spasmodically as she hissed.

Several people in the front row fell dead at the sight.

So much for not getting a challenge...

 

As the pair soared into the sky, several pairs of eyes watched them from the forest of Wirewood below. Ragged treetops and sharpened branch tips reached into the sky like many pairs of hands as if the forest itself had moved against the dragon and faerie in their escape. Even with a seeming "final effort" by the land, the pair had escaped. Below, the ground had been churned up roughly by the dragon's claws as he had taken off, and trees were shattered by the onslaught of the goblins in their mad charge.

The illusionary beast hadn't done anything for the terrain either, but an instant after the duo had taken off, a bolt of green light had pierced it and it had fallen to bluish wisps of mana before fading. Now the wreckage of the chase was added to by a scattering of ruined Goblin bodies. Arrows and knives were in the bodies of some, while others appeared to have been so violently torn apart it was unclear just what had killed them.

The forest was silent.

"They got away." A cold voice in the treetops said, and at that sound, the clearing sprang to life.

Elves began appearing out of the foliage; some dropping from the canopy while others seemed to step out from the bark as if they had been a part of the trees themselves. Several stayed back in the shadows of the foliage while others moved about the bodies, plucking weapons from their enemies and cleaning them swiftly and silently on the grass.

"What of the dragon and faerie?" One of the elves in the shade whispered.

"They are of little consequence." Another who had been in the higher branches said. "I heard them speak of going north to one of the cities."

"We will not pursue them then." The shaded one shrugged, eyes narrowing as he watched the others gather the weapons and pile the bodies in a heap together. The stink rising from it was almost intolerable, but within a few seconds, the land itself would forget they had ever been there.

"But what of the cities? There are whispers." One said as he sheathed a pair of hardwood blades. "They say that the Order of Urza is threatened."

"Leave them be. Short of the Ineffable's return, nothing will drive us away or bring us forth."

"Then those who claim to worship a black are...not worth Wirewood's trouble?" The elf in the shade asked, raisnig an eyebrow.

The air itself seemed to tense. This debate had come up before, and always it was this one elf who brought it up.

"We have told you before," the knife carrier said, pointing an accusing finger at the one in the shadows, "Wirewood will not concern itself with other matters unless these matters cross our borders first."

"Until then." The elf in the shadows sighed, turning and vanishing into the deeper forest.



At almost that exact moment, Pentarax was almost enjoying himself.

Sidestepping, he managed to avoid glancing to the side at the sandy slope of the arena. He knew what had happened when he'd dodged. There'd been a faint blasting noise and the area had blackened and hardened as though rapidly heated and fused. His sharp ears picked up the sound of the blast point cracking and hissing down the incline.

He'd fought several Gorgons since arriving on Otaria, and he knew how to fight them. Some of them killed only when direct eye contact was made, others only needed onlookers to gaze upon them for death to follow, and fewer still caused illness and death simply through physical contact.

Visara however, was a rarer and deadlier breed. Her gaze itself was death and she had only to focus to bring death to any living thing in sight.

And in the halfdragon's case, that was harder than it seemed.

Wreathed in flames and spouting fire seemingly at random, he had heated himself and his end of the arena to the point that the shimmering heat waves were obscuring anyone's field of vision. And while that haze made it hard for him to aim specific attacks, it also made it nearly impossible for Visara to "get a lock" as he put it. The latest blast he'd sidestepped was only the second time she'd managed to focus enough.

Of course, that only made the fight a stalemate. He would have to move in close to actually damage her, and close enough to rip her throat out was easily close enough for her to see clearly through the heat and kill him.

And he couldn't keep up the fiery aura forever.

Think, dammit...you haven't lived this long just to die to some big-breasted, tentacle-haired freak in an underground pit.

taking advantage of his pause, Visara moved into the air, hissing as she glared down at him and immediately blackened a patch of sand to his left.

Too dry and rotten to try anything green...there's a fair bet most of my black stuff won't work on her...

Suddenly, the gorgon shot down, eyes wide as she closed in, clawed hands out as she prepared to strike once more.

Black... He thought, trying suddenly to recall all of the black spells he'd been practicing for a few weeks now. As Visara neared, he called them all to mind and allowed the limited mana of the environment to be drawn into his claws. HIs forearms began crackling with raw power as she closed in. he ducked another blast and brought his hands together directly below her, feeling the mana specifically created for one particular spell disintegrate in his hands.

A fireball burst from his clawtips and slammed into the gorgon, setting her snake-hair, clothes, and flesh ablaze in an instant. The blast pushed him back into the side of the pit roughly, winding him. Visara meanwhile, was frantically tearing at her blazing clothes even as her hair writhed and struggled to put itself out. All the while, she was scrambling higher and higher, vanishing into the dark undercity.

Exhausted, Pentarax slumped to his knees and dropped the fiery aura, breathing hard as the audience cheered. Putting the calls and boos aside, he racked his brains for the repertoire of spells he'd nearly brought to bear. Blinking, he predictably found that his knowledge of ...something was fuzzy. He struggled for a moment to recall the precise details of what he'd been researching the past week before putting it from his mind. Whatever he'd just given up for the ability to conjure that spell, it had been an acceptable loss. Getting to his feet, he stalked past the girl with the braids who was already calling people for the next fight. His wings spread and he pulled himself into the air on a burst of heat. He didn't feel like climbing up only to be pushed back down by some sadistic onlooker or one of the bookies who ran the pit fights.

Next time...I'm going to see if they won't pit me against some forest elemental.




The work in the forest had been swift, brutal, and most of all, completely unexpected.

"We have told you before," the knife carrier said, pointing an accusing finger at the one in the shadows, "Wirewood will not concern itself with other matters unless these matters cross our borders first."
And that was how it was to be.

He'd spent two months among the Wirewood, taking advantage of their homeland's dense canopy to stay out of the sunlight, and wearing a hooded cloak when it was simply too bright. He'd gone to even greater lengths to study one particular elf whose name he'd never bothered to learn; goading him into being the on-ground lookout; a position always requiring one to stay barely in the shadows of the trees on missions.

He'd even bothered to disguise himself as another elf in the first few days of his missions, and it hadn't taken long to convince the lookout that Wirewood needed to rise beyond its borders to combat the yet-unseen threat of a "Cabal" growing in Baphel and Utuul.

Suspicion against the lookout had grown until now; as he turned and began stalking back into the forest and felt the hardwood blade of a knife embedded in his back. He dropped, some unknown elf-grace permitting him to tumble silently as the knife-wielder turned back to the others-

Just in time to be hit throughout the body by no fewer than a dozen arrows and knives.

Staggering for a moment, he spat a bit of black blood before turning his eyes -which were suddenly red- on his now former compatriots.

"And Wirewood will not concern itself..." He began as another arrow thudded into his back. "With other matters unl-ggkkk"

He glared down at the arrow in his throat before wrenching it free in a small spray of blood and snapping it. His quick eyes caught an elf to his right tensing to make a run and bring reinforcements. His arm blurred out and a knife concealed in his sleeve flew, catching the would-be runner in the head. Spinning, he didn't give the others time to move or attack again. In their midst even as they began drawing melee weapons, he plucked swords with their blades painted a flat green color from enemy scabbards and de-legged two elves.

One of the others dropped back, his eyes glowing as he muttered several short words.

The traitor grinned as a faint glimmering aura appeared over the bodies of both the Wirewood elves themselves and himself. "Try for something a little less global, will you?" He suggested, blocking two downward stabs and rolling under a spear thrust. Twirling his legs, he tangled them around the waist of the spear-carrier and pushed down with both sword hilts, flipping himself and tossing the spear carrier onto the butt of his own weapon, winding him. Spear and elf alike tumbled into the caster of the enchantment, disabling the effect. Landing easily on his feet, he whirled around just as a blast of green mana caught him in the face.

"What...are you?" One of the two remaining elves growled, lowering his hand.

Calchaxus blinked. The spell, whatever it was, hadn't harmed him, but he knew that it hadn't been pointless either. Glaring at the caster, he easily spun one of the stolen swords in his hand, making sure he hadn't had his skill taken from him...again. That was when he saw it.

He hadn't worn his usual wrappings when infiltrating. It was risky, but infiltrating Wirewood without dressing as they had done was downright stupid. So it was when he raised his hand, he noticed that his skin had assumed its usual black color. Shaking his head slightly, he let some of his hair fall in front of his eyes. White.

"I suppose if my disguise is out of the way, it won't hurt to tell you." He sighed, looking between the two surviving elves. "I am part of this "Cabal" you were warned about. See? I spoke of it openly, and what did you-"

An arrow caught him through the shoulder from behind. Turning, he spotted one of the elves whose legs he had cut off earlier in a sitting position. He was already dying from the blood loss and the shock was affecting him, but he'd had enough left for one more shot. All the same, it hadn't been enough to save them.

That was when a small tree burst out of Calchaxus' shoulder, roots growing rapidly and grounding themselves in the fertile soil and through the vampire's foot. The tree began sprouting rapidly as the mortally injured elf laid back quietly, smiling.

"You...little..." The vampire growled, forcing mana through his body and into the tree. Immediately, the bark began to blacken and rot.

"Give up!" One of the elves cried as the two of them charged Calchaxus, who was very much now rooted to the spot.
Rolling his eyes, the vampire swung out with his remaining sword arm and blocked the first slash with his blade and caught the second swing through his bicep. Twisting the arm before they could react, he disarmed both, all the while tugging frantically at the rotting tree. He'd expected some resistance when he finally turned on the scouting party and left Wirewood a message they would not soon forget, but the arrow with its bizarre enchantment had been more than a little unexpected.

Tugging harder, he felt his mangled left side begin to rip free from the wood. Lashing out, he caught one of the two elves and spun him close, putting an arm around his neck, he jerked the head back and sank his teeth into a vein. Almost immediately, he felt his strength and stamina begin to replenish, and with it came memories, skills, and talents. Among them...

"Timberwatch, eh?" He grinned, dropping the body and flashing a bloody smile at the remaining elf who was already backing away. Tapping into the reserves of mana he'd drawn, he let the green wash through him, almost crackling with life-force as his muscles suddenly bulged. Finally tearing away from the tree, he took several more seconds to finish healing the damage before he turned on the final elf. He could already feel the effects of the mana beginning to ebb, but he took advantage of his increase in both size and strength to lunge and savagely clapped his hands around the remaining scout with a wet crunch.

The forest was silent as Calchaxus returned to his original size and form. Sharp eyes gazing through the shadowy forest, he began plotting a path that would take him through areas covered in shadow. He wasn't adverse to camping until nightfall, but he had to pass the news to Virot.

Wirewood was apart, and Wirewood would remain apart.