The Uprising

Elias

Grunts and choking screams were scattered in the gargoyle's wake as he steadily made his way through the throng of slaves and slavers who were caught; weapon to weapon, body against filthy, sweaty body in their synchronized deaths.

It took a few clumsy swings of the mace and more than a couple of sharp thrusts of his claws to clear the way and he winced and snarled every time a hit was landed from behind. But he did not turn around, only sparing enough time for a deft swish of his foot. Battle was sparser at the fringes, away from the abnormally large, foolish human who seemed to be the pivot of the action. Elias was having no part in that.

But neither was he about to cross the open deck and make it clear to all that he was a man of no honor. He would not have it said and certainly not thought that he was a man of no honor. So he mingled at the fringes, flexing claws and gnashing teeth at any slavers that came near. He ran a few through, starting to get the feel of the strange, spiked object. The handle was a little smooth to grip and the extra weight disconcerting but it gradually became an upgrade for his claws and he swiped and gutted without any of the usual mess. It didn't make him any happier about the killing.

Death had always seemed too rushed and theatrical to Elias. What was really the point in it? Getting killed meant no drinking, no gambling, no beautiful music (which was certainly what Elias missed most about his current situation) and no life. Quite literally. So why were so many humans willing to place themselves in a position of danger? And why did half of them have to be female?

Rescuing females was a tiresome duty and while Elias didn't go out of his way searching for damsels in distress, they seemed to find him. As the fighting wore on and Elias interceded, the number of males in his vicinity somewhat decreased whilst the level of female company grew and grew as some of the more intelligent, more confident individuals dropped back.

Kester

Kester followed Machavell and Kester into the cabin. He stared at the two men that were standing before them. One of them was unmoving. That's the man I saw directing the others when they brought me into the boat, he thought. It must be the captain.

The other man did not look remarkable to Kester. Machavell's attention could not be torn away from him, though. He continued to stare at the man and they started to banter.

Kester listened to them talk. He looked to Videl. There was an expression of confusion on her face that he was sure matched his. She turned to look at him for a second. Her weapon was still in her hand, but she didn't make any movement.

"Who are you?" Kester asked, taking a slight step forward.

The man turned his head and regarded Kester with a slight smile. "I hardly think you need to know that right now." His expression twisted into a smirk and Kester felt his fists clench. The captain still did not react to the situation.

He turned to Machavell. "Where do you know him from?" Machavell didn't answer, though. He was still focusing on the man.

Kester put his hand in his pocket and pulled out the knife he had taken. "If we aren't going to talk, then maybe we should fight?"

Now Machavell looked at him. "Don't be a fool," he hissed.

The man with the black gloves let out a chuckle. "You'd be wise to listen to your friend. I could kill you without even trying."

Kester felt a chill run down his spine. He put the knife back in his pocket. He glanced across to Videl. She too lowered her weapon until it was almost touching the floor.

The door was still open behind them, and for a second Kester pondered whether the three of them would be able to escape. No, he decided. If he's as powerful as he says, then it would be idiotic to turn our backs. We'll have to see what happens, and hope we can come out of this alive. The knife in his pocket felt like a child's toy.

Ballow


Ballow stood to the back and watched impatiently, When are we going to win already?

He didn't enjoy fighting so he leant against a wall watching the fight go bye. Yawning he closed his eyes for a second.

For once he actually felt at peace and he drifted off into the clouds of sleep.


(Lol, how anyone can fall asleep while people are fighting is beyond me, though Ballow is half demon. ^^)

Deaven:

He sighed. Something really was wrong with Galea, but also with the fight. The drunken bastards were actually fighting back.
The slavers that he had killed before had been easy, thanks to the element of surprise and Deaven's speed, but he didn't have it anymore.

He looked around him, he saw something leaning on the wall. "They even have gargoyles here. These slavers are rich!"
The gargoyle grunted. It was alive?

Deaven ran to it, before anyone saw him. He prodded at it.

"What?" the gargoyle grunted annoyed.

"So you are really alive, aren't you." Deaven was amazed.

He was annoying the gargoyle "Yep I am."

Deaven lifted his hand for a shake but pulled it back when he saw the gargoyles claws. "I'm Deaven. You?"

"Non of your business."

"I see." Deaven turned around to go back to the battle.

"Are we winning?" The gargoyle asked.

"Actually we are loosing. We are killing more of them than they are us but... They have more men and more are from the ship."

"Ah... Okay." He closed his eyes.

"Aren't you going to help?"

"Do I look like it?"

Deaven sighed, and went back to the battle. He walked to Galea, "How are you doing?"

"Well enough." She snapped. Still grumpy.

Deaven saw a slaver running at a slave, he lifted a dagger from his pocket and threw it, but Galea was faster. She hit the slaver on the head.

"Nice shot."

"Thanks." Galea smiled, but was soon back in her thoughts.

Deaven took his sword, looked around him and found a barrel, he walked to it and broke it.(Beer,) Came on the floor, Deaven lifted a part of it, and held it like a shield.

"I'm starting to feel like a knight." He joked to himself.

"What?" Galea called.

"Nothing." He said quickly. He though for a minute "I'm going deeper." He said soon.

"I'm coming with you."

And they were off.

Name: Markali Kelemore
Race: Human
Age: 25
Height: 5’7”
Weight: 185 lbs.
Eyes: Grey
Hair: Dark brown, appearing almost black, long, usually in a ponytail

Strengths: Emotion is as much a strength as it is a weakness. Emotion serves as a strength because it motivates him to do what needs to be done. Possibly Markali’s biggest strength is that no one knows much about him.

Weaknesses: Emotion serves as a weakness because it sometimes overwhelms and causes foolishness and mistakes.

Clothing: Dark-neutral colored slacks and a loosely fitting t-type shirt –usually also dark in color.

Weapons: Markali carries a short sword.

Personality: Markali is cold at a glance. His grey eyes are always hard, appearing like steel and hiding the emotions that constantly rage with in him. He has a tendency to be blunt and honest when he chooses to speak, which is rare, unless it otherwise serves his purpose.

Videl Vane Va'Teir

Videl watched as Kester put his knife back in his pocket, then scanned the doorway. Surely he doesn't think we can escape... Videl thought to herself, suddenly feeling the man's gaze boring into her.

"Well, Machavell, would you look at that?" Videl looked at the black gloved man as he spoke. "It seems you have gone and found yourself a lady friend." Videl's heart stopped.

A lady friend?! Controlling her horrid temper was hard. She couldn't be expected to, she had been locked up in a cage under the intention to be sold as a whore, of course she couldn't hold her temper. She slightly lifted her weapon.

"Videl!" Kester hissed, grabbing her wrist. She studied him, clearly he was scheming something. She put her arm back down, away from his grip, and looked up at the man.

His gaze was strong and unyielding. Videl could sense unseen powers from within him. He looked into her eyes, making her want to quiver and look away but she didn't. She held his gaze, painfully.

"A strong one." The man finished before he looked back at Machavell.

Videl grumbled. She didn't want to appear as anyone's lady, that was for sure.

Lissa, Exotic Slave

The weapon in her hand was not foreign; before she had been created she was a human and a hunter. She toyed with the workings of it; it had been many years since she’d had the need to hold a weapon at all, and even then Cross bows were never her favorite means to kill. Hunts were done in groups, together, as a pack. She sighed at the memory of ripping into her pray with her fingers, the warm blood dripping down her arms, the taste of fresh meat. It was, after all, a very good memory.

She watched the drunken men come staggering out, ‘twas not a fair kill. She shrugged, aimed, and listened to the quiet whizzing noise. The arrow struck a man in the chest and she watched as he went down, amused. Perhaps not as fun as tearing apart a beast with her sisters, but there was something very entertaining about death.

“Perhaps we should keep some of them alive; I don’t believe that we will be able to man this ship by ourselves alone. It may take some… convincing, but they may help us.” She said absently, to no one in particular.

She reloaded her weapon, aimed, and fired again. This time catching a man just below his right eye socket. She frowned, thinking she had been aiming for his heart.

“I am a bit rusty, apparently, what is that saying again? Something about practice?” She muttered in annoyance.

“Practice makes perfect?” Someone piped in.

“Ahh, yes, that would be the one.” She reloaded again, checked her stance, and fired. This time catching a man in the heart. “Practice…” she grinned.

Machavell
Labour slave

Black gloves. God only knew what state the flesh was in beneath them. That was the price of magic, the cost of channelling power through skin and bones: putrefaction. Only the vanity of war-wizards meant they would not show the evidence of their dying body, hence the gloves. The black gloves.

A lady friend...

The phrase turned, over and over in his head. He examined it from every angle, every possibility. It was a strange assumption to make, one most likely to throw him off guard. The life in him had vanished, plucked from his body by this remnant of his past. Tiernan the rival. Now, Tiernan the war-wizard.

"You used to be quicker, Machavell," Tiernan said, his face the mask it always had been. "I knew a Machavell who never lost a battle. Yet here you are now. Losing."

"Never." That was Videl, fury and fight still alive in her. Machavell felt only ice in his heart.

"We don't plan on losing." That was Kester, an odd determination showed in his stance. He faced the immobile Captain and the war-wizard with a bravery born of incomprehension. Kester didn't know what Tiernan could do. He was helpless, and there was nothing anyone could do.

Tiernan turned his dead eyes towards Kester. "Machavell won't save you," he said. "You do know that, don't you?"

"We can all take care of ourselves," Videl snarled, ever defiant. "So together we won't need saving!"

Machavell felt his silence begin to thaw. Here he was again; the chance to make a difference was right in front of him. The only thing holding him back was his past, and yet that was the very reason he had another chance. An old feeling stirred in his soul.

"He failed last time," Tiernan intoned, "and he will fail again."

"Never." This time, Machavell was surprised to hear his own voice openly defying the monster in gloves before him. Perhaps it was wishful thinking, but Machavell was sure he saw Tiernan flinch a little at the word.

"Failure," Machavell said, slowly with determination creeping back into his voice, "indicates incompetence. And I, for one, am not." A quick glance towards "the Captain" told Machavell all he needed to know. A slight transparency, a blurring of his outline; in an instant, Machavell had worked it out.

Tiernan noticed the change and his hands moved up in front of him as if he were scooping the air towards him. Light began to shine out of the ends of his gloves, its silvery artificial rays escaping up Tiernan's arms and around his elbow.

"You never could bear losing, Machavell," he said before lowering his voice to a mutter and beginning the incantations. Machavell's heart almost stopped again; if it was something potent they could all be killed.

"I never lost," Machavell shouted, his anger loosened and freed, "I stood in the King's court and changed the world. My words broke kingdoms, burned cities, and moved armies. You, Tiernan my old friend, only ever stood on the sidelines as I made history." One mispronounced syllable could be deadly; Machavell pulled on Tiernan's strings and hoped. "You became a monster, a creature, a pariah to all men, while I bent even the King's will to my own!"

"Silence." Tiernan spoke through gritted teeth. Machavell gulped. The spell was complete and waited only for the final command. "Your words damn you, Machavell. You and the fools that stand at your side."

Machavell realised Kester and Videl were standing beside him. They had moved closer as he spoke, whether to improve his chances of intimidating Tiernan or not, Machavell did not care.

"You idiots," he said simply, a sort of painful fondness had crept into his tone. "Why didn't you run?"

Machavell never heard either answer. Tiernan uttered the command and the spell was released. As it spiralled towards Machavell he stared into its depths and saw the complexity of it. Like most spells, it appeared like a ball of fire made of words; they were written all over its burning shell and in the seconds it took to travel across the room he understood it.

It was a Combustion Enchantment of the third or fourth order. It was potent, but it was not the first time such a spell had been cast at him....

Time slowed. Kester and Videl both turned, shying away from the flames that flew towards them. Machavell saw the false image of the Captain flicker once and disappear. The enchantment bulged slightly in the air as it flew. From the depths of Machavell's brain, the solution arrived.

If this fails, Machavell thought, they will die.

The enchantment was almost on top of him. With a clear mind, Machavell reached out. His cloak swung out behind him and the expression on his face was calm. If someone had seen him for the first time, he might even have looked like a hero.

Machavell stretched out his fist and plunged it into the fiery depths of the enchantment. Flames coursed down his wrist, scorching the skin. He yelled the disarming syllable and, for a moment, it looked as if it had worked. The fire retreated back up his hand and the enchantment shrunk as if it had been stung.

Then Machavell understood his mistake. He might have read a book, learned the basics, but he was not a magician. The enchantment remained, suspended in the air. He could not reverse what had been done, only slow it. Time, inexperience, and foolish bravery were his enemies. He was not a hero.

Tiernan had been correct: he was incompetent.

He only had enough time to scream as the enchantment exploded.

Deaven:
Something shake the whole ship, an explosion.

Galea looked at him wide eyed "What was that?"

"I dunno. We better go check this out."

"I hope this isn't one of your, run in and die plans," She muttered. What was wrong with her?

"Yes this is exactly one of those plans."

Galea sighed. But followed. She raised her sling. Deaven raised his sword, they ran. They finally reached a door.

The door was ajar! Deaven peaked in, he almost gasped, Machavel was on the ground, his clothes burnt, so were his friends.

"What in the blazes?" Deaven pulled his head away.

"What?" Asked Galea.

"Machavel and gang... Fire spell of some sort."

She gasped, "What are we going to do?"

"I took notice of your words... We do nothing..."

"Not like you to leave people to die." Galea cut in.

Machavel groaned in pain.

"They seem okay, they can atleast walk." Deaven said and walked in.

Kester

Kester saw the ball of flames swirling towards the three of them and froze. It seemed to be comprised of an infinite amount of words. They were incomprehensible to him in their current state. The heat washed over him as the fire drew closer.

He and Videl had the same idea at the same time. The two of them jumped to the ground and took cover. They were almost face to face. Kester turned to look back at the men, but the Captain had disappeared.

“Get down!” he yelled as the fireball travelled towards them. Machavell either didn’t hear him or ignored him. Kester suspected that the man was too focused to hear anybody.

Machavell stretched his hand out and thrust it into the flames. Kester cried out. He tensed to get to his feet, but Videl stopped him. When he looked at her, she shook her head.

Machavell screamed something that Kester struggled to hear. The ball shrunk as they watched.
I never knew he was so powerful, Kester thought. The flames froze. For a second, nothing else happened.

Kester’s gaze was again drawn to the magician. He was muttering words under his breath. Is he trying to counter Machavell? he thought.

His question was answered when the man faded, even as Kester watched. He blinked his eyes to make sure it wasn’t an illusion, but the magician had vanished.

Kester turned his attention back to Machavell just as the enchantment exploded. The three of them screamed as one at the blinding flash. An intense heat filled the whole room.

Kester blinked over and over again, but his sight wouldn’t return. There was no pain, but he could hear yelling from somewhere nearby. It didn’t sound like a female, so Machavell had obviously been hit with the full force of the enchantment.

His eyes cleared and he saw Machavell prone on the ground. His cloak was aflame. Kester staggered to his feet and ripped the cloak away from him. It singed his fingers and he let out an involuntary yelp as he threw it across the cabin.

Machavell’s clothes themselves were still smoking. Kester looked down to see that his own were doing the same thing. He beat at them with his hands.

“Help me,” he said to Videl.

She came to his side. They kneeled by Machavell and managed to pick him up. Before they left the room, Kester took a last glance around it. We won’t be getting anything from here now, he thought. The room was almost entirely obscured by snaking tendrils of smoke. What he could see of it was in ruins.

They lowered him to the ground where they were. Kester shuddered to look at him. The clothes looked as if they had been burned to his skin. His would be a long recovery process. He shook his head. “Will he be all right?” he asked Videl. “Is there someone on the ship who can help us with something like this?”

At that moment, Machavell began coughing. Kester jumped. The man groaned as he opened his eyes and Kester wondered how great the pain would be.

*Anzius, just so you know, the Wizard and Captain have disappeared, the wizard teleported them.*
*Revised, you posted while I was posting Insom rofl, I changed mine.*

Videl Vane Va'Teir

Videl stumbled up to help Kester, bending her body beyond its will and want. She helped him lift Machavell and put him back down on the ground. She felt a pang of fear for his survival, she knew it would be very long until he recovered. It was odd to her, how she was forgetting about her own injuries and only thinking of Machavell. When they had him down, she looked up at Kester, who in turn looked at her. Videl forced a smile before her legs buckled from underneath her.

Videl was lying flat on her back. Pain singed every single muscle in her body, especially her ribs. Her stupid ribs. Her head was throbbing, the sound of approaching footsteps only worsening it.

She recognized the voices; the man, Deaven was it? And Galea. At least Galea was alive, but they could do without Deaven. Videl heard Machavell groan, then the shuffling of bodies. She opened her eyes and saw the halfling standing in the doorway, and Brahn.

Brahn...what?! Wait, Brahn?! Fear and anger coursed through her blood, causing her to hurt more. What was Brahn doing on the ship? Maybe I'm just seeing things...no, he must die. Groaning, she struggled to get up and grabbed her katana. In one small moment, she saw who he really was. It was just Deaven, but she still lunged.

Deaven uttered a loud call for help as Videl lunged at him. She almost made it, she almost stabbed him. She looked up at Deaven again: her mind was playing tricks on her. She dropped her katana and fell back onto the floor, the pain once again taking her consciousness.

Deaven:

When Videl came at him, he was taken aback. He was very confused when Videl just stopped and dropped her katana, and then she groaned and fell to the ground.

"What ever got into her?" Deaven wondered aloud. "Anyone need help?" He asked, he didn't wait for an answer but just walked to Machavel, the room was in ruins so he had to maneuver his way around the thrash.

"Are you okay?"

Machavel didn't smile "Do I look like okay?" He managed to say.

Deaven took a step back and looked at Machavel, multiple burn wounds, mostly in his arm, that is not deadly, but then his clothes had burned his skin on his torso area, and his legs. Hmm.

They needed some kind of lotion, how did you make that lotion again?

Oh well, it wasn't anything deadly... Well not as deadly as a sword at least.

Deaven sighed "He needs bandages. Since I have the odd feeling that we don't have burn lotion on the ship, he will have to live with a few scars, savvy?"

Shirin Bedros

When her stomach was emptied, Shirin straightened again and pressed a hand against her mouth. Hesitantly, she looked back at the men; the first, the one she had kicked initially, was just as still as before, and she had seen enough butchering days to conjecture that that much blood lost could not leave him alive. The other was groaning and jerking, apparently coming out of unconsciousness. Her heart leapt again, and she whimpered briefly before jumping down and grabbing the sword he had carried. It was heavy in her hands and unwieldy. She looked at him for a moment--he was almost awake--before grimacing and dropping to her knees beside his head, awkwardly turning the sword and striking his temple with the hilt four times. There was blood, and her stomach flipped again unpleasantly, but she reminded herself of what he had tried to do, and stood again.

She jumped backward, almost dropping the heavy sword, as an explosion echoed from nearby. Shirin crouched between the barrels again and peered around them; she could see smoke emanating from a doorway nearby. She hesitated; explosions were, as far as she knew, something to be avoided--but so were battles, and there was one raging in the other direction.

The smoke began to dissipate, but Shirin backed away from it anyway, still clutching the sword. The weight of it was almost comforting--especially when she looked at the two dead men at her feet. A wave of cold rushed over her, and it was more than just the gusting wind.

Tucking her legs underneath her so she could get up quickly if she had to, Shirin rested her forehead against the rough wood of one of the barrels. Everything was beginning to get quieter; there seemed to be fewer metallic clashes, fewer screams, fewer pounding footsteps. Maybe the battle was ending.

Maybe she was just blocking it out.

She closed her eyes and whimpered, tears stinging behind her nose. She hated death.

Lissa, Exotic Slave

The ship shook beneath her, sending Lissa to her knees and the crossbow skittering across the deck. She growled and drew her dagger from its sheath. She watched the battle around her for a moment before joining in again. She was not exceedingly quick, not here, not when she was so out of her element. But what she lacked in skill and speed she made up for in sheer determination and anger. The first man she gutted easily, driving her dagger into the depths of his stomach with a smile on her lips.

Blood; warm, liquid, life spilled its way onto her hands and her smile widened. This… this was more exciting than any hunt had ever been. She found herself laughing again, that hysterical cackle taking over her body as she drove the blade into another man’s scull. She wretched it free just as she felt someone grab her wrists and try to restrain her, she slammed an elbow into his gut before repeating the action with her dagger. Each kill she made she laughed harder, each time someone harmed her, she laughed harder.

She received one long slash from just below her eye until her jaw. She touched her cheek with care, bringing her fingers away to stare at the dripping green liquid. She tasted it, tasted her forest, tasted herself, and with a long held out battle screech she charged again, driving her knife into the man’s eye socket.

Death had never been so much fun.

Deaven:

He helped Kester to carry Machavel and Videl out, they took them out of the ruined room into a corner.

"Keep him there until the fight is over," Deaven took the piece of paper where he had listed all the resources, that they had. He gave it to Kester "Give this to Machavel."

"What is it?"

"our resources, what we own now."

"How is it going on the deck?"

"We own the middle part and whole of the under deck. The slavers have the upper deck and lower deck."

"Okay." Kester nodded.

"I'm going back to fight... I will try and help the others take over the lower deck. If you want to join us, feel free to do so."

And so Deaven was gone, soon followed by Galea, who was still irritated byc something.

Deaven soon reached a sleeping man "Wake up, you!" Deaven snapped.

"What? You again? What now?" Came the series of questions.

"I have a need to take over the lower deck, and I need all the men I can get." He said simply.

"What if I say no?"

Deaven lifted his sword on to the man's throat "The slavers win."
The man groaned and pushed the sword away.

"Why the lower deck, anyway?"

"They have the least men there. And if we get it we own most of the ship. So will you come?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"Not really."