Methuseld was walking quickly, preoccupied with the task at hand while still making sure to disguise herself as best she could. She would have to make sure the stablemaster did not make an attempt to call for help as she waited with four tacked horses, who knew for how long, for the others to arrive. That meant an unpleasant amount of forcefulness against a man who was an innocent bystander. Methuseld had killed many men, but she was not one for wanton violence - it all seemed so simple back at the alley, but as the task drew nearer she grew more uneasy about it. So preoccupied was she, in fact, that she'd just noticed the four men who'd stepped in front of the stables, searching the crowds and immediately finding her.<br/><br/>They were bald, their robe-swathed bodies moving in perfect unison, and had something dark on each of their shoulders. Only as they neared her did she see what it was. A bug - a large cockroach or something similar, sat easily on each bare, powerful, combat-ready shoulder. Antennae swaying slightly, each bug seemed perfectly calm aside from the usual buggy movements - a slightly unnatural twitch every once in a while. Thoroughly disgusted, Methuseld made a face that belied her lack of understanding and total displeasure with the situation. Yet it was hard not to be intrigued, just a little bit. Who were these men? Clearly monks of some sort judging by the garments, yet she'd never heard of an order that kept cockroaches as pets. Especially such large ones. And their movements - so precise, so well-coordinated... She'd never seen such impeccable training.<br/><br/>Yet immediately the general knew, with a thought that came like a clear whistle above the din, the buzz, the musical cacophony of the city, that they were here to take her away. Perhaps to enslave, perhaps to break, perhaps to kill. They were coming for her precious newborn freedom. And like a any mother, she would give her life rather than surrender it.<br/><br/>With naught but the briefest of thoughts given to what lay inside her armor, Methuseld accelerated her step towards them. They, likewise, did the same, fanning out. Street-wise citizens immediately made a circle to move out of the way, cluing in the less-so to follow suit. Like two unstoppable forces, the five individuals approached each other, tension hanging in the air like a curtain of chainmail. Closer... Closer... Inexorably the enemies approached each other. Just a dozen steps away... Less than ten now... A sword gleaming hungrily in the morning sun, singing as it cleared its sheath beneath the heavy cloak its owner had wrapped herself in to order to avoid this exact situation. The four men did not smile, did not grimace, did not exchange words. All five of them knew, as if directed by an outside force, what the purpose of the meeting was.<br/><br/>Sword met palm, was parried by years of training. A kick from a heavy steel boot, a quiet hiss of steel slicing air... Methuseld was a dervish of death, holding all four of the monks at bay with strikes of deadly precision as they, like wolves, waited for the perfect time to strike. Probing, testing, attempting to pry open her defenses. Spinning with perfect balance, perfect footwork, perfect slashes, perfect aim, she chased each attacker away as he attempted to guide her into a trap of three others. More than wolves. More coordinated than she'd ever seen before. No one could do what they were doing. How? Magic??<br/><br/>Time ticked on... no one had made any progress in slaying the other. Seconds flowed into minutes like gentle streams into gushing rivers. That meant Methuseld was losing, because she did not have the endurance of four highly trained warriors - just one highly trained one. For the first time in the few short hours since she'd earned her freedom, she wished she'd had the curse back. She was sweating, golden hair sticking ungracefully to glistening ivory skin. Panting with each break, she knew that this fight was drawing to a close. "Bastards!" She shouted, chain curtain closing in, wrapping itself around her neck, closing tighter and tighter and tighter. Running out of time, running out of breath, running out of options, running out of life to live. Eyes desperate, she couldn't believe that the end was upon her already. How?! How could it be? At the end of the day, the great general, Methuseld von Ellegarde... a mere mortal woman, like any other... Staring death in the face, inches away from its tender kiss, and just as afraid as anyone?<br/><br/>A man got inside her defenses - a powerful fist crashed against steal armor, sending the warrior sprawling back as the now bloodied fist returned for a second onslaught. She regained her balance, lashed out with her blade, tried to hack off the offending limb but missed, swinging wide. Too tired, too weak. Not enough, against these men. So coordinated, so powerful. Too many of them. How was this possible???<br/><br/>Another punch sent her to the ground. All four men were upon her now, fists, kicks, powerful fingers trying to rip off pieces of her face, tear her from limb to limb, choke her, end her. Just as the screams of pain sounded, however.... they stopped.<br/><br/>"Shhhh, child... Rest a while."<br/><br/>And resumed - another's voice. A man's. A monk took a few steps back, stomach spilling his innards onto the ground in front of him. In a few seconds, the rest of the men were flung away as well. The person crouched on the ground was not the same one they had descended upon. Could never have been. Her raven hair, her black armor, her ebony sword... All otherworldly, almost nightmarish in appearance - like the branches of dead trees in a forest that never saw the light of day, spikes twisted this way and that from her, threatening to impale any unlucky individual that dared venture too close. The tattered cloak hanging around her was the only thing that had linked her to the silver-and-gold warrior who’d lost the fight moments ago.<br/><br/><div class="spoiler_container"><div class="spoiler_header" onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button">Spoiler: Click to Show/Hide</div><div class="spoiler_body">(https://farm8.staticflickr.com/7528/16260954496_400690db22_b.jpg)</div></div><br/><br/>This one rose, walked towards the nearest monk. Her stride was serpentine, graceful, sensual; too-red lips formed a sultry, cocky smile as the piercing pits of her eyes bored directly into him. Blood dripped from her lips down her chin, onto her nearly-bare breasts. Where Methuseld’s armor covered her from head to toe, this new black armor covered almost none of the woman. If the monks were ordinary they might have looked, but the toned stomach, soft feminine thighs, large cleavage of two milky-white breasts… all were lost on them. A murmur passed in the crowd of onlookers, confused yet relieved. Her charms were not lost on the men in the crowd, terrified though they were of her.<br/><br/>Once more, the fighters converged. This time, she let them get close to her – two attacked her from behind, striking with deadly fists as she fell upon the third one, sword ripping limb from limb with nary a thought as to how the two other monks planned to stop her. Then a powerful burst of energy sent them flying back, and she turned to them after a final stab into their friend. Her ivory skin was covered in blood, yet she seemed to relish it. A moan of brief satisfaction. “Oh how I have longed for this moment. And yet you are not normal, are you? You do not scream enough as you are killed." She frowned, disappointed a tinge of annoyance. "Sad. I shall have to wait a while before relinquishing this lovely tool left in my possession. Yes, I think I shall stay a while.”<br/><br/><em>Ah, no response? Good. Rest a while longer. I will take good care of us.</em><br/><br/>The monks attacked the slightly disinterested woman again, and by chance her sword managed to cut clean through one of the cockroaches as she defended herself. That seemed to strike a nerve with the bug’s owner, who collapsed upon the ground screaming, writhing in agony. The second man, now on his own with his buggy friend, took a step back, blinking. “Tis the first time I’ve seen you two do something different than the other… It makes one curious, and anxious to test a small theory.” Eyes grew wide with excitement as the warrior attacked again, rushing forward, ducking under the rushed attack, and wrapping a hand around the bug to pull it off him. The magical being felt something try to surge within her – yet she was not exactly human, and managed to resist long enough to crush the creature with her bare hand.<br/><br/>The second monk collapsed as well, screaming, writhing in agony. The fight was over, for all intents and purposes. Attacking her was now the furthest thing from the two monk-assassins’ minds. But the black warrior wasn’t interested in excuses. She ended them slowly, slicing limb from limb again and again and again, like a small boy picking apart some animal-shaped pastry. Then, when she was done, she rolled her eyes with a certain amount of ennui. “Like an interrupted orgasm, your deaths. Thoroughly disappointing. So little fear, so few tears, and not enough pain.” Stepping away, she turned her eyes to the stables. But everyone around had fled by then - even the stablemaster. Well.... at least it wasn't stealing if they were abandoned, right?<br/><br/>The woman approached the stables, then looked around. What was that noise? That music. It was always in her ear, like an annoying child that would not leave alone unless it was struck. Hard. Across the rump! The darker Methuseld knew when magic was afoot - she was 10% magical (the other 90% was drop-dead sexiness [emphasis on the drop-dead], which was magical in its own right). Aaaaaaanyways. Something was afoot. Or ashoulder. With a flick of the arm, a small cricket was now held tightly in a gloved hand, its little cricket face turned to face a very annoyed human one. "I don't know who you are. I don't know if you're just a thoroughly<em>annoying</em>little cricket, or if there's something or some<em>one</em>more to you. But if there is...-" a wild-eyed, maniacal grin, "-... I shall fiiiiiiind<em>youuuuu</em>. And I'll chop off whatever private parts you possess while I drink blood from your still-beating heart. Won't that be<em><strong>FUN!?</strong></em>-" SQUISH. "Ohh... bye bye, for now."<br/><br/>A hissed sigh of relief, followed by a shiver, like a chill, as the music finally faded. "Well, that feels much better. I have threatened either a now-dead cricket, or whatever blasted buggers are trying to kill us. Either way," she twitched slightly as the after-effects of the magic dissipated, "it'll be much more fun to kill without that annoying song now. Blah blah freedom, chains, getting raped, blah blah."<br/><br/>The horse whinnied as she approached it, but it was so beautiful - a sorrel or red dun, who cared. "So bloody-red you are, so lovely... You are mine, I know it. We shall be fast friends, I think. Why, do not be afraid, shhhhh... There there. I am not so bad, am I?<em>Not a scary old witch</em>, eh?!" She wiped some blood off her face, smeared it on the horse's forehead, where it barely stood apart from creature's rust-colored fur. "There, blood siblings we are, now. Up and at 'em, friend."<br/><br/>A while later four (very uneasy) horses were tacked, waiting by the gate. A guard stared, and the woman stared back, half sultry smile, half demented grin. Licked her lips. Give him both chills and an erection.<br/><br/><em>Ugh, where ARE they?! Am I supposed to toy around with guards FOREVER???</em>