Do or die.<br/>(https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n3AoJkZ0grU)<br/>Not heeding Mina's aid to Cris yet-- for the blood he sees may no longer be flowing, but he has had no time to recognize that there's magic at work-- and considering the naked girl<i>without</i>a weapon to be of no threat, the guard presses for the finish. Thinking that Cris is staggered from the blow that slashed her abdomen a moment before, he moves to finish her with an overhand stroke that will pin her to the stage like a fish on a fishing lancet.  As the dark blade flickers firelight in the sudden upstroke, Cris' deft movement slips her from the blade's path, and the flutter of the silvery cloth is suddenly silenced by the whip and thud of the blade piercing the fabric where, a moment before, her breast had been, the overhand stroke pinning the billowing cloak to the floor as her movement tears it free with a squelching rip of thread and fibers.  [Attack 13+1 vs Cris' defense boosted by not attacking this round].  As she feints from the floor to leave him exposed, he wields the blade up with a desperate upswing, flinging splinters of the broken pallet's wood about them as he wildly tries to regain his footing, though his stance is now wide and his balance off, and the attack goes askew in a wide arc up as he tries to regain his balance.  [attack of opportunity 4, next round he's lost Dex bonus and is susceptible to sneak attack damage.  And I will roll it now.  Please add any other action you want, LF or AR]<br/><br/>Through the metal slits of his mask, the guard's face betrays his shock-- perhaps a tinge of self-admonishment, but there's little room for as much in his position-- as Cris springs up and plants her dagger below the square iron buckle of his belted armor.  [12+lots vs. basically no resistance, damage 2+4]  There's a cry of surprise-- a wounding cry, yes, of one injured, of pain-- and the pain is no doubt severe, but in the midst of battle, there's little time to acknowledge as much.  But the severing of a femoral artery cannot be ignored, and the already-wounded guard's body goes into shock as he staggers to his feet, without his fully understanding the severity of what has just transpired.  Stupidly, he backs a half step away, clutching with his free hand to ensure that his cock and sack are uninjured... they are, in fact, cut, but he won't have time to assess the damage, for half his body weight is on those legs, and about a fourth of the blood in his body will cycle through that severed artery in the next minute.  Or out, it seems.<br/><br/>He drops the uninjured leg as if to take a knee on the practice field, as if this would spare him further injury, simply taking a break.  Blood is flowing out and has filled his boot, he notices, and kneeling now it begins to pour freely onto the hewn boards of wood under him.<i> Best to lie down, it would seem.  This could be serious...</i>he thinks, as his body loses consciousness in his last few moments before death, and he glances up at the knife in Cris' grip, shocked at how long and sharp it is to be held by such a lovely girl...<br/><br/>The dead guard before them, they hear the surprised gasp of another behind, and just past where Mina's lithe, naked form is within reach of Cris' torn cloak, another guard pivots his helmet to survey his fallen comrade, then fixes his gaze on the two of them, his shoulders heaving under the studded, scorched leather and insignias of The First.  His leather gauntlets creak as he tightens his grip on his blade, and he begins to close the distance between them as another from the crowd-controlling group, bearing a long-handled flail that dangles with a menacing rattle of chain-- the sound too familiar-- moves in to take his place.  "Kill the fuckers!" he encourages, and just to drive home his point, breaks the nose of a bearded onlooker who crowds too close to the ensuing melee... no rioters will be stepping in to aid them from<i>that</i>side.<br/><br/>A few feet away, the Walker's tendril-like fingers seek to entwine Malia's throat and she can feel there, in its skin and its grasp, a cold, vile darkness, like the very touch of it is alive with vermin and disease.  The glimmering Amber eyes of the skull mask are fixed on hers, and for the first time she can see that there actually<i>is</i>light within them-- slitted eyes emit light, reflected large and luminous from somewhere deep in that cavernous mask, they burn with vile hatred and squeeze shut at her visage with a maddened ferocity that they will watch her writhe and choke and<i>die</i>... [spell like ability...]<br/><br/>But she's seen this look, of course.  She's seen it, she's faced it from the nobles, the courts, the rapists, the thugs, the urchins.  This is only the refined product of their loathing.  And, frankly... fuck them right back.<br/><br/>As she slices at the arms of the beast, the blade seems to sing to her hand, seems to encourage her, saying<i>not there HERE</i>and she places the tip naturally, almost gently-- like a waterfowl's beak testing the seam of a mollusk-- at the edge of the mask at the Walker's throat.  Feeling it squeeze at her throat, the muscles of her trachea collapse under the pressure, she feels a tinge of panic-- but she swallows it down.  The beast's magic is burning her eyes, flaying at her mind like the scourge of whips and leather straps, trying to expose what lies beneath.  But she will not yield.  [Will save 17+base]<br/><br/>She finds the perfect place to rest the dagger, where the cloak and the mask cannot protect the oily beast beneath-- and then she drives it home.  It's like burying a knife into warm dough, it slips in so easily-- there is no blood at first, only the rush of heat from within it-- and then Malia is possessed by the savage desire to return that pain tenfold. The beast's bitter-root fingers release her neck and frantically curl around her hands and through her fingers, snarling at her with desperation and agonized madness.  No sound, but a quivering within the whole of it.  So she twists the blade, and the blade wants more, so she twists it once more and then half-withdraws it, then buries it until her double-handed fist thuds against the beat's chest and squeezes from it a shrill cry like a broken instrument twisted in the hand. ... Ah, twisting, there's a thought... so she rapidly saws the blade back and forth, working it in a wicked circle until the beast manages to fling her away in a spasm of agony that topples her to the wooden stage, her white-knuckled hands still holding fast to the dagger as a gout of hot, black blood spouts and patters across the stage like rain.<br/><br/>The flailing beast's towering form is spasming and flailing in anguish as Malia scrambles for her feet, and she has a clear view of the mad, bare-chested elven pit-fighter, silhouetted by a rising fire from the cinders and smoke of the overturned Brazier, snatches up the Walker into his arms from its back.  Its hands at its throat and chest flail and slip in the gore that rushes between them, and the great gilded helm slips from its head as it thrashes about, hanging precariously askew until Ox twists its body up from the ground.  Its black robes whisper against the floor and clawed feet scuttle uselessly onto the planks, until he leverages his body with the precision, taut, muscles compressing as he crouches and lifts, then lengthening and elongating as he pivots and hurls the Walker's sagging, ragged form over him.<br/><br/>In that moment, there's a metallic ringing and clattering as the horned helmet falls to the floor.  Beneath, its luminous eyes wide and white, staring blindly into the flames and smoke, is a girl-- perhaps in her teens, perhaps a little older-- shrunken and gaunt, toothless, riddled with ritualistic scars and tattoos.  Black blood trickles from the corner of her mouth as she clenches her mouth still muttering and chanting words of magic.... she is scrambling desperately, reaching for Ox, trying to claw at his eyes, and with renewed vigor she is cursing with rage-- the effort at her ruined throat causing gouts of blood to bubble at her lips.  And then like tossing a felled tree atop a bonfire, Ox lets her weight carry her down, and with a well-timed push and thrust of his hips, he aims her into the center of the scorching heap of flames.<br/><br/>She erupts, her oily rags and long hair seeming to catch instantly, and her thrashing of shock becomes a flailing, agonized seizure in the flames and cinders.  A column of flame and sparks rises and spurts in multiple directions, causing the guards to back away by instinct, guarding their masked faces reflexively, and a shrill wail of rage and anger-- wet and gurgling with fluid-- rises, chokes off, rises again, becomes a gutteral sick-noise of heaving gags and strangled exhales as the Walker walks no more... instead it rises to hands, sizzling and popping in the flame, and crawls on its knees to collapse at the edge of the fire, the blackened and red-split skin of the face flat against the boards, wide-eyed and strangulated, dying as blood spreads around it and puddles where the floor slats can't drain it fast enough.<br/><br/>In stupefied awe, the guards stare for a moment at Ox and Malia, and Cris and Mina get the same momentary pause in the assault as the guards freeze in their tracks to see what has just happened.<br/><br/>"By the First," says one on the stage, and the crowd murmurs in astonished horror.  Every guard in the room has now moved into full position, with four watching the crowd, and five more preparing to take the stage with drawn weapons.  Those on the stage, about to attack, are now driven with a blazing hatred in their eyes-- a glint of rage at this betrayal of their sacred rite and one of their nation's own sanctified--<br/><br/>And then, from amid the cluster of guards, a wiry and grimy figure strides forth, unheeding her diminutive size among the blades, her filed teeth flashing as she screams to the crowd.  "YES!  THIS IS THE WILL OF ASMODEUS!  WE will NOT suffer the WEAK to LEAD US!"  It is the cauldron-bearer, still lifting the uncurled charter high. "ASMODEUS BE PRAISED!  THUS TO THE OATHBREAKERS!  THUS TO THOSE WHO DEFY THE WORD OF LAW!"<br/><br/>The crowd murmurs, and some outright curse, their ejaculations ranging from the vulgar to the utterly confused.<br/><br/>Turning and holding the scroll like a banner, she screams again.  "THE CONTRACT!"  She points, turns a circle as she paces the stage.  "IT has FOUR!  FOUR NAMES!"  She points at the fallen Walker, who is no longer moving.  "You read this part-- 'The girl known as CRIS, child of MALLAR of GOLGOTHA, convicted of theft, will be conscribed to the Ravens of Golgotha in exchange for services rendered on ...' Forgive me, but the details of this service are for the clergy only, bretheren... but you see, Matron, so eager to make good on your promise to the Duchess, you did not read the full contract, and Does NOT our LORD teach us to read the FINE PRINT?!"<br/><br/><br/><br/>