Chapter 29: Chapter 28: Hands of the Artisan IX

Chapter 28: Hands of the Artisan IX

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[THE SILVER SEAT - The Back Alleys]

Through the back of the workshop, there was an alleyway. Nameen had seen it when he had been working in the smithing room. In the back of his mind, the part that was still afraid and waiting for the other shoe to drop, he had classified it as an escape route.

He hated that the paranoid part of himself had come in useful again.

Nameen bent over under the weight of the dwarf, his raggedy clothing now stained with the man’s blood. The wound was large, and the apron that Vandamme wore had been torn to tatters, but right now all Nameen could think of was getting him out of there - out of the line of fire.

But... he wasn’t strong enough. He didn’t get tired, yes, but that didn’t mean that he could move quickly with such a heavy weight over his shoulder. The dwarf was short, but he was stout. Despite the wounds and the limp, he was still solid. The muscles of a smith did not go away easily, it seemed.

The moment he smelled the blood, he charged from the smithing room to the front. Why, he did not know. It would’ve been far more prudent to head out the back right away, just so he wouldn’t have seen it.

The sight of a stranger with his blade drawn, standing over Vandamme’s prone body.

He had hardly noticed the two shadows charge in from the doorway and slam into the assailant. He had missed the green woman in the doorway completely - so focused was he on the dwarf.

Then sounds of battle as steel met steel. He had to get him out of there. He crept forward, lying close to the ground so that he wouldn’t be noticed. None did, except the spider which Nameen ignored. The fighters were too busy with each other, and the woman had been looking for her chance to get in.

And so, he waited. The moment the battle had shifted away from Vandamme’s prone form, he charged forward and put him on his shoulder before running out back and into the alleyway.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

But the going was slow. Far slower than Nameen liked. Blood dripped steadily on the floor, leaving a trail. The sight of it led the boy to despair. If anybody wanted to follow them, it wouldn’t take much.

“...G... Go by yourself, lad.”

Vandamme gasped in pain. Nameen looked sharply at him. He didn’t say anything, but just continued to carry the older man along.

“H-He’s looking for you,” continued Vandamme, sucking in air through his teeth. “R-Run. Run to a White Hands precinct. Tell them you’re in danger... They’ll protect you...”

Memories of an old friend, with whom he had promised to share a drink together on their collective birthday. The arrest had occurred before that could happen, and then by the time he was out drinking had lost its allure. When he had finally come to his senses in the back alleys, he had heard the man had passed away alone and in poverty, estranged from his family.

Why did the world do this to them? Good people, who just wanted to live their lives righteously and in peace. Why did it have to be they who bore the brunt of the world’s injustices and pain?

Vandamme couldn’t remember the last time he had been in a worship hall. He couldn’t bear to see the statues on display, not since the dark days started. He could not bear to see the face of the Divinity he had once worshiped.

Hephaestus had forsaken him first.

“No,” said the boy stubbornly. “I’ll... I’ll get you help.”

“Where?”

He chuckled. A guttery, raspy sound followed by coughing. Blood droplets flew from his mouth and onto the street.

Despite Nameen’s movements, the backstreet they were in led nowhere, only condemned buildings and other shoddy living spaces.

The people who lived in them too were the kind that didn’t want trouble, just like Vandamme. Even if they did offer help, of which the chances were exceedingly low, Vandamme knew that none would be capable of saving him - not with how quickly he was bleeding out.

Nameen closed his eyes, and continued to walk.

Cold, he remembered the cold.

How cold his life had been after he had been captured by the slavers in the south despite the sand, and how little they had given the human slaves, as unappealing as they were. How cold the meals, and even after his escape, how cold it had been under the bridge.

Then, the warmth of a dwarf’s hands. The warmth of a plate. The warmth of a shop, and of a soft bed. More than anything, the warmth of the forge in the back. Sparks and embers danced in his vision when he had seen Vandamme work.

And now that warmth on his shoulder was, too, starting to turn cold.

Just then, a voice.

“Hey! Hey, kid!”

It was the wolf beastman, and in his hand he carried a little white spider.

---

[THE SILVER SEAT - South Side]

“A Chosen of the Windmother,” breathed the Manslayer. “I have killed many of your ilk, girl. There is nothing you can do that will surprise me.”

Muse smirked.

“Who knows? We’ll see how it goes.”

Her words belied her real feelings. This was tough.

If she had been on the other end of Cain’s relentless and formless onslaught with his ability to switch weapons on the fly, she would have already gone down, she was sure. Yet, the Manslayer had no issues adapting. He had suffered a few inconsequential strikes early, but since then had become adept at dodging even the strangest strikes from the strangest angles.

Muse had attempted to assist in the best ways she knew how. Remembering the way that McDougal had landed a strike on her, she had sent wind blowing toward the fixer’s feet, attempting to knock him down or at least destabilize his footing. He had evaded it easily by hopping onto the counter.

The more they fought, the more blood splashed around the room from the Manslayer’s weapon, and - it was slow and hard to notice - but the Manslayer seemed to be getting faster and stronger. The nauseating smell that had affected the two knights seemed to bolster the other man somehow.

Muse narrowed her eyes. Cain saw the way she looked.

Oh, dammit.

She’d pay for the damages later, or bill it to the Black Lamps.

Drawing the rapier back, she took a stance - spellcasting and martial arts combined. She let the Divine essence she was imbued with run through her meridians, before throwing her hand forward - the point of the rapier pointed directly in the Manslayer’s direction.

All battlecasters, whether they were warcasters, soulcasters, landcasters, or godcasters had something in common which gave them their powers. That being the warpage of the body’s magic circuits, or meridians in some manner.

And with that, came the unlocking of magical potential.

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Just as warcasters changed their circuits through medicine and training, a godcaster too upon their Choosing came out the other side changed. Their magic circuits were rewired to be more similar to their patron’s, to accept Divine essence.

And now Muse was channeling that Divine essence to its full extent through the focus in her hand. Just as the Manslayer did with his scarlet sword, she guided the wind to flow around the rapier in her hand.

The fixer’s eyes narrowed at the essence she was collecting, and he held his blade to his side. She was a fool to think that he would let her do something like that.

A split second later and he would’ve been able to disrupt her, had he not been suddenly forced to knock away a boomerang that Cain had thrown.

“STORM’S EYE!”

The wind rose.

Or perhaps it was more accurate to say, it screamed.

From behind her, the air started to howl. A cyclone materialized in space, bursting forward into a powerful twister. The blood that was on the walls and floor were whipped up by the supernatural phenomenon, and even some of the lighter weapons followed in its wake.

The Manslayer felt himself slam against the wall at the back of the store, before feeling the wall itself give and shatter - he was now in a forge, then the wind continued and he was carried outside in a hail of broken building material.

---

[THE SILVER SEAT - The Back Alleys]

A moment to recollect himself, before he was forced to contend with the metal shrapnel of weaponry that the whirlwind had whipped up. A few quick strikes, and the throwing stars, chakrams, boomerangs, and daggers were on the ground in pieces and layered with blood. There would be no more surprise attacks from these things.

Cain and Muse followed, jumping forward and surrounding him on each side. The half-orc readied her rapier as Cain held a monk’s spade in front of him.

Muse’s eyes widened. Behind Cain, she could see a blood trail that led to three figures in the distance. Alonzo had caught up with the other Player and Vandamme - and judging from the little white shape in his hand, Webby was there too.

A Divinity couldn’t interfere with another Divinity, true, but the rule was murky. The Chosen were free to do as they pleased, even engage in conflict with each other. Despite their status, they were still mere mortal sentients, and their statuses were more akin to gifts than some kind of conscription.

That did not apply to the Divinity’s children. Considered closer to heaven than earth, Divine laws and agreements affected them much more strongly, and they had keen senses for it.

However, it didn’t mean that Webby couldn’t find some way to help. The issue was that as long as the Manslayer intended on doing harm to the old dwarf, it would be hard for Webby to attempt to save him.

Killing versus saving. They would be completely at odds, and since the Manslayer had been on the scene first, Webby would be the interloper.

But, if the Manslayer could be distracted from his previous intentions - pried away by two assailants... One could argue that the old dwarf was no longer relevant. Some of the Divinity’s children would dispute this point, but certainly not Webby.

There was still a chance.

“Blood and steel,” said Muse, carefully. If she could distract him for a little - get his attention away from the retreating figures. “Muramasa.”

The Manslayer chuckled. His eyes were completely bloodshot now. It was as if he hadn’t slept in years. The sight of it sent shivers down Muse’s spine.

“Indeed. The 15th, Muramasa Souleater. Divinity of carnage, war, blood, and steel. My godparent and Chooser. It asks for tithes, and I comply.”

Behind him, Muse could see Cain quickly draw a sigil on his palm and raise his right hand up to his ear. Good thinking! She had to distract him for a little longer, then.

“Ah, I’ve heard that you go too far in your fixer duties,” realized Muse. “Looks like that’s not just your hobby then, is it?”

“No, not a hobby,” said the Manslayer. “In exchange for its blessings, my patron demands blood and carnage. The more, the better. The higher the value of the offering, the more pleased it is.”

“No wonder there are few records of Muramasa’s Chosen,” said Muse with a growl. “Maybe your Divinity should choose a tithe that fits in better with civilized society, instead of going around butchering people.”

“Civilized society? What a conceited thing to say,” opined the Manslayer. “The Souleater is prayed to during times of war, yet during times of peace it is forgotten. I’ve heard that in my homeland to the far east, during the warring states era, Muramasa’s Chosen were hailed as heroes, worthy of being passed down in poems and plays.”

He looked to the sky for a brief moment.

“Us sentients are unfaithful indeed, turning to the Divinities only when we need something and shunning them when we do not.”

He swiped his blade in front of him, the motion dragged the flowing blood in an arc against the ground. Gently, he sheathed the blade, before ducking down into a stance.

It was not an opening, both Cain and Muse decided. Despite his action of sheathing his sword, the aura around him had only increased in malice.

“Not all Divinities are like yours,” he continued. “Aerachnid the Windmother. Who does not love medicine and freedom?”

His hand rested on top of the blade’s handle.

“But, you’ll soon find,” he said, his smile returning to his face. “That there are wounds even Divine medicine cannot heal.”

Muse had more battle experience than Cain due to her experience in fighting bandits as part of the Iron Bars, and it was the only thing that saved her. The moment the Manslayer’s hand trembled, she had hit the ground.

Not a moment too soon, as a ring of blood appeared in the air around the assailant, spinning and vibrating like a chainsaw before expanding and slamming into the nearby buildings. Muse winced in sympathetic pain as she saw the blood ring slam into Cain’s chest.

A sword trail that shot out blood. Truly only something a Godcaster was capable of doing.

[67 BLOOD DAMAGE TAKEN!]

[CURRENT HP: 51/160]

The Player regained his bearings, before quickly grabbing a bottle from inside his jacket. It contained green liquid, about a cup’s worth. Cain quickly popped it open and drank it in.

[60 HP RECOVERED!]

[CURRENT HP: 111/160]

“I’ll take your word for it,” said Cain wryly as he tossed the empty bottle aside. It hit the ground with a clatter. “But it seems pretty effective to me.”

He looked at Muse, and she nodded. Gripping their weapons in unison, they charged at the scaled koijin between them.

The battle was back on.

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