Don't tell me what to do! (open)

[Serras-Kai]

fes·ti·val (fst-vl) noun
1. An occasion for feasting or celebration, especially a day or time of religious significance that recurs at regular intervals. 2. An often regularly recurring program of cultural performances, exhibitions, or competitions: a film festival.3. Revelry; conviviality. 4. A time for people to forget the purpose of an important date while drinking themselves stupid, gorging themselves on things they can't afford before taking their wives/dates/concubines/daughters to their beds for an eventful night before returning to the monotony of their lives, which should be ended as soon as possible.

Gozer spat in disgust of the people here, the people of Termina. These people held this festival every year- the festival of time. He strode through the streets, his Fang and his Lips strapped upon his back, giving the people a warning of his intentions here before he even got to do anything. Despicable creatures really, everyone here should be killed.

Spotting an open place beside a rather disgruntled man who was likely drunk or stupid (or some combination of the two) Gozer strode over and sat, ignoring his words for a moment about how the seat was taken before contemplating his inevitable murder. That didn't take long, but it rarely did.

Glaring at the man was enough to quiet him as he sat, waiting. He was going to be here for the night, and he may as well seem like he's trying to mingle, despite standing out so very, very much. His grinding teeth and dead looking eyes gave him a rather sober look, which is probably why the woman approached him.

She offered him a drink, with a genuine smile on her face. She wanted him to have fun, but he informed her that wasn't his intention. She seemed like a nice enough lass, but he wasn't here to drink, and she shouldn't have pressed him to take it. Nobody should press him into anything. Ever. For any reason.

In a blinded blur of adrenaline and rage, Gozer felt his weapon glide from it's place on his back and slide effortlessly through the corset she wore over her dress, her startled face as the weapon found it's way into her soft flesh and drove through the other side of her body. The Gozerian was a rather ill-tempered man, and he didn't take kindly to people like this.

As the woman fell away from him, the people of the festival screeched and fell into a blind panic. He'd had every intention of healing this woman after having hurt her himself, but the sound of the screams and the mug that impacted his shield (drunks can't aim, it seems) had changed his mind. Stepping up onto the table, a quick arc of black tooth separated the drunk Gozer had been enduring from his beloved head, which he now would need a friend to locate, for all the good it did him.

Gozer now stood atop the table, his sword grinding in a fountain of blood into another man's eye as he readied his shield for a full-on slaughter of the people here, but his mind stayed on the woman. She would die in a short time, and despite all of this he still had every intention of healing her- if he could fight off this crowd long enough, he still would.

[Kismet]

shit
adjective
• bad or of poor quality.
• very good, excellent; COOL. Always preceded by "the" in the complimentary usage. (Does not apply to "crap.")
• used to convey surprise or alarm when the noun variant of shit hits the fan.

“OH SHIT.” About summed up Richter’s reaction to the random display of violence that suddenly gripped the square.

Richter’s evening had been going quite well up to this point, all things considered. He’d been offered all the spirits he could drink in return for attending to some moron who’d been kicked by a mule earlier. Said moron had conveniently been the son of the local tavern’s owner. Said moron also had two sultry sisters eager to repay him.

Richter’s evening had been going well indeed.

Lounging contentedly on the tavern's patio, he had been rather enjoying himself, sipping his (free) wine and chatting with the two lovely maidens. (He was aware that the father was beginning to get, shall we say, royally pissed at his continued presence, but he could get bent.)

And then some random dude took a sword to vendor.

I mean, really. What the hell.

Startled (obviously), Richter sat bolt upright, spilling his drink all over one of the sisters. He couldn’t remember which. One was Cherise and the other was Linda. Or Lina. Or Lisa. Anyways, his drink was in her lap. Fortunately, she didn’t hold it against him, as they were both screaming bloody murder (no pun intended) and running away as fast as their (shapely) legs could carry them. Richter leapt to his feet, wobbled slightly, and sat back down. Being inebriated in a time of crisis was slightly debilitating. What would have caused lesser men to stagger around at a slightly slower pace than normal, however, could not slow down Richter. For long anyways. After a few moments where people mostly just ran around being stupid or got decapitated, Richter purged his body of its alcoholic content and stood, heaving his attaché case onto his back.

Emotion completely left Richter as he surveyed the scene. A woman had been stabbed straight through. Single edged sword wound, clean cut, internal lacerations on the right side only. Thrust attack, force concentrated as narrowly as possible with little to no damage to nearby areas. Relatively light bleeding as a result. Possible cloth induction from the corset. Kidney and intestinal damage likely. Time until expiration, ten minutes at maximum without treatment.

The second man was not so lucky. His head been completely severed from his body. But there was still a chance to save him.

The woman had ten minutes. She could wait.

Richter dashed into the crowd, now beginning to encircle the psychotic slasher as guards poured into the square. They were either extremely brave, extremely stupid, or extremely drunk. Probably all three. Or at least the latter two. Spearman began beating away the mass to form a circle around the murderer, which was good. Murderers deserved to get speared, and more importantly, Richter really didn’t want to get stabbed in the face by some yahoo with a bone to pick with random festivities.

Swooping low, Richter grabbed the severed head by its ungainly mass of hair, instantly clotting the damned thing’s bleeding stump of a neck and connecting it to his own bloodstream and neural system. The poor bastard’s panicked thoughts began to spill into Richter’s mind, but he ignored them. The man was in shock. Which was hardly surprising, but it meant he wasn’t exactly coherent with his thoughts. The brain had gone without oxygen for almost forty-five seconds. Permanent brain damage unlikely.

Unless, of course, Richter couldn’t save the man.

Hauling ass, as the saying goes, Richter broke through the ring of spearman and tackled the headless body of the drunkard, rolling over it and dragging it with him in order to gain some distance from the maniac. About ten feet, to be exact. In moments, the body’s bloody neck had clotted, and its blood circulated between its and Richter’s body.

“HEY!” The captain of the guard shouted. “Get back!”

Richter felt the rough hands of the soldiers clawing at him, trying to tear him away from the body and between themselves and the killer, but he swatted them away.

“I’m a healer.” He said through gritted teeth. “I can save him.” Then, he paused for a moment, thinking. Then he added “Trust me, I’m a doctor.”

The bleeding had been stopped, and the vital organs maintained. Now Richter just had to reattach the head. And not get murdered to shit. Peachy.

[king]

Drunk
1.
being in a temporary state in which one's physical and mental faculties are impaired by an excess of alcoholic drink; intoxicated: The wine made him drunk.
2.
overcome or dominated by a strong feeling or emotion: drunk with power; drunk with joy.
3.
pertaining to or caused by intoxication or intoxicated persons.

All the drinking surely mad Juto a bit uneasy on his decision that he were making and clumsy at the same time. Juto held two beer bottles in his hands while trying to keep his balance and trying to talk to some rather cute females that he just met.

He had been at the bar tavern sitting and drinking up a storm, until he puked onto of one of the females that he had been so trying to talk to for some time but messed that all up when he spilled green puke all over her. "Oops sorry about that, I think I had a little..." Before Juto could even finish the sentence that he tried to apologize with he was slapped out of the stool that he was sitting in by the woman that he puked on.

Juto laid on the ground an laughed at what just happened and couldn't believe that he really just puked all over one of the cutest girls in the festival. Juto tried to get to his feet only to fall back down on the ground. He was drunk and knew it but he felt the urge to sober up quickly because with all the fun that he had been having soon started to turn into chaos.

"What's going on here....BURPPP"

Juto finally made it to his feet only to see a man standing on a table. He seemed to be the center of all the chaos that had been going around. He seen people on the floor and even bloodshed. The nice festival that Juto thought was going to turn out with the result in him getting laid seemed to be some type of horror movie. Juto then started to walk over to the huge crowd that was surrounding the man on top of the table with a beer mug still in his hand.

This was truly chaos Juto looked to the left of him only to see what looked like a man......with no head. " What the hell" Juto was used to destruction and what not but this was just too much blood for him. Juto then raced to the nearest trash can and puked yet again due to all the blood and the horrid scene of a man with no head. He seen that some another man was holding a head and Juto knew that it had to be the head of the man that was.....HEADLESS. The man was being blocked by a ring of spear men and it seemed that he was trying to save the headless man.

"What The Hell Is Going On"

[Serras-Kai]

Gozer spun, possibly foaming at the mouth and definitely drooling all over himself and faced every guard at least once. He crouched slightly and payed no mind to the man who now attempted to heal the decapitated fool. Big whoop, he could do it to. It meant nothing to him, nothing at all- so nyar.

Anyway, Gozer's next move was a simple one. He threw his shield at the most drunken... ish guard he could see, smashing the faceplate of his helmet and knocking him to the ground with the entire lid of his coffin. What a dumbshit, not even trying to block.

With that done, an opening was made in the ranks around him. Gozer leaped downward from the table, landing heavily on the ground and meeting eyes with everyone around him now as he hefted his shield back onto his shoulder from where it had landed.

He spat out some rather hasty comments, and told the man who seemed to be a healer that the woman deserved attention more than some worthless drunk. Oh yeah, Gozer was a petty man. He knew it. He would admit it if asked, but he didn't care honestly.

Raising his shield above his head, Gozer slashed the fallen guard across the back as he tried to stand, gashing his armor but causing no real damage beneath the chainmail, skipping backwards twice with a bold smile on his face before turning on his heel and rushing away from the crowd, drawing the entirety of the Guards present with him.

[Kismet]

“STOP GETTING INJURED DAMMIT!” Richter yelled over the din of the brawl. “Could you guards please stop sucking?”

I mean, honestly. You joined the town guards because you were a Neanderthalic bully good at stabbing things and using spears to compensate for your own deficiencies, right? So if you and a bunch of your soldier buddies were getting your asses handed to you by a single rabid madman jacked up on cocaine and the serious need to get laid, then something was obviously wrong.

Besides, you know, the rabid madman jacked up on cocaine and the serious need to get laid.

But there was a beheaded guy to deal with as well. The man who’d been stabbed in the eye was done for. It was beyond Richter’s ability to reverse brain damage like that, but it wasn’t all bad. He’d put the corpse to good use later. Or rather, the fully functioning organs that the poor bastard no longer required.

Still, reattaching a limb, let alone a head, required Richter’s total commitment. At his touch, the man’s spinal column slowly melted back together, bone and nerve lines delicately arranging themselves. The thick muscle tissue around the spine began to regenerate, and the man’s esophagus reappeared.

The jugular veins remained conspicuously absent. God damn it.

Richter could not detach himself from the man yet, as he could not yet deliver his own blood to his brain. Not really surprising, but it meant he was still relying on drunken ass guards to defend him.

Or rather, mostly drunken ass guards. The captain, being the captain, seemed to have actually taken his job seriously and remained sober. This probably explained why he was the captain, and not the moron getting a sword raked across his back.

“Scum.” The captain spat, drawing his longsword in a single, deft motion. Charging towards the maniac, he slashed upward in a lightning feint, then whipped his blade around to slash from the right, aiming for the drooling dude’s neck.

Richter noted that he would most definitely not be reattaching the rabid guys head, if it ever left his shoulders.

[Serras-Kai]

((Sweet Jesus order breaking))

Gozer stumbled as he ran, skipping twice in order to keep from falling over himself, turning as his foot landed after the final landing. As he spun, his eyes fell upon the captain of the guard.

The guard struck thrice, alternating between stopping short on his shield and his sword. The guard was sober, and he was a fighter in truth. Gozer gritted his teeth as he started to walk backward away from the man.

He couldn't strike at him and risk getting struck himself, he couldn't turn to flee, lest he take a shot in the back. He couldn't keep backing up, or he might trip over something, and then... well his point had been made.

But that was just what happened. His back hit a table, and he fell flat onto a table. The captain brought his weapon up to strike, and Gozer had fallen. Oh, woe was he.

Crap in a hat.

[Kismet]

There. It was done. The beheaded drunkard’s jugular veins appeared and slid under a seething mass of flesh. His ligaments snapped together, his muscles sewed themselves shut, and his skin flowed like water around the remaining wounds, sealing them shut. The man’s head was now firmly reattached to his body.

Releasing him, the man collapsed into unconsciousness. The memories would be buried under the crushing weight of shock and excessive alcohol. With luck, he would never remember this night. Not that Richter cared too much; he was done with the man, after all.

He glanced up, noting that the guard captain seemed to be managing rather well against the psycho. With any luck, they could use him as a piñata to beat the tar out of after the captain was done with him. Richter stood, watching the fight progress, but unable to suppress the feeling that he’d forgotten something.

Oh yeah. The lady.

Swearing loudly to himself, he turned and ran back to the vendor and knelt beside the bleeding women.

“Hold still.” He said calmly, placing his hand inside the wound. She gasped in horror as his lower began to shine brilliant blue, and passed ghostlike through her body.

“I’ll have you fixed up in no time. You can pay me back later. Cash would be fine.” He said, connecting his blood stream with hers and patching her innards. She mouthed wordlessly at him in shock, and passed out in terror.

Oh well. It made things easier.


The captain’s plan had worked. Stumbling wildly backwards under the hail of sword strokes, the killer had stumbled intone of the tables behind him. His guards had joined the crowd, cheering bawdily as the fight progressed. In their drunken excitement, they had failed to seal off any possible escape routes, but hopefully, it wouldn’t matter.

Now it was time to end it, before the madman could hurt anymore people.

Raising his sword high above his head, the captain let out a roar of rage, and slashed downwards.

[Serras-Kai]

((WA-HA, more order breaking!))

The sword stabbed into Gozer's neck, penetrating his side and gliding right into his side, spraying blood all across the table and staining his side. He growled in pain and rolled off the table, still screaming. The Captain ordered a few of his men to grab Gozer, but they were more content with standing over him and laughing while the captain turned away in disgust. He didn't care about the man- he'd live. They had healers. But there was something he didn't know that was about to occur.

"BATTLE FEVER."

The men were caught so far off guard by Gozer rising again, launching himself up from the floor and passing the few guards that still stood around him. Not one of them had expected what had occurred- least of all the captain, who received a flash of a sword in his own throat- a quick and easy kill shot. He shouldn't have sheathed his own sword.

"And so I repay you in kind."

The captain of the guard fell away from him, slamming onto the ground, gagging and coughing from the blood now rapidly draining from him. The men in the tavern looked like they were prepared to fight him- but not one of them wanted to take a stab at him.

Gozer turned, slowly, meeting eyes with everyone in the tavern, as he spouted the words Zanith had drilled into him so many times, over and over again. It had become their creed- he knew it all too well.

"Surrender or run!"

[Kismet]

Richter spun, grabbing his hair staggering around drunkenly. “Is it that freaking hard not to completely suck at fighting?” He yelled, completely in awe of the depth of the garrison’s inadequacy. “What the hell, are you guards or piñatas!?” The women’s bleeding had stopped, and her condition stabilized somewhat. She could afford to go back on hold while Richter tried to stitch up the captain.

This was getting so old. Richter wished he was drunk again.

“All of you!” Richter yelled at the drunken, stumbling mass of townsfolk, “get this woman to safety, and stay the hell away. And you!” he hissed, rounding on the guards. “Pull your shit together and kill him! KILL HIM!”

The final order came out as a nearly incomprehensible shriek of frightened rage as he turned back to the madman. Richter couldn’t stop him. He could do nothing to stop the bloodshed, only desperately try to mop it up. Richter didn’t care at all for people, but human beings were of such intricate and artistic complexity that his mind reeled in abhorrence at their wanton destruction. But even that paled in comparison to the paralyzing sense of helplessness. Richter couldn’t let these people die, but he was powerless to stop the cycle that perpetuated their injuries.

If only the guards….

Wait.

The guards. They were drunk.

“WAIT! Nobody move!” Richter dashed for the guards, leaping into their midst. As they bumbled around, he pressed himself against as many as he could, and activated a Leech Circuit between all of them.

Richter’s wish was about to be granted. He was about to get really, really drunk. Every ounce of alcohol in the guards’ bodies was about to get sucked into Richter’s.

[Serras-Kai]

Gozer's eyes widened as he saw the people around him shake themselves awake, now looking more and more frighteningly sober. Several of them were brushing the sweat from their faces, looking as though they were preparing to run him through each once or five times. All this was a huge problem considering he wasn't the greatest of fighters, compounded with his already Fever'd self.

That was about when he remembered he was a massive cowards and effing legged it.

Spinning on his heel he slammed his shield back onto his back, where it slid surprisingly peacefully into place upon his sword belt. He wasn't about to sheath his sword, in case one of the now competent guards happened to catch up with him, which was likely in the end since he was bogged down with armor, a weapon, and chain mail without even factoring in the crowd that would no doubt meet him as he fled.

Storming out the door, Gozer threw down a small flower (it served no purpose- upon himself as he power slid into a turn, taking a sharp left immediately after exiting the tavern. The door suddenly exploded with a massive number of guards as they stormed out from the door in pursuit of the man who hurt their captain- and ironically the only other one who could heal their captain. The other guy could do it maybe, but what he was looking rather... incapacitated when Gozer left. But then he'd only glanced so who knows?

The streets were filled with an astounding number of of people, even for a festival in a place like this. Gozer's first impact was with a young woman in a blue dress, but his slash barely nicked her at best. She'd be fine with minimal permanent damage. Meanwhile a spear landed on his shield as soon as he first met the crowd, merely a twenty feet from the door. This wasn't looking good- no good at all really.

[Kismet]

Oh shit.

Richter sagged to his knees, the whole world blurring around him. His stomach began heaving as his blood tried to filter the massive amount of undiluted poison coursing through his veins. As he slumped to the ground, he became vaguely aware…that the madman was…leaving…the guards…were…

The world went black.

Richter awoke to rough shaking and the cold wooden floor of the tavern pressed against his face. His eyes focused on his surroundings, his vision sharp and clear again.

“Sir, are you alright? Sir?” The guard kneeling over him asked. From Richter’s downed position, it looked as if his head was engulfed in a glowing halo of light from the bright light above him.

Groaning, Richter sat up, blinking rapidly. “Yes, I’m fine.” He said tersely, placing a hand over his kidney. “How long was I out?”

“Just a few seconds Sir.” The guard replied. “The other guards are pursuing that fiend as we speak.” He fidgeted a bit, anxious to join them. The night had been going well for him before the attacks, with plenty of lads for laugh and lasses for merry making. But the drink always got to someone at these festivals, and there was always some scene and a big hullaballoo. No one would remember it the next day of course, as they’d be drunk stupid. They’d just be wondering why they’d woken up in a jail cell is all.

But it wouldn’t be like that tonight.

Richter grumbled some incomprehensible remark of thanks and clambered to his feet. Another trio of guards were hunched over their fallen captain, desperately trying to stem his bleeding throat with some of the tavern’s wash towels. As he rushed over, he saw that two of the guards were sitting on the captain’s arms, pinning to them the ground to prevent him from clawing at his neck. With a shock of realization, he realized that the third was actually inserting a straw into the captain’s severed jugular to reconnect the blood flow.

“You guys are actually pretty pro when you’re not shitfaced.” Richter remarked calmly, ushering the third guard away and taking his place at his head. Now things were back under control. Now he could focus with his calm, detached, machinelike indifference. He could save this human machinery now.

Once again, he dipped his hands through his patient’s neck as if it were water, reconnecting the severed flesh and connecting their blood streams.

Meanwhile…

Richter had not managed to remove the drunkenness from every guard present, but he’d managed to drag at least eight of them into sobriety, and the four that weren’t attending to Richter and the captain were hauling after Gozer. As they tore through the street, two peeled off the chase as they passed by the stable, kicking down the door and leaping onto two unattended mounts. They were soon joined by the other four from the tavern, free to resume the chase with the captain in Richter’s hands. The chase was on.

[Serras-Kai]

Gozer dove into a crowd of dancers, slicing one across the arm and letting her release a scream that rivaled his highest grasp of sound. But he payed her little mind, she wasn't of his concern. He was more concerned about the two men on horses now nearing him, joined by more and more guards as he fled through the streets. How, exactly, would this crafty Cleric escape?

Treatment was simple. Climb the buildings. But what if building don't have a way up?

There was always the clock tower.

Gozer had always loved the fact that in small towns there was nothing particularly far away from you, and Clock Town was no exception. They had a prized clock tower, which upon this day would open it's secrets and allow commoners in, if they dared. But even if he wasn't supposed to be in he was still going, just because he had no other means of doing this escape.

Gozer was grabbed by a rather large man, a townsperson, whom he greeted with a wail and a strike from his sword which lightly cut his side. Non-battle opponents couldn't handle that sort of thing, so he was released, allowing him to gut the man where he stood. And take a spear in the shoulder.

Howling like an animal, Gozer stumbled away from his fresh victim, but now striking back at the man on his horse.

The three horsemen were upon him, leaving little choice in the matter- every one of these people thought they were good men, doing their job. Be that as it may, it served a rather devious purpose for Gozer, who smiled as he raised his hands outward.

A guard, brandishing chains in one hand and a sword in the other, approached Gozer. But he wasn't able to get close to him.

Gozer smiled as he stepped backward, into the shadow of the clock tower. He removed his shield and brandished it, stopping the arrows that he had seen drawn in his favor. He backed away from the guards, turning away only once to make sure he was level with the tower himself, then began to walk up them, reaching the top as the Guards swarmed about uneasily on the bottom.

"None of you can touch me."

Gozer said finally, now seeing his massive audience of towns people, who had gathered beneath the tower to see this drama unfold. But they would be robbed of it, as one beneath the tower could not see the top and thus would not witness the conclusion of this battle.

"Only the one of you that is not good can come and face me. Only he may fight me!" Gozer spoke with conviction enough to convince these people of his spell. They had no idea what he could do, after all.

He emerged from the halls of the tower into a large, open area that would serve as his final arena. As he reached it he dropped his repulse- it would not help him now. Instead he put his magic towards healing his arm, closing the wound where the spear hit him. It was rather light (thank god for magic chain mail) followed by one more act of magic.

He stopped walking when he had reached the center of the arena, then turned to face the entrance, upon which he lowered his sword, began to chant, and prepared for his foe.

[Kismet]

Richter leaned back from his work, content. The captain was going to be fine, if a bit unnerved by the whole experience. In Richter’s experience, most people found it rather traumatic and upsetting to have a sword shoved through their throat. They seemed to find the experience of coming so close to death terribly unsettling, that sudden shocking reminder that your own grim mortality can be so suddenly snatched up.

Standing, Richter sauntered back over to the bar, slid neatly over it, and poured himself a drink. Disgusting. How was it that these men, who were trained to kill, lived to kill, were afraid of death? Why did they only realize the horror of what they were doing when it was their own worthless lives on the line? How did they not choke on the hypocrisy, drown in it, the way the victims of their violence had drowned in their own blood?

Though, that’s not quite fair, Richter thought as he popped the cork off the most vintage bottle he could lay his hands on. That maniac didn’t look like he’d mind dying. Not too much anyways. Though he could probably be excused on account of being batshit insane. The captain too, had seemed mostly unafraid. Perhaps it was pain and shock. Perhaps he had been ready to die, willing to sacrifice himself, all set to go, and then called back from certain doom. That in itself could be quite a shock to the system.

Tough luck. If Richter was going to have to suffer this through this miserable existence, he was taking every bastard he could with him.

Lifting his head back, Richter downed a massive swig of the bottle’s contents and slammed it down on the counter. Morosely, he moved to the window and pressed both hands against it, staring blankly at the glass. He could hear shouting in the distance, cries of pain and anger and surprise, the sharp barking of orders and the frantic neighing of horses. An unrelenting stream of cacophonic noise. All those people, rushing about in a panic, shouting and screaming because of one loose screw in the machine. One loose nut banging around in the mindless repetitive organism of their lives, wantonly slashing its host.

The noise. How Richter longed for silence, suddenly. Just a moment of it. Pure, complete, total silence. Away.

“Damn it.” he whispered to no one.

“Sir?”

Richter turned, saw that another guard had entered the room. Nodded to him, not taking his hands off the glass. How tired he was, all of a sudden.

“Sir, I…I think we may need your assistance again. No one is injured,” he said quickly, seeing Richter stiffen. “But the man has cast some sort of barrier and we can’t reach him.”

Richter stared at the man, not blinking. “I am a medic,” he said flatly.

The guard shifted uncomfortably. “I beg your pardon sir. It was just that one of the lasses was saying she’d spoken with you earlier, said you might be able to do something about it.”

Richter’s brow furrowed, and he thought back to the hazy alcohol clouded hours before this whole mess. He remembered two girls, yes. Daughters of the tavern over. He had talked to them, said…said something. Something about his occupation, his training. Yes, he had mentioned some of his abilities. Hoping to woo them, that was what he’d been doing.

He pushed himself away from the window and strode past the guard, patting his shoulder as he past. “Oh, right. Forgot about that. Come now, off we go.”

And so it was in short time that Richter found himself staring up the face of the clock tower, wondering why they simply didn’t burn it down. He voiced this question, and was given blank condescending looks. Right. He looked to the tower again, his hand contemplatively cupping his chin. Could you drop a moon on it, he wondered aloud to the guards. They did that sort of thing around here, didn’t they. Truly venomous looks that time. Progress.

“Perhaps,” he ventured, “If I can get close enough to him, I can neutralize the barrier. Maybe. It’s possible.” The guards nodded encouragingly. “But I don’t really feel like it.”

And then there was the silence Richter had sought. He closed his eyes, reveling in it. Pure, all encompassing silence. The shock of that statement had stunned to them that rare state of noiselessness. How it suited them. But it was not to last.

“Sir?” one of the guards asked, stupidly.

“Why,” Richter asked, anger seeping into his words like poison, “Should I risk my life, all alone up there with this madman? The place is empty. If you can’t get in, let him starve in there.”

The guards looked aghast, but Richter had a point, and they knew it. Asking random civilians to risk their lives against such a madman did not sit well with them. It was their jobs, they knew, to bear such responsibilities, so that others may not have to. The fact that they were coming to this man, this strange foreign combat medic was proof of their failing, at it shamed them terribly. But there was nothing they could do, and they repeated these thoughts to Richter.

“And what’s in it for me?” came the reply.

And so it was that Richter found himself walking bleakly up the clock tower stairs, with gold and drink and food and promises awaiting him if he returned alive. If. If he lived, he’d be living like a king, at least for a little while. And if he didn’t…well, at least he’d get his bit of silence.

Exiting the stairs, he came upon a wide open area, with the madman seated quietly in the center, murmuring to himself.

“Right.” He muttered.

[Serras-Kai]

This hadn't been the first time Gozer had found himself atop a tall tower surrounded by enemies with no way out. It was his first time to be in such a form of check without at least one other shade along with him.

But he remembered what Dante had done, aside from genocide.

I need a rope, a cloak, cheap brandy and fine whiskey, a grappling hook, a shield, and the biggest damn boot you can find!

Actually upon reflection Gozer had never found out what she had done with the boot. But it was the principle of the matter, really. And that was what Gozer was counting on.

Lets see- None of the other shades would have the trouble Gozer would. Zanith and Fluffums could jump, they'd be fine. Azura, Monk and Ariana could run down the sides of the building. Meaning it was really him and Dante that had the real trouble, although Dante was admittedly more clever than the Cleric.

And so the method through which he had devised had to compensate for the shortcomings of the lowly Cleric- which was always fun, holding up the six shades. Nearly a literal seventh wheel. What a pain it was to keep up with a Cleric, but he wasn't so bad.

Or so he liked to tell himself.

Confidence issues aside, Gozer was still atop the tower and now he wasn't alone. That Doctor- he'd been about during the fight, and the blood staining his coat told tales of his attempts to rescue the people he'd slotted. In fact he'd only seen the Doctor helping the decapitated man, which had confused him from the start but it didn't really bug him too terribly much. He did drain the inebriation from the Guards though, and that shit didn't blow over well with him.

"So how many did you save?" Gozer quipped. He lacked humor in his voice, but he was never really known for it. Perhaps a symptom of becoming a shade? "Of the people? What were there- four?"

Gozer stood in front of his pack, holding his sword in front of him to draw attention to it and swishing his cloak slightly with the other hand to create the illusion of preparedness. He was buying time. He was waiting for something. Something rather fantastical that Dante had shown him once upon a time. But oh well.

"There was the girl, a ripe one who pestered me a bit to many pokes." He closed one eye. It'd been hit ages ago by a troll, fracturing Gozer's skull, and while he could heal it then and there, Zanith forbid it. He was to live with it, deal with it, and become stronger for it. "There was the man, the first man. He'd've screamed his little head off if I hadn't quickened the process."

He wet his lips- he hadn't eaten recently. The full moon above also antagonized that- damn moon. He hated it.

"Then the second man. No real reason for him actually, I just sorta did it on a reflex." He lowered and raised his sword a few times, waving it at his distant opponent.

"Then the captain. I repaid him in kind." Gozer tapped on his neck twice, twinging at the pain. He already had a gnarled scar covered in thick gobs of blood from the attack he had suffered before.

"So how many 're gonna walk away from all this? Two? Three? I know you saved at least as many. So what was the magic number?" He took a step forward as his sword began to burn with a white glow- he'd "sanctioned" it. Blessed it, and made it stronger if only slightly.

"How many?!" His eyes were turning red, something rather out of place once battle fever had drained. It wasn't a demonic or an enraged sort of red- the sort of eyes a crying man may have had. Not a dear dropped from him, however- just the snarling foam of his rage.