Longshot97

Hello, all. I promise I'm working on the epilogue posts. In any case, I've had this idea bouncing around my head for a while. The reveal of UFO has given me a few ideas. @Stormlightsong I'd appreciate your input on the UFO sections. Do I have a plausible interpretation of the organization as a whole? New character:

It was over. Eighth of the Eve stood dumbly in place. His ears still rang with the thunder of the cloaked man's weapon. He didn't move, merely stared after the man's flight. As he watched, the moon slowly faded from a bloody red to the purest white. Eza ran out the door, faster than Eighth could follow. He raised one hand after her, then slowly let it drop. She was already gone. Hopefully, she found help quickly. The dead outnumbered the living, staring sightlessly up at frantic faces and lost expressions. Precious few of the constables still stood. Vacant, dazed eyes looked out from pale faces and bloodless lips. They glanced about the room, seemingly at a loss. Slowly, all eyes focused on a single man. He was a rotund, aged man, with a bristling mustache and a heavily embroidered coat. He stared up through the opening in the roof after the cloaked man, working his jaw. An unlit smokepipe dangled between two fingers. Wait. An opening? In the roof? Surely that hadn't been there before. He was suddenly aware of the steady groan of overstressed timber and warping plaster. He turned slowly to the far wall. The wall where a constable's body hung embedded in the plaster. The site where he had tethered the rampaging Redeye, temporarily incapacitating him. The wall sagged alarmingly, bulging into the room itself. Only splintered remains lingered of the loadbearing beam. Before Eighth's eyes, cracks spiderwebbed across the wall's surface. The thunder, echoing throughout the halls, shaking the very building on its foundations. The persistent tremors throughout the night. The crater in the floor. The decimated walls. What little conversation there was ceased as all the constables followed Eighth's gaze. For single moment, silence reigned. The groan grew even louder, and a sharp crack split the air. Slowly, ponderously, the wall began to overturn. * * * Without pausing to consider, Eighth dashed forward and rammed his shoulder into place, arms spread wide across the plaster. Ever muscle in his body tensed, and his feet slid slowly across the floor. He gasped, fighting back a scream. The weight of what seemed to be the entire building bore down upon him. He bit down a scream as his tortured back took the strain. Through blurry eyes, he could just make out the constables, rooted in place. What are they waiting for? "Run!" Blood filled Eighth's mouth, and he coughed, spitting it in a stream to the side. "Grab the wounded, and run!" And suddenly, everything was moving. The ceiling cracked sharply. Fragments of timber rained down on the now-frantic constables. The grayhair was first out, assisting the officer with the shattered hip. The pale and sickly came next, color flooding their cheeks. One fell to the debris. Eighth could hear their skull caving in from where he stood. A crunch sounded next to him. Eighth turned to see the tear-stricken officer hefting a large timber, ramming it through the plaster and grounding it on the floor. Eighth cautiously backed away from the wall. It held. No time to waste. Eighth shoved the officer ahead of him, ramming his blade into its scabbard. The officer ran, pausing only to throw a legless constable over his shoulders. Panic must have flooded his blood, for he ran fast, far outstripping the remaining constables. Eighth knelt, cradling Seiju in one arm. One eye fluttered open, and she chirped questioningly. Eighth ignored her, forcing his legs forward. Time enough for that later. He was at the door before remembering his cousin. Eighth of the Eve halted, feet skidding across the floorboards. He turned, wild-eyed. There was the body, withered and shriveled, but not beyond recognition. Their chest was a bloody mess, and blood trickled from the hole, drilled neatly into their forehead. Eighth simply stood there, shoulders heaving. He stared, then looked down the hallway at the fleeing constables. Then back again. He was a monster. This was their doing. Let it be their tomb. It was only fitting. But... Is this what she would want? What anyone would want? What anyone deserves? What family deserves? Eighth ground his teeth together, then dashed back into the room. Siezing Asylum under one arm, he crouched and heaved, throwing them over one shoulder. The corpse was shockingly heavy, and Eighth staggered under its weight. A jagged shard of wood fell, splintering across the floor. Right where his head had been, mere moments ago. He turned towards the door. Time to run. Long past that, in fact. With a piercing crack, the ceiling caved in. A torrent of shattered planks and clay tiles rained over the doorway. Eighth gritted his teeth, then ran, huddling protectively over the Aviar in his arm. Reaching the rapidly-growing debris pile, he crouched and leapt with all his might. Pain blossomed across his back. Blinding, crippling pain. What felt like a chunk of pottery cracked him across the head. Stars swam in his vision. He staggered against the corridor. The plaster gave way under one hand like rotten wood. The entire building. Distant Father preserve us. The entire building is coming down. Yanking his arm free, Eighth of the Eve ran for his life. Seiju coughed weakly in his arms, and before him, the welcoming paths of her talent beckoned him. Eighth darted forth on light feet, the floor giving way just behind him. The roar of the constabulary's collapse was nearly deafening now. He turned a corner at speed, barely avoiding chunks of debris. One clipped him across the shoulder, nearly sending him sprawling to the ground. Grimacing, he forced himself to release his weightloss. His pace slowed, but his feet settled more heavily on the ground, and he bore up under the impacts. He tried to ignore the burning, seething pain of his back, only worsened by the debris. Tried to ignore the pounding in his head, struggling to see in the darkened hallways. Tried to ignore the throbbing across one hip, louder with every stride. Tried to ignore the searing agony in his shoulder, struggling to hold the only family left to him. Eighth rounded another corner and saw the last of the constables stagger out into the moonlight. More than one had collapsed to the street, clutching wounds old and new. In the distance, he thought he saw men. Glowing, radiant men, approaching at speed. Heart surging with hope, Eighth redoubled his speed. With a resounding crash, the nearest wall collapsed. Not even a second later, the roof followed suit. Cruel, jagged splinters flew as clay dust filled the air. Lines of fire carved their way across the right side of his body. Blood clouded his eye. His ear went numb. Eighth of the Eve screamed as half of his world disappeared in a red haze. His leg gave out beneath him, and his opposite hip followed suit with one final protest. His back seemed to go up in flames. Clawing at the floor, he dragged himself another inch. He managed to get one knee under him, pushing with his good arm. Then the floorboards gave way under his left hand, and his shoulder seemed to howl as his left arm went numb. He opened his mouth to scream again, and choking dust filled his lungs. Blood sprayed across the floor as he coughed, gasping for air. The moonlit night seemed so close. The opening had not even collapsed yet. Eighth of the Eve lay mere inches from safety, and could not move at all. He stared helplessly out at the massed crowd. Without warning, a fragment of tile plummeted from above. Eighth saw it in perfect detail as fell, drawing ever closer with unerring precision. Light vanished suddenly. He felt the midnight breeze - cool upon his skin - but even with his eyes open, there was darkness. Eighth released his breath. His right hand slid across the floor. Something sliced his palm, the ground now slick with blood. His fingers landed upon something tiny and warm. With one final effort, he drew his arm close, holding Seiju to him, curling his body protectively around her. Her tiny heart fluttered against his chest, and she huddled close, as though to hide from the world. Eighth of the Eve smiled. He imagined, as the world crumbled about him, that he felt small hands clasping his own. * * * Eighth lay still, alone in the dark. Visions swam half-formed before him. Deeds done and gone, tales long told and disbelieved, worlds never before and never again seen. People of all kinds. Familiar. Alien. Divine. Profane. There and gone, like the loving tumult of a waking dream. He sat up cautiously. No pain. How odd. So this was Ironeyes' domain. How very...peaceful. A picture caught his eye, and he whirled to stare after it. Already gone, but so vivid in his mind. Branded upon his vision. A vast, beautiful sea, scattered throughout with vibrant pockets of life. Colorful Aviar filled the air, flying in all directions. Formless shapes, majestic and enormous, were just visible below the waves That...that was home. He shifted his gaze to the vast array before him. A world of stone skies and endless tunnels. The burning fireworld of eternal flight. The endless night of the nightmare plains. The floating cities of a fallen world. The land of ash and mist. All the worlds he had seen, and countless others. All visited from here. From this place of dreams. "Did you want to die?" Eighth froze, heart pounding. That voice... Slowly, Eighth turned around. She stood before him. Slight of stature, striking in appearance, suffused with life. His unlikely star. His precious flame. The light that had drawn him, across worlds uncountable. "El?" he whispered. She cocked her head. "Elmina? No, I'm...oh. You wouldn't know that. Ah...yes. Yes, I'm El." Eighth sank to his knees, overwhelmed. He reached out a trembling hand, but with a strange ripple, El was now too far away to touch. He leaned forward, suddenly desperate, but again, she was too far. Always too far. Unbidden, tears traced their way down his cheeks. She faced him with an open, avid curiosity. As though she had never quite seen him before. What is happening? "Did you want to die?" she repeated. "You just...gave up, in there. You stopped moving, stopped struggling. Stopped dreaming." She stepped forward, though she drew no closer. "Why?" Eighth stared at her a moment longer. Then his shoulders slumped, and he sat back heavily, arms about his legs. He may have escaped the pain, but he was as tired as ever. "My Father banished me," he said, choking on the words, "for my blasphemy. Patji has exiled me. And yet, here I am." Solitude. Solemnity. Sanctity. Silence. Self-control. "Every tenet of the trappers, I have betrayed." He choked, and for a long moment, there was silence. The half-formed dreams of countless worlds surrounded them. "Yet," Eighth said at last, "still I dare to carry on. My home may be lost. But my heart is not." El stared at him for a long moment. Then a sad smile creased her features. Slowly, she extended one elegant hand towards him. Eighth reached out, and at long last, their hands met. * * * Eighth of the Eve opened his eyes. Cool, sweet air filled his lungs. The stars danced overhead, and the moon shone pure over the city. For a blissful moment, the peace of that dreamworld lingered. He forgot about El. He forgot about Eza. He forgot about the long night's events. Sunlight now peeked over the horizon. The darkest part of the night was gone. Dawn was here. Like a crashing tide, the pain suddenly overwhelmed him. Not on inch of his body was spared. Cuts and bruises, breaks and fractures He tried to rise to his feet. Tried to roll over. Tried to lift his head. Tried to call out for help. Nothing. Helpless, Eighth laid there and waited to die. @Lunamor

Three things happened. Blood fountained through the air, and the Soulless's legs buckled. The corpse was tossed casually aside, breaking sickeningly apart upon the wall. The stream of quicksilver, nearly solid as it flew, struck the Redeye on the chest with enormous force, spraying off to the sides. And the demon's feet left the ground at speed, flinging it into the air. For a timeless moment it hung there, suspended helplessly. The lightline chaining its arm to the wall held for a brief moment, straining ever tighter. Then, with a crunch, the support beam was ripped from the wall, crashing down to the floorboards. Not a second later, the line tore from the Redeye's hand, a bloody strip of flesh flapping uselessly at its end. The Soulless landed flat on its back, hard enough to shake the floors. Eighth stumbled on trembling knees. The creature's legs faced him, bound together at the ankles. Blood trickled from its severed heels. Both hands were free, and it barely seemed stunned. Indeed, an amused smile stretched its face. Eza stood at the thing's side. It was a miracle it had not crushed her as it fell. But she was close. Too close. Eighth of the Eve turned and ran. Ordinarily, he would have had no hope of moving the Soulless even an inch. The creature towered over him, frame rippling with muscle. It must have weighed twenty stone or more. But the creature had landed on the quicksilver. His gloved hand flared with light. Without turning, without releasing his grip, Eighth reached out, urging the metal to coalesce fully beneath the Redeye and to flow. The start felt slow - agonizingly so. But he was moving. Building momentum. Eighth strained his legs, heaving with all the muscles of back and shoulder. They sped rapidly away from Eza. But Eighth's goal was not merely distance. Through blurry eyes, Eighth made out the crater through the floorboards. Desperately, he forced his legs to strike the ground faster. He bent low - ignoring the pain tearing through his rent back - and urged himself to even greater speed. The enormous hole drew closer, yawning before him. Eighth's foot touched down on the jagged floorboards, and he crouched at the very edge of the abyss, poised almost to topple over into the hole. Tapping his palm, Eighth released the lightline. And, legs snapping forward, Eighth opened himself to his weightloss. Mid-jump, he felt half of his mass drawn into the medallion. Eighth flew forward, clearing the edge easily, rising high over the gaping pit. One flailing hand caught a rafter, and he held on grimly, dangling in the open air. His other hand - the one with the lightline - he held outstretched before him, fingers splayed. Eighth twisted, watching the Soulless flying across the floor, borne on a plateau of rippling metal. Eighth reached out, only dimly aware of his glove glowing even brighter. The metal seemed to quicken at the mere touch of his thoughts. Clenching his fingers into a fist, Eighth yanked his hand back. And with a final burst of speed, the quicksilver flowed over the edge. And the Redeye, face yet twisted in with grotesque smile, fell into the darkness below. The impact was enough to shake the entire room. Dust billowed up from the pit. The sound of splintering wood and breaking bone reached Eighth. His grip finally slipped, and fell sprawling to the floor below. Those injuries, forgotten in the heat of battle, now clamored for his attention. He didn't even try shoving the pain aside, or keeping it from his face. He merely rolled over, features contorted with agony, and peered over the lip of the crater. The room below was dark and dusty. He made nothing out. Dimly, metal glinted below, and he stood up with a groan. The veins about his glove slowly brightened, and he reached out carefully. The quicksilver rose from the pit, twisting about in an ever-rising spire of liquid to meet his outstretched hand. The metal flowed up his arm, and he frowned idly. Was it lighter than it should have been? Slowly, he plodded around the hole. He stopped painfully to lift Seiju from the ground. The Aviar was still unconscious. Good. She will not want to be awake when I set that wing. Eighth stood up, stepping with deliberately slowness. Everything was shaking. His eyes sought Eza in the dim haze of settling dust. Where is she? He found her, still crouched as though to fight, bloody knife in hand. Her pupils were dilated in the flickering light, her knuckles white about her blade's grip. Silently, he stepped up to her side. For the moment, everything was still. And for the first time, he allowed himself to raise his head and look around them. The dead and dying littered the floor. Vile, pestilent cadavers lay next to officers lacking breath to scream. Blood was everywhere, and the contents of the room were in shambles. The Greeneye still hung, suspended in its trap. Only a few constables remained standing. So few. Some, scattered across the room, nursed injuries that would forever cripple them. Some cling to life despite mortal wounds. One man stood alone amidst the ruin. The dull steel of his eyes glinted through the haze. A gleaming weapon shone in his hand, the only true spot of light in this battlefield. His cloak shifted about his spindly frame, as though stirred in a strong breeze. But no wind touched these barren halls. @Koloss17 @Lunamor

Nothing urgent, I just thought of something funny and wanted to share it. My character carries a bunch of liquid mercury around (for one of his abilities). Recently, he's been doing so via a waterskin attached to his belt. While RP-ing, I was researching useful mercury facts, and discovered that two tablespoons of the stuff weighs a pound. A metric pound. That is 13.6 times the weight of water. So, naturally l, I blithely had my character hold up the full waterskin of the stuff for use as an Allomantic anchor. Then I started to wonder...just how heavy would that waterskin be? Could he actually have held it up with one arm? In fact, could he have even realistically been carrying it this whole time? So I did some digging. We don't know how much mercury Eighth of the Eve has, because he got that mercury from Reckoner-Earth, following the climax of book three, Calamity. In that book, we are introduced to this mercury in the form of the Rtich motivator - two "magical" gloves and a large jar of liquid mercury. That is all the description offered. Okay, large jar...not much to go off of, but better than nothing. Let's say a 64-ounce jar. It's a bit small, but let's go with that. A volume of water that size would weigh..four pounds, give or take. So, all of that means my character has been carrying around (drumroll please)... 54.4 pounds of liquid metal. At an underestimation of the amount of mercury. I find this ridiculously funny. So yeah, get out of here, assorted demigods, Twinborn of godly power, and vessels of eldritch monsters. My character's been lugging around more than the maximum weight allowed a suitcase on commercial flights on his belt (which I suppose is the real hero of this story). He's lifted it up one-handed without even thinking about it. Heck, he's tossed it around like a toy. I need to go spend hours internally justifying this. But I hope you found this at least half as funny as I did.

That's a fair explanation. I think that could fly, so long as the nature of the third spike remains mysterious. Another obstacle could be a lack of knowledge. Compounding is really non-intuitive, especially to non-Arcanists. It took a Sliver to fully realize the potential, and then a group of Inquisitors and extensive amount of time to finally crack the code. It is possible interacting with the DA would enlighten Kalel towards the possibility, but the presence of the third spike could still keep him from Compounding.

That does seem to be the norm. And we have precedent - Marsh can still Compound via both of his Atium spikes, despite living past the Catacendre. This must be because he gained his Hemalurgic spikes before Harmony's Ascension.

A few notes I thought prudent to mention: 1. It seems to me that, by the timeline you've set forth, Kalel should be able to Compound Feruchemical speed. Post-Era 1, Metalborn cannot Compound with abilities granted by Hemalurgic spikes, thanks to something Marsh calls "identity taint" I believe. However, Kalel was born pre-Catacendre, and indeed, pre-Final Empire. Nothing is stopping him from Compounding (unless he doesn't know about Compounding, which is fair). Even with an injured leg, I personally think this could prove problematic. Though depending on how blind he is, this could be a non-issue. 2. How does his sister fit into his backstory? Did he leave her in the North? Did she join him in the street gang? Was she also abducted by Inquisitors? 3. Very complex personality. Not a criticism - I'm just genuinely impressed. If you manage to accurately encompass all his character traits as you roleplay, I think this character would have a lot to offer.

Eighth watched both his friends tumble through the air. Eza's eyes were wide, alight with anger. Her limbs flailed furiously about her, even as she spared across the room. Even from where he stood, Eighth heard the snap of Seiju's wing as clear as day. The limb took the brunt of the force - thank the Father - but he would have sworn he saw her delicate torso deform around the Soulless's hand. Her little eyes rolled up into her head, and she spiraled gracelessly towards the ground. He froze only a moment before racing after Seiju. Only one of them was conscious. Besides, what would I do? Catch a young woman out of the air? Even in this he was too slow. He was forced to dive, stretching his body to full extension, just to get his hands under his old friend. Eighth snatched his arms in, curling his body around the Aviar, and closed his eyes. An enormous blow seemed to land across his shoulders. Desperately, Eighth went rigid, holding a tiny pocket of space up around the limp bird. His back took the brunt of the next impact, and then the world was a blur of color and agony and tangled limbs. He eventually came to a stop hunched on his side. Slowly, painstakingly, he unfolded himself, rolling to his back and letting his limbs flop down. Every bit of him was screaming pain and fiery burns. He simply lay there, on hand over Seiju, still and silent on his chest. With an effort, he proved his fingers along her torso. No breaks, no swelling. She will live. Patji be praised, she will live. For the first time in what seemed forever, Eighth of the Eve simply relaxed. Then a loud, grinding roar hit him, and his eyes snapped painfully open. “I am going to clobber you!” The Redeye. A corpse flew across the room, directly over Eighth's head. For a split second, those unseeing eyes seemed to meet Eighth's, boring into his very soul as only a dead man's gaze could. Then it was gone, and a bodily thump reached him, followed by a cry and a sickening crunch. Eighth moved to rise, but his arms refused his commands, his torso barely shifting. His head lolled, and he saw the many-weaponed officer knocked off his feet, weapons falling from his hands. The limp body drove into his sternum, blowing him back into the wall. A cloud of pulverized plaster billowed from the impact. Eighth rolled himself to his chest, brushing Seiju gently to the floor. His legs braced, his arms strained, and slowly, painfully, he lifted himself from the floor. The obscuring dust finally parted, and Eighth froze. The constable lay embedded sideways within the wall, back arched unnaturally. The deep brown of a loadbearing beam was visible above his abdomen, and blood dripped from exposed ribs. His chest did not rise. His eyes stared sightless into Eighth's. No. He pushed himself shakily to one knee. A shout reached reached him, and he twisted, just in time to see the large-weaponed officer lose his weapon, the fingers of his right hand snapping audibly with a spray of blood. The weapon hit the floor with the outflung corpse. Eighth staggered to his feet, mouth opened to shout a warning. But a grunt reached him, and another body slammed into the officer's ribcage. The corpse deformed around the constable, breaking before his body, but the force threw him from his feet. The constable was driven to the ground. One arm hit the ground trapped between body and floor, and the arm held for just a moment before rupturing messily at the elbow. The man's head flew back, snapping down onto his own weapon. Thunder split the air, and the entire right side of the constable's abdomen was vaporized. His scream filled the air. No! The Redeye now strained at the end of its tether to snatch a corpse's foot. Straightening, it whirled the body about its head like a grotesque sling, eyes unerringly seeking out the tear-stricken officer. The constable flung his hand out before him, and light flashed briefly as spouts of blood flew from the Soulless's massive chest. It merely laughed. Somebody's family stood there. Someone's lover, perhaps. A son certainly stood there, in the shadow of an abomination. A brother, or perhaps an uncle. Someone's cousin, perhaps. Or someone's husband. "No!" Eighth felt something in his throat tear apart. He stumbled forward on unsteady legs. Sickening despair turned his stomach, seething and frothing into boiling rage. "No more!" Slick, coppery blood coated the back of his tongue. His stumbling gait sped up to a shambling sprint. Eighth kicked a piece of rubble into the air, slapping his wrist against it. He spun, light on his feet, spooling a line of light out before him, then tapped his palm, halting the cord's extension. The makeshift bludgeon swung with him at knee level, circling ever faster, building speed. With a bloody scream, Eighth dug his heels into the floor, arresting his movement and flinging his arm wide. The chunk of wood circled one last time, uncoiling on its line with tremendous force before flying forward. It sailed past the Redeye's legs, the lightline striking and sticking at its shins. The weight pulled suddenly taut, blurring forward in a circle about the Soulless's legs. Eighth threw his other hand high, and a solid stream of quicksilver flew at the creature's chest. Eighth dropped low to one hand, setting his heels firmly to the planks below. He released his weightloss, gritted his teeth, and heaved on the line with all his might. @Koloss17 @Lunamor

Eighth of the Eve pounded forth on too-light feet. His small army followed closely behind him. The remaining constables, strewn bloody and broken across the floor, could only watch. A few tried to get to their feet, only to fall once more. But Eighth barely spared a thought for them. The Redeye held his focus. The creature now held Eza aloft, like a child holding a ragdoll. She had fought viciously, it seemed. The creature was only just staggering to its feet, and blood trickled down its arm. Its eyes burned with fury, and it shook Eza, like a hunter snapping a quarry's neck. A cold, quiet focus settled on Eighth. No time for panic, and no time for fury. The officer was right. They needed a plan to survive. Eza was depending on them. "Stand back and shoot!" Eighth shouted. "Hurt the creature, but avoid myself and the girl!" He paused. "And the Aviar!" Two of the officers fell back. One hefted a thunderhand large enough to boggle the mind. An enormous hunk of oddly shaped metal, which the officer began ratcheting menacingly. The other brandished a smaller, sleeker weapon. Many more lay strewn across his person, belted in place. Yet the tear-stricken officer stopped too, tossing away his sword and snatching something from the ground. Eighth was past him in a second. What? Was that...was that a beltpouch? And Eighth was within the towering creature's reach. An enormous fist descended, splitting the air itself. Eighth hurled himself to the left, nearly gliding across the floor. He slashed at the bloody leg, but the creature stepped easily aside. The first came arcing back, faster than Eighth had expected. He threw himself back. Too slow. The blow rushed towards his unprotected head. He would- Harsh, resounding cracks filled the air. The creature staggered, spouts of blood blossoming from its shoulder. The arm fell limply to its side, and the Soulless turned on the officers with a roar of pain. The officer held a weapon in each hand, smoke wafting gently to the ceiling. Even now, he dropped his weapons carelessly to the floor, withdrawing a fresh set from his belts. The Redeye growled, stepping towards the officer. Then thunder filled the air, and a full section of the creature's hip exploded into red mist. It fell to one knee, bracing itself on its now-healed arm. The free hand landing hard enough to actually penetrate the floor. The second constable grimly worked his weapon, hefting the mass of metal casually in one hand. Bits of metal clattered to the floor beneath his busy fingers. The Soulless rumbled. The floor splintered under his grip, and the creature tore up a section of the flooring, as easily as Eighth might a hunk from a loaf of bread. It raised its hand, poised to hurl the missile at the officer. Without warning, chunks of flesh were ripped from the monster's hand and arm. A finger sailed past Eighth, and the would-be-projectile clattered to the floor amid blood and bone. The tear-stricken officer stood, leather pouch in one hand, the other flung before him, as though having thrown something. Eighth blinked. How on Patji - no. No time for that. Even now, the creature's wounds were sealed shut, and it began laboriously assuming its feet. Effective though the constables were proving, they were vulnerable. Dangerously so. Eighth had seen similar marksmen torn to shreds by the rampaging Redeye. He had to do something. Eighth of the Eve dove. But not for the Soulless. For its free hand, mangled and bloody at its side. Eighth slapped his wrist against the creature's hand. He continued his dive, landing clumsily into a roll. Halfway through, his back convulsed, and he buckled, tumbling heavily across the floor. Eighth slapped his wrist against the wall, then tapped his palm, backpedaling furiously. A lightline now stretched from the creature's fist, anchored to the wall. But not just the wall. A loadbearing beam, visible even through the plaster, bore the glowing cord. Eighth's eyes tightened in satisfaction, and he staggered painfully to one knee. Let us see you break that. Thunder filled the air once more, and chunks of flesh flew from the Soulless's body. One hand was now anchored soundly, and the constables smartly arranged themselves out of the creature's reach. The Redeye retained its footing, however, and still held Eza firmly in one hand. Lurching to his feet, Eighth raised his blowpipes, sighting carefully on the creature's unleashed hand. His grip centered on the forearm. Any closer, and he risked striking Eza instead. Without shifting his gaze, he whistled, high and sharp. Two ascending notes. Attack. Seiju leapt from Eza's shoulder, fluttering clumsily into the Soulless's face. Feathers flew and blood rose as she pecked and clawed and gouged at the creature's eyes. Eighth pulled the trigger, and a single dart flew, lodging itself in the inner tendons leading to the fingers. Releasing the trigger, Eighth crouched low to the floor, ready to run for his life. His, and Eza's. @Koloss17 @Lunamor

The Greeneye flew across the room, dragged by his head, faster than Eighth of the Eve had anticipated. He leapt to the side - narrowly ducking a sword tumbling through the air - and lashed out with the piece of rubble anchored to his wrist. The weighted line swung with all the force of a hammer, arcing through the air to crash against the creature's legs. The sound of fracturing bone reached Eighth, and nearby, a still-standing constable arched with pain, collapsing to the ground. But Eighth's goal was not to harm. No soldier could wound these creatures. And he was no soldier. He was a trapper. The Greeneye's legs now adhered to the lightline spooled about the piece of wood. As surely as spidersilk, the glowing cords caught at the abomination's clothes and skin, holding fast. Eighth whipped a few coils of line about it's ankles, then tore off his bracelet, fast enough to abrade the skin from his wrist. No time to unlatch it. He tossed the device one-handed, up and over the ceiling rafters. The cord pulled taught, the device just out of reach. And Eighth of the Eve leapt, stomping down on his grounded blade for a little more lift. He reached, straining his arm upwards... And caught the bracelet. Eighth released his weightloss. He felt himself settle more heavily, his full ten stone or so now pulling him to the floor. His fingers strained around metal disk, but he hung on. The Soulless's legs flew straight into the air, attached soundly to Eighth's tether. As sure as any noose, it hailed the creature upwards, like a preybeast, ripe for the slaughter. And then the demon stopped, chest still on the floor. Eighth's eyes narrowed, then widened with realization. Of course the bloated, heavyset creature outweighed him. It has been an officer, once, and muscle weighed heavier than mere flesh. But that wasn't all. Eighth flung his fingers wide, his glove flaring with light. The quicksilver ran fluidly form the Greeneye's mouth, and Eighth heard it sputter and cough. Quickly now. He curled his fingers. The solvent silver flowed across the floor, pooling where the tip of Eighth's foot just grazed the ground. It reached the toe of his sandal, and flowed up, along the length of his body. Immediately, Eighth fell heavily to the floor. The creature was hoisted high, its head dangling a good few cubits from the floor. Its throat was clearing, however. The cough was subsiding, the creature drawing ragged breaths. Eighth shoved his hand through the bracelet - more skin tore - and slapped his wrist against the floor. The line anchored securely to the floorboards. Eighth hesitated, then spooled a few lines across the board, securing it from rupturing. That done, he turned. And found the demon's eyes facing him, mouth opened wide to attack. Eighth threw his hand forward. The quicksilver flew between them, though the Soulless had a hand upraised to block entry. But that was not Eighth's plan. The liquid metal struck, heavier by far than water, and swung the demon back, legs still tethered firmly to the ceiling. Toxic fumes began to billow from its mouth. Eighth lunged, opening himself to his weightloss, and fairly flew across the floor. Seizing the Greeneye's head by the hair, he levered it up, such that his chin pointed straight at the ground. And drove it - and its deadly mouth - directly into the wall. Right where he had carved an opening. A massive blow clouted him across the hip. Eighth found himself airborne, the world spinning about him. Panicking, he reached up, slapping his wrist against the nearest surface he could find. His arm wrenched painfully, and then everything slowed about him. Eighth opened his eyes blearily. He hung, swinging gently by his arm, from the ceiling. His left hip smarted, but the angle had been awkward. He could move his legs just fine. He raised his head. The Soulless dangled before him, arms thrashing furiously. Its legs dangled from the roof, trussed securely together. Its torso arched precariously, neck straining under its weight. And its head was only barely visible, its face wedged into the hole Eighth had opened in the wall. Eighth watched it set a hand against the wall, saw the elbow tremble with strain. But the angle was awkward. Worse, the flesh just above the creature's neck was pressed firmly against a looped lightline surrounding the trap. Eighth tapped his palm, dismissing his own lightline. He fell from the roof, landing lightly on his feet. Or, at least trying to. His hip flared with pain, and his left leg buckled, sending him to one knee. Eighth grimaced, but rose to his feet. He lunged for one flailing arm, attaching another lightline to it, and, pulling it taught, anchored the line against the floor. He secured the floorboards - just in case - and repeated the process the other arm. Then he stepped back. The Soulless hung before him, every limb splayed wide, face pressed harmlessly away. A few constables looked on in disbelief. One, sprawled across the floor, laughed weakly. Another raised a sword. "No!" Eighth slapped the man's wrist sharply sway. The weapon fell, striking the floor with a clang. "We cannot kill it," Eighth said, words tumbling from his mouth. Loud. Loud enough for all to hear. "It heals. Besides. Sever an limb, and you have freed it from its trap. Sever it's head, and imagine if that healed." Eighth held the man's gaze firmly until the rage receded. Not completely, but enough for him to nod reluctantly. Eighth relaxed. The floor shook suddenly, sending them all to their knees. Eighth threw up his hand against a blinding cloud of dust and debris. Hacking and wheezing, he stumbled to his feet. An enormous hole suddenly gapes through the floor on the far side of the room. Eighth searched wildly, but the cloaked man was far away. In fact, he seemed just as dumbfounded as anyone else. The Yelloweye was gone. Eighth searched frantically, even checking the ceiling rafters, but the creature was nowhere to be seen. Eighth paused, and his eyes drifted back to the hole. Who...who had done that? A booming voice suddenly filled the air. The first time that voice had spoken. That voice... That voice was a scream of rage. A cry of agony. A sob of terror. A thunder of fury. A rally of courage. It was pain and death and broken bone and spilt blood and all things primal and old. It was the tide of battle, flinging men against each other. "This will be fun, tiny one." Eighth whirled to see the creature shake constables from its enormous body, thundering forth against its opponent. A young woman, tiny and frail. And a flash of colored feathers. No. Eighth lunged forward, only to find himself hauled back. The tear-stricken officer, hand on his shoulder. "Are you mad?" he shouted. He shook Eighth wildly. "Do you even have a plan?" Eighth stood, eyes wide, breath heaving in and out of him. Not her. Not them! The officer shook him again. "You did this!" he shouted, waving at the Greeneye. He gestured to his comrades. "Tell us what to do! We'll listen! Just keep your rusting head!" Eighth ground his teeth, then relaxed his stance. The officer released him, backing away. Fine. "You and you!" Eighth called, pointing to two officers. One held a small thunderhand, the other a heavy sword. "Stay here, and do not let it escape." He gestured at the others, then paused. Only three...but better than just me. "All of you," he said. "Protect the girl! She is our only chance at surviving!" He felt a slight pang at the lie. But he would not lose her. Besides... His eyes widened. It might actually be true. "With me!" Eighth roared. Snatching up his blade, he turned, quicksilver streaming at his feet. And ran for his life. @Koloss17 @Lunamor

Can I suggest darts not unlike a plumbata, or perhaps a blow dart, with the fletching Awakened to "Bend and Seek Target?" All you're doing is articulating the feathers to guide the projectile's flight. Also please believe me when I say this isn't necro-ing this is still relevant I swear ;-;

The Soulless's head jerked back as both darts buried themselves deep into it's eye sockets. It gave a startled grunt, swiftly muffled by the stream of solvent silver that rushed to fill its mouth. It stumbled back, clawing at its eyes. And Eighth's swing just missed the monster's neck. Gripping his darts by the fletching, the creature pulled them both out in a single fluid motion. Ichor swirled in those gaping holes, and a fresh scream sounded from one of the plague-stricken. Eighth whirled to see an officer writhing on the floor, skin a ghoulish tinge, hands clasped over his eyes. One of the victims. They lost their eyes, and the Soulless regained theirs. That means- ”hfhfff!” the sound reached Eighth. He turned to see the Soulless, pointing accusingly in his direction. Its gaping maw now brimmed with the quicksilver. The creature glared one last time before turning and running away. Eighth swore, sprinting after the abomination. It was markedly difficult, without Seiju. He shouldered aside combatants, jumped a withered corpse, and ducked an airborne officer, blood trailing from their nose. The constables gave the Soulless a wide berth, and it gained distance swiftly. Even as he ran, Eighth's mind raced. The thrill of the hunt thrummed through his veins. It can't breathe. But that won't kill it. It drains the life from its victims. Nothing will kill it. Just like the Bloodless. And in a flash, Eighth knew how to beat the creature. Skidding to a halt, he turned and - making firm his grip - drove his blade into the wall. Any other blade would have snapped against the planks, or else faced unspeakable damage. But this was no sword. This was a tool of his making, specifically shaped to split brush and sever wood. The blade tore through the thin planking and flimsy plaster like a knife through water. Eighth slashed and cut, and a triangular section of material fell to the floor at his feet. He slapped his wrist against the edge of the gap, spooling a lightline around the perimeter. A tap signaled it to release. No weapon could kill this beast. They had no chance of beating it, not when it's opponents gave it life. No. They needed to trap it. They needed a trapper. They need me. Eighth knelt, spooling another line onto the discarded section of wall. He tapped, signaling the line to cease extending, then pulled, swinging the chunk of wood through the air. It whirled about in a circle with a satisfying thrum. It would have to do. Eighth drove his blade into the floor and reached out, the veins about his glove flaring to light. He felt at the quicksilver, still in the Soulless's mouth, and felt its eager response. He clenched his hand into a fist, and yanked, pulling the quicksilver -and hopefully, the Soulless - back his way. @Koloss17

I am all for this @Koloss17. At least on my end of things. I do not want to pressure @Lunamor any given way. The demon dodged, of course. With barely a thought. The lariat of liquid metal whipped past its face, slicing deeply into the wall. Eighth braced himself, then hauled on the line. He fairly flew off his feet, moving swifter than mere muscle should have managed. He raised his other hand, ready to strike the skinwalker barehanded. The demon was unarmed. Now was his chance. The inhuman apathy at last slid from Asylum's face. But not in surprise. Not in fear. Not even in anger. A smile of purest delight split those features, even as it stepped smoothly to the side. Eighth struck hard against the wall, and spun to face his quarry. From the wall, a door swung. A door Eighth hadn't noticed. A selection of old weapons fell from a...closet? Storage room? Rusted and pitted, they clanged dully against hardwood floor. One, however, shone bright in the dim, casting aside a protective wrapping. The weapon landed, flexed, and spun gracefully through the air, rotating hilt-down. Just as the demon reached to the side. The blade landed smoothly in his hand. And the demon struck. Eighth flung himself to the side, blade biting against the wall. The demon turned, tracking him. The sword emerged from the wall with no trouble, flicking a razor of wood straight at Eighth's skull. He hit the floor hard, and found himself staring at the black carapace of his own blade. Eighth snatched the weapon up, rolling just in time to avoid the demon's downstroke. He stumbled to his feet. Too slowly. The sword flashed towards him, carving a chunk from his shoulder. Eighth hissed, swinging wildly in turn. Asylum didn't move. But beneath their feet, floorboards gave way suddenly, nudging them just shy of Eight's blade. Eighth stabbed, and Asylum danced fluidly around him. This time, Eighth grunted, a line of fire tracing its way across his ribs. Their fight seemed to stretch on endlessly. Whenever Eighth seemed close to striking, something always went wrong. And luck always seemed on Asylum's side. Again and again, their blade found Eighth's flesh. Blood now soaked his coat, which did nothing to turn aside their blade. And Eighth could not touch Asylum. His breath came in heaving gasps, his steps heavy and slow. His entire body seemed afire with pain. His quicksilver flowed with him, deflecting blows, clearing debris, lashing out. Yet it was all he could do to stay alive. Eighth found himself face-to-face with Asylum, the dulledge of his own blade pressed against his throat by their inhuman strength. He struggled helplessly. Asylum, on the other hand, seemed in throes of ecstasy, a mad grin stretching his lips. "Isn't this fun?" they said, not even winded. Then, in a brilliant twist, they threw Eighth to the side. A twist left Eighth's blade buried in the floorboards. He pulled helplessly, but the blade would not give. Asylum bounded forth, grin still fixed on their face. Their blade swung, ready to cleave Eighth's head from his shoulders. Eighth threw up his hand, willing the quicksilver along his arm. But not to strike. He bore down with his will, imagining it forming around his arm, flattening mid-air to shield him. The metal ran up his arm and leapt into the air. Then, losing momentum, it fell to the floor, splashing uselessly against Eighth's legs. Asylum's blade flew, seeking his throat. The demon's chest burst asunder. Thunder split the air. Blood and bone fountained from Asylum's torso, spraying their face and hair. The demon froze. Their sword slipped from bloody fingers. Wet with the demon's blood, Eighth stepped back. His ears rang. His legs quivered. His mouth hung open. His eyes felt wide. Somehow still on its feet, the demon turned towards the cloaked man. Smoke rose gently from the man's hand. A resounding click sounded menacingly. At long last, true surprise showed in the demon's eyes. Their lips moved soundlessly. Chest a bloody mess, it coughed, spluttered, and finally spoke. "Et tu, Perses?" Eighth froze. Those words... * * * The calming hum of Lokui filled Eighth's ears. The trees rustled in the wind, the ever-present crash of surf and sea just audible. Here it was calm. Here, far from the rest of the world, was peace. A loud thud reached him. Without even looking, he reached out one hand. And Elmina fell heavily onto it, clutching his arm heavily for support. A branch, this time. He waited patiently as she kicked her way free from the grasping fork. She finally straightened up, releasing his arm. "Don't look at me that way!" she said, defensive. He merely raised an eyebrow. "Look," she said, flushing a brighter pink, "It was this, or sitting around doing nothing. And I'm already healed! See?" She strode firmly from him, moving gracefully. Until a branch turned underfoot. She staggered, stepping wildly to the side. Then her leg buckled, and she began to fall in earnest. Her foot caught another branch, and her eyes widened at the sight of the stream to the side of the trail. She cried out, flinging her hands helplessly before her. Eventually, she cracked her eyes open. And found Eighth of the Eve, calmly holding her by the collar, nose inches from the water. He carefully pulled her upright, then released her, stepping back. Her cheeks were truly pink now, spilling over her ears and down her neck. Eighth carefully kept the laughter from his voice. "You wished to...walk about the woods, yes?" The pink deepened to red. Eighth turned away, withholding a chuckle.. He whistled, high and sharp, and both his Aviar glided down from the canopy. "Step where I step," he said, starting down one of the safer trail. Then stopped as she shoved past him, nose high. She crossed the opening, hopping over exposed roots, brushing aside a few vines. He waited until she had pulled ahead, then whispered a few commands to Seiju. The Aviar bobbed her head and took flight. Eighth walked on. The two walked in silence. Him in the comfortable lope of a Pantheon trapper, Elmina with deliberate care and precision. Yet still she pulled ahead, far outstripping his casual stride. He remained quiet, but she noticed, shooting satisfied grins in his direction. They eventually reached the falls, and she turned, triumph radiating from her. "See?" she said brightly. "All better..." She trailed off, noticing the Aviar on his shoulder. The single Aviar. From above, a shrill call sounded, and Seiju came fluttering down from the trees. She settled on Eighth's shoulder, preening in a most self-satisfied way. Not a moment after the Aviar landed, a tussock of grass seemed to coil about Elmina’s ankle. She fell to the ground. Hard. She remained still limp as Eighth helped her up. Her shoulders shook silently. Eighth paused. Oh no. Was that too much? She is not weeping. Is she? She looked up, tears streaking her cheeks. And laughter bubbling from her lips. “Et tu, Seiju?” she said in tones of mock betrayal. Then she burst out in loud, genuine laughter. Eighth did not laugh. But a quiet smile stretched across his face. * * * He saw it now. He finally saw it. That chin, that mouth. The same eyes. Blood spattered like freckles across his face. Hair now red with gore. And the surprise. The shock that anything could happen to them. The shock of mortality. Cousin. The word rang loudly in his ears. It couldn't be...but it so obviously was. Asylum Smedry was... Smedry. Oh no. No, no, no. Eighth reached out a single, trembling hand. And his cousin's face was torn apart. Eighth of the Eve stood, the remains of family at his feet. He did not kneel, did not probe for signs of life. He did not retreat, did not back from the withered husk that had been his cousin. He did not even close what remained of their eyes. He merely stood there. Around them, the remaining Mindless collapsed to the floor. He heard the distant thuds of bodies striking wood. It was over. Seiju alighted painfully on his shoulder, hunching her back and folding her wings. Eighth stroked her neck softly, and she leaned against his neck. From across the room, Eza crept silently to stand over the corpse. Blood ran from her cheek, but her face was still. Stony. As expressionless as his should have been. They had been a monster. They had hurt and twisted and killed. They deserved this. They deserved this and more. But...they were family. Her family. Maybe...maybe they could have helped me. It was done. His last chance at reunion, at redemption...gone. Just like that. And he would have killed it. "Thank you," he heard distantly. He glanced up. Eza, looking over at the cloaked man. His face was inscrutable, overshadowed by spikes as thick around as a man's wrist. Eighth shuddered. The man's face suddenly contorted in a rictus of pain. He shuddered, clutching at his side. Then collapsed. Eighth stepped back. Around them, the Soulless fell soundlessly to the ground. Yet their mouths still moved, even as no sound left their lips. Clutching his blade, Eighth looked at Eza. "What is happening?" A gasp reached them. The cloaked man. The Soulless's eyes flew open, and as one, they rose and stepped to the fallen man, speaking quietly. One gestured at Eza and himself. Eighth stiffened. Danger. Slowly, he retrieved more darts from his cloak, discreetly sliding them into his blowpipes. "Spare them." Eighth's ears cleared enough to hear that. The cloaked man rose to his feet. "We need some people alive to spread the word." Eighth frowned. Where the man's voice had been passionate, it now felt...flat. Emotionless. Almost... Dead. The man's head whipped up, and he turned to sightlessly stare at the door. Eighth strained his ears, but heard nothing. "Constables incoming," the man said. Where had the warmth gone? That voice was cold, cold as the darkest Depths. Eighth shivered just to hear it. "You know your orders," he continued in that same tone. "Dispose of them." The door to the room flew open, and men poured in like a flood. * * * For a single, timeless moment, nobody moved. Men and women, dressed in constabulary garb, stared at the sight of the Soulless. One man, a portly graybeard, looked awhile at Asylum's withered corpse before scrutinizing the cloaked man. The Soulless, in turn, regarded the newcomers. But not with horror. No... They looked with hunger. The constables hesitated a moment longer. Then a roar filled the room, and the small army charged. The Soulless leapt into action. Eighth watched in horror. The constables divided their force among the three abominations, moving with practiced efficiency. They closed in, multiple people reaching the Soulless simultaneously, striking at once, to overwhelm and overrun. And the Soulless tore them apart. A man's skull exploded beneath the Redeye's fist. Two others stood back with weapons like the cloaked man's, holding them aloft and filling the room with thunder. But as bits of flesh flew from the Redeye, his skin closed up, with not even scars to show for them. He moved implacably, crushing men and women alike with impunity. The Greeneye simply looked at the approaching officers. Then, inhaling deeply, it cupped a hand before its face and blew, almost gently. A noxious cloud of gas expanded before it. The constables, already running, sped straight into the fume. They immediately stopped, clawing at their mouths and throats. One man opened his mouth to scream, and blood fountained from his parted lips. The other two fell, skin a ghastly white, one covered in cysts. The Yelloweye strolled, arms held wide, as though in welcome. One man stepped forward, blade in hand, to cleave the monster's head from his shoulders. The Soulless simply touched the man's arm, and the officer froze. His weapon fell from now-limp fingers, and fell, knees buckling. His skin darkened in a wave, going from a healthy tan to a shriveled, starved husk in mere moments. The Yelloweye strolled on, ignoring the corpse, a smile splitting its features. Eighth watched as the room dissolved into chaos. Blood flew through the air. One man flew past him, a fist-sized hole in his ribs. He struck the wall, and the sickening crack of a broken neck reached Eighth. They were yet ignored. Seiju gripped his shoulder tightly enough to draw blood. To his eyes, the ways out of the room were clear. Through the roof. Out the door. Into the kitchens, up the stovepipe. Through the wall. Visible only to him, beckoning. Calling. And yet... Eighth watched an officer fall to his knees, cradling a young woman. Her skin now had an unhealthy tinge, her sight clouding before his very eyes. She reached a trembling hand towards his face, and he gripped it, tears streaking his cheeks. The woman's hand fell. The man bowed his head. Then, without looking, he tore the woman's weapon from her body. He lifted his head, and rage reflected in those tear-stricken eyes. He raised it, screaming his fury to the heavens as fire erupted from his hands. Eighth looked at Eza beside him. She watched the unfolding massacre beside him. He looked at her. Then at the constables. Then back again. He set his teeth grimly, then whistled, high and sharp. Seiju looked at him in disbelief. Eighth firmly whistled the same command. She looked at him steadily, gripping his shoulder even more firmly. Gently, ever so gently, Eighth set his fingers beneath Seiju, and lifted. He forced his hands up with steady, inexorable force. Pain flooded his shoulder as her talons ripped free, blood welling up beneath the coat. He held her before him, meeting her now-stricken eyes sternly. "Go," he said with finality. Then he set her on Eza's shoulder. "She will help you escape," he said hurriedly, meeting her eyes. "Heed your instinct. She will do the rest." He turned. His eyes fell on the Greeneye, felling constables with mere breath. His hand flared with light, and he watched as the creature inhaled, mouth gaping grotesquely. Eighth raised his blowpipes, sighting carefully. The weapon hissed, and two darts flew, aimed directly at the monster's plague-green eyes. No sooner had the missiles flown than Eighth flung his hand forward. A wave of quicksilver rose, streaming unerringly towards the Soulless's maw. He charged in after the molten silver, blade in hand. He sprinted past a few shocked officers, machete parallel to the ground. A single strike was all he needed. He would have but one chance. @Koloss17 @Lunamor @Speeding Steelrunner @Scars of Hathsin

Eighth of the Eve quailed. His mind felt frozen with fear. Around him, the paths to safety beckoned him. However, all guided him between death and demon. Yet even had a gaping hole opened for his escape, he would not have moved. This was the being feared across the Cosmere. The one constant in a tumultuous, turbulent universe. The inevitable, inescapable end. The close of all trails. That which waited, forbearing and formidable, for all that lived. That which consumed, ever hungry, never satisfied. “What the hell is all of this?" Eighth blinked. It had stepped forward in the uncertain light. Shadows fell from its face. A...strangely normal face, for all that where eyes once were, metal stakes stood driven through flesh and bone. It strode fearlessly into the room, standing before the demon. "Are you a rusting idiot? Why? …How?” For a moment, the figure seemed at a loss for words. Anger suffused those features. Graceless, earnest, human anger. “Who are any of these people? What are any of these people?" The man gestured wildly, voice rising steadily "And why, before deciding to do all of…this,” he stepped forward, face-to-face with Asylum Smedry, “did you not at the very least let me know?” This...wasn't Him. It wasn't Ironeyes. Eighth slumped back. His muscles, straining fit to snap, finally loosened. The relief was surreal. His mind spun with the day's strain. Had Death Himself arisen to claim them... ”Well? Answer me!” The demon whirled on the man. “I am in the middle of something, so if you don’t mind, GET OUT! Thank you!” The demon turned sharply from the newcomer, towards the Soulless. No trace of harm lingered on them. “If that Radiant takes any longer, we march on the streets, okay? I will make my presence known to this entire planet if necessary. Is that clear?” The demons nodded as one as Asylum stalked away. “All I wanted was freedom!" it spat. "Yes, that’s what it was. Freedom to live and play. I make all this to kill some pesky radiants, but instead I’m left here with children, birds, and cowards!” The demon froze suddenly, in mid-stride. Its eyes seemed suddenly distant. ”What would that solve?” It spoke to thin air. Eighth frowned. Who- “Fair point...but only the hunter. He’s really getting on my nerves.” Only the hunter? Why would- Oh no. A flash of silver appeared in Asylum's fingers. They held it aloft, almost admiringly. The tiny object reflected in their eyes, piercing the gloom with ease. Then with barely a sideways glance, they flicked the object to the side. Directly at Eighth. He lurched, shoving himself from the wall, stumbling painfully. The world spun about him, and he fell. His hands landed behind him in the puddle of quicksilver, and it was all he could do not to slip to the floor. He lifted his head, seeing a small, silver comet streaking towards the wall. Exactly where he had cowered. Even as he watched, the object curved impossibly through the air, flying at him with unerring precision. It was a mere blur. He could not hope to evade it again. Helplessly, he flung one hand out to shield his face. Droplets of metal trailed from his fingers. Even as his heart raced, threatening to burst from his chest, he felt...dull. Part of him wanted to simply...stop. That wretched part of him, bloodied and beaten and broken so soundly. Not merely these past months, but this day alone. He hurt so badly. Visions of victims lingered on in his mind. He saw men, criminals and lawbringers alike, desecrated by a demon. He saw corpses, twisted beyond imagining, rising again to fill insatiable hunger. He saw an innocent man, a mere child, sacrificed. For good reason, but for no real cause. And he saw Eza. He saw her face, slack with terror, huddled and helpless before a monster. He saw her on the table, horror suffusing her face, destroying any traces of innocence to her name. Such pain she endured. His eyes flicked to the girl, standing far from the newcomer. She hefted a slab of wood before her. As a shield? Her stance was crouched, low and ready for flight. Her eyes darted wildly. And her face... Eighth paused. That was no face of a broken girl. Her features were calm, her mouth set in a thin line. And though her eyes never ceased moving, they were alight with the fire of pure determination. Hers was no child's face, but a woman's. Ready to fight, ready to live. Why bother? Because...she has something to live for. And she will fight. She may lose...but she will fight. Then so do I. And so shall I. With a roaring hum, his outstretched hand flared with light. Those silver veins about his gloved were suddenly alight with a fire to make their prior glow dim by comparison. By its light, the entire room came into focus. Shadows seemed to pull away. Eighth suddenly saw so clearly. The quicksilver rose from the floor in a sudden stream. Whipcord-thin it flew, in a long, seamless line, rising with his hand. The stream sliced through the air, and the missile fell, struck clean in two from its flight. The severed ends fluttered gently to the ground. By the light about his hand, he saw the demon's expression. Not passionate, not hateful. Not even angry. Merely...flat. Uncaring. Bored, almost. He wanted blood, he desired death. And so he would bring it. And so Eighth would die. That was all there would be to it. But I will fight. His fingers curled, clenching into a fist, and he slashed to the side. The stream of liquid solidified, and the length doubled and cracked like a whip, ringing out like iron in a forge. The end blurred, razor-sharp and gleaming, towards the demon's face. @Stormlightsong @Lunamor @Koloss17 @Scars of Hathsin

Sad...but it makes sense. Dalinar's perspective as the Edgedancer in the Starfall vision mentions a "quartermaster" in conjunction with handing out Plate, I believe.

Hello all. I greatly value the experience here, which is why I feel the need to make this semi-formal announcement. My semester proper has begun, and the workload is simultaneously unbelievable yet quite predictable. Thus, I predict that I will most often be posting on Saturdays. For those monitoring the "Recently Browsing" window, I will be hopping in sporadically to remain up-to-date. However, I am terrible both at keeping promises and managing my time, so this may not stand. Thank you for listening to my TED Talk.

Eighth of the Eve charged. The demon stood, dagger piercing its hand. It didn't flinch, not even as it yanked the blade out. It merely stood there, blood dripping to the floor, knife in hand. Eighth jumped, vaulting a stray bench between him and Asylum. His blade gleamed black in the even light. Only a few steps more. The demon held the dagger distractedly, glancing about the room. It would die. It might take Eighth with it, but it would die. No more would fall, only to rise twisted and mangled. No more would quail before the nightmares of down below. No. More. “Are you done now?” Asylum asked. “Good.” And, almost too fast to follow, it threw the knife. But not at Eighth. Slightly to his left. Towards Eza. No. That wasn't it either. Towards Seiju. Eighth didn't speak, didn't waste his breath. He planted his feet, released his weightloss - bringing himself to a complete stop - and hurled himself to the side. Arm outstretched, body parallel to the ground. Desperate. The whirling blade glinted, reflecting the light. He had just timed it correctly. The blade lay nearly straight ahead. Eighth reached, straining tendon and tissue to stretch just. A bit. Farther. The blade came into view, directly before him. A mere hairsbreadth from his grasping fingers. Breath exploded from his chest as he came down on another bench. The wood collapsed beneath him with a CRASH, sending him to the floorboards. A stray leg knocked his head to the ground. He didn't care. Rolling, he surged to his feet, stumbling towards the table. No. No! The whirling knife flew straight towards Seiju, who opened her wings. Too slow. They were both too slow. Not her. Please, not her! Mere inches from her throat, the projectile curved violently to the side. Eighth stood, disbelieving, as Eza dropped, just avoiding the blade. Scarlet drops trailed from the dagger is it flew, embedding itself to the hilt in the heavy plaster with a THUNK. Silence. Eighth sagged against a table, fighting for breath. His ears rang loudly, persistently. Eza's lips moved, but no sound reached him. She stood protectively before the Aviar. Fresh blood welled from her cheek. At the sight, he reflexively stepped forward, reaching for his salve. The moment his arm left the table, however, his knees buckled, sending him sprawling to the floor. Eighth crouched there, chest heaving. It hurt to breathe. His head rang like stormbell. Slowly, painful, he pulled himself to his feet. The glove on his hand flared weakly, and silver liquid flowed from the crater in the far wall, pooling about his feet. He took a single, shaking step towards the demon. Then another. Then stopped. His blade finally fell, clattering down from numb fingers. The violet light about his hand faded away, the quicksilver settling about him. He found himself leaning against a table, unable to move. One stroke. One attack had been enough to defeat him. One blade not even aimed for him, and he could barely move for the pain. He was finished. They were done. Asylum had won. "...don't kill yourself...can't kill Asylum...need to stand down before...please don't abandon me." Eighth of the Eve bowed his head. His back struck the wall with a thump, and pain spiked through him anew. But he could not stand. What was I thinking? A chill washed over Eighth. The air felt suddenly cold. Very, very cold. Within the room, lights flickered. The Bloodless's flight through the wall had destroyed... something. Something important. The room darkened, and his vision swam. Unbidden, his mind drifted to a similar time. A similar place. Huddled near a fire on a distant god, a mere stripling of a boy. His uncle stood nearby, keeping watch against the night. The boy was shivering, wet and bedraggled from his swim to shore. His outrigger was gone, destroyed. That hurt, almost more than his lungs. He coughed wretchedly, and phlegmy water sprayed the forest floor. The trapper's eyes were bleak, distant. All that needed be said had been said. The lesson was leafrned. Yet his mouth moved, words somehow carrying through the din of forest night. And distantly, Eighth felt his own lips, moving in kind. Beware the depths of darkness From somewhere far away, footsteps sounded. That wait with chill embrace, The trapper turned at a sudden sound. And to Eighth, it seemed, impossibly, as though his uncle looked directly towards the open door. For those doomed to dwell within the Depths Can never leave that place. A shadow loomed large in the doorway. Inhuman, with the writhing arms of a deepwalker. The silhouette swirled menacingly, growing larger still. Something approached. No, not something. Not even someone. He approached. No one will know your fate The lights went out, and no illumination spilled in from the hallway. A figure stood there, filling the doorframe. Light returned, flickering violently. Eighth felt his breathing rise, labored and frantic. He found himself shrinking against the wall. He couldn't move. He dared not move. If taken by the shadowed sea, In the doorway stood him. Wreathed in shadow, bathed in cold. The dimness seemed to trace eldritch sigils about iron eyes. Two metal stakes, long and lifeless, filling gaping eyesockets. Just as the stories told. The only thing keeping his soul chained. The sole thing protecting his life...from himself. "Only whispers of the waves shall say," Eighth of the Eve whispered, "Death has at last claimed thee." I should have said mentioned this earlier. Eighth's blade is from Taldain, meaning it's actually made entirely of sandling carapace. My bad. "But Longshot," I hear you cry, "why would a desert-dwelling Taldaini make a machete?" I'm so glad you asked, anonymous voice from the aether. In my head, he took a standard-issue sword from Taldain, then shaped it with moisture into a heavier, broader-beveled, single-edged blade, better suited to cutting through foliage and underbrush. In other words, a machete. Hey, he worldhopped out of the Drominad System with practically nothing but his coat and his Aviar. Pretty much everything he has is from other planets. @Koloss17 @Lunamor @Stormlightsong

"I did what I had to." The voice came to Eighth of the Eve as though down a long tunnel. Faint, distant, empty. Those eyes. Why do I yet see them? "I did what made sense." A stirring of emotion within, raw and ugly. Eighth shivered. “You think the guy is more important than your life?" No malice tainted Asylum's words. Only hurt, only confusion. "Would you die in his place? Why? What reason is there?” Those final words were practically shouted. And for a moment, silence reigned. And then... "You think you're better than me." The quiet fury, the profound vitriol in that voice roused him. Eighth slowly raised his head, eyes streaming soundlessly. "You think I am evil and selfish!” Through a haze of tears, Eza sat, still on the table, across a withered husk of a man. The man's eyes stared hollowly his way. Hastily, he tore his eyes from it, back to Eza. She didn't even move, staring unblinkingly at the wall. “Which is fair." Eighth started at that, looking at Asylum. His face matched his voice. Calm, earnest, and deadly serious. "But what makes you any better?” The skinwalker stepped deliberately, circling them. Like a predator, readying itself to pounce. “You steal." Eighth stiffened, glancing at Eza. She what? She continued to stare sightlessly, not reacting - to the insult, nor to Asylum walking before her. "You might say that you need to, or that you need it more than them, but what do you know? Do you care? Do you think about the people that could be harmed by your actions? No!" The demon leaned closer. "You are selfish and vain. but that’s ok! No one will care for you but yourself.” Rage, sudden and searing, burned through Eighth of the Eve. His blood boiled, and the roar of the ocean filled his ears. His jaw clenched, hard enough that he swore he heard teeth crack. His hands curled into fists, knuckles popping. Some part of him was lost. Where had his grief, his pain gone? But the pain was gone, burned away, reduced to sullen, simmering hatred. How dare they? How dare this fiend from far below rise, only to make others fall? How dare it murder and maim and mangle all that was good and walk along, uncaring for the shattered lives in its wake? “It’s kind of funny when you think about it." Eighth felt his eye twitch. His left hand had fallen within his coat. He inched it towards his belt, shifting imperceptibly. One word more... "The moment you lost me-" Eighth gripped Eza's knife firmly, tensing himself to lunge. "-you went straight to the next Smedry you could find.” Eighth froze. The demon looked at him, and the hatred in that gaze would have frozen lakes. “Oh, you think I wouldn’t notice?” They sneered and spat out the last word. “Cousin.” It dared? It dared insinuate familiarity? It dared insult his family, the last thing he had left to his name? It dared? The roar in his ears became deafening. Eza's mouth moved at last, but no words reached Eighth. All fear had vanished. Terror had come and gone. Hope had died at his hands, and so had his humanity. He was condemned. He was lost. He was alone. And it was all. Because. Of it. "...it's alright. If Asylum wanted us to come, there wasn't anything you could've done to stop it." Eighth of the Eve looked at Eza, and his heart all but broke. She believed this demon. She thought she truly was at fault. His fury mounted, burning higher and higher still. Yet his hands remained perfectly still. His muscles strained, lusting for action, yet he trembled not an inch. "Perhaps," Eighth said quietly. Slowly, he stood. The searing pain of his injuries was fuel to his anger, stoking it, flaring it like oil in fire. He rose to his full height. His cheeks felt wet. His knuckles tightened about the knife's hilt. His shoulders were bowed. For once, Seiju remained silent, a heavy weight on his shoulder. But before him, countless paths unfolded. An open door, with few obstacles. A kitchen, sure to have ventilation leading outside. A section of loose planking at the roof. Almost unconsciously, Eighth reached up, past his open coat and shirt collar. There, looped on a cord about his neck, rested an ornate ring. He gripped it, feeling the familiar contours digging into his palm. Oh, how it hurt to touch. But he held tight, remembering the soft hands of a dear woman sliding that ring onto his finger. "Goodbye, El," he whispered softly. The building shook with sudden thunder, floors quaking, walls shaking, ceiling trembling. The Soulless were brought to their knees, and even the Bloodless staggered. The Mindless were scattered, like foam before the crashing tide. Of them, only Eighth stood firm, riding the quake. He looked across at Asylum Smedry. A distant part of him noted that they were not the cause of the tremors. So be it. Firmly, he met the demon's gaze. "You," Eighth of the Eve said, voice somehow carrying through the chaos, "Are no kin of mine." And Eighth struck. * * * Eighth flung the dagger directly towards Asylum Smedry. For a moment, the blade seemed frozen mid-spin, gem-encrusted pommel scattering the light. Eighth did not wait for it to land. He whirled, raising his arm and shooting by instinct. The first dart took the yellow-eyed demon directly in the skull, knocking the Soulless bodily into his companions. Then razor-tipped darts landed, piercing cloth and flesh with ease. A wailing, undulating screech reached him. Not pausing for even a second, Eighth continued his spin. Ripping the waterskin from his belt, he pivoted, hurling it forwards. Right at the charging Bloodless, mere feet from him. The massive weight struck the abomination in the chest, and the sound of breaking ribs reached Eighth. The force threw the Bloodless from its feet, directly into the wall. Eighth reached with outspread fingers, quicksilver glove flaring to life. The waterskin burst like an overripe fruit, coating the creature in solvent silver even as it struck the wall. Eighth thrust his hand forth, and with a resounding crack, the Bloodless flew through the wall, momentum carrying it on. An enormous impact sounded from beyond the crater. The force of his throw launched Seiju from his shoulder. She cried out as she flapped, alighting painfully next to Eza. Eighth's lips compressed, but in his mind's eye, the paths remained as strong as ever. All this Eighth did in the span of mere heartbeats. His steps were sure, unhurried and implacable. His aim was true, his will unbreakable. Fury lent him speed. Anguish spurred him on. Loss filled him. The tremors finally ceased, the world righting itself about them. Eighth of the Eve turned on too-light feet, deliberately ripping his blade from its sheath. Facing the demon. @Lunamor @Stormlightsong

Here's a thought. What happens if (by some twist of chance) Asylum is defeated? Regardless of how it happens, maybe Perses stomps him into the ground or something. Asylum is now a very tough combatant, especially with potential horses of minions at his disposal. But his deal with his Talent was contingent on causing chaos. Further, his blood moon is only supposed to last the night. Once the sun rises, supposedly, he's done. Best-case scenario, he loses his power boost, the blood moon stops, and things go back to normal (kind of). Worst-case scenario, his Talent lashes out, regardless of his agency.

Granted. You now have a fatal allergy to gold. I wish for 20/20 vision.

I'm tempted to make you give the name...but you have Google on your side. Yes. This character is Mardra, Ham's wife.