Closed Underestimation can be Brutal [Anton]

[Crypt]

20th of Fall, 512 AV (Night, the twenty-second bell) OOCApproved by Fallacy "Whisper to me, you brothers of the Quiet; That Sun love not, and fear the might." The moon shone bright over Alvadas, illuminating the near empty streets and darkened buildings, particularly one nondescripit structure, plain and boring. It aroused no interest; it did not take part in the daily revels of illusion of Alvadas. None entered the building, and none left it. Food was delivered thrice a month at the doorstep, left there by paid servants. It always disappeared into the house before the next morning, and not a sign was left to give anyone a clue as to who lived in it. It simply remained there, bent to the will of its master. "In hellish spawn or godling high, With spears plunged deep, or hearts torn out?" Alexand Janeiros was at work, as he had been for many a season. Never interrupted, never ceased except for short rest and short meals. The mage had long forsook all social contact, choosing to focus solely on his magnum opus, his work of works. "You seek the Truth in all that was." Long had it been in the making. Long had he searched the world for secrets lost in the distant past. Long had he conversed with many secret, black and midnight mages in small hamlets now sacrificed to the fury of the Djed Storms. And now, tonight, part of it would come to fruition. Finally. I shall see part of It, and They shall speak to me. They shall speak to me, and I shall command Them. Alexand had to go. The Listeners had listened to his endless mutterings, had seen his guardians patrol the area around his lair at night, always hidden in the shadows. And they had told their Hand of all that he had done, all that he had uttered, and the Silencers were informed. They had sent one of their kind. He would die tonight.

[Anton]

Walking down an eerily empty street to a creepy building in the middle of the night? Unsettling, but hardly Anton's first time. Being told that the building and it's supposed inhabitant had rejected Ionu's grace and expressed their defiance through the dread heresy of estate staticity? Blasphemous, but he couldn't really say he was surprised. Criminals were, after all, criminals; deviance was the air they breathed and the blood they pumped and spilled.

So, all in all, an unusual, but perhaps paradoxically, typical assignment: different brand of portrait, same finishing touch.

Save for one teensy, little, annoying detail...

Well, not that little.

He was dragging a giant basket of food around.

Not carrying. Dragging.

He gave up on the flux somewhere between now and the last bout of hyperventilation.

One of the servants had a little kid who occasionally did food delivery for him. He had no problems with the delivery too, Huntell was ready to point out every other alternate sentence or so. And so, in the tattered, faded garbs of a servant child, he was to bring the food to the doorstep and...

He wondered whether the basket wouldn't be that heavy if it wasn't filled with so much raw meat and vegetables and water and...

Res.

Pure, beautiful, unseemly Res. Ready for transmutation. Ready to end something that had been dragged on for too long.

The summoning incidents. The Gehid. The glassbeak. Those wild men with grammar and hygiene issues. Those were all the cause of this one man in this big building.

People died. He did it.

Tit. For. Tat.

He tugged on the basket again, and again, and again, the building getting smaller with each heavy lug...a sense of frustration building across the repetitions, as well as a yearning hunger for closure to this tedious affair.

[Crypt]

A slot in the door opened for a few moments, watching the young child approach the house, then shut itself with a soft 'click'. The door opened to reveal a grim-faced manservant of about thirty, glaring at what he assumed to be the filthy little brat of a beggar he paid to deliver the food. He stood there, leaning against the door with arms crossed, impatiently tapping his left foot. “Hurry up, you little squirt. We haven't had fresh food in two days - salted fish and fruit only. Give me the groceries, and I'll give you your pay, then get the petch out of here. Don't tell anyone, as usual, or you'll be dead before morn.” he snarled, spitting on the street pavement in disgust. I swear, one more time he does something like that again - not delivering anything for a week - and I'll find a new boy after having my fun with this one. How long will he scream? His lips twisted into an approximation of a smile, though the hostility was still evident in his eyes

[Anton]

Anton just stared back for a brief moment, taking in the man's contempt at what he assumed was directed at his age and his clothing and trying his best to convey just how much the feeling was mutual. This man looked to be a servant to the target. An accomplice. An enabler of the target's foul deeds. How he wished that he was found out here and now, that the man would step out of the door only to find, a tad too late, that the servant boy he sent for wasn't quite the right one.

How he wished.

Back in reality, it was then that he remembered he needed to be nervous, needed to wallow pitifully in his place at the bottom of the social foodchain.

And act accordingly.

"I'm so sorry, sir!" he said, quickly entering into a deep bow that was as much forced contrition as it was hiding the spite on his face. "Please forgive me, sir!" What did beggars need again? Food? Water? Mizas? "Don't cut my fee, please please, don't cut my fee! Here, I'll help you get the food in."

And with that, he would drag the food basket in, trying to brush past the man adding a few touches of little boy panic to the whole charade along the way: a failed grasp on the handle, a little bit of shaking, and quick, furtive glances up at the man, as if seeking his approval...or disapproval.

He wondered whether it was working.

It sure wasn't fooling himself.

[Crypt]

The manservant sneered at the young, dirty child, moving aside slightly to let him pass into the kitchen of the building in which his master lived in. “Get a move on, you. You’ll get your full pay alright, but next time this happens, you’ll only receive half. Place the basket over there, and get the petch out of here.” He watched the boy carefully, trying to observe any more small mistakes the beggar would make that would give him a chance to scold him and perhaps give him a good beating. Nasty little scamp… And it was his sharp eyes that caught the first discrepancy in the boy’s small, hunched-over figure. The manservant’s eyes widened fractionally as he realised what could have happened, and grabbed Anton by the wrist, pulling him closer roughly, without caring how much discomfort he caused. “You’re not him, you’re not the boy! Your hands and face are too clean; there isn’t even any dirt on your cheeks or under your fingernails! Tell me who you are, you petching little piece of shyke, or I’ll wring you by the neck!” The manservant was now gripping Anton tightly by the wrist and the neck, slowly tightening his grip.

[Anton]

"Thank you, sir! Thank you so much! It won't happen again, I promise." And indeed, he was going to speak to Huntell -again- about the number of assignments that involved him bowing low before the tall people. He hated every mewling syllable that came out of his mouth, that suggested that he was somehow beholden to this man for his continued survival. It was like an itch in the back of his mind that threatened to move forward and beyond, dragging him along whether he wanted it or no-

But he wanted it. Wanted it so badly.

He just needed an excuse.

And so when the man came at him and he found himself choking and hurting and his vision steadily blurring as big hands crushed small hands and little necks...

He was surprised.

Then...

He was pleasantly surprised.

He considered begging for a moment. Considered issuing any number of excuses: My brother was sick, I'm helping him, sir! I wanted to look presentable, sir, so I hitched a bath-

But his excuse was already made for him.

It's name is violence.

And he was taught to meet violence with violence and crush it into the ground.

The electric sizzle of djed flooded through his arms and hands as Anton brought the flux to life, brought power to that which were bony and weak and lacking in strength. His grasped wrist struggled and squirmed, and Anton could only hope that his command of the flux, however small, was enough to break free of the man's grasp. His other hand went to work prying away the vicegrip around his neck, and if he had a chance of even loosening it slightly...

He would throw his head back as far as he could...

And spit up into the man's face.

But it wouldn't be saliva.

The res, upon contact, would explode into a small blast of searing wind. And it would get really, really acquainted with the man's face.

[Crypt]

The manservant held onto Anton's wrist firmly, though it was getting harder to continue holding him. “Gah! You petching little squirt, that hurt! I swear, I'll dash your brains out as soon as soon as you stop - AAARGH!” Anton would never find out what else he would do, for the Res collided with the man's face, right on his nose, then exploded. Staggering back, moans of pain emerged from the lips of the now-disfigured man as he covered his face, alternatively screaming for water and shouting extremely uncouth vulgarities at the top of his voice until he became hoarse. The manservant turned to Anton, and charged at him with arms outstretched, hands becoming claws, revealing his disfigured face, with blood and burnt tissue everywhere. “You'll pay for this, you impostor! Now DIEE!” In his rage, the berserk man left himself wide open.

[Anton]

Wide open.

Just like the door.

Just like the basket.

Just like the mess he called a face.

Just like the snarl that bared chipped, yellow teeth and hate and pain.

Wide open.

And open meant dead. Open meant a little too long for little people to do little things to folks that were bigger than them, folks that should have held all the cards by being, by virtue of size and age, just stronger. Better, maybe.

Anton dreams of growing bigger too. He has a little spot in his room where he draws marks on the wall with a little piece of stone, to mark growth through the passage of time. He understands, abstractly, that it won't happen immediately. That these things take time. That one day, he could very well be the one looking down.

On the flip side, he wonders why it needs to take time.

But for now, he makes do.

As the agony in the man's moans give way to rage, Anton finds himself backing out of the door, his hand finding a brief grip on the door handle, his footing slow and deliberate; fearful, almost. A prey animal's fear display. And when the man comes at him, he lifts his hands up as if to to reflexively block.

But he doesn't.

Instead, his right hand flashes to the side in a sort of slashing arc.

A flicker of something impossibly thin that only Anton could see...

And the door follows with it, crunching the man between itself and the arc. grinding.

Cordas finds it's victim in hurt and in blood.

And so did he.

Anton reached out to the contents in the basket just beyond the door, and it flared to life, rising up from it's hiding place. Res got into position and twisted and turned and transmuted itself into blades of wind that would slice into the trapped man's back and legs

[Crypt]

No need for any words to describe what the manservant felt; no need to write of which injuries he suffered, for he fell silent almost as the blades entered his soft flesh, slicing greedily at the muscle and tissue. The door had crushed his throat, leaving only a muffled, pained groan that emerged from between the bloodied lips of Anton's victim. As the door swung open again, the manservant fell on his face, no longer being able to move - the blades of wind had severed his spine in several places. Anton had defeated the first wave, but there would be more to come. After all, what kind of mage would have only one layer of defence? The soft thud of paws against stone was the only hint Anton received before a large mass slammed into him.

[Anton]

And he fell, the mass sending them both over and across the pavement. The suddenness and strength struck him hard and struck him fast, and then the beast was upon him and he could naught by fur and eyes and the realization that his own weren't working very well in the darkness. Instinct took over. Fear acted for him, reaching out to the easiest and most tangible source of power closest to his body.

The sizzle of power came again, the flux drawing out latent strength that turned his right stick-like arm into...well, calling it a battering ram might have been a tad overdramatic...

...

A battering ram!

It came as an uppercut and all that.