Chapter 1: Life
Siril marched the lonely wastelands, scanning the barren ground for distant prey. The Skrall paused and held his armoured hand over his eyes, shading himself from an aggressive sun. Something was moving behind the rocks. And he could tell it wasn't an unsuspecting Sand Fox.
Cautiously, he took a step forward and placed his hand on the hilt of his sword. There. A figure shifted slightly, ducking down lower behind the rocky formations. Whatever it was, it clearly did not want to be discovered.
Too late for that, Siril mused. He tensed himself, pulling his sword from its leather sheath and readying his shield at his side. Steadily placing one foot in front of the other, he shifted steadily closer.
It was then that the emerald armoured figure burst from its hiding spot and charged towards Siril, a wicked looking blade steady in front of it.
It all occurred too quickly for Siril to register. At first the attacker struck out at his left side, so the Skrall instinctively raised his shield. With lightning fast speed, so his eyes could barely keep up, the blade clashed against the shield just as a foot lashed against Siril's shins.
The Skrall hit the ground hard, his blade sliding out of his reach. Slowly, he looked up, blinking the dust from his eyes. The attacker stood above him, silhouetted by the sun behind him. Squinting, Siril managed to discern a shape and recognised the species. He was one of the newcomers, a Vortixx, if he remembered correctly.
"Nothing personal, you know," the assassin smirked, readying his blade above Siril's mid-section, "it's all just good business."
And with that, the Vortixx plunged down his sword into the Skrall's stomach, the metal armour cracking audibly. A scream ripped from his lips, as scarlet mixed with dull brown beneath his twisted body.
And then the Skrall went limp, a final breath seeping from his lifeless body.
With a sigh, the Vortixx placed one foot onto his victim's chest and pushed down as he tore the blade out of the corpse. The once-shining metal was now stained a dark red.
"Ugh, that's the trouble with natives around here. They just leave a mess instead of going quickly," the assassin grumbled, pulling out a cloth from an armour compartment, to wipe his sword clean, before pausing and muttering irritably, "maybe now the queen of a Pirakamight keep her word and free me…"
"I wouldn't count on it. You need to finish the job first."
With a yelp, the Vortixx turned and crashed to the ground in horror as he saw Siril's corpse gently drag itself back to its feet. He stared, his eyes bulging out of their sockets as he watched the freshly torn hole in the middle of his victim's body start to twist and shift, flesh beginning to knit itself back together in a horrific dance. Within seconds, the wound had healed itself, the torn armour remaining as the only reminder of the Vortixx's attack.
"H-how did you…"
"Me? Believe me, I wish I knew," he walked over to his blade, keeping his eyes locked on his attacker as he bent down, "I assume it's a gift…Or a curse. I suppose either way it doesn't matter. But...I guess you could say that it means I'm immortal," he began to walk forward, the stunned Vortixx in front of him desperately trying to crawl away, "you on the other hand, my friend…are not."
With that, Siril raised his blade above his head and brought it down on the cowering Vortixx. There was a sickening crack, followed by a squelch, then silence as the would-be assassin slumped down on the dirt.
The fourth this week.Siril thought to himself. No coincidence, I guess. Somebody wants me dead, and fast.
He thought back on the previous encounters, trying to piece together a theory out of what little evidence his attempted-killers had provided. So far, they had all confirmed their contractor – or at least one of them – to be female, which barely narrowed it down. He could assume them to have arrived from the other universe, but there was little evidence to suggest that either. So far, his assassination attempts had been carried out by a Skakdi, an Agori, a Toa and now a Vortixx.
Siril also considered the quality of the assassins. They were all amateurs, with perhaps the exception of the latest attack, and they all displayed little subtlety. Whatever the case, these were not trained, professional assassins. They seemed more like they were picked up randomly from off of the streets. But what had the Vortixx just said?
"Maybe now the queen of a Piraka might keep her word and free me…"
By the tone of voice, Siril deduced the phrase "Queen of a Piraka" was a curse, but still logged it just in case it should prove useful. However, the idea that the Vortixx desired freedom intrigued him.
He frowned, his brow pushing against itself as his stomach began to moan for attention. First Siril acquired this mysterious power and now someone is trying desperately hard to make sure he stays dead. This was not going to be easy.
The hooded figure gently began to ascend the stone steps, footsteps clanking in the empty air. He sniffed, the long-forgotten scent of age and power mingling together before reaching his nostrils underneath his helmet.
The stranger outstretched his left arm and glided his hand against the rock wall. The tips of his armoured fingers brushed the ancient symbols adorning the tunnels, a language long since forgotten, the last remnants of a race now gone from living memory.
Shadows danced on the wall behind the figure, cast by the torch light. In the distance, the figure could hear the scuttling of terrified rodents, unfamiliar with intruders breaking into their homes. But the cloaked figure carried on, as if unaware, with just one destination in mind, propelled onwards by a fierce determination for redemption.
And at last he had arrived. Climbing the final step, the figure emerged into an enormous cavern, littered with enormous stalactites, dangling over the massive stalagmites, like the jaws of some vicious beast.
And there, in the middle, stood the being's prize. A wicked grin slashed across his ebony helmet, and he lowered his hood marching forward. His red eyes fixed themselves upon the centrepiece, a glimmering, purple blade streaked with whispers of black, embedded within the chest of a pile of rusting armour, which had long since lost its colour, surrendering it to rust. Three crimson rubies, embedded within the hilt of the sword, in a triangular formation shimmered in the blazing torchlight.
He stretched out a lime green hand and coiled it around the hilt. The being stamped his foot down on the armour, causing it to shatter into thousands of empty pieces, whilst heaving upwards at the same time, with a deep grunt. The blade swung free for the first time in centuries, held high in the air.
The figure grinned menacingly, already his plans flittering through his mind. Now, the fabled Kazyshian sword was in his grasp, he was promised certain victory in any battle. As if responding to his thoughts, the blade shimmered, and vibrated gently as if quivering with excitement at the blood it would now draw.
They'll see, the being thought, Now they'll regret shunning me. Calling me weak. I will return to my people. And they. Will. See!
With that, Tuma turned and marched down the steps once more.