Here's the next chapter in the never-ending saga of Weiss, Schwarz and the others.
Now for the legal crap; don't own. As a matter of fact I own very little. Don't sue!
The Danse Macabre
Gypsy sat in the protected alcove and played his guitar. His choice in music for that day had a melancholy air to it. Sybel had come to him before he left for the day and warned him to be alert and ready for an attack. The seemingly never ending battle against Rezac and Ailill weight heavily on his heart and it showed in his music. He threw the small amount of cash that had been tossed into his case a morose look; thank the goddess he didn't need to feed himself with his earnings from busking. He put his instrument carefully down, rose to his feet and walked away from his sheltered spot to stretch and get his head back in the game.
He strolled over to a nearby grassy knoll and sat in the sun, drawing energy from the All Mother. It amazed him how even in the crowded city where most of the earth was contaminated by the chemicals and hatred of man, Her power remained strong; it cleansed what little terrain was exposed.
'Get your head out of your ass, boyo,' he thought to himself. 'There are plots afoot. An Unseleighe Sidhe is wandering loose in the town and pulling the strings of a power mad idiot. Now, go back and make those fools who don't appreciate good music when they hear it dance to your tune.'
He returned to his chosen spot and began playing again. Just to tweak Ailill's nose, he started his set with a Faery Reel and then moved into the 'King of the Faeries.' He allowed his mind to slip into a meditative state, permitting it to relax but stay alert for danger.
When trouble came it didn't attack him straight on. Four wolf-like human predators surrounded the alcove, blocking his escape from all sides. Just like a hunting pack, the quartet impeded his flight, assuming he was easy prey. They had another thing coming.
He scanned the four men and attacked the weakest link, but it wasn't the youngest. The white-haired, scarred man felt familiar but the middle of a battle wasn't the time to figure out how he knew someone. He modulated his song, using it as a weapon and driving his chosen foe to his knees.
"Hurts," Farfarello moaned, grabbing at his head.
Crawford snarled and motioned the remaining two to attack. :Nagi,: he barked. :Take out his guitar and Schuldig, get in there and mess up his mind.:
:Ja wold, mein Kapitän,: came the orange-haired man's bright answer.
:Yes, sir,: Nagi responded.
The only warning Gypsy had was a low, almost inaudible groan just before the strings on his instrument broke. "You stupid, little bastard," he cursed at the petite Japanese boy. "Those were professional grade strings and cost a boatload," Gypsy snapped. "I'm gonna take them out of your hide."
"So be it." Nagi threw the bulk of his talent at the unprotected man. He power slid off a protective barrier that hadn't been there a few heartbeats ago.
Schuldig assailed the man, his mind bouncing off the defensive shield. He increased his efforts and joined with the little, dark-haired boy to bring down the enemy's barricade.
Crawford cursed under his breath. Things weren't going the way they should be and his Gift, that had been so reliable since receiving his training, failed him now. He could See nothing and it made him very nervous.
:Farfarello,: he snarled, mentally slapping the scarred man. :Get it together and get back in there.:
: Bard Tá, an fear a bard! Ní mór dúinn ionsaí dó nó beidh orainn a bheith cursed. A bard, áit ... conas ... conas a dhéanann duine a ilk ann fós inniu?: Farfarello muttered into his teammates' minds.
"Farfarello," Schuldig yelled at him. "We can't understand a word of what you're saying."
"Jai, Jai," Gypsy chanted, "run away. Don't look back and return to yesterday." He had finally remembered where he had seen the eye-patched man before; Jai was his student. The bond between teacher and student could be as strong as the parent/child one and he exploited it to the fullest. He had to use every weapon in his arsenal, being out numbered four to one. His Gift used power and it drained from him like water from a leaky bucket.
Gypsy reached into an inner pocket and pulled out an Irish whistle and played a quick tune on it. Desperate times call for reckless measures. The first few bars of "Elf Call" filled the air and it became heavy with anticipation.
Rulan sat on his motorcycle and took a huge bite of the chilidog he'd ordered from a street vendor. He and his partner Jareth were waiting and acting as backup for Gypsy; although the little Bard didn't know they were there. Sybel gave them their orders and had neglected to tell him.
The crotch-rocket beneath him shuddered with barely contained exhilaration. The bike was more than it seemed and could be as great an asset as the dark-haired man straddling the matching half of the set. A young woman walked by and gave them a wolf-whistle; Rulan blew her a kiss. What she saw were two glorious men with the sharp, beautiful features of Elves but with differences.
Rulan had flame-red, shoulder-length hair and turquoise eyes. His skin glowed with tanned health which accented his hair and eyes, not that he was at all vain. And Jareth had the blue-black, chin-length hair and sapphire eyes of his Elven mother and the tanned skin of his beach bum father. His features weren't as sharp as a full-blood, but they were still drop dead gorgeous.
The bike trembled again, his patience wearing thin. Rulan stroked the gas tank and tried to calm his Steed down. 'Easy boy,' he thought toward the mount. 'The time will come, sooner than we think.'
"Is Featherfoot getting edgy?" Jareth asked, looking toward the redhead.
"That he is. Something better happen soon or he's going to make it happen."
"I told you that you should choose a more….hm, how does one say it….mature mount."
"He's perfect for what he do here. As a matter of fact, he's better for the upper world than for Underhill. He was wasting away there, dying of boredom."
"Weren't we all?" the dark-haired man said, laughing. "It's about time that Juriki joined the fight."
"Goddess, how many times did we tell him that we needed his assistance, just to be blown off with that 'Low Court is not allowed to interfere with the Upper World until the Unseleighe Court does' bullshit?"
"Yeah, same song, different…" A wave of Bardic magic rolled over them and before they could finish their dogs, the bikes had taken off, heading to the rescue.
Gypsy held off the remaining three attackers, but his power drained from him faster and faster. The edges of his sight were growing black and the center was graying. If help didn't come soon, his life would be over one way or another. If the wolves didn't kill him, Ailill would. Better to face the pack and die a quick death then to let the Unseleighe bastard take him apart just to see how he ticks. What he wouldn't give for a gun right about now.
The distant sound of twin motorcycles caught his attention. The hum changed; it became the steady beat of horses' hooves. He gave his attackers a wicked grin.
"If I were you, m'boyos, I'd be for running right about now," Gypsy said, letting the Irish lilt come out in his speech. "I don't think that the Calvary is goin' to let you off so easy."
"And you're not in a position to be bragging about the Calvary or anything else at the moment," Crawford shot back. "Schu, Nagi take him now!"
"Got it Herr Kapitän," Schuldig answered, moving at his normal speed.
The orange-haired man would have moved quickly if he were attacking a normal man, not one used to dealing with the Sidhe and their preternatural speed. Compared with them, he was a snail and easy to hold off for the amount of time needed.
Yohji floored the gas pedal on Seven; causing the car to leap forward. Aya sat in the seat next to him, using his Gift to move cars and trucks out of their way. Sybel had stumbled into Yohji's room without his guide in tow and ordered the two of them out of the compound to Gypsy's rescue. Something happened outside of the Seer's purview and only after the die was cast did he See what the future held in store.
They had been curled up in bed, both of them partially clothed, kissing, touching and slowly fanning the low burning embers of their lust. Yohji noticed one thing about their bond; the more time they spent together, the stronger it became. He wouldn't have noticed it, but Aya had seen something that reminded him of his family and the leggy-blonde had felt the sharp stab of his pain. He had charged into Omi's office and demanded to know just what the hell was going on. The only answer he had received was a small, knowing smile.
"Yohji," Aya gasped from between clenched teeth. "Pay attention to the road. You can woolgather after we're done with this bullshit."
"Sorry," the oaken-haired man said, turning his full attention back to the road.
They came squealing around a corner in time to see two men on motorcycles pull the Bard out of danger. Three of the four original attackers were there and the fourth one came tearing back from wherever he had been. It looked like things were well in hand until one of the men was shot off his bike; the bullet tore through his shoulder, leaving it smoking and the smell of burning flesh filled the air. Aya began drawing as much power as he could; he had a very bad feeling that they were going to need every ounce of energy they could spare.
"I'm going to put up a wall of flame between the one that fell off his bike and Schwarz, got it Yohji?" he growled.
"Yeah, I … oh SHIT!" Yohji gasped as Ailill stepped from the Rezac building. Behind he was a sea of walking corpses, in various states of decay. The Unseleighe Sidhe strode to one side and barked a word in a low, guttural language. The living dead poured from the structure, heading into the fray.
Farfarello's words translated: Bard, that man's a bard! We mustn't attack him or we'll be cursed. A bard, where ... how ... how does one of his ilk still exist today?