As this features an assassin v. an assassin, uh, there will be blood.
As I’ve been doing all along, I wrote this write-up as part of the same, coherent story that’s been slowly unfolding as the cagematch progresses. Makes it more fun for me that way. I know many authors take the humorous angle when doing these write-ups (and some have been hilarious) but I opted to play it straight (for now) and try to string them all into a single story.
I hope you enjoy. The beginning of the write up is below. Have a read and then head to Suvudu to vote.
Cale sat in the center of Elgrin Fau’s ancient graveyard, surrounded by the dead, shrouded in the perpetual night of the Shadowfell. A crumbling temple to some long-forgotten god brooded over the graves, supervising the decay. Above, the interplanar rift split the starless sky. It was leagues wide and still growing, spitting green, sickly energy into the multiverse.
It would destroy everything unless Cale closed it, unless he stopped Anomander Rake.
The ground shook, gave a pained groan, existence fraying at the edges. A thunderhead loomed to the west, a rolling mountain of black clouds veined with yellow and green lightning. Universes were folding in on themselves.
Cale did not have much time left.
He ticked off the names of those he’d killed while making his way to Rake: Rico, Tannen, Morgan. Cale was already tired, tired in his bones from carrying the weight of those murders. None of three had done anything to earn them. They’d just been in his way, standing on the ground between him and Rake, and each one he’d killed had eroded his soul a bit more.
He accepted that – what other choice did he have? – but he didn’t know how much more murder he had in him.
His divinations had provided him more names, victims he’d have to cut through to get to Rake – Kelsier, Moraine, Wednesday, Kylar Stern, others.
He thought about those names a long time, the shadows swirling around him, and mustered what resolve he could dredge from his fading will. In time he stood and said the name of his next victim aloud, a small honor to presage a murder.
He started to draw the shadows about him, preparing to move between worlds, but a soft, cold voice from behind halted him.
Cale turned, saw a man standing ten paces from him. He was younger than Cale, medium build, cloaked, non-descript but for the weapons he wore: an anyman, perfect for a killer. Cale could guess his name. The multiverse must have grown impatient with Cale’s hesitation.
“Kylar Stern,” he said, not a question.
The man nodded from within his cloak. “You were about to go find me. About to go kill me.”
Cale didn’t bother to deny it. He looked up at the rift, then back at Kylar. “I don’t have any choice.”
“Then I don’t either,” Kylar said.
And with that he drew blades and bounded over the graves toward Cale, his movements preternaturally fast.
Cale barely managed to clear Weaveshear from its scabbard before Kylar was upon him, spinning, ducking, lunging, slashing. Cale stumbled backward, parrying as best he could with his larger blade, but stabs were everywhere. Kylar was a whirlwind made of sharp edges.
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