Pulling Teeth
It was brief, the span of silence after all of the shops and bars had closed, when the city was quiet and still. Then, somewhere in the dark labyrinth, a flash of sparks from the collision of blades. Steel would rend flesh and send blood spraying, every drop catching the light of the moon and glowing like crimson fireflies. Then there were two such fights, then three, and so on, until the scene stretched across the city, with endless strangers swinging away at each other in the highest form of audacity.
The knights and soldiers leaped into action, fanning out to stop the fighting, even if it meant joining in and putting down the combatants like rabid dogs. It was all kept quiet, no one shouting orders or using flashy spells so that the revelers could avoid detection and the knights could keep things from escalating. But now, a new player was on the board, the Harajin. They moved like a pack of wolves, blending into the darkness and making no noise. Every time they encountered a reveler, death came quickly. So many were slain before they could even draw their weapon or cry in pain.
They came upon a dwarf with an axe. His warrior instinct told him he was being followed, but he saw nothing but darkness every time he looked back. Unfortunately, he made the mistake of looking forward, as the next moment, two sickles were buried in his back, piercing his lungs and robbing him of the ability to scream.
He couldn't even fight back, and his body was hauled away as if he was weightless. This was the specialty of the Harajin. They'd lie in wait beneath the sands like a spider in its den, then sink their hooks into their unsuspecting prey and drag them under the dunes to finish the job.
Next, they came across a tall, lanky swordsman. He was lucky enough to see them approach, not that he could save himself. Two of them attacked him at once, with their billowing cloaks and erratic movements concealing their actions. They both shot past the man with their attacks near invisible to the naked eye.
The first went for the man's raised arm, his sickles slicing through his biceps and sending blood pouring. The second Harajin went for the stomach. Despite the swordsman's chainmail, the tips of the sickles pierced his defenses. His chest was carved open, and his intestines spilled into the street.
The bodies were searched, though Grond knew none of their victims carried the potion. He felt no guilt towards those suffering the pointless violence, only lamented wasted energy. One final act performed on each body: cutting every major vein and artery, done so in a way so that all of the blood would pour out onto the ground. Every victim of their slaughter was drained the same way, left to lie in a pool of gore. It was the custom performed for every kill.
What the Harajin did not know was that they were being followed. The winged beastman, still searching for a viable doppelganger, was taking a break from his hunting and instead resorting to scavenging. He had spotted them while flying through the sky, five figures repeatedly ganging up on one reveler at a time. He'd wait for them to leave, then swoop down and search the bodies. The Harajin only seemed interested in whatever potions their victims carried and left everything else, including letters of recommendation. However, none of the bodies looked like him, much to his disappointment.
He returned to the sky to once more search for the Harajin, but high above the city, where he should have been safe, an arrow pierced his wing. "Shit!" he swore as the pain knocked him out of the sky.
The arrow was enchanted with warrior magic, causing it to fly farther and faster than a regular arrow and glow like a tracer round. Even with warrior magic, few archers could make such a shot. He did his best to ignore the wound and resume flying, but as soon as he stabilized himself, more arrows assailed him from below, one missing while the second pierced his other wing, and the third scraped his cheek.
Escape was not an option as a tactic and a matter of pride. The winged warrior could not run from an enemy that had dealt him such an injury. He changed his angle, diving back towards the city and spinning back and forth through the air to dodge the incoming arrows. They were flying from one of the castle walls, where a lone knight stood with his bow in hand. The beastman dropped out of the sky like a missile and turned his nosedive into a kick. His clawed foot began to glow with radiant mana, extending up his leg as he increased the power.
The knight decided to dodge rather than fire another arrow. He made the right choice, as when the beastman struck the castle wall, it was like a meteorite had landed. A dust cloud bloomed, from which the beastman pounced for another kick toward the knight. The knight blocked the incoming talons with his bow, and the beastman leaned in, swinging at the knight's throat. The knight dodged the attack and pushed the beastman back. They faced each other, the beastman assuming the stance of a martial artist with his talons digging into the stone. He noticed the armor of his foe.
"Gold-rank, huh? I'm guessing Uther would suffer quite a bit if I were to kill someone like you."
"The arrogance of youth, to speak those words in my presence. I am Sir Leuca Aithorn of the Utheric Knight Order. To die at my hands would be too good for you, but you have presented yourself oh so willingly." The cold, condescending voice and the lightness of his steps confirmed to the beastman that he was facing an elf, even if his helmet concealed his face.
"I am Roc, of the eagle tribe, and after I beat you, I'll be feared by the rest of your order."
"More arrogance."
Aithorn relinquished his bow for his primary weapon, a spear with three blades in the shape of a cross. Atop the castle wall and beneath the radiant moon, their battle began. Roc launched himself towards Aithorn with a pulse of his wings and extended his leg for another kick. The elf sidestepped and jabbed at Roc, slicing one of his wings while moving into his blind spot.
Roc gritted through the pain, touched down, and then used his momentum to spin himself around and hurl a neck-high kick toward the knight. Aithorn dodged the blow, and Roc chased after him, continuing his onslaught of kicks. His wings, which should have gotten in his way, propelled him in and out of the attack range.
Despite being enhanced with mana, the power of his attacks was made redundant as Aithorn blocked and dodged every attempt. Even worse, the elf's counterattacks slipped past his guard and hit their marks. He moved with light steps as if bouncing, and his spear mastery was absolute. He could change his hold and launch attacks faster than Roc could blink, moving in a nonstop blur with Roc's eyes struggling to keep up.
Trying to keep his distance wasn't working. He retreated from Aithorn's reach and dispelled his transformation, causing his wings to retract into his back and his legs to revert to their human appearance.
"Surrendering? You seem to have some intelligence, after all. Very well, I will--"
Roc closed the distance in the blink of an eye and attempted another kick, cutting off Aithorn and forcing him to block. As soon as they collided, Roc delivered a finger jab in midair. The attack, enhanced with mana, should have torn through Aithorn's throat, but the elf lowered his chin to block with his helmet. The steel was crumpled by the blow, just barely protecting Aithorn. It was not an injury, but it was a hit.
Aithorn forced the young warrior back, and Roc didn't even bother waiting to catch his breath. Instead, he leaped forward to unleash another barrage, a combination of trained kicks and powerful jabs. His momentum was keeping Aithorn on his toes, or so he thought. One moment, Roc was flying into the air, about to unleash a kick, and then Aithorn's spear appeared before his eyes as if through teleportation, and he felt the tip slide into his shoulder so terrifyingly easily.
Roc's voice slipped free before he could stop it, a howl of pain, but to be impaled warranted such a reaction. Aithorn was holding the spear with only one hand, strong enough to keep Roc suspended in the air. He instinctively grabbed at anything he could to lift himself and take the weight, accomplishing nothing more than slicing up his hands. He tried to break the spear, but the enchanted weapon was exceedingly durable, and Aithorn was out of his reach.
