The League of Shadows (Eradicated)

And here I was thinking about antagonising Grif...

That guy can't catch a break.

@_dirge_: Relax, I said was!

If she's here to torment you...

Bump.

@_dirge_:

Hawkshade walked through the remnants with his black bow from his days as a Strigidae clasped in his calloused hand, a mutant among the ruins.

What happened, he thought.

The cloistered life of a Strigidae was one of study and meditation and and there he had learned of the existence of the League of Shadows. After leaving Venezuela following a fruitless attempt at interrogating his mother's right hand warrior, Dog he had entered his mother's world of assassins, shadowy organizations and hidden temples of warrior-monks who honed lethal martial skills and guarded their ancient secrets with blood.

The League was one such place. His investigation had even revealed that his mother had once been a member, years and years ago.

Hawkshade had come for answers but found only dust. He knelt and scooped a handful of sand and let it run through his fingers.

Nice. I'll post something when I get off.

@_dirge_:

@hawkshade:

At dusk, they appeared. The last of the old guard. Men, women, metas, and mutants that at one point in time had considered the ruined monastery to be their sanctuary. Now, it was nothing more than a tomb that housed the ashes of their loved ones.

They paid little to no attention to the newcomer. Perhaps he was a lost brother. It mattered little to them. One way or another, they weren't there for him.

Only one approached the stranger. The current Raysh Al Shaytan. Vincent stopped a few feet away from this lone figure.

"May I ask what you are doing out here alone in the deep desert?"

@_dirge_:

Blue eyes watched them filter in like the scattered remains of a pack returning to sniff the embers of their den after a wildfire scattered them upon the winds and cast them apart, every wolf now an man alone, the collective shattered, the bonds of brotherhood broken with only the memory of what had been binding them together, faint threads of remembrance that lay upon the head and heart.

Richard would remember the sight for the rest of his life.

A man approached and Hawkshade looked at him. 5'10. About 190. Extensive facial scarring.

"Searching." Hawkshade replied in his deep growl. "Once a woman named Ivana was a member of the League. She was-" My mother. "-later to become the Shogun of Venezuela."

@hawkshade:

The Dublin Devil leaned with most of his weight on staff. As if to appear weak alongside being blind. Most people would drop their guard. This stranger's posture never shifted. His breathing never changed. His hear beat was steady. Interesting. Vincent thought. Finally, the newcomer spoke.

But the topic of discussion, though brief and to the point, was not one Vincent had kept up with. Ivana. The Shogun who ruled from the throne of steel in Venezuela. The more The Cursed Celtic thought about it, the more he realized that Ivana had practically become a ghost. Perhaps she finally found her match and failed. If it was The Dublin Devil who killed her, then he wouldn't brag about it. He'd let the world believe that she was still alive and could strike at any moment. It's just like Vincent hoped no one would ever discover Charlemagne's corpse for the same reason. It would help preserve the shaky balance between man and mutant kind.

"The Shogun. Yes, I remember her presence when she visited this monastery. We ran in similar circles, but never spoke. From what I recall, she spent most of her time conversing with one of my teachers, Quintus Knightfall. That was back when he was Raysh Al Shaytan. But alas, she and Quintus's heir, Abigail Aensland had a minor....disagreement. She left shortly after that. It's strange, there's been not a sound regarding Venezuela's Shogun for several years. If you're looking for her, then I'm afraid you won't find any answers here. Only old soldiers mourning what they lost."

@musa_bashir:

@_dirge_:

Blind. Feeble. Yet walks among this den if killers? There was more to The Blind Vagabond than met the eye. A lot more.

Another mystery.

The name rang a bell and the powerfully built vigilante's hand rubbed the stubble on his chin. "Abigail Aensland." There was a file on her as thick as his wrist in the Strigidae temple. Archer. Heroine. His next lead.

He pursued it. "Where can I find her? And what happened here?" Hawkshade rumbled in his deep growl, the destruction of the League of Shadows affecting him more than he would ever admit as the League brought back memories him of his own childhood and his brothers whom he loved yet whom hunted him even now.

@hawkshade:

This one's inquisitive. Still, he survived the great desert and made the trek here. That's no small feat. Perhaps he'll join. Perhaps not. Still, he's owed something.

"Aensland's location is....complicated. If you wish to find her, then start in London. Her people will find, and evaluate you. Should you pass, maybe then she would meet with you."

A grimaced spread across the Cursed Celtic's face. "As for what happened here...to make a long, and bleak story short. Ezra Strix happened. Though he himself was not the one to destroy the monastery. Still, it was the ripples of his actions that caused it. What you see before you is The Old Guard who were not here when the Monastery was fell. But, their families were."

@_dirge_:

Ezra Strix. Hawkshade had heard the name Strix before but knew little of him.

"London." He said, turning to look out across the horizon. In the distance black shapes circled in the vast and empty blue that stretched above them. Some fallen thing below crawling across the sand, wheezing out it's final breaths. Age or sickness had brought it low. The merciless cycle of life continued.

Then his gaze returned to the ruins of the fallen cadre, now occupied only by mourners like the bones of a once great beast upon the sand.

The vigilante had what he came for. Two names; Abigail and Strix. One place: London. All thanks to Vincent. But he didn't say thank you. He just walked away.

@hawkshade: @_dirge_: Good stuff, you two!

@hawkshade: London ehh? That's my neck oh the woods. Wouldn't mind the company

@darkchild:

@hawkshade:

@darkchild:

@hawkshade:

@darkchild:

@hawkshade: You know keep doing that you'll give yourself early arthritis.

@grimmwald

The wind turned cold after the sun fell. Silence fell soon after, thick and heavy, broken only by the rattle of a snakes tail or the whispering scritch-scritch of a lizard's claws upon a stone.

It was broken by the growl of Hawkshade's off-road bike, the heavily modified engine shattering the gloomy tranquility of the desert night. I need a quieter bike.

One more item in his expanding list of needs.

Hawkshade pulled to a halt and leaned the bike against a crumbling stone wall, it's off-road tires sinking into the sand and he flipped through vision modes in his Strigidae cowl-- the only piece of advanced equipment he had left, before he entered the ruined temple. It was time to dig up the bones of the past and discover what had happened to the legends of yesteryear.

@hawkshade:

The howling desert wind pulled Grimmwald's mind back to his days as a Strigidae. When his only choice was kill or be killed - as cruel as the desert was to those who dared walk them. He wore a thick brown cloak, and a woman's face. And as his eyes locked with the tired gaze of his guide, Grimmwald nodded. "Thank you", he said, the velvety voice of a young woman floating from his mouth. His guide nodded and grumbled something under his breath, the sour old man hobbling away to the horse used to get there. His legs were thin and unsteady, without his horse he would surely die. Grimmwald would not. And the monastery was only an hour from there. So he walked. He walked till he was far enough to twist his face back to his own and don his horned cowl away from prying eyes.

Finally, mounds of sand gave way to the jagged tracks of a dirtbike's tires, and as he looked overhead, Grimmwald caught sight of a ruined monastery. It's stone walls and structures were dark, either blackened by soot or night - he didn't know. But as he drew closer with little more than a backpack to call his own, Grimmwald felt his skin crawl from the hum of atmospheric vibrations. Someone lurked nearby. It was Richard, he hoped. He couldn't see, but he could sense movement better than anyone. "Hawkshade", he rasped, a freshly oiled wrist-blade popping out at the ready in case it wasn't him.

@grimmwald:

A voice in the wilderness. Hawkshade. The former Strigidae's cowl plucked that one whisper out of the winds and amplified it directly into his ears. So loud it almost startled him.

Kellan.

The powerfully built body of the vigilante rose from it's crouch over a toppled stone column, sand swirling over it's intricate carvings as the wind suddenly picked up and howled through the ruins of a once mighty citadel whose shadow once fell long across the world at night.

Worn army boots left deep footprints in the sand as the muscular vigilante walked to the entrance of the temple and raised a hand in greeting. "Grimm." He said.

@hawkshade:

Crouched like a gargoyle on a tower, Hawkshade rose to his feet, his white eyes locking with Grimmwald's red. It was quite, the air stilled to a halt till a stormy wind raced through the ruins, as if protesting their presence their. Grimmwald smiled, his horned shadow nearing Richard's as he stepped into a slow walk. "Heh.. seems like the kind of place the Strigidae would deliver newborns in", he grinned, his dark humor a remedy for his paranoia. Popping his wrist-blade back into it's bracer with a flick of the hand, Grimmwald took notice of the sand mounds that brooded over the ruined walls of the monastery. "At least we came here before it was all buried in sand".

Plucking the glove from his left hand, Grimmwald held his hand in the air, his pale dermis searching for even the subtlest vibrations like a high-tech sensor. It was easier with his skin uncovered. He felt the loud and long howls of the wind, grains of sand grazing one another, the vibrations of his and Richard's body - and nothing more of note. "No one else is here. Or maybe I'm not as good as I think I am", he shrugged, a small grin as he slipped his glove back on. "Lead the way, detective".

@grimmwald:

"Huh." Half laugh, half grunt of acknowledgement. He watched Grimmwald remove his glove and use his unique talents to search for enemies. It reminded him of the old days. Hunting together, side by side. There were good times then. Comradery. Brotherhood. He brushed the thoughts aside before he arrived at what he knew he would; the murder.

The destruction had brought a strange revere upon him, just as it had the last time. This place reminded him so much of his childhood; another temple of assassins, another secret order, another sect of martial brotherhood living and dying together in an unsung war concealed by shadow. He led the way back in side in silence.

"Whatever destroyed this place left strange markings behind. Markings not consistent with any tool, any technology that I am familiar with." He rubbed his chin, diving in the mystery before him as a way to escape the undercurrents of his thoughts.

@hawkshade:

Grimmwald followed closely behind, eyes raking the dried floor of the monastery for traps. Like an owl, his head turned round in a circle, sweeping the strange markings into his gaze. Squinting his eyes as if his sight were poor, the Horned Saint studied the markings on the wall, "I don't feel vibrations from anything", he said, suspicion mounting in his voice, gloved fingers brushing against a wall. "Only from you, the wind, the sand.. and myself. Not even the unintentional flip of a book page from a gust of air". He couldn't make out what had scarred the temple so deeply, but as he turned back to Richard, Grimmwald's mind was wracked with theories.

"Everything was destroyed but enough was left for there to be ruins", he began, roaming the monastery, hopping atop walls and striding along their jagged heads with nay a misstep. "Maybe this was a message. A warning", he paused, eyes scouring the ground below for something more. "To the Shaytan of the League of Shadows. To never return to this place, to keep the memory of the League buried in these sands", he said, the sense of dread leaking from his voice and into the air. His spine almost shivered at the thought. But as he hopped off a wall and landed as though he'd never jumped in the first place, Grimmwald scowled. "If this is the work of the Aensland girl, then only the last Shaytan can tell us the truth behind all of this. If they're still alive, that is..".

"Only then will we know if the girl is connected to the disappearances of everyone. Of Ivana, Charlemagne and Satar. And as it stands, the League of Shadows as well". Grimmwald was no detective, Richard was. But he couldn't help but the hunch he felt.

@grimmwald:

"The girl." He rumbled. Her name kept coming up. Aensland. Aensland. Aensland. Again and again. She was connected. A part of this web of mysteries. "We must find her next, brother."

A black leather glove, faded in the palm and battered around the knuckles, ran across the rubble of a shattered stone wall as he listened; Grimmwald's insight into the human psyche was something he had learned to rely upon. "A message. All this, for a message." Who could possess such power and also possess the knowledge of the Leagues existence, much less it's location?

"Perhaps.. Perhaps it was Satar.." Hawkshade mused, unknowingly on the wrong track. "The strength required to reduce these stones to rubble, the totalality of the destruction.. The only thing missing is a message. A signature. Satar would want those who stumble upon the bones of this land to know it was he who dealt the final blow."

@hawkshade:

Maybe, Grimmwald thought, scowling at the possibility of Satar being responsible for this madness. Of him being alive, lurking in some underground bunker till he surfaced to wreak havoc once more. Eyeing the ruined walls of this dreary citadel, Grimmwald's scowl deepened as he studied the scars that ran deep in weathered stone. "I hope it's not him", he confessed, almost paling at what the Strigidae would think of him for feeling that way. With skill and ferocity, Ivana could best them all. But Satar was a rabid war dog, he couldn't be reasoned with - Ivana could. "But at least it isn't Charlemagne", he almost smirked, thinking back to tales told of the bogeyman of mutant-kind. "We'll only have answers once we find the Shaytan in hiding".

Eyes shifting from left to right, Grimmwald felt his skin tingle a warning. Storm and sand would soon swallow the desert ruins. "We should leave, brother. A storm is coming". He'd long heard stories of sandstorms that peeled flesh from bone. He didn't care to find out how true they were. "We may need to work with Tess and her tech to find the Shaytan", he sighed, frustrated with and paranoid over the vulnerabilities of digital technology, and how the Strigidae may exploit them to find their base.

@grimmwald:

"Yeah." Richard said, running his hand over the slick black material of his Strigidae cowl. "Me too. Me too." Their world had known many great warriors but Satar had brought entire cities to their knees, again and again and again until he seemed unstoppable like the very forces of chaos themselves focused into a single man and set free upon the world.

"I'm glad Charlemagne is dead." He said and felt guilt settle upon his shoulders like a cloak at the words. He was here to save lives. Not end them. How could he celebrate the death of another human being? But deep down he did.

"This way." Hawkshade said, long legs carrying him across the sand. "I brought my bike. We can make it to shelter on that, if we hurry. Then we return to the Cave and see if Tess can help. Perhaps her digital magic can detect what our senses cannot."

Hmm...