@.Mistress Redhead.: Remember when I song that little drill song in Foundations? "Darkchild waers pink panties! Vine Villians are a bunch of pancies?" It was aimed at G and all he did was chuckling "One da I gonna end dat girl." I nearly laughed to death. He may ignore me but he does so with style and I love it. lol
Talon's blood created a strange metallic sound as it dropped on the floor of the helicopter. For some reason the young girl mutilated herself, drove her own claws deep into her flesh and rippped it open, only for the wound to heal in a second and the game to begin anew. Over and over she drew the weapons in her arms over the flesh and opened wound after wound. What drove her to do this. Frost was troubled. Not because she felt pity for the girl or even, the Cold beware, remorse that she had drawn her into this. She knew the girl who had introduced herself as Talon was a killer without equal. Killing was her business, this was all that she knew and all that she was really good at. But her cutting herself showed an instability that Frost did not enjoy to see. She felt Talon's green eyes rest on her, evaluate her, judging her. Anylyzing her every move and finding counter strategies to her powers and maneuvers. Unpredictable and calculating at the same time. If Talon really snapped, Frost would have a hard time killing her. Especially know that she was wounded.
The pain in her left shoulder was long gone, left her as her synapses shut off from the excruciating pain when she froze the bullet hole out. All that was left was a steady, dull pulse. She could feel it, deep inside her. Synchronized with her heartbeat. Every beat of her heart brought another pulse. Closing her eyes she leaned back and started to meditate, the cool metal of the flying machine comforting the burns on her back. So far she had taken a lot of damage in this campaign. One more reason not to back out. The costs were to high. The message still had to be delivered.
The sound of Talon's blood dropping to the floor took on an almost hypnotic quality. She imagined the drops splashing on the ground like a mantra. Them creating complex patterns on the floor. Slowly the rythm of the blood synchronized with her heartbeat, it got slower and slower and with it the frequency of the pulse sank as well. She could feel the others around her, Surge, Talon and most important the one who shared powers with her, the one with whom everything had started: Slight. They played their own little mind games to let the flight appear shorter. Surge hardly fit into the helicopter. His large leathery wings were already meeting the ceiling as he sat there in a crouched position. An air of power surrounded him somehow. Something that she could not identify. Since his last talk with Talon he seemed somehow changed. She hoped he would not turn against them if Talon finally revealed her intentions.
To evade the pulse in her body she dived into The Cold...
9 hours later:
"Welcome to Camaroon everyone!" Slight's friend and companion opened the helicopter door with a strong pull. The hot air, even hotter than in Spain forced itself into the room and made Frost rol with the eyes. Ira had deserved to die only for forcing her to go to regions that were hotter and hotter everytime. Why did it have to be Camaroon? As first she stepped out of the heli into the busy atmosphere of the Camaroon airport. The sun mercilessly burned down on everything. The game was on and Frost would play along. But no one knew of she would stick to the rules all the time...
Surge, just read your post. Did you read ours at all? I don't even know where you are and what you are doing? Why are you fighting Ira, he has not even made his appeareance in any of our posts so far, and why is he a big monster? Sorry, I am lost.
A row of bloody and dead corpses marked her way. A trail of massacre. If any of them could still talk they could only tell that something got them by surprise and then everything went black. But their faces were giving away enough. Frozen in the moment of unaware death. No sign of even surprise. No sign of even pain. They remained the same facial expression that they had when they died. Testimony of the dead. Death came quick. And tonight death came in the guise of a blue clad woman. Cruel blue eyes searched the surroundings, short white hair blew in the warm Spanish night breeze while she brought doom upon Ira's minions. Fast melting hoarfrost covered the catwalks of the old mighty fortress where she had passed by. She was on her way to Ira and nothing would stop her.
Her silent killing spree ended as she had reached her first waypoint. High the ancient wall of the main building towered before her. She had to lay her head in the neck to see the merlons of this one. the outer wall was just a mean of protection for this magnificient building. Worthy of a king it was. It's pure stone breathed antiquity. Rulers of all kinds had resided her. Armies of different origins had tried to conquer it and had failed. For centuries the old castle had prevailed. This was meant for eternity by its constructors. Not meant for Ira. The only thing that was meant for him was a slow and agonizing death. Everytime she allowed her conscinece to slip away form her mission goal the burns on her back reminded Frost of that.
Carefully she sat one foot onto the wall and froze it to the rocky surface like she had learned long ago. Then the other. It was almost a learned reflex. Something that worked out of her subconsciousness. One foot before the other, freezing it to the surface and then making the next step. Step by step. Step by step. Step by step. Her steps became faster and faster until she ran. Every step brought her nearer to Ira, the desire for vengeance grew with the decrease in distance that she had to him. Ira had lived by the sword. Had brought the sword to others. Frost could accept that. She lived by the same way. But she was also aware that the one who lived by the sword would also die by the sword. There was the ultimate time when the sword caught up with you. And now this time had come for Ira. A cold sword of ice... without the false mercy that his father had shown.
A single reflection gained her attention, not more than the red moon above her shining on a simple metal piece. No, not metal... glas. An angry Zeus was leaning over the nerlons and held a threatening thunderbolt in his hands. Or so it seemed. In fact it was a trained sniper who targeted her through his scope. Now everything was a matter of reflexes. She was already in the middle of the wall. An ice dagger appeared in her hand and she prepared to throw it. Not the easiest throw ever. Upwards, with a reversed sense of direction, vertically running up a wall, in the night, only guided by the reflection of red moon light while someone was about to shoot at her. Her arm lashed forwards. The sniper shot. Hot, numbing pain exploded in her shoulder as the high calibre bullet passed through her. But the dagger was on its way. And entered the snipers head through the scope. An excellent throw. That didn't change the fact that she was wounded. She could already feel the blood loss. Her concentration faded and the ice beneath her feet lost its coherence, its tructural integrity. It was like a remake of the experience with the bomb. This time the roof was the safety that she had to reach. She was doomed if she did not reach it in time. No human being, not even a Cryomancer, could survive such a fall. Approximately 5 seconds before she lost her concentration.
5... the roof seemed to be an eternity away
4... the roof seemed to be an universe awyay
3... the roof seemed to be an galaxy away
2... the roof seemed to be an planet away
Time slowed down. Seemed to stop.
1... the roof was still too far away.
No, not this time. She would not give up so easy. Mobilizing all her reserves she gritted teeth and jumped. Jumped upwards, jumped as strong as she never had jumped before. After the master-effort of throwing a almost non aimed ice dagger into a rifle's scope she demanded another almost impossible task of her body again after only a few seconds. Two or three at best. But Frost's body was not like any other. It was like a machine, drilled to maximum efficiency from youngest age.Again, she hung there in air, a bad repetition of the things that had all started this. But her mind was too strong to give up. The evolutionist force of The Cold watched her, filling her mind with coolness, judging her efforts if they were enough to survive and leaving the decision to fate. And finally fate decided if her mere will was enough...
Her fingers gripped the rocky surface and witrh a feat of strength she pulled herself up on the roof, right into the blood puddle that sprinkled out of the dead sniper, her blood adding to the size of it as well. Consciousness faded but her will kept her upright. The wound was still heavily bleeding. Live flowed out of her like water. Air was sharply sucked in as she touched the wound with her hand and forced it to shut. Not bruning it out... freezing it out. The precise pain brought her back into reality. She was weakened but focussed again, fully focused. Getting back to her feet she made her way downstairs.
10 minutes and 12 dead guards later:
Slight's face appeared between the two doors as she oppened them with the keycards that she had taken from the dead guardsman. His face was anticipyting the atrocities he would commit upon Ira and even if she had any morals she could not have blamed him. His body language, his whole stance told her that he was waiting for her some time. Humor was something alien to Frost but she could not resist making one statement to Slight with her beautfiul Asian face unmoved and untainted by only the slightest hint of a smile:
"Where have you been? What took you so long?"
That was the moment when she heard steps behind her coming down the stairs. More guards. Heavily armed. Heavily armored. Ira's elite. Frost had not foreseen this. She would take care of this. Turning around she let two ice daggers appear in her hands and spoke to Slight, her blue eyes sparkiling with cruelty and already measuring the thread that these guards posed and evolving strategies to beat them:
"You go! Process to Ira! I will catch up with you later! He must not get way this time!"
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