Victor of Tucson

Victor tried to focus on the strange, hooded intruder, but he had a fiery battle taking place in his gut and with his spirit. He grunted as he sat there, crunching down on the remains of the heart, smashing the meat between his teeth, and then swallowing it. The being who’d appeared before him took a step back, brushing against the stone sill of the window. The hooded head glanced rapidly left and right, taking in the strange scene at the top of the tower. “Who are you?” The voice that echoed oddly out of the hood was definitively masculine, and as that dark cowl shifted to look more directly into Victor’s eyes, some of the light coming through the windows penetrated those shadows to reveal smoldering orange eyes set within deep, black sockets.

Victor didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure he could. He’d swallowed the last of the heart, and now he was truly battling the fragment of spirit the Ridonne had left behind. The only explanation Victor could muster was that it must have been tied to the heart's flesh. Now that he’d consumed it, the fragment of spirit was trying to flee this plane of existence, to rip through the fabric of time and space and rejoin the greater whole, which, apparently, was alive and well elsewhere in the universe. He growled and bore down with his will, surrounding the fragment with his Energy, calling on the instincts of his primogenitors to handle this strange situation.

This bit of spirit, this remnant of his foe, was what his bloodline would use to garner strength from the defeated Ridonne. Victor was too busy to think about it, but some part of him realized that this must be what happened when he pulled the hearts from his foes. Some instinctual magic in that ritual bound a bit of the departing spirit to the flesh, and when he pulled it forth and consumed it, the Energy or essence or some other intangible quality of the defeated enemy became his. He was determined to take his due from the Ridonne.

“I asked who you are, giant!” the hooded figure repeated, stepping closer, perhaps noting Victor’s internal struggle and growing bolder, seeing his preoccupation. Again, Victor ignored him, and the hooded figure stepped closer still. He would be a tall man with broad shoulders, but next to Victor’s hulking form, he looked tiny. Victor sat, legs crossed, but still, the hooded man had to look up to meet his gaze. He stared into Victor’s eyes, but Victor was gazing inward, and it was evident he wasn’t giving the hooded intruder any attention. “What goes on in there, giant? I can feel the Energies roiling within you. Have you consumed a racial advancement? Are you insensate? What a fortuitous occasion!”

Crackling red Energy began to spark around the intruder’s black-gloved fingers, dancing and buzzing along those long digits and then arcing between his two hands. The energy created a red lattice of electricity that sparked and ignited something in the air, sending puffs of black smoke up to the domed ceiling of the tower. Just as a corner of Victor’s mind became aware of the intruder’s words and the bright, red sparks flashing in his eyes, he finally managed to fully surround the Ridonne’s spirit fragment with layers of his Energy, bearing down on it, smashing it, letting his bloodline work its mysterious magic, ripping it to shreds and pulling it into himself on a cellular level.

A weird, disembodied howl of agony broke through the fabric of reality and reverberated through the air, echoing through Victor’s mind and, apparently, that of the intruder. His red, sparking magic faded as he stumbled back and grasped his head, pushing his cowl back in the process. Victor had been fighting the battle of wills; he’d been prepared for the burst of Energy and whatever might come with it, so the howl didn’t bother him much. He surged to his feet and inhaled deeply, swelling with the power of the heart now that he’d broken apart the Ridonne’s still-living spirit fragment. Even large as he was, the tower’s domed ceiling was spacious, and he lifted his arms wide and roared his triumph.

His outburst was so loud that, had one of the windows not been broken to serve as an outlet, he likely would have shattered more of the stained glass. The intruder was still staggering, gripping his ebon, hairless head, but Victor didn’t have attention to spare him. He was preoccupied with the rivers of hot red Energy surging through his pathways and into his Core, where he converted it to affinities that suited him. As the power pulsed through him, he began to notice a subtle change in his essence. He felt it tickling his bones and pulsing out through him into the weird, extra dimension where he always observed his Core, his pathways, and his aura. Along with the sensation, an otherworldly scene took shape in his mind’s eye.

Stazzo-dak stood tall under the red glower of the Vizashath sun. He cut an impressive figure—the height of two grown Shadeni, one standing atop the other, burnished red-gold flesh, crimson-feathered wings that shimmered with the ruby light of his Energy, and a crown of ebon horns that were the envy of his peers. He shouldn’t feel nervous, he reminded himself. He was a proud archon of his people. Steeling himself, he looked out over the assembled forces. Before him stretched rank upon rank of gold and crimson-clad soldiers. They stood on the field that spanned from the orange grass before his podium to the extent of his vision. As he turned left to right, letting his gaze glide over their burnished helms, he saw that their ranks extended to every horizon.

Half a million soldiers, half a million natives and Ridonne stood before him, ready to march against the Thivaan at his bidding. Stazzo-dak relaxed his will and allowed his Aura of Command to roll out, touching the soldiers nearest his platform, perhaps ten thousand of them, a drop in the great sea of conscripts, but enough to spread his influence. He felt their attention focus. He felt his aura bending them to his state of mind. When he lifted his voice to address them, it mattered not what he’d say; his aura had done most of his work for him.

Victor blinked rapidly, the weird vision fading from his mind to be replaced by his reality. He immediately became aware of a deep, burning pain in his leg, and when he looked down, he saw the robed intruder standing there, stabbing a spear of crackling red Energy into his thigh. He grunted and brought his fist, larger than the intruder’s head, down to swat him away. As his knuckles cracked into the man’s shoulder and neck, he felt bones break. The intruder tumbled back to smash into the stone wall, his head shattering a pane of blue-stained glass. The spear of Energy winked out of existence, and Victor felt immediate relief as his Berserk healing closed the wound.

The intruder groaned, and Victor stepped toward him, but the man burst into crackling red lightning and disappeared with a zwap. Nothing but black smoke hung in the space where he’d been, and Victor whirled, scanning the room. No sign of the intruder remained. He stepped over to the window the strange, cowled man had come through and peered out. Shouts echoed up to him from the courtyard below, and Victor saw a flurry of activity. The window was too small for him to fit through, or he might have flung himself out when he saw what was happening.

The intruder was on the ground, each hand clutching a long, red-lightning whip that snaked out to snap and rip at the soldiers surrounding him. Victor vacillated for a couple of seconds on what he should do. Should he drop his Berserk and jump out the window in his natural state? Would he survive the fall without injuries? No, he decided, he’d run for the courtyard. He’d just begun to turn when he saw Valla step forward into the square, Midnight in her hands, blue lightning and wind wrapping her like a crackling miniature tornado as she streaked toward the assassin.

Victor turned and ran for the door, yanking so hard on the little knob that he wrenched it from its hinges. He leaped down the steps, a flight at a time, and reached the bottom in seconds. Soldiers ran for the main doors of the keep, cries of alarm in their throats. To them, it must seem the keep was under attack. Maybe it was, Victor reasoned; just because he’d only seen the one invader didn’t mean there weren’t more. He leaped from the balcony to the front entry hall and stormed for the door, trying not to stomp or knock down any of his soldiers.

When he burst out, he found hundreds of soldiers standing in a circle, crowding the courtyard and lining the parapets. At their center, Valla and the whip-wielding invader were fighting. Victor wanted to scream at the soldiers to get in there and help her, but then he saw how they held their weapons and shields up, making a circle, and he wondered if this was Valla’s wish. Had she warned them off, wanting to do battle with the invader alone? His suspicion solidified as he saw Kethelket and Lam standing near the gatehouse, on the inner ring of observing soldiers, watching Valla’s struggle with intent, worried expressions. They wouldn’t hold back unless she’d told them to.

Victor stood at the top of the steps outside the keep, and he did battle with himself, turning the full force of his will against his urge to leap over the assembled fighters and interfere, smashing the intruder to a pulp. Instead, he let his rage simmer in his pathways, and he watched the woman he’d professed his love for, truly watched her in a way he hadn’t in a long time.

Valla’s style with her sword differed significantly from Kethelket’s. She wielded midnight in an alternating two-handed and one-handed grip. She moved with speed and fluidity, which made her fight look more like a dance. Kethelket knew a million counters, combinations, and gambits, but Valla's grace made you forget you were watching someone in a fight. It made you want to drop everything and learn to move like her. Despite the invisibly fast cracks of the invader’s red-lightning whips, she always seemed to be elsewhere when they snapped on empty air. She surged with the speed of the wind, her sword like a moonbeam arcing out of a gusting breeze.

At first, the intruder matched her, winking out of existence in quick bursts of bright, crackling red lightning, only to appear behind or to the side of her. From his new position, he’d snap his long, buzzing whips, but Valla was too quick, too aware, too graceful to be caught. Midnight might parry a whip, or she might flash away in a burst of speed before it snapped. In either case, she was unscathed, and Victor could see she was taking a toll on the intruder. Each time he teleported, he covered less distance. Each time he snapped that whip, his smoldering orange eyes telegraphed the strain.

Victor found himself clutching his fists, his knuckles white with the effort as he watched, every part of him trembling to interfere, but he knew how that would look to the soldiers and how it would infuriate Valla. She was winning, and he needed to bide his time and watch, much as he had during her duel in Coloss. At least here, she wasn’t fighting a rigged match. “She’s kicking his ass!”

“Aye, Lord!” a nearby Naghelli said.

“What a fighter!” another soldier cried, making Victor glance away from the fight to look at the watching troops. They were riveted by the contest, eyes tracking every move, mouths opening and closing in silent reactions, clearly stunned and impressed by the prowess of their Tribune Primus. More than ever, Victor realized he couldn’t interfere. This invader’s assassination attempt had turned into a duel, whether he liked it or not, and the soldiers would be demoralized if he involved himself.

The more he watched, though, the less Victor worried. Valla still seemed fresh and graceful, unscathed, while the intruder’s face continued to betray his strain. His lightning whips were shorter, and he swung them less frequently. He’d stopped teleporting and was fighting in a constant, circular backpedal, using the reach of his whips to keep Valla at bay. After several seconds of that, his whips disappeared with a crackling sizzle, and suddenly, a single, six-foot spear of lightning appeared in his hands. It was obvious, to Victor at least, that he’d summoned a less Energy-intensive weapon.

Valla smiled and paused, whipping Midnight in an elaborate flourish as she bowed. Was she signaling something? Victor decided he really needed to read up on dueling etiquette. The stranger only scowled at her gesture and hefted his big, crackling spear. Valla streaked forward and, in a series of feints and slashes that Victor struggled to follow, she knocked the spear aside, hacked the assassin’s left leg off at the knee, and glided past him. Midnight arced up, and Valla pivoted, bringing the sword down on the back of the intruder’s neck. In the silence that followed the brilliant attack, the intruder’s bald, ebon head struck the stones of the courtyard with a hollow thunk that brought to mind a melon rolling off a kitchen counter.

“Jesus,” Victor invoked, for once sincere in his holy appeal. He snatched Lifedrinker from her harness and lifted her high, screaming, “Valla!”

The soldiers were quick to take up the cry, and soon, they were chanting and stomping their feet, “Valla! Valla! Valla!”

Valla whipped Midnight in another flourish, sending droplets of black blood spattering to disappear against the equally dark courtyard stones, and then she sheathed the magical blade. She turned a slow circle, and when her eyes fell on Victor, her lips twitched in a small smile as she bowed. Suddenly, motes of purple Energy began to bubble up from the intruder’s corpse. When hundreds of them had burst into existence, they flowed together and surged into Valla, lifting her into the air, arms wide, face lost in the ecstasy of Energy euphoria. The soldiers’ cheers grew louder as though they were lifting her up, and Victor’s heart pounded as the warmth of pride poured through him.

It was a different sensation, that pride. He wasn’t proud of himself; he wasn’t stoking the flames of his glory affinity. He was proud of Valla, and if he hadn’t already been so fond of her, he would have found himself smitten at that moment. He wondered how many soldiers were silently proclaiming their love for his girlfriend. He chuckled as that term entered his mind. Girlfriend. Victor shook his head at the notion; it seemed too juvenile for what he felt. Watching Valla absorb her Energy, Victor finally noticed a System message in the corner of his vision. He’d been so intent on catching the intruder and watching Valla that he’d completely disregarded it. With a brief concentration, he brought it to the fore:

***Congratulations! You have gained a new Feat: Aura of Command.***

***Aura of Command: The right to rule runs in your blood. Those exposed to your aura become aware of your nature and, should their will prove weaker than yours, they will be more amenable to your commands.***

Victor frowned as he read the description. Was that the secret of the Ridonne? Had they gained their power by pushing their will upon the people of Fanwath? He didn’t like the sound of it and was a little disturbed to know it was now a part of him. Was it something he could control? Would he be forced to keep his aura in check now if he didn’t want to influence the people around him unfairly? Victor’s frown deepened as he remembered his conversation with Valla about gaining something he didn’t want from the Ridonne. He’d scoffed at her, and now he found he very well may have done just that.

Victor let his Iron Berserk drop, and as his size came more in line with the people around him, he sat down on the step. He watched as Valla came back to herself, listened to her celebrate with the soldiers around her, and he hated that he wasn’t able to stop stewing about the feat he’d gained from the Ridonne heart. He was dimly aware of the soldiers' excited chatter, of the slaps on his shoulders and back as the bolder ones congratulated him on Valla’s success as though he had something to do with it. He heard Sarl shouting for order, Kethelket calling his Naghelli to him, and then he felt Valla’s cool hand on his wrist as she sat beside him.

“Thank you for letting me have that fight.” Her voice was soft, and despite her victory, she sounded trepidatious. When Victor realized that, he was able to snap out of his funk long enough to look at her and see the concern in her eyes.

“Hey,” he forced a smile, “I was so proud of you. What a fighter you’ve become!”

“But you seem upset.”

“It’s not about you, though. I loved watching you fight, and . . .” He sighed and let his words fade. “Don’t worry about me, Valla. I ate that Ridonne’s heart and it wasn’t the experience I’d hoped, that’s all.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” She added her other hand to the one on his wrist and squeezed gently with them both. Victor loved her touch; he loved her attention, but he felt gross and dirty, and something in him didn’t want anyone to be kind to him just then. He cleared his throat and stood up.

“Not right now. I think Kethelket’s getting ready to try to burn the forest down. Let’s see how things are going.” He paused a moment, then added, “And we should check out that guy you killed.” He didn’t look her in the eyes, and he forced a hollow smile to his lips as he started down the steps. He’d have to come to grips with the new feat somehow, but he didn’t want to dwell on it at the moment; shit was about to get crazy around the Black Keep.

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