The Race

[Darren]

Each year, a great race is held across the continent and back. Only the bravest men and women participate- Many never make it back home. It is the greatest foot race ever made, spanning over 750,000 miles. The prize for winning? 3,000,000 gold and a 3 month long vacation to the world's most greatest vacationing spot: Yendoria! This year, however, things are different-- Monsters are now a major threat, so it will be horribly dangerous. Many more will not make it back. You are one of the runners. You must make the dangerous trek across the world. You must win the race. You must SURVIVE.


The runners line up at the start line outside of Deolburg. Last year's winner is here, and he is wearing a almost-foolish grin and a loose shirt and pants. Everyone there is carrying a weapon of some sort and a large pack. Some are finishing up streching; others are laughing and chatting with their friends and family. The judges, on a magically suspended platform, call for the runner's attention. The head-judge then speaks, "You all know why you are here. You know the rules to the game. You know the rewards. Do your job and run, run until you can't run anymore. Then walk. This is for 3,000,000 gold peices and a well-deserved vacation. Everyone will be watching you. Do your best. The race will start in 3... 2... 1... Go." The runners blast out of the starting line.

[Grim Jestor]

After the tremendous dust cloud from many sprinting feet finally begins to settle, the runners can be seen dashing down the Degolburg road, and a lone figure comes into view, walking lazily along and whistling a cheery tune. He is carrying no pack, and appears to be wearing a rather ridiculous long coat in the bright sunshine, as well as a great wide-brimmed hat which throws his face into complete shadow. One could almost mistake him for some kind of spectator except for the number 047 which is affixed neatly to his chest. He appears to be in no particular hurry to finish or even start his three-quarters-million-mile race, and the very sight of him causes first a few and finally almost the entire crowd to burst into laughter, which continues until he disappears from view over a small rise in the road. What such a foolish-looking fellow could possibly be doing in such a competition, especially given the entry fee of a small fortune and one's very life, no one cares to guess: it's just too funny a sight.

[Darren]

A cloaked figure beckons the man over. "What are you doing, Fool?! Run! At that pace you will never have a chance of winning!" The figure sounds angry-- it is impossible to see it's expression. "I have alot of money riding on you! GO!"

[Aflyctus]

Disaster strikes about a league into the race. It seems last years winner came down with a bad case of dead... The foolish grin was forever wiped off his face by a very competitive opponent. A figure in a cloak with the number '42' is seen jogging nearby with two large packs...

[Darren]

"My god."
"I know."
"It's awful."
"I know."
"What could do this?"
"I don't know."

Last year's winner's face is torn off. All his possessions have been taken. This, however, is not the first time someone has been murdered.

[Grim Jestor]

Number 047 reluctantly picks up his pace a little bit, but only in the form of a slightly faster walk. For some reason, the idea of someone betting money on him does not cause him any particular worry, and no matter what the irate spectator can say he does not respond. Disgusted, the figure takes off for Degolburg again, and number 047 chooses a different and even cheerier tune to whistle.... It is a beautiful day for a walk...

[ferohers]

his eye sight was acute as a hawks, and as he notched the arrow, he noticed it was made of pine with a flint tip and white feathers, how old fashioned, he thought to himself. he watched the one with the number '58' on his back, he waited til he was at least a league away, before he fired. The arrow went whipping out of the bow, soaring like an eagle flying faster and faster, seeming to gain speed as it flew. Finally it stopped, deeply planted in a tree about a league away. '58' ran three more stuttered steps, before he fell to the ground and just lay there. The bowman walked up to the man and looked down at him, He smiled, and then proceeded to cut out his left eye. He wrapped it in a small silver leaf he had pulled out of his pouch on his hip. than tucked it away nicely, then drew a sword from his back, and cut out the mans cheeks. The bowman then looked down at the man he'd just killed and mutilated and said with restrained maniacle glee "Smile". He layed the cheeks down by the man. the sun was setting and he walked off in to the sunset, his black silloutte slowly shrinking into the distance.

A droplet of the deepest red dangled on the end of the once white feathers of a pine arrow. Thirty paces farther was a body just laying there. blood encruster its teeth, its left eye was missing. and it just layed there looking into the sky, looking hysterically happy and from some where off in the distance a voice was heard, laughing maniacly as it sang " The arrows tip, with deaths firm grip, will save you from your guile. But when hunted by me, although sorrowed you'll be, you just cant help but Smile". Then it trailed off, laughing maniacally as it repeated its little song.......

[Laurana]

Number 014, decorated oddly in her bright orange jumpsuit, seems to just be jogging along, almost completely oblivious to the life-and-death circumstances surrounding the race she chooses to partake in. Inwardly, she despises how she was forced by her mentor to discard her 'wonderful' orange cloak at the starting line. A pair of red, vulpine ears twitch atop her head, and six black lines looking more like 2-D whiskers than anything else lie on her cheeks, three on each side. She smiles and waves at the murderous looks others give her as they pass by. Deep in her mind's back, she figures that it's better for her health and well-being if they don't think her a threat just yet. Secretly she is delighted that she got to run as her favorite number, but was sorely tempted to scribble 'Kiss It' on her 014 sign that was placed, on her own request, across her rear. The 'mentor' mentioned earlier only swayed her to leave her number be by telling her just how 'badly' the black-inked words would look with her orange clothing.
Upon reaching a dead, mutilated body in the track she stops, staring at it for a minute or two. Most others in the race just run on by her, making her freed, long reddish-blond hair whip about her face in the breeze. "Hmm..."

[Grim Jestor]

Now that the great city of Degolburg is out of sight behind him, number 047 picks up his pace a little bit, from his nonchalant walk to a slow jog, which causes his coat-tails to flap behind him slightly as he goes. He knows that endurance is far more important than speed at this point, especially since the unbelievable distance involved has nothing to do with last-minute sprints. The idea, he knows, is for every racer but one to end up dead or "disappeared", with the winner crossing the line as a mass-murderer. Number 047 has a slight advantage, he believes, because before ever starting the race he was already a soulless killer, and has joined for nothing other than an easy body count on his way to even greater things. Gradually, another racer comes into view, seeming to simply stand there in the track for awhile, before finally moving on. Upon reaching the place where the other racer stood, 047 can understand why, but does not stop himself to stare at the now-bloodless corpse, only gives it an appreciative once-over, wondering if his very creative competitor has similar things in mind for the other contestants. A little further on 047 passes another body, this one face-down in the road and surrounded by a pool of blood. A bloody arrow is stuck into a tree nearby, and 047 wonders to himself what kind of archer could shoot with such power, before moving on.

Gradually, he begins to catch up with the runner ahead of him, and it seems as if it is wearing all orange, a foolish thing out in what will soon be wilderness, and he can see that the number is attached to the back, low down, almost as if mocking those behind. As he runs, 047 slides his favorite throwing knife, Bleeder, from its hidden sheath and fingers the blade, drawing a few drops of blood. Made of silver and perfectly-balanced, Bleeder would look even better sticking out of the back of that obnoxious runner up ahead. 047 increases his pace a little bit as he ponders over whether to make the death quick and silent, or slow and painful... He is leaning toward slow, as it usually yields far more blood, and the sight of his own makes runner 047 realize how very thirsty he is. Sucking the cut on his finger, 047 continues on, ready to strike at the opportune moment...

[Laurana]

She hums joyfully as she jogs along once more, forcing the lingering image of the body from her mind's eye. In truth it scares her half to death, but she's always had a tolerance for the macabre and gruesome, hasn't she? The fox-like ears twitch a bit as she catches the scent of someone else's blood. Hurriedly, she picks up her pace just a bit: the thought of maybe examining another dead body isn't a happy one.
Her pack is smaller than others, but is rather crammed. The only other visible item on her is the sheathed longsword on her right hip.

[Grim Jestor]

Number 047, silently creeping up just inside the tree line, is surprised to see that his next target is female, and takes a few moments to wonder what she could possibly think she is doing out here in the no-man's-land of blood and destruction which is the Great Race...

[Laurana]

Number 14, after dusting off her jumpsuit, decides to take a break near a lump of trees and assorted foliage. She leans against a tree, and starts to fish around in her pack for something. It being on her back, she has a pretty darn hard time.

[Grim Jestor]

47, running carefully, is certain that the prey does not see him approaching, but when she suddenly steps off the path he decides it would be best to bide his time for awhile. That stupid orange suit with the oddly-placed number drove him into a murderous rage almost from the moment he saw it, but since he does not know what kind of weapons this one might carry, he fades further into the forest to pass silently by, marking her for death at a more opportune time. No one else is in sight, and even though the night is approaching--the sun already is nothing more than a glow on the horizon--he continues on, able to run far and fast if the need should arise. Before too long, 47 passes another arrow-skewered body, this time with the shaft sticking up out of the poor man's skull, as if the mysterious archer is taunting those who come behind with the threat of certain death. 47 knows that this should be an interesting hunt, and carefully searches for the killer's trail before continuing on at high speed. For now, his first prospective kill is forgotten, for he seeks more than simply blood: 47 lives for the thrill of the hunt, the adrenaline of the chase. And now he chases, although he has not yet caught sight of his quarry...

[Laurana]

She appears suddenly alongside 47, out from amid the shadows of the forest, swinging past on one of the many vines that dot the jungle-like forest in which the path winds. "BANZAIIIIIIII!!!" She cries out as she goes. "THE FLYING MONGOOSE STRIKES AGAIN!!!"

[ferohers]

The bows string was strought, he aimed at the orange jumpsuit. the runner jogged merrily along, the silver tip on the white oak shaft was pointed squarely between her shoulders. She had a sword on her hip and slowely his arrow pointed to it. He released, this arrow was much faster than his first And it hit the sword and shattered, but it caused the runner to stumble and fall. He laughed, then yelled from behind a tree, as they were in a forest, and his voice echoed all around, it was impossible to know where he was, his voice was hysterical and held a maniacle rage in it "Do not rest, silly girl, you really should be more humble, for next time when my arrow flies, you'll do more than stumble!". He closed his pitch black eyes, and reopened them, they were now a deep blue. he smiled and started to run forwad, he was a league behind her, and started running at a diagnal away from her. As he began to run he whispered to him self "Smile".

[Laurana]

Soon she is jogging along happily again. Judging by the moon (which isn't altogether good judgement), it's about midnight, she'd say. Her thoughts wander, but before as long as she wishes she is assailed with an arrow that shatters on her sword's sheath. A yelp escapes her lips as she trips, flies, tumbles, and lands among the undergrowth of the forest. She receives many a shallow scrape for her trouble, the terrain in this area having been a bit rockier than the rest. As she lifts her head after a moment, her ears pick up the threatening, eerie song. Her blue, bright eyes widen amid the dark. Where was the voice coming from? There's no doubt in her mind that he meant for her to merely trip. What type of game was he playing!? Turning onto her back, she hurriedly gets up, looking about for a moment in alarm. Rest?! Sleep?! She wouldn't dream of it now!!!
Turning, she quickly starts to jog again. What had she been thinking when she joined this race? Adventure and riches were all nice and lovely, by oh, why had she not listened to the warnings of certain death or murder?!
A couple birds take to the skies as she runs past them, further into the woods and down the trail... Further into danger.

[Afgncaap5]

A Felyne with the number "73" written on his shirt moves as quickly and quietly as he can down the path. Since leaving Degolburg he's been chased by a wild boar off the path and into the forest, only to have a hive of hornets chase him back onto the path (and down it for a while.)

Then there was the Minotaur...

He's determined to be optimistic though. What could go wrong after all that?

[Laurana]

Though it's been an hour or so, she continues to run. It's still the black of night that surrounds her, and the sound of her unknown adversary's voice that rings in her head. She regrets being able to run only as fast as normal humans, but foolishly goes on running. Several times she's reminded herself that she shouldn't be running, that it's just using up her energy that could be valuable later, but she definitely isn't gonna stop.

[Grim Jestor]

47 is still running as the moon rises high above the straight road upon which he finds himself, at an easy pace which covers the leagues without tiring him overmuch. He wonders briefly why he has not yet caught up with either the phantom bowman or yet another of his unfortunate victims, until he hears an eerie song on the wind, carried from somewhere far behind. He cannot make out any words except something about smiling, but for some reason the concept sends shivers down his spine which should not be present in a hunter such as himself. 47 is a hunter and a killer, remorseless and fearless, at least he was until hearing the strange voice of what he thought was merely his very skilled prey. The first seeds of doubt are planted, taking root deeply in the darkness of his subconscious where he does not yet notice them, but merely... shivers. 47 slows, observing the terrain, and sees a small and easily defensible crack in the stone wall up ahead. The great race has entered into the foothills of a great mountain range, having finally left the jungle-like forest s around the great city of Degolburg far behind, and there are many such small caverns and cracks in the earth now. Runner number 47 does not know why he chooses to wait there for the night, but does so thinking that he will slip up behind the bowman, and maybe the orange-suited one as well, the next morning...

[Laurana]

Eventually, through many more steps of panicked running, Number 14 finally manages to burst through the last remaining bits of undergrowth, dense trees, and thickets that declare themselves jungle-like forests. Her breathing is already labored. She knows that she's pushed herself too hard already. Why didn't she stop? Was she really that scared?
Number 14 mentally berates herself for acting so cowardly. Now, all she has achieved are fewer calories to run on, ergo less energy for later.
Her status isn't improved as the sight of a mountain range not 50 yards away takes away what remaining breath she has.
"Woah..." She says, kinda hoarsely. Mountains are a rare sight for her, having lived a lot in the forest or woods. Exhaustedly, Number 14 follows the 'divine' pull of her aching feet towards one of the many caverns and cracks in a stone wall not too far away for the tired woman. She crosses over a couple foothills to reach it, then leans her back against the cooled stone next to one of the cracks, picking it at random seeing as she's beyond the point of in any way being able to decide on a certain part of the stone, sinking into a sitting position as she slowly passes out, into unconsciousness. Her head tilts back to rest against the stone, moonbeams falling down on her fair skin and illuminating her face as she fails to realize how foolish of a place her choice of resting is. Her chest rises and falls slowly, signifying her much-needed slumber. "..."

[Grim Jestor]

47 snaps back to wakefulness, having somehow slipped into something like sleep, although a true predator such as himself never truly sleeps. Something has entered his cave, which stretches back into unknown blackness, full of pits and passages. He did not know when he entered this place that it was more than a simple hidden refuge to wait until daylight to run and hunt again, but the song of the unknown underground has lulled him into sleep, and he has paid for it by being sneaked-up-on...

Full of unreasonable fear of the intruder, certain that the phantom archer has found him, ready to kill him and sing that strange song, 47 runs blindly down into the depths of his cave, unheeding of the possible danger there... if only he had known of the easy kill which slept there, which had entered this place by some bad luck, he would have lusted for blood... but instead he flees, into the darkness, silently down and down. And the darkness takes him, and in the darkness he knows nothing more...

[Laurana]

Number 14 lies, heedless of the other racer that ran by in fear just then, unable to be roused from her desperately-needed slumber. Whether she would have done something or not while awake is questionable in the first place, but she lies uneasily but deeply in sleep now, oblivious to it all. Her mind shuts itself off from the waking world, away from the fear. Her consciousness hides away in channels of dreams, feeling itself being chased. Her visions remain haunted while she had all this time been hoping for an escape. But there's no escape from the fear that's welled itself up inside her.
Before too long, dawn's first rays shine upon the wall of stone. At long last her consciousness realizes it must face the world, be it good or evil. In her mind, meager particles of courage band together and call her to awake.

Slowly, she opens her eyes.
"I have slept for too long," she murmurs through slightly chapped lips. Licking said lips, she stands and decides to greet the day as always.

Fear is but fear. It is arrows that she need be wary of.

Slinging her pack again upon her back, Number 14 takes off once more. She dares not think of what she will encounter today.

[ferohers]

‘76’ walked wearily about. He stumbled and fell to his knees, he crawled into a near by cave. The Silver tip on the cypress shaft aimed straight at his heart. A sudden whipping sound echoed through the rocky valley. The white hair whipped around the face of the black eyed bowman as he watched the man gasp and then fall silent. He blinked and again his eyes returned to there deep blue sapphire. He slowly walked down the trail, to the small cave his prey had chose to rest in, the arrow had impaled the small black haired mans body to the cave wall, it had pierced even the rock. He smiled at the man than carved out his left eye and wrapped it in a small silver leaf, and tucked into his hip pack. He slowly sang to himself as he worked on the face. “You shouldn’t have rested, for now you’ve been bested, and your soul is eternally mine. If you had kept running, and been much more cunning, you could have made it the last mile, but now since you rested, you’re damned to eternally smile” He Laughed with maniacal rage. Then stood back and admired his work. The half bald man sat before him, half the skin on his face had been stripped off, revealing the muscle underneath. The bowman smiled sickly at him, and walked out. Leaving him impaled to the rock.

[Darren]

The first rest and supply stop is about 20 miles down the path from number 14. There, the racers can take a safe break and refresh their supplies for the 170 mile walk to the next stop.

The judges take note of the mant gruesome killings and send a team of hunters to dispatch the murderer.

There is a pack of wolves near number 76.

About 35 racers have been lost or killed. This is a very dangerous race.

[Laurana]

She continues on her walk, not really paying attention to her surroundings as the sun rises, slowly ascending the azure sky dotted mildly with fluffy bits of clouds. Her mind starts to wander. "..."

[ferohers]

The heavy oak door opened, and the bright light shown in. A black silhouetted character walked in, his long white hair shown over his deep sapphire blue eyes. As he approached the bar the door shut slowly. Casting the room into its smoky haze, he approached the bar and sat down; he had a long black jacket on, and an ivory bow slung across his back. His quiver was full of all makes of arrows. He ordered Ale and sat down, his eyes were hidden behind his hair, but he was able to observe everyone in the room. A sword was strapped to his back with a blood ruby embedded in the hilt of the handle. It glistened in the smoky atmosphere and many of the people in the bar eyed it greedily. He knew no one would try anything. Attempting to harm a racer meant eminent death, only the strongest and deadliest joined the race. He finished his Ale and went out of the bar. The sun had risen a little in the sky, and a few of the racers had begun to arrive. He began to walk out of town. The rising sun cast his shadow down the street, He slowly walked away, and before he left he saw a gang of new comers, hunters by the look of it. He made a mental note to end there annoying watch on the race, and leave them forever smiling…

[Grim Jestor]

The darkness is all around and inside runner number 047. The darkness is everything, but the unreasoning panic which has gripped him in this, what should have been his most triumphant hour, does not care... It drives him on in blindness, feeling along the wall but remembering nothing of his path, and caring nothing for dead drops or dead ends. Somehow, he does not fall down any pit, nor does he find himself in any passage which does not go on and on... it is as if with a different eye he sees his way, although he knows not where he goes.

The cave system in this place is infinitely extensive, branching for miles far underground. 47 continues his mindless shambling through the underground night, his sanity only gradually returning as he stops, looks around... and wonders where he is.

[Laurana]

A shiver runs down the spine belonging to Number 14 as she remembers the song sang to her merely the previous night. It filled her with such an abnormal fear...
Quickly she dismisses her thoughts of it. The sun has reached its peak in the bright, warm day... but a thought taunts her. Did she forget something? What did she forget? Hmm...
She continues on, and soon she sees the rest stop ahead. While a smile springs to her lips at seeing it, her blood runs cold and her heart gives a little jump as she sees a band of rangers --no, hunters-- walking out of a bar. On one, a metal sword hilt caught the sun's light and winks at her.
She forgot her sword belt, sword included, at her resting area.

Just as quickly as she had earlier refused to think about the previous night, she dashes back the way she came. Desperately, Number 14 tries to recall where she had slept.
"Dark..." She murmurs. "Humid, just a bit damp...
"A cave!" She groans. "I don't have time for this!!!"

Straining her muscles, she picks up her pace.

Within an hour or two, she arrives back at the stone area in which she had unfortunately forgotten her swordbelt, ergo forgotten her scabbard and sword itself.
Her eyes close. She thinks back to when she had been running. Where exactly had she gone...?
Nighttime... grass... exiting from forest... I really did panic too much back then... running... more running... narrow opening to a cave... a thin one. A bit curved.
She reopens her eyes, scanning the area until at long last she spots a crack that strikes her as familiar. Unfortunately, it's the one just next to the cavern her sword had gotten left behind in.
Stepping into the darkness, she waits for her eyes to adjust before frowning, murmuring, "I'll never find it in here... but..." Slowly, she smiles. "I always did love exploring... And I'm already ahead of a bunch of others, I bet... What harm would adventuring a bit do?"

And so, Number 14 steps further into the dark and gloom. Unnoticed by her, the cavern she was in had a somewhat small opening that led to the one next to it not too far into the cave... an opening that led to the cavern next door: the one her sword was in. As mentioned, she fails to notice then and goes right on by it.

Deeper and deeper she wanders into the caves, amazed that she hasn't ran into a dead end yet, or something besides the meager flocks of bats she occasionally comes across. Precious time is lost to her as minutes stretch underground to hours, and Number 14 can't help but think how it keeps seeming like she hears the faint flutter of another racer at full speed not far away. She fails to see them in time, and has no option but to repeatedly tell herself it's probably just a bat. One blessing from the darkness is that her jumpsuit can't hurt anyone's eyes at the moment.

Eventually, Number 14 half-sees/half-senses a figure, perhaps a corpse or an animal or another racer, standing not far away along the same corridor she's in.

"E-excuse me?" She calls out, the sound of her voice sounding to her like cannonfire inside the dark. Her jackhammering heart seems only a bit less sudden, only slightly less obscenely loud. "Is someone there...?"

Darn her conscience. She knows she shouldn't call out. She's not armed, she can't see very well in the blackness, and yet... she wouldn't live very well with herself if she went and let another just die alone in these wondrous caves when she could help them out of there. With such objection to guilt, it's no wonder that Number 47 had questioned why she was in the race earlier.

[Grim Jestor]

47 is still standing there, trying to remember where he is, when he hears a voice, something like that annoying mongoose woman all dressed in orange, someone from... the race! She must have been following him, ready for an easy kill when she saw him run in fear from her! And here I thought it was that horrible archer, with his songs and bloodlust... to think that I ran from one such as her, just another victim... Certain that she is here because she thinks that he is weak, he does not answer when she asks if anyone is there. Instead, grinning to himself there in the dark, he reaches inside of his rather ridiculous long coat and finds his favorite knife. Silently, ever so silently, he creeps along the cave wall, his eyes wide and staring for any hint of movement in the near pitch-blackness, ready to strike quickly and without remorse. If this one has found me so easily... then it will only mean following her back trail to get out of this place.

Runner 047 hears a sudden sound upon the stone floor of the chamber, and knows that his prey must have accidentally scraped a foot against loose pebbles... now he knows where she is, and the blackness seems to part before his eyes to reveal a vaguely-humanoid form amidst the dancing illusions which inhabit every dark place. She is crouching, wary and silent now that he has not answered, trying to look around but seeing only the absence of light. He knows that she must have already seen him, and must surely know that he is here. Still silent, he crouches, finds a small stone, and tosses it near her, slightly to her left and behind. The sudden sound is like thunder in the silence, and he sees her jerk as if slapped, straining to find where the sound came from. Watching again, silent and still, 047 waits to see which way she will go, wishing he could chuckle at the fact that whichever way she goes, he will be behind her, silver blade in hand. But he cannot make a sound... quietly, ever so patiently, he waits for her to move again...

[Laurana]

She trembles faintly as she crouches, still as possible while only her head turns, searching for the noise. Fear wells up inside her chest, in the blackness surrounding her, as she hears no response.
Not good... not good... Oh, I'm a fool!
All too late she realizes that no one down here would have assumed her intentions to be good to begin with. She's probably the only one here without killer instinct and lust for murder. Her mental beration continues as she forces the gears in her head to churn fullspeed, fervently and desperately needing a plan. Already she can tell that her life's few remaining seconds will all be gone soon, unless she comes up with a plan. Number 14 remains still for just a few moments more before she knows she must spring into action.
Slowly, furtively, she raises a hand and puts it against the rock face, feeling along its uneven surface as she feigns a look or two around in the dark for a 'way out'.
No sword is worth this! She thinks bitterly. She knows that he's just waiting, waiting for her to make a dash towards the path out of here. Who knows what weapon he'll use. Whatever it is, it can't be magic, because he (or she, if that's possible) would have used it by now. No: it must be close-range. Her ears twitch nervously in the dark, straining to hear something --anything-- that might give away the unknown figure's location. One moment more and she'll leap into action... One... Moment... More...

A second passes. Two. Three.
Her trembling increases for a moment as she decides her nerves can't bear the wait any longer. Action must happen, and she needs to strike first to survive.
In one motion, she stands and spins quickly in a little circle. As she stands though, she scrapes her arm purposely along the sharp rock edge in the cavern wall, pointedly making sure the blood from her gash goes flying in a circle, copying her body's movement. With any luck, her blood ended up landing in the eyes of her would-be assailant, hoping to blind him and mix up his sense of smell long enough for her to make her escape. Not waiting a moment longer, ignoring the thundering, throbbing pain from her gashed arm, she speeds off down the way she came, sticking her arm inside the jumpsuit to prevent leaving a bloodtrail behind.

[Grim Jestor]

A surprising amount of blood splashes into 47's eyes, and even as he wipes it away, knowing that the brief hesitation has once again lost him what should have been an easy kill, he wonders why she would do such a thing rather than simply attack, simply end the threat by killing him first...

...He can hear her fleeing footsteps, and although this one is some kind of pacifist, completely out of place in this violent race, she is certainly a clever one, and he knows that when he finally does catch her it will be a good kill, even an interesting kill. Bleeder is cold in his hand, forever cold unless it is drinking, and he knows that it thirsts. Hurrying behind the other runner, 47 lays quick plans for a silent attack, for he needs to feed his blade... and needs for her to not escape again...

014 runs, and 047 follows. The ancient ritual of the hunt has begun again. This time, it will not end until one of them lies dying or dead in a pool of hot blood...

[ferohers]

The wind blew and the white hair whipped around his face revealing pure black eyes. A black long jacket whipped in the wind. A worn hand reached behind the white haired head and drew four different arrows out of the quiver. An ivory bow gleamed in the moonlight, all over the bow the ivory was carved into feathers,. The bow radiated in the moonlight. Four arrows notched to the string. It was pulled straught and then…. four arrows flashed through the air. And then stopped sunken deep into the skulls of four very surprised hunters, the man who had fired the arrows walked a league and some. He pulled a gleaming sword from the jeweled scabbard on his back, a blood ruby shined in the moonlight on the hilt. As he approached the dead hunters a smile spread across his face. He quickly removed there left eyes, wrapping them in silver leafs and tucking them into his hip pouch. He then proceeded to cut hysterical smiles on there faces. Then he took rope from each of them, he began to tie nooses, his work went quickly. He had planned it all out already.. He strung up the first hunter, which twisted oddly on the rope, its head cocked to one side, smiling so hysterically frightening that the bowman had to laugh. He proceeded to do likewise with the remaining hunters. Then he stepped back to admire his work, they all smiled hysterically and now the blood had stopped running from there mouths. The bowman took out a small knife and carved into the tree they were all hanging in. As he gathered his and there things he began to sing one of his haunting little songs.” you were so proudly walking, thinking yourselves so keen, but with all of your haughty spirits, as it would appear to seem, You didn’t see the bowman, Lucky number 13”. He then began to walk away but in the moonlight you could see, from underneath his scabbard and quiver, a sign on his back that read “lucky number 13”. And there in the daunting moonlight four smiling hunters swayed in the breeze, all looking hauntingly alive and in the middle of the tree was a carving that read “13”.

[Laurana]

Number 14's steps quicken as she now runs at full speed, her heart seeming far louder to her than her footfalls. As fast as possible she runs the way she came, by luck coming across her old path and following it. She feels more than sees the darkness around her starting to thin a bit, the air growing less humid, bit by bit. Her jumpsuit's front and her black shirt underneath are soaked with her blood, and she feels mild wooziness every couple of yards. However: she knows that if she stops, she's dead. Not much longer now, she hopes. Not... much... longer...

[Laurana]

Before long, Number 14 sees the dim light of a cave exit up ahead. A shocking flame of hope swells up in her chest upon seeing it, managing to run still a bit faster. Gotta... make it...
As Number 14 nears the exit, she springs into the air, aiming to dive into the sunlight.

[Grim Jestor]

047 runs silently after her, knife in hand, knowing that soon she will trip or fall, and then he will be upon her, and Bleeder will drink its fill. Rounding a sharp turn in the cave's passage, he can suddenly see the full light of day blazing in through the exit, and he can see something else too-- a human-like silhouette making a dive for the door, making a dive for the door and disappearing into the brightness. There is something strange about the shadow, something not quite right, but 047 pays it no heed, thinking that the shadow's odd shape must be due to the woman's self-inflicted wound, or perhaps loose clothing, flapping in the wind of her desperate sprint. But she was wearing a one-piece orange jumpsuit... Cursing to himself for his slowness, unable even to catch a wounded woman who had almost walked right into him in the dark, 047 picks up the pace, until he is running at full speed. The killing light of day seems to sear his eyes as he draws nearer, but he ignores the pain, and bursts out ready to attack... a tiger?

The great jungle hunter growls menacingly, stalking around the confused runner 47 with the confidence of an easy meal. 47 looks back at the cave-entrance, now somehow so very far away, and knows that he would not live to take even two steps in that direction if he turns his back on this new threat which has somehow taken the place of his prey. Crouching for the leap, muscles bulging and bunching, the great cat prepares to end this interloper in a single pounce. 47 knows that his chances are very slim, but also crouches, Bleeder in his right hand and another, lesser knife in his left. There is no time to aim or throw anything. The tiger is already moving, far too fast for human reactions. 47 braces himself, ready to attack and inflict as much damage as he can before he is destroyed. As the tiger leaps, time seems to slow down...

[Laurana]

She had just dived out of the cave and into the sunlight when she heard a deep, dark purring noise from not far away. Still more frightened than relieved to find that she's not dead, 14 had ducked behind a rock just a foot or two along the cave's outer wall, praying that the carnivorous feline-- whatever type it was-- wouldn't decide that it wanted a Number 14 as its lunch. Her vulpine, reddish ears picked up its steps nearby, frowning slightly as she guesses by the pattern that its going in some sort of circular motion. She looked around the rock and saw another racer being circled by the beast. It turned out to be a tiger.
There was no doubt in her mind that the racer was the very being that had tried to do her in down in the caves... So what would she do now!?

Out of seemingly nowhere, a bright flash of orange intercepts the tiger in the middle of its jump. Time seems to slow further, and for a terribly long moment, Number 14 is seen almost frozen in mid-air, delivering a flying side kick to the tiger at its jaw. Her wounded arm is still inside the jumpsuit, which by now has a very blood-soaked front.
And then, time seems all too soon to be back at its normal pace. She's no illusion. Winded and with a furiously stinging jaw, the tiger falls and rolls to the side. Steadily, Number 14 lands in front of Number 47 and raises her left hand in preparation for a possible future attack from the tiger, palm towards her.
"What's the matter, kitty? Can't get a good taste?"
The tiger regains its footing, giving an angered snarl at this orange, unknown enemy that's keeping it from a possible lunch. Number 14 gives a challenging, confident smile, not seeming to mind that Number 47 could kill her all too easily. Why doesn't she let the tiger eat him? Why does she risk all she has to save the man who just tried to kill her and could slaughter her now where she stands?
After a breathless, terrifying moment in which no one seems to move, the tiger decides not to take its chances and turns, pawing off in search of prey that won't give him such trouble. Number 14 doesn't move as it walks off, staring after it while keeping her protective stance in front of Number 47.

[Grim Jestor]

047 can hardly believe his eyes, for one moment he was facing a great beast which he thought was his prey's alternate form, through some deep magic, and the next his potential target leaps out of nowhere to save him with some kind of flying kick, for reasons which he cannot even begin to comprehend. Confused, 047 allows his left-hand-knife to disappear back into its secret sheath, and still holding Bleeder backs slightly away from the other, from the one who will not stop putting herself in life-threatening situations.

The tiger has vanished into the low undergrowth of this rocky terrain, and rather than wonder what such a beast is doing here, so far out of its normal habitat, 47 instead fixes a long stare upon his still-bleeding savior. Saying nothing, he reaches inside of his coat, finds something in a hidden pocket, a strange pouch, and tosses it to the ground near her feet. Still silent, he follows the tiger into the wilderness, determined to have the death-struggle denied him by such odd intervention, the goal of the Great Race momentarily forgotten.

14 relaxes her posture, now equally confused, having expected an attack, and watches 47 go... when she cannot see him anymore, she bends down and picks up the pouch, and finds that it contains a bundle of bandages and some kind of strange herbs, which from their strong smell must be used for healing, either through direct application or to be mixed into some sort of tea... 47 must think them even, then, and must have left to pursue other, less-puzzling game. She builds a small fire there, and when she has properly tended her wound, 14 begins to walk back up the long road toward the place of safe rest...

47 tracks the great tiger, careful not to alert it of his presence, to its den high in the hills. He is well off the race-trail now, and will either die or live to continue, but not until he has faced this great jungle-cat...

[Laurana]

While she walks up the trail to the resting place, Number 14 can't help but wonder why 47 chose to follow the tiger. Perhaps he just enjoys the fight...
The fact that a tiger was here worries her more than the race itself does. It was either a blinded outcast or a more intelligent creature just using the disguise of a tiger. Number 14 can't help but wonder just how many other beings around here wear disguises. As she nears the rest area, she tosses the pouch up and down in her left hand. Her thoughts wander to Number 47 again, and how he might be handling the fight with said tiger.

All of this flees from her mind that night as she decides to sleep out under the stars as opposed to the general safety of an Inn or at least a hiding place. It seems like she'll never learn from her mistakes...

[Grim Jestor]

The heavy oak door opens. 047 walks into the Inn of Safe Rest, and carefully closes the door behind him to shut out the night chill. Soon they will be passing though the mountains, and runner 047 has come prepared, now wearing what looks like a very warm tiger's-fur cape over his long coat. 47's wide hat is pulled down low over his eyes as he approaches the bartender, and makes a curious gesture at one of the bottles on the shelf behind the bar. The man has seen many curious thing during this race, but this strange person unnerves him somehow, almost as much as that horrible white-haired one with all the weapons. 47 is not openly carrying even a short sword, but the bartender knows these racers well enough by now to be certain that hidden blades and poisons are within easy reach. Food and drink is provided free for the runners here, at the expense of the race organizers, so when the bartender starts to pour dark liquor into the runner's glass, he is surprised to see a small pile of gold coins there on the counter.

"That will not be necess..."

047 cuts him off. "Information. The archer. The orange-suited one."

The bartender knows that it is against the race rules to help any racer against another, but looking around he sees that he and 47 are the only ones here. Gold in these times may flow like water, but a simple country innkeeper can always use a bit more coin. The gold vanishes almost like magic.

"The archer was in here three days ago, at noon. Hunters followed him. News came back later that the hunters were murdered. Gruesomely. No one has come through yet in an orange suit. You must be ahead. Watch your back."

With that, that bartender turns abruptly and pretends to polish an already-clean glass on the other end of the bar until 047 takes the hint, and slowly moves to a dark corner to nurse his drink in silence...

[Laurana]

The time stretches throughout the night until a couple hours after midnight. Just a field or two away from the very Inn that Number 47 is staying in, Number 14 opens her eyes slowly. She shivers where she's curled up under an old oak tree, frowning at how cold it's become.
It's way too cold to sleep out here, she thinks to herself. I should get a drink. A nice, warm drink. Or five.
The jumpsuit-clad one stands slowly, careful not to put much weight on her injured right arm. Number 14 turns, her thoughts favorably on Ale as she walks towards the resting area.

Entering the town, she waves and asks a couple strangers where the Inn is. Finally she finds one that doesn't just laugh at her and walk off. The gruff figure merely points at a building a ways off. It's better than the others' replies, though.
Number 14 hums a tune after she takes in a frosty breath. The weather's turning colder, she notices. Thank goodness she likes to run: the enjoyment of an exercise that creates more body heat will come in handy. Her left, uninjured hand moves into her pocket, now remembering how she had forgotten to grab her sword earlier as he walks to the assumed Inn. She decides she won't risk her chances going back and getting it. Far too much time would be wasted that way.
She gives a bright smile to anyone and everyone in the Inn of Safe Rest as she enters through the doors. She blinks a couple times at finding her and, from the looks of it, just the bartender to be the only ones here at this late hour. She fails to notice the racer concealed in the dark corner of the Inn. Number 14 pouts a bit. She was hoping for a crowd or two to entertain.
Nevertheless, she hums as she walks up to the bartender.
"Howdy, man!" She laughs. The 'man' turns to her. His eyes widen a bit at seeing the ridiculous jumpsuit, its blood-soaked front, and the happy-go-lucky smile plastered onto this odd runner's face. While the bartender was unsettled by Number 47 and Number 13, this runner seems the weirdest, though apparently harmless, he's ever seen. Reddish-blonde hair to her waist, fox-like red ears, the jumpsuit, the unmarred skin --save for the by-now-common scuff of long travel, along with an apparently hurt right arm--, the fact that she's a woman (or a very feminine male with an enlarged chest and abnormal curves)... It's all just... unnatural. Not in a frightening or alarming way, but an out-of-place way. Like a friendly terrier is out-of-place among a pack of hyenas. He can't help but wonder if she's really in the race as he delivers the glass of ale she ordered. Number 14 takes the mug, sitting down at the bar.
"Thanks a bunch!" She smiles, before abruptly draining the glass in just under three seconds. A pleasant shiver goes from her toes up to her furry ears. The said ears quiver, their fur standing on end for a moment. "What a nice drink. I know alcohol doesn't really make you warmer, but I think it's making me warmer!"

[Grim Jestor]

047 sits there in the deep shadows, drinking himself into oblivion, strangely certain that he is the last of all racers, that the others are well into the mountains by now. That episode in the cave really cost him some time, he knows, and only got him that excellent cloak, and as useful as if may be he has yet to kill any person... Bleeder has been thirsty for a long time now, and tiger's blood does not satisfy such a blade, but merely increases its desire for more and better blood. As he thinks of this, 47 can feel Bleeder twitching in its hidden sheath, as if requesting or demanding blood, and 47 knows that he soon must feed it with the blood of another... or it will take his blood. Such are the conditions of this kind of weapon, given by the Infernal One himself to an ancient warlock on the darkest night of the year, and as much as this blade has helped 047 in his many pursuits and conquests... it is not without its drawbacks.

The heavy oak door opens, and swings shut again, but not before letting in a quick draft of night air. Snow in the mountains. Will make tracking easy but running difficult. The orange runner walks in, somehow full of energy despite her wound of earlier that day, but 47 can see that his healing herbs have had some effect. Although the blood-stains remain, she no longer favors that arm, and he is glad that she is well on her way to a full recovery. Injured prey brings no honor, he thinks to himself. Bleeder twitches again in its hidden place, as if in agreement.

Number 14 goes and sits at the bar, drinking ale and speaking with the bartender, but 47 can see that this one is abiding by the rules. Careful to remain polite and friendly but distant, the bartender brings her drink after drink, and soon she is well on her way to becoming as drunk as 47... but the almost-glances which the bartender keeps sending toward the shadows tell 47 that the bartender recognizes this woman from the earlier description. 47, seeing 14 for the first time in good light, as she is sitting directly under a sputtering oil lamp, notices her fox-ears for the first time, and wonders where such a creature hails from... Her many narrow escapes now do not seem such a mystery, for the fox is an animal who is a master of both the hunt and the escape... 47 thinks about their few encounters, and finally begins to respect this flamboyant racer as something other than a lucky fool.

If he were to attack her now, in the Inn of Safe Rest, 47 would be removed from the race and possibly executed. The race organizers have always been very strict with broken rules, and even the collection of information on his rivals could be seen as a great offense. So for now, 47 is content just to drink and watch her do the same, trying to understand her in a way that will make her an easier kill. Determined to not reveal himself, 47 slowly sips his drink, and tries to think of a good plan of action. He knows that a much greater danger lurks somewhere outside in the darkness, a great archer with a sadistic streak, and probably more than a little insane. If this one were to lie in wait simply to kill number 47, then there may be nothing that 47 could do about it... but he hopes that the archer has his sights set upon the other runners as well...

After all, it is the last man standing who actually wins, and as far as 047 knows... no one has ever finished the whole race before killing all other runners...

[Laurana]

Number 14 laughs and chats with the bartender as she drinks, seeming to be oblivious to both Number 47 in the corner and how the bartender seems to be doing his best to keep a figurative distance from her.

One drink turns into five or six, and seems to only make this bizarre racer all the more merry. She talks on and on about meaningless things, but eventually her talking turns a bit more focused. She speaks of how she 'was attacked by a tiger' earlier that day, of how she keeps 'running into this really odd guy', and how she 'can swear that there's someone following her all the time'.

"Not like I'm not used to it though," she grins widely. "I have people tailing me all the time. And not just of the male gender."

She gives a luxurious stretch, then slips her arms out of her sleeves, moving the jumpsuit's top down to her waist. Underneath is revealed a low-cut, V-necked black shirt with short sleeves that fits tightly over her chest and snugly around her middle. In this top, the bloodstain isn't as nearly as apparent. With the increased amount of drinks, her blue eyes glimmer somewhat like crystals from the lamp light. The bartender gives a yawn.

"What, too early for ya?" She smiles brightly. Number 14 seems perfectly pleased to just chat away the night, not appearing at all worried or concerned about the race and its troubles.

[Grim Jestor]

The dim lamplight grows dimmer, and 47 can see the old bartender struggling to stay awake. It is far too late at night for such a place to still be open, or far too early in the morning... 47 knows that the sun will be rising soon, and plans to hole up on a secret place and sleep away most of the day. Now, though, he is out of liquor and still does not want to reveal himself. If this other runner does not leave, even with the lamplight dying the sunrise will reveal him, and she will know that he has heard every word that she said here tonight. Although he now feels that he knows his prey well enough to hunt her successfully, he still cannot help but wonder what such a one is doing in a contest like this, something akin the the killing fields and gladiator matches of old. This is no place for a lady.

Gradually 47 becomes aware that he may not have hidden as successfully as he thinks, for the exaggerated albeit drunken movements of runner 14 suggest that she is trying very hard to not look in his direction. Instead, she loosens part of her clothing, feigning discomfort in the inn's warmth, although 47 knows that she is simply using whatever weapons she has left to disarm him as much as possible, hopefully throwing him off his guard for long enough to either kill or entrap him, or escape towards her own goal, whatever that may be.

Determined not to give in to her feminine wiles, as inebriated as he may be, 47 clutches Bleeder tightly and makes a swift incision in his left wrist, spurting forth bright warm blood for the blade to drink... and it drinks its fill, leaving him feeling light-headed and woozy until finally the blood flow slows enough for him to bind the wound. It will heal quickly, for his kind always does, but the immediate need for blood has passed... and 47, weakened by this necessary loss of blood, as well as the consumption of more alcohol than necessary, finds himself drifting off to sleep in the corner...

[Laurana]

She stretches once more and chuckles at the bartender carelessy, but then blinks. She freezes in her straightening of her shirt, not finding it straight enough for her liking.

"I smell blood," she murmurs. "And it's not mine." She glances around, frowning. She could've sworn it was just her and the bartender.

"I don't smell anything," mutters the bartender sleepily.

"I never said you did. And if I were you, I'd get some sleep," she replies, scanning the bar and then the remainder of the room. Eventually she follows the scent to a certain corner, standing and swaying a bit. She moves over to said corner, able to make out a dimly countoured figure. By his lack of reaction to her approach, she assumes him to be asleep. A smile, albeit a bit of a drunk one, spreads across her features.

Almost silently, Number 14 steps just close enough to tug around his cloak that strikes her as oddly familiar. Thinking about it now, she can't help but picture the still-slightly-shadowed figure as familiar. After a moment, she has turned the cloak into a makeshift blanket for the man.

With this, she pushes all sensible thoughts once more from her mind and returns to the bar, taking her seat again. Number 14 orders yet another drink as she tugs a bit on the sleeves of her shirt.

[Grim Jestor]

Morning finds 047 alone at his corner table, the bartender now long gone and no other customer in sight. He cannot remember falling asleep, but the cut on his wrist tells him why, as well as the empty glass which still sits where he last left it... directly in front of him, about to fall off and shatter upon the hardwood floor, but not quite. 47 is about to get up when he notices that someone has rearranged his cloak while he slept, so that it is no longer tied so securely, and wonders if he has been robbed... but no, everything is still there. That other runner, that number 14, must have noticed him as he slept, and wanted him to know that she saw him. Thankfully, this is a refuge, and killing is prohibited on pain of death, or 47 knows that his nap would have cost him his life... Promising himself that he'll be more careful in the future, promising his knife, Bleeder, that he'll find more human blood for it which is not his own, he stands, staggering a little, and heads for the door... and upon stepping out is nearly blinded by the morning's bright sunlight, but this time his eyes adjust far more quickly. He hears a sound to his left, and glances, only to see 14 there, orange jumpsuit and all, sitting in a great old rocking chair less than six feet from him, with a strange smile on her face.

"Good morning, sir."

He ignores her, and suddenly annoyed, turns and steps back inside. The innkeeper is about, having relieved the tired bartender at some point, and 047 makes a point to eat a slow breakfast, giving that annoying woman plenty of time to vacate this safe place.

She is proving to be far more trouble than she is worth... blood or not, 47 considers simply skipping this one, saving her death for later when she feels safe and gets careless, and finding a less wary target...

Feeling much better after food and drink, 047 walks once more out of the Inn of Safe Rest, and this time does not see the other runner anywhere. Careful now, and sober again, he makes a point to stay off of the road for most of the day. He is determined to not be taken by surprise again...

[ferohers]

‘49’ walks grudgingly through the falling snow. His fur was standing on end, he felt like he was being watched; he looked around, seeing no one he continued on. As he walked the snow picked up. Soon it was a white wash and he couldn’t see. Suddenly a maniacal laugh drifted over to him on the wind. He looked up and through all the white he saw a black silhouetted figure standing on a ridge. A bow was in his right hand, and a long jacket flapped in the wind, a sword handle was silhouetted on his back along with quiver of arrows. Suddenly the white snow blocked his view, and then it opened back up reveling an empty ridge, the figure no longer stood there, ‘49’ questioned if he had even seen him. He took one more step before a hand holding an arrow reached in front of him and thrust the arrow through the bottom of his mouth and through the top of his head. ‘49’ started to make gurgling noises, then he fell to the side and started to seize, shaking violently, blood spurting from his mouth as he groaned in pain and attempted to shriek but merely choked on his own blood. The man who had just shoved the arrow through him started to laugh hysterically, almost uncontrollably, and then he pulled out a sword with a blood ruby on the hilt and a carved serpent weaving its way up the blade. He cut out the man’s left eye and wrapped it in a small silver leaf, the man now almost dead choked violently as the eye was cut out. ‘13’ smiled and yelled “Freeze” then burst into hysterical laughter. He cut the man’s cheeks out at slants so he appeared to be grinning deviously instead of just smiling. Then ‘13’ broke ‘49’s knees and elbows backwards and then propped him on his own broken limbs, making him look like a child’s interpretation of a crab, only it was horrible disfigured. ‘13’ took the man’s deer skin cloak. He wrapped it around himself then walked over to a small cave where he piled the snow around himself for insulation, then began to sleep, while humming comically letting his tune drift over the valley on the wind.

[Grim Jestor]

The air is cold now, even at midday, now that runner 047 has started to climb up through the great mountain pass through which their official route takes them. He is careful to stay under cover and out of direct sight as much as possible, knowing that somewhere out there lurk not just one, but two very odd enemies. He has never seen the archer, but has observed plenty of his the archer's victims' remains, and knows that he will have to be very careful if he expects to survive these mountains and eventually get the upper hand on the crazed man... if that is even what he is.

47 has heard tales of half-humans and worse, things from the very darkness of the abyss, coming forth to meddle in human affairs for their own entertainment or at the bidding of mysterious and powerful masters... 47 has seen the results of this archer's meetings with any other runner, and knows this one to be quite the powerful warrior, and maybe not from anywhere around these parts...

The Valley of Winds lies ahead, a strange depression very near the mountain range's top which some say was caused by falling fire long ago, and where deep snow collects all year 'round... Some also whisper that the voices of murdered travelers cry out there in vengeance against the living, and ever seek to add to their own numbers by waylaying the careless loner. Thus it is no surprise that the temperature falls drastically upon crossing the valley's rim and starting down... Why the official race course runs straight through this accursed place is a mystery, and 47 moves carefully to avoid becoming another of the restless dead who whirl around him on the wind, screaming their fury at his intrusion.

A gurgling sob comes from somewhere nearby, and 47 discovers the archer's latest victim barely clinging to the painful remnants of life there in a rapidly growing snowdrift. It is a wonder that the poor man has not himself drifted into the sweet release of death, and 47 can see by the pain shining bright in his eyes that the runner would ask for death, if he could still speak. An arrow has been thrust comically up through his jaw, blocking his throat and immobilizing his tongue in the process, and the man's legs and arms appear to be broken in many places. The cheeks have been sliced open, but from the blood still weakly welling from the wounds 47 knows that the killer must be very near. Bleeder appears in his right hand, and in a swift slice, 47's favorite knife drinks its fill from the dying man. The pain disappears from the runner's eyes along with the final shreds of life, and as the snow blows over the now-still corpse, 47 can hear an eerie tune atop the screams of dead travelers in this eternal storm... he wonders briefly if it is this runner, doomed to circle the valley in storm-winds forever, or if the dark archer has seen his strange and merciful deed...

...Either way, though, the wind tears at 47's clothing, and he draws the tiger-fur cloak tightly about him, walking off into the storm to leave this place as quickly as possible. A day's walk should take him to the Valley's opposite side, and from there the going will be much easier... but now the archer is very close, and 047 knows that the danger has never been greater...

[ferohers]

Barely visible through all the snow that accumulated around him, the archer opened his eyes to see a shadow off in the distance, he blinks revealing pure black eyes. The figure that so haughtily had walked in the beginning of the race now loomed over the archer’s latest victim. The figure ended the man’s pain and agony, the archer smiled wildly. He suddenly burst up from the snow sending it flying it everywhere. He watched the man walk on, kneeling in the small cave. The wind had died down, so the archer climbed the edge of the cliff up to the top, so he could watch all the racers attempt to walk through the valley. He see’s the figure that had helped ‘49’. He looked down hard, the figure was well over a league away, and it was hard to make him out. He began to run at full speed along the edge of the valley wall, till he had come close enough to kill the man with an arrow. The wind picked up and vision was cloudy at best, but the archer stalked the victim, then the wind slowed slightly. He decided to mock the man, rather than kill him. He took out his bow and drew an arrow. Notching the arrow then pulling the bow string tight, he aimed at the man’s left hand; it held a small silver knife. Then an arrow shaft shot through the canyon whistling eerily as it flew. It shot through ‘47’s hand, but miraculously he held on to his knife. But he did grasp his hand; he looked at it, with an arrow sticking through it. Then the archer started to laugh manically making it echo through the canyon.
“Fear of the unknown
is what leaves you behind
Fear of tomorrow
is what makes you blind
Fear of the darkness
is what makes you seek the light
Fear of losing
is what makes you fight
Fear of pain
is what makes you insane
Fear of getting crushed
is what makes you struggle in vain
Fear of punishment
is what makes you flee
Fear of beasts
is what makes you my prey
Fear of destiny
is what makes you pray
Fear of time
is what makes your life a day
Fear of truth
is what makes you lie
Fear of life
is what makes you die
Fear of Fear
is what makes your life.”
As the wicked poem ended the archer began to laugh maniacally again. The canyon filled with the laughter echoing off every rock, it was impossible to know where it came from. Then the archer began to walk slowly away along the edge of the cliff, laughing to himself quietly.

[Darren]

Racer 25 is at the lead. He has heard of the murders, and has taken... extra precautions. He wields a curled stave that glows with a slight golden light. Walking through the snow-swept canyon, he lights a torch in a vain attempt to increase his range of vision...

The weather is supposed to be unchanging for the next 2 days.

[Grim Jestor]

047 looks down at his left hand, surprised at the only non-fatal shot he has ever known the archer to make. Was it the storm, or is he simply playing with me? 47 does not, however, change his expression at all. Calmly, he snaps the arrow on a nearby rock, and lets the two halves fall out into the still-drifting snow. Admiring the view through his palm for an instant, 47 carefully returns his left-hand-blade to its place and brings Bleeder's tip to the wound, allowing the knife to drink its fill. As the knife drinks, the wound closes over, as if by magic, but this is in truth something far darker and more strange. The wound is not completely gone, but over time it will fade, leaving no scar except the marks Bleeder leaves on runner 047's soul every time he uses it... But all thoughts of who is the possessor and who the possessed fade quickly from his mind, as if removed by a greater force. 47 quickly forgets about the arrow, and picks up his pace, certain that the archer will not have another shot at him. When they next meet, it will be on 47's terms, and there will be no bad poetry then... nor ever again.

[Laurana]

A medium-sized, white fox can be seen darting between snowdrifts, not too far in front of where Number 47 and the archer just were. Its furry little ears twitch a bit now and then, trying to detect the noises of other racers so that it can avoid them.

Number 14 decided that it would be best to assume her fox form, if only for now. Regrettably, this involved an hour or so of having to remember the trick to changing shape without the need to lose clothes.
Eventually she remembered, and now her orange suit doesn't seem to be there. She's desperately hoping she did it well enough so that it'll go back to being there once she takes again her human-ish shape.

If one looked closely enough at her underside, they'd make out the number '14' in a little black pattern across her stomach. Technically it's still following the rules, even though it preys upon a loophole: the rules didn't say that you couldn't be an animal during the race.

Number 14's bushy, silken white tail flicks a bit amid the snow as she takes delight in folicking about it. After a few minutes she is forced to remind herself that she's not here to just play. Her real reason for being here still remains unknown...
Perhaps it's unknown to her too.

Never the less, the little fox trots onward. She is:
* Ignored by many racers who simply glance at it and take it to be a native animal.
* To the racers she know will soon enough recognize her as competition, she is lucky enough to know a form that tends to blend in during winter with its surroundings.

In Number 14's mind, a merry song of Christmas springs up to replace the very constant elevator music. The snow's gotten her in a very Yuletide-mood. With a lack of 'mood music,' she matches up words that describe the scenery with the tune 'Jingle Bells'.
The words 'snow' and 'rock' primarily make up its structure.

[Grim Jestor]

047 fights his way through deepening snowdrifts, certain that very soon he will reach the valley's edge and begin the descent again into warmer lands. He knows that the course was designed to challenge every racer, but did not think that the unknown organizers would ever plan the death of a contestant... they are more than happy, he knows, to leave such minor details to the other racers. The arrow-would in his left hand is almost completely gone now, and if he has been affected negatively in any way, 47 does not show any such thing outwardly.

Out of the corner of his eye, 047 thinks he sees an arctic animal for a second, a small shape much like a white fox, but surely this is impossible. Such creatures do not exist outside of the furthest North and South, in those places where their natural camouflage makes them at once a deadly hunter and difficult prey. He does not see the animal again, whatever it was, and soon forgets that he ever saw anything, discounting it in his mind as a figment in the blowing snow, especially when it somehow abruptly ends. Along with the wind, the voices of the dead also leave him, and 47's concentration returns to him. He has reached the end of this strange mountain valley, and after a short rise will descend again into what he hopes will be a more temperate climate.

As he climbs, gladdened by the mysterious storm's end, 047 can see another figure ahead of him, and Bleeder appears again in his hand, bright silver and thirsty. Crossing the slight summit, the figure comes more clearly into view, and as the ground begins again to slope down... 047 can barely make out the numbers '117' printed on the figure's back. The runner is moving slowly, confusedly, and does not even notice as Bleeder flies, striking a vital spot in the center of its back with uncanny accuracy from what should have been too far away to throw a knife. 047 is not a particularly skilled thrower, but Bleeder thirsts, and seeks out blood for itself. 47 takes no trophy as he passes the body, only picking up the once-again sated blade and returning it to its hidden sheath... and barely notices the body there, a heavy bearded man lying on his stomach on the down-slope. The body will lie here until it rots or is consumed by mountain scavengers, and 047 pays it no more mind. The Race is brutal, and demands brutality in its members...

[Laurana]

A very irritating, very loud voice can be heard ringing around the general area, not long after the heavy-bearded man was felled.

"OH MY GOD, IT'S SANTA CLAUS!!!"

Unwittingly, Number 14 has both given away the fact that she's not a normal animal, along with her location. She had fallen a ways behind Number 47 and a couple others, and upon seeing the crumpled body of the dead guy, she failed to bring her mindset away from Yuletide.

A couple minutes later, her sleek, white form can be spotted darting past Number 47, followed by a few arrows and a couple throwing knives from other racers.
"The racers are coming, the racers are coming!!!"

Narrowly dodging each weapon, Number 14 leaps over a rock and keeps on running, not daring to stop.

[ferohers]

The bowman walked on top of the snow, almost seeming weightless, as he began to descend out of the valley he saw a man lying dead on the ground, he smiled when he saw it. After a while of walking he reached a small town, the next checkpoint. He went to the sign in post, and added his number to the list; he was currently 7th.in the race. This pleased him and a smile again crept across his face. He walked across the town to a small shop. The sun shone into the shop, he walked to the counter where he pointed to a quiver of arrows. The shopkeeper brought it to him; he took it and then dropped sapphire ring on the counter. The shopkeeper looked at it, and then picked it up. The bowman began to walk away when a small boy ran up to him “are you the mysterious bowman, who killed all the racers and stole there eyes?” asked the boy, “Well, if I was, perhaps I’d be in first, eh? The bowman replied with a smile. “I guess you would” replied the boy. Then the bowman reached into his satchel and handed the boy a delicately folded silver leaf. “open this once I’m gone ok?”. “Yes sir” replied the young boy. As the bowman left the shop the boy opened the leaf, and in it was a green eye, perfectly preserved. The boy gasped and dropped it. The shop keeper walked up to him and looked down at the eye. “It was him” whispered the bow. The shopkeeper just looked down at the eye. The bowman made his way to the bar. He opened the door and walked in, a smile spread across his face as he viewed his fellow racers.. He walked to the barkeep and ordered warm ale. As he drank he listened to the chatter of the bar. He seemed to notice a certain ‘047’ sitting in the bar. His left hand oddly untouched and not bandaged. “Interesting, very interesting” whispered the bowman, as he smoked a hand carved pipe. He blew a smoke figure into the air; it took the shape of an eye. As it dispersed the bowman laughed “tread softly fellow racers, for next we go through the desert, and if the sand storms and native beasts don’t kill you, your fellow racers will”.

[Grim Jestor]

After his recent kill, and the unfortunate missed chance at that foolish fox-lady, 047 is sixth now, but is not satisfied. He does not know how many racers there were to begin with, nor how many are left, for such statistics are known only by the bloodthirsty public, which bets on the races... Millions of gold pieces are won and lost with each death, this he knows well. One other thing 047 knows is that the truly intelligent racers are hanging back, staying in hiding, and not even stepping into the small towns turned prosperous each year by the racers and their following crowds. For all 47 knows, the leader board could be recording the last seven racers of them all, and would almost wish that he was among the phantoms of the race, those wanderers who never reveal themselves except through victory or death... but something calls to him, keeps him where he is in the very public eye as well as that of his small group of immediate competitors, and he has begun to get a sense of what... or who... is doing the calling. 047 will soon meet with The Archer, that collector of eyes whom he knows by no other name... and when they meet, one of them could very well end up dead. Or both.

The bar's door opens quickly, and closes again. 47 does not look around, knowing for sure who has just walked in, carrying some of the chill air in with him to hover permanently, but continues to sip his drink instead. 47 can smell pipe smoke, but it is a slightly different, slightly strange scent that he does not quite recognize. This Archer has traveled far, and seen much... of that 047 is quite certain.

[Laurana]

The night starts to carry on, and inside the bar not much seems to be going. Some of the racers leave, and more come in.

The bartender is kept busy filling orders of ales or meals, and not many except for a select few seem to notice the white-furred fox that darts into the bar between the legs of another racer as he walks in.

For a while at least, Number 14 remains unobserved by all but those who know of her from past encounters (or those who know the by-now well-known story of 'the crazy fox-woman that ran through the mountains, causing avalanches with her screams of triumph and enjoyment that came with the exhilaration of the race'-- a load of rubbish, if you ask her).

However... people do start to notice her when a fox jumps onto a barstool and asks in human tongue for a glass of ale, its ears and tail twitching now and then. For a few minutes, the bartender just stares in disbelief. Eventually, he gets her her drink.

[Grim Jestor]

047 glances down the bar, where at the far end the bartender is trying to decide whether to get a drink for a strangely-familiar white fox. Bleeder twitches in its hidden sheath, thirsty for fox-blood, but 047 does not remove it, knowing the penalty of death placed upon any racer who attacks another in a place of safe refuge.

But most of us will face Death before this race has finished. Why not tempt the fates now, and get the kill while she is not watching? The fox is obviously enjoying the attention which her unusual form commands, even The Archer glances at her from time to time, smoking a wooden pipe and now holding a razor-sharp arrowhead in his hand, obviously thinking along the same lines as number 47...

If I had met that Archer in another life, before all of this... we could have hunted together. But now, one must die while the other lives. This is the rule of kill-or-be-killed. This is the rule of the race.

After a short time, 047 gets up a walks into the night, having finally made his decision to fade off the main trail for awhile. He leaves his magnificent tiger-fur cloak in the hands of a local merchant in exchange for a pack of supplies, and strikes out into the cool night, over land and down the mountain toward the great desert. Soon, it will be warm enough in the day so that such a cloak would only be a hindrance anyway... and though desert nights may be cold, it was a miracle that the cloak had not made him more of a target on the mountain's top.

Number 47 walks carefully down the mountain, through the foothills, and out into the scrub lands which border the great desert without incident, without meeting or even sensing another racer. The ocean of sand stretches before him, seeming flat from here, but 047 knows that the gently-rolling sand dunes can hide entire battalions over the next horizon, and a single runner can hide or become lost with alarming ease, not to even mention the killing sand storms for which the great desert is known and feared... with a sigh of longing for the fresh coolness of the recently-passed mountains, 047 begins his long walk into the desert...

[Laurana]

The fox remains in the Inn throughout the night. Number 14 seems to enjoy taunting the other racers with the rules: you can see her, an easy target, yet you wouldn't dare try killing her.

The night stretches by slowly, and after a few hours, the fox jumps up onto the overhanging ceiling lamp and falls asleep for a few precious hours.

When Number 14 finally leaves the Inn, it's still a couple hours before the sun will rise. The fox slips behind some foliage, and after a moment, Number 14 walks out from behind the bushes, reddish fox-ears twitching and orange jump suit... eh... being flourescent.

She makes her way rather noisily through the remaining foliage and undergrowth until she finds herself, rather unexpectedly, on the edge of a desert. She notices some footprints nearby that appear to be made by another racer, and ponders whether going into this vastly interesting-looking... sea of sand with no apparent limit... is a bad idea after all. Soon this thought passes however, and she decides to once again 'adventure a bit'.

Her mind races as to who --or what-- she'll encounter this time as she dashes into the desert.

[ferohers]

A lone patron sits by the archer, attempting to engage him in conversation. “Have you heard about the one they call the archer?” asked the man. “Yea” muttered the archer. “I heard they dispatched a group of hunters after him, found them 3 days later, all 12 strung up in a tree.”. “Really, twelve you say, how interesting. Do you know what he looks like perhaps?” asked the archer, a small grin creeping across his lips at the exaggeration of the stories. “He’s eight feet tall, and has jet black hair, with eyes as red as fire, they say he’s stronger than any mortal man, and could shoot a gold piece off a boys head from 50 leagues.” “I could take him” said the archer, his grin now a very toothy smile. “BLAHHHAHAHAHAHAHA, YOU, BEAT THE ARCHER, HAHAHAHA” The man roared with laughter, the archer to smiled. “My friend, tomorrow they will say you were happy, but you shall not hear them, for tomorrow, you shall not awake.” The archer then walked out of the bar leaving the man looking quite bewildered, and amused, he smoked outside for a bit. Then when the man he’d been talking to started on his way home, the archer followed him, always keeping to the shadows.

The next morning a cry was heard through the village. The archer had struck a non racer. A cruel smile was cut upon the man’s dead, pale face. “Foolish man, should have thought before he spoke.” Said a man in a black long jacket, white hair, and sapphire blue eyes. An ivory bow was strung across his back along with a very intricate blood ruby on the hilt of a sword.

As the archer continued on he saw a few racers had already started into the desert “Its funny how closely met bravery and stupidity are, no matter, they shall all fall to my bow.”

A lone figure began walking across the sand, but he left no foot prints. Only his black silhouette was seen walking into the god forsaken land mortal men referred to as desert.

[Laurana]

~

Not even a league into the desert, an orange-suited Number 14 sneezes.

"Somebody's talking about me."

~

[Grim Jestor]

"...And the worst part is, she wears that stupid orange jumpsuit, and I still can't seem to catch her!" 047 argues with his shadow, crisp and black upon the shifting sands, as he walks casually through the desert, still not in far enough to lose sight of the great mountain range if he should happen to look back. Rather than sightsee, though, 047 continues walking, continues making pleasant conversation and argument with his shadow, but it does not reply. It merely walks alongside him in its usual silence, and 047 takes that silence to mean complete agreement. As usual.

The land on all sides is nearly featureless, only sand as far as the eye can see, except for the shadowy suggestion of mountains off in one direction... and clear, blue sky everywhere else. Not even a wheeling vulture can be seen, but 047 is sure that the carrion birds will have plenty to fight over and feast upon before too long. 047 has known for a long time that he must soon meet with The Archer, and something tells him that the place draws near... very near. Maybe even as close as over the next rise. As he crosses what first appeared to be a small sand dune, but kept going up and up, 047 stops and can only stare. Before him lies a great depression in the ground lined what looks like rough burned glass, possibly the scene of a meteor-strike or an ancient magical battle, all the sand within melted and solidified in horrifying swirls and globules, some even floating in the air like a crazy man's favorite dream. He decides that it must have been magic, for surely no natural explosion can levitate glass... Oddly enough, the great bowl of glassy ground is littered with what looks like driftwood, although surely there has not been a body of water here for ages... and 047 then knows that this is where he must wait for The Archer.

Runner number 47, dressed again in a long coat and a wide-brimmed hat, having left his warm cloak back in the last town, gathers up a pile of the driftwood and prepares to light a fire, for soon it will be night and desert nights can be cold when the sun leaves for other places.

As night falls, 047 can be seen sitting calmly by the fire, waiting for a meeting which must soon come. He appears to make an excellent target there in the firelight, but surely he knows this... surely he remembers his enemy's deadly accuracy, and must have some kind of plan... surely...

[ferohers]

Darkness came rapidly as the sun set. The archer just kept walking. He blinked once and immediately his blue eyes were gone, revealing pure black ones in there stead. His vision just as clear as daytime, he walked over a large dune and to his east no more than 10 leagues he saw light. He started off toward it, seconds later he stepped up to the top of a dune, no more than 1,000 yards away from the light. ‘47’ sat in front of a fire, which illuminated a wonderland of glass spirals like columns, reflecting the fire into an illumined inferno. “Honorable or ignorant?” the archer asked himself as he looked at the man sitting by the fire. He laid a piece of cloth out on the ground, then reached into his hip pouch and pulled out a bag full of black powder. He poured the whole bag of black powder into the cloth on the ground, then placed an arrow in the middle of the black powder and wrapped the cloth around the shaft of the arrow, then tied the cloth to it. “Boom” whispered the archer as he raised his bow and aimed the exploding arrow at the man's fire.

A whistle broke the silence of the air in the twisted glass palace. An arrow sped through the air at inhuman speed. Suddenly an explosion radiated from ‘47’s fire shattering all the glass spirals in a 20 ft radius. A column of fire rose into the air and then shot through the forest of crystal spirals, the magic in the shattered spirals had ignited and sped through the cursed place, killing all in its path.


’47 was no where in sight so the archer walked down the dune, sword drawn, face oddly smiling at his spark of brilliance. The blood ruby glowed eerily as it neared the palace of twisted spirals and dead magic.

[Grim Jestor]

As the smoke and dust clear, revealing a scene of true devastation, 047 can still be seen sitting exactly in the same place, seemingly untouched and just as motionless as before. A fire should have been burning merrily in front of him, reflecting off of millions of facets of floating glass, but instead there is only dust and ruin... and runner number 47.

As The Archer walks nearer, cautious now, for it is obvious that something strange is going on here, 047 blinks once... but his eyes stay closed. A strange and hollow voice comes from 047's mouth, not his own or anything in this world... "...Honorable or Ignorant? Neither. My name is Bleeder, and I have need of this one." The knife is in 47's hand then, although it was not there before, and as jerkily as a puppet the runner leaps to his feet, clumsily crouching in attack posture, but gradually moving more smoothly as an unseen puppet master gains more and more control of its strings.

Something terrible has happened, something dark and not completely unexpected. 047 has used his dread blade for the final time, and now there is no more runner number 47. There is only Bleeder, who has found a new and better body, and now holds a knife in each hand with the careless ease of a deadly marksman. Bleeder slowly circles The Archer, waiting for the attack which must come.

The blood ruby glows with a kind of fierce hunger.

The air hums with power, the magic of this dreadful place of possession not yet gone.

The battle is joined.

[ferohers]

The archer smiles maliciously, “bleeder you say, well bleeder, they call me the archer, it will be a pleasure to kill you, and carve your ugly face like a jack-o-lantern.” His sword vibrated softly as it absorbed any remaining magic in the air. “you probably don’t recognize my sword, so I should tell you. Its name is Rose of Incendia, and it has an extraordinary power. You see, its blade never dulls, its shine never lessens, and its strength never falters, and as long as I hold it, neither will mine. Prepare to die!” the archer dropped his bow, quiver, and hip pouch to the ground, then held Rose of Incendia in both hands and assumed a position of offense. Then began his attack on “Bleeder”, his sword moved with inhuman accuracy, and his speed was unmatched, or so he thought, but as he attacked and maneuvered his blows were evaded, and he had to keep constant defense on this damnation who called its self “Bleeder”. The battle raged then, in an instant, both stepped back and looked at each other, the archer stood stronger than before, “fool, my sword absorbs all it touches, as long as I wield it, I cannot die!” laughed the archer insanely. Waiting for “Bleeder’s” next move.

[Laurana]

A ways into the desert, Number 14 is seen walking by moonlight. She chose to only walk at night, when it is cold. During the day she rested, and made sure she preserved her body's water and general homeostasis.

About half of a day in, she had a bad run-in with a desert creature. To her, she was just relaxing and suddenly there was a piece of black rope that decided it hated people. In reality, she had sat on a snake and it bit her on the arm.

And so, now the orange-suited blonde woman with fox ears trudged across the seemingly enless sea of sand. She doesn't know exactly where she's going, or what she's doing, but eventually she comes across a collection of what look like some sort of glass structure. By now... Number 14 was too dehydrated to really care if it was fake, or a trap, or anything like that.

"Shiiiny..."

That single thought passing through her exhausted, beat-up mind, Number 14 heads towards the moonlit structure. Her left arm hangs limp, numb from the snake's bite. Just a ways before she arrives there, her ears twitch. Somehow, through her halfway-conscious state, they managed to pick up what sounded like a little explosion.

"Eh?" The fox-like woman blinked a bit, watching as a bright, crimson light shot up among the odd, palace-seeming glass place. Her eyes widened a bit as, almost suddenly, all of the pillars of glass seemed to... explode... and collapse in upon itself.

"That's not natural," she murmurs to herself.

Still wary, Number 14 clings to the shadows as she creeps towards the area, hiding behind a convenient dune about 100 yards away from where Number 47 (at least... that's who it looks like) and some stranger are perhaps battling.
Whatever they're doing, it's not a tea party.

Crouching silently, Number 14 eyes what appears to be a soon-to-be battle. Her eyes widen a bit as she recognizes the form of Number 47, along with the name of The Archer. There's no doubt in her mind that the fight she's witnessing is occuring between what very possibly could be the two deadliest entities in the race. For now, her position seems to be unknown... Which means she might have an advantage, should she take a side. At the moment... she just watches and thinks.

She can't help but ponder on how heavily The Archer must rely on his sword in close combat. Already, a small plan of her own is forming in the back of her mind...

[Grim Jestor]

As the puppet master grows more and more deft at the strings, he who was once runner 047 moves with greater speed and accuracy, able to avoid the archer-turned-swordsman's attempts at attack with surprising speed, completely inhuman and not at all surprising... for whatever controls the body of 047 is most definitely not human. The master notices that the sword itself, glowing bright red at the base as if very hot, must be the source of this man's great power, at least as far as swordplay is concerned, and moments later, when they both stop to rest (or rather, the archer stops to rest and the master releases its hold upon the strings, allowing the puppet to slump a little bit) the archer, boasting, confirms the truth... Destroy the sword and the battle is over.

When the archer next attacks, far faster than any human should be, Bleeder does not move until it is almost too late... and then leaps straight up, easily clearing the archer's head with room to spare, and seems to hang there in the air as the master hauls up on the strings, allowing the puppet to even sway a bit in the breeze. Thrown off-guard, the archer flails about a bit with his mighty sword before finally looking up, just in time to see the booted heel of puppet 47 coming down on his sword arm, hard enough to knock Rose of Incendia from his hand into the hardened sand. The blade skids across the slippery surface of this magical place, and the puppet master is immediately ready for it, throwing both knives- that which was originally Bleeder's prison, as well as another- with devastating accuracy to hit the hilt-mounted blood ruby squarely, shattering it like cathedral glass. A great shock-wave erupts forth, freeing whatever power dwelt within, and in less that an instant it is over, the mighty blade now a twisted ruin upon the equally broken glassy ground... and the archer staring in shocked disbelief even as he reaches for his bow.

The shock wave is so powerful that for an instant 047 is freed, and with the destruction of his knives there is no place for Bleeder to return to, so it merely floats, flailing about for something to inhabit, but finding nothing available... nothing but the empty shell of 047, who now is aware that he has not been himself, and fights to keep his body for his own. The puppet master, knowing that a broken vessel is of no use, calls upon the last of its failing power to take 047's body away instantly, far away to some other place where they can struggle apart from interference...

And the archer is alone, alone with his arrows and his bow and his collection of eyes. Alone amid the sand and broken glass, for his opponent is nowhere to be seen. Alone. Or so he thinks...

[Laurana]

A slight yelp is heard from behind a particular sand dune, where Number 14 huddles, as if hiding from the shock wave she feels coursing through the air.
Silence ensues not long afterwards. Slowly, Number 14 raises her head just barely enough to look over the dune, her fox-like, reddish ears twitching nervously.

There's no sign of Number 47, but the Archer seems to remain. Number 14 can't help but wonder what happened to 47, but soon pushes thoughts of him from her mind, for it seems as though she is now the one in danger.

She remains as still as possible after ducking down again behind the dune, hoping that she wasn't spotted...

[Grim Jestor]

In a frozen valley, high in the mountains of some unknown land, where the spirits whirl with the blizzard, shrieking their hatred at the living... the storm quiets for just an instant, and a wildly-flailing figure falls down from nowhere into a deep drift. It is not dressed for this environment, wearing only a simple tunic and a pair of ragged pants, along with moccasins which are barely held together by what looks like ancient rawhide. This one must have come from someplace much warmer, but where are the roads that lead through the air to this place? The blizzard resumes its furious howling, and before the figure has gained its feet to stumble toward the upward-sloping valley's edge, another few inches snow have gathered around and upon it. If the figure ever had a coat or hat, they were lost upon whatever invisible highway it walked to this place.

But the figure, apparently human and probably male, walks on, heedless of the cold or the snow, not even noticing the elements or the danger he is in. He wears no weapon, and in this weather he will freeze to death long before he could possibly reach the milder climates of the mountain's far side, but this does not seem to bother him...

Strangely, the man does not slow or weaken even as the cold closes in around him, does not fatigue even as he walks on and on...

[ferohers]

The archer turned and looked at the dune where the young lady in the orange jumpsuit stayed huddled. he looked at it with much resent, bad enough he had lost his sword. Now she knew. "Come out woman" Hissed The archer, rage entwined in every word. His bow drawn with an arrow. pointed right where she'd come out. "To long i've endured your existence in this race, now it ends, now i will rid my self of your pestilence" Said the archer as he waited for the woman to show herself. Suddenly he felt the withdrawl of his magical strength, it had lasted longer than the sword, but only a short while. Suddenly his knees gave way, and he clapsed to the ground. His eyes rolled back and he lay there, dying, his death had finally caught up with him, the sword no longer alive preserving him. he was fading....

[Grim Jestor]

A heavy oak door slams open, letting in the chill air, and a nearly-dead man staggers in, literally coated with snow and ice like a second, strangling skin. All of the other racers have passed through here, and the town's life is just beginning to go back to normal, and even though this man was in this very room contemplating illegal attacks on other racers not so long ago, none recognizes him, no one at all.

Someone calls for whiskey, and another runs for the town doctor. They wrap the man in blankets and lead him to the fire, where after a few stiff drinks it appears that he may recover fully, despite what should have been frostbite and hypothermia. Something is wrong with this one, for this man does not react in the proper way to the elements, did not die like he should have, and barely even acknowledges the others in the warm inn... It is as if this man has never seen another like him, and has withdrawn inside of himself to fully observe this strange phenomenon... but how he knew to walk into the warm inn is anyone's guess...

[Laurana]

Number 14, after hearing The Archer fall, slowly stands and turns, emerging from the dune's side to stand above the dying man.
"... I might've... considered helping you," she begins, staring down at him. "You are... a twisted murderer, no doubt... A strong ally, but feared foe... You wouldn't accept any healings I tried performing in the first place, though."
"You never bothered to learn my story... You just threw me in the rubbish bin, writing me off as a pest, an insect... You, and every other racer in this deadly struggle. With your dying breath... I'm going to tell you the future."

She whispers to The Archer, blue eyes staring, her voice almost cuttingly clear in the passing desert breeze that happens often at night and in the early morning:
"I'm not going to beat the other runners... I'm going to beat the Race."

She gives him a smile. "So... you're Number 13? What a coincidence: I'm Number 14... Well, Number 13... Rest in peace. Can't have a murderer like you dying all on your lonesome here in the desert, can we?
"Let's get you to a decent... burial site."

Without another word, the fox-woman, no longer seeming all so careless or blissfully naive, kneels, lifting the fallen archer up into her arms in a bizzare act of near-chivalry. She doesn't seem to have much trouble at all in carrying the dying man, and she knows that these are the last moments he'll spend in this world. All of her energy is there... but... there's a new, mysterious sort of feeling spurring it on that's come to the surface.


The orange-suited figure is not spotted for a while after that, but word spreads throughout all of the villages of a bizarre fox-woman, carrying the body of one of the most feared racers known throughout The Race's existance.

[ferohers]

conscienceness came and went, the archer looked up and saw the woman who he had wanted to kill, carrying him. "why is she carrying me, why didnt she just kill me?" the questions came fast and confusing. he slipped back into his mind.

A man dressed in a white shirt and haversack pants climbed the last rock before he entered a cave on the side of a cliff. he dragged himself to the top and clapsed on the smooth surface. breathing quietly. then he stood and looked out over the majestic place, he had climbed past the clouds, and now he looked out across them, the sun had shone through the little water droplets in them, making them shine. a smile crept to his face. He had long white hair, and saphire blue eyes. He was a strong young man, but his climb was hard, and had taken three days to finish, he was tired, yet he went on, walking into the cave, it seemed to grow lighter as he walked deeper into the cave, until finally he came to an opening, a giant dome room with crystals on the walls, making the room shine. and in the middle was a sacrificial alter. a skeleton still lay on it, clutching a magnificent sword, with a blood red shine elluminating from its hilt. the man walked tword it, and stood over the skeleton man a single number was carved into the forehead of it "13". "Rose of Incendia" whispered the man...


Again he saw the woman's face. His arm twitched and a gleeming silver blade shown in his hand. He held it at the ready, then closed his eyes, fading in and out of consciecness......

[Grim Jestor]

"...Are you... are you one of The Runners?" The small boy stares at him, fear and admiration split in his eyes, and it takes a few seconds for the nameless one to realize that he is being spoken to.

"Runner? I have run, but I know not what you mean." His speech is strangely archaic, these few words revealing to himself that he knows how to talk, and although the child goes away disappointed the nameless one marvels silently as he sits. Runner? Have I stumbled upon some kind of race, then, even here in this mountain village? With that thought a powerful sense of Deja Vu gripped him, and a rush of images tore through his mind... something about a tiger, and a person with a bow... something about an orange woman who was not quite human, and... and a knife.

The nameless one stands suddenly, throwing off the blankets, and in a loud voice speaks for the second time. "My name is Bleeder. Which way did they go?" The inn's other patrons take in the sudden change wide-eyed, and the bartender finally points him in the direction that the runners went, down the mountain.

"But that was days ago. They must be deep within the desert by now, and you cannot catch them."

"I will follow. And when I find them... they will give me answers."

The heavy door slams open, and shut again, as he leaves. It happens so fast that no one even remembers to ask him to pay for his drinks, or for the visit by their village's doctor. The small boy is the only one who speaks, high and surprised, "He is a Runner. The last Runner."

By the time Bleeder makes it to the town's edge, word of The Last Runner has spread throughout the town, and a small knot of villagers is waiting to see him go by.

"The Last Runner." It is on their collective lips as he strides by, as if he had not appeared out of the air so recently and nearly frozen to death, and exactly who they think he is... this is merely one more question which must be answered, when he catches those two.

[ferohers]

The archer closed his eyes again, but this time, stayed focused, or as focused as a man who is almost dead could be.

"what are you doing?" breathed the archer, to the fox-woman who was carrying him.

The blade was starting to dig into his fingersa making them bleed, still he held it, waiting for the opertune moment. waiting til it was just right to strike, he noticed that she now had his bow strung accoss her back, his eyes blazed with hatred now, The bow was his, he had earned it, much blood had been spilt for that bow, and more would be, if he didn't get it back.

"What do you think your doing?" this time the words were much clearer, and a tone of humiliation had entered it.

[Laurana]

"I think," Number 14 says, coolly. "That I am... carrying number 13, also known as The Archer... I also believe... he will die soon if he... does not calm down, and it... won't be by my hand, but... by his own ailment..."
The orange-suited woman continues to stride along. She's been walking for quite a while now, without any rest for food or water. She carries no weapon except for the other racer's bow, which she has no idea how to use. She's risking her life just to carry a murderous, possibly insane, and certainly bloodthirsty man to refuge, to healing. Certainly, who would do such a thing? Especially to one who had just himself tried to kill her?
"You should... relax," says the fox-woman, continuing with her walking as she's been doing. "We'll get to a stop... in not too... long... We'll get you... healing there... Yeah... And stuff..."

[Grim Jestor]

At the edge of the great desert, the one who calls himself Bleeder stops, a strong sense of Deja Vu gripping him. His left hand trembles, as if fighting against his control, and only through great concentration is Bleeder able to make it still again. Clenching and unclenching both his hands, Bleeder walks out into the shifting sand, still carrying neither water nor weapon, as if he expects such things to be provided at regular intervals. But alas, this is no game, except a desperate gamble of life against untold riches, and Bleeder does not seem at all conscious of this fact. He walks briskly as if out for a morning stroll, paying no heed to the blazing sun, and does not so much as stop for a breather throughout the whole day. He is singleminded in his quest for answers, and the knowledge that his two enemies walk somewhere far ahead of him fuels him onward, always onward, through the killing sun and sandy dryness, looking neither to the left nor to the right...

[Laurana]

Many miles away from Number 47, Number 14 is carrying the unconscious Number 13. He was finally convinced that it was beneficial to his end for him to allow himself to be carried to aid or at least to rest, as he would probably die otherwise. His strength has not yet fully returned to him.

The orange-clad figure continues on through the awful weather -and awful fortune- that's befallen her. She's tired, hungry, and thirsty, but does her best to show no signs of this.

Her footsteps seem to falter slightly on her walk, but walk she does.

[ferohers]

The archer awoke in a pure white room, with seemingly no doors, and no windows with seemingly no ways out. He stood up and found that he was covered in a bandage, a voice spoke, but its words were unclear.

“What the hell do you want from me!” he screamed.

“Your eyes perhaps” Said a voice from behind. The Archer whipped around and saw the man he had killed in the beginning of the race staring back at him. His eye was missing and his cheeks had a sadistically sweet smile carved into them. The figure opened his mouth and an unearthly scream came from it, shattering the white room, the Archer found himself falling into abyss.

Suddenly he stopped; hitting the ground with a thud, he stood up, brushed himself off, and looked around finding himself staring into the dead decaying eye sockets of a small girl. “Hello Samuel” whispered the girl, but a cold scratchy voice came from her.

“Sarah” whispered the archer. “Why did you leave me Samuel, you said you’d never leave. Why did you do it Samuel?” said the young decaying girl. “I had to Sarah, I was dying, and I had to preserve myself. To care for you, I never intended you to die; I had the best of intentions Sarah, you have to bel……” He was cut off when she smiled hysterically at him and her skin began to peel away, as it fell off, it began to reveal the one who had called him self “bleeder” in the young girls place.

“Weak mortal bastard” laughed the figure evilly. “Go to hell!!” Screamed the Archer at this figure, suddenly the laughter grew louder and began to become overwhelming, it resounded through his head.

He fell to his knees. “Shut up, just shut the hell up” Yelled the archer, He began to weep, the tears came forth like rain, he clenched his fists and held them to his forehead. “Leave me alone, I have done nothing wrong, nothing wrong……nothing……nothing wrong.. nothi……” He faded out, still crying, he began to shake,


“Enough” He screamed, and stood up and screamed at the top of his lungs “ENOUGH”.

He suddenly jerked up; he was lying in a dimly lit room, a small amount of light filtered through the wooden floor boards. He went to sit up, but found that he was bound by belts to the bed. “Hello, somebody tell me what the hell is going on here!” He screamed

The door opened and a small girl’s silhouette stood in the doorway, the light made her hard to see. But she wore a tattered little dress. “Where am I?” asked the archer. As the girl approached she seemed to shuffle her feet a bit, as she neared the archer’s stomach clenched. A small decaying girl stood over him, a small silver knife in her hand. “Why Samuel, don’t you recognize your own house” said a scratchy dry voice. She raised the knife high and drove it through his left eye……

“No” The archer jerked to consciousness, he looked up and saw the fox woman carrying him still, she looked fatigued, but still she pressed on. He looked around; he saw a dirt road beneath them, “we must be nearing a town” thought the archer to him self.

He closed his eyes again, and pretended to slip back into unconsciousness but not before hearing the fox woman’s sympathetic voice ask calmly, clearly trying to hide her fatigue “who is Sarah?”……..

[Grim Jestor]

A sandstorm rises up, shortly after the one who calls himself Bleeder would think is noon, and in the hottest part of the day his vision is obscured to go along with the killing heat and the suffocating dryness. And yet... and yet, he walks on, unmindful of the heat and the drought all around him, heedless of his own thirst or hunger, eager to find those he knows to be his enemies, knowing only that he must ask questions and that they must have answers. The one known as 047 is gone now, and surely will not return again... or so Bleeder hopes, for this one inhabits 47's body like a guest in an empty house, hoping that the master of the place will not return and make him leave for poorer or no accomodations...

...Making amazingly good time, despite the complete setback all the way to the mountains of cold death, Bleeder can see something like a mirage, but something which he knows to be true, so far ahead that it shimmers on the sand... yet so close that it can barely be seen on the horizon. It cannot be a mountain range or a rock, cannot be an oasis, for at this time Bleeder has no need of water or food... It can only be a desert city or fortress, can only be an outpost in this lonely wilderness, and he heads straight for it, knowing somehow that his quarry will be somewhere there. Sometime soon, the one known only as Bleeder will have his answers... will have that which he seeks.

[Laurana]

Number 14 continues to walk along, growing more exhausted with each step, trying her best to encourage the one she's carrying.
"Almost... there... Whoo!... And when... we're there... we'll... do stuff, and... get better... and... stuff... Ahaha... ha."
She trails off as she focuses on raising and lowering her feet, spurring herself onwards while reminding herself that she can't drop the cargo she's carrying.

At long last, the dirt trail reveals itself to indeed lead to a town. A small smile spreads across the lips of the fox-woman, her ears twitching a bit, happily.