Waterstrider

Canvas Town, Tseludia Station, Pantheonic Territory, Fifthmonth, 1634 PTS

Irid’s claws glowed, the flow of miasma dripping from them just like the smog which poured out of her skin. Both substances had originally emerged from her blood, the conduit from which all of a Reth’s energies flowed. Before her, the foolish Seiyal wavered, cowering from her intimidating demeanor.

She smiled, her pointed teeth bared. A small cloud of red mist pooled from her mouth, slowly drifting towards the grow below. As it fell, it intermixed with the smog surrounding her, almost making it seem as if she were covered by an aura of blood. In essence, she thought, that may well be the truth.

Unlike the Seiyal, the Reth felt no foolish need to train themselves in combat in order to develop themselves. They simply needed to train up their endurance under harsh conditions. Every inch of the body needed to be damaged and healed before a Reth could fully awaken their latent power with the assistance of the inborn conduit all humanoids received within their blood. From there, they needed to meditate and try to grow the connection between their body and soul even stronger. This stage was the true bottleneck, and was the realm where the vast majority of Reth failed to surpass. It was also the realm that Irid and the others in the station were at currently.

Irid was actually considered rather talented at this stage, though she had no misconceptions that surpassing it might be possible for her. While her progress had been fairly steady, at her current rate it would take over a century to fully embody the conduit. It was simply too long of a timespan, and unlike the Seiyal, progression did not extend a Reth’s lifespan.

Despite the fact that they had no need for training in combat to increase their level, the Reth still very much knew how to fight. It was a necessity for life in the Pantheonic Territory, just as it had been necessary for their ancestors back on Canvas. Telles was, she thought, quite a dangerous place for a race like her own.

On the ground between Irid and her opponent, a young Seiyal had fallen, bleeding from the stump where his lower arm had previously been. It was an injury he could recover from, but Irid felt that she shouldn’t focus on him at the moment. She was, after all, about to kill a man.

The Ceirran suddenly charged, his ardor finally enough to break past his fear. With a small expulsion of green mist, Irid’s keen eyes caught the slight contorsion in his muscles as his strength more than doubled, and how his feet pressed into the stone of the floor as he quickly dashed in her direction.

Claws splayed out to either side, Irid continued to maintain her conduit, smog billowing out from within her. It was always a comforting sensation, she thought to be surrounded by the dark mist. It felt natural, as if she belonged inside of it.

Her presence was greatly reduced, and she sidestepped the blow. It was as if she had faded into the mist, her body as much a part of the smog as it was a part of her. She was bound to it, as surely as her body was to her very soul.

The essence of sanguine arts in all progression systems Irid knew of was that of contracts, but each Reth was contracted with their Mother Goddess Saaya and with the ancestral smog of their long-destroyed homeland. It allowed them to enhance their bodies and natural features, but also a variety of more esoteric abilities, sometimes even once specific to a particular Reth.

Irid’s own technique was almost like that of an extant practitioner, at first glance. A conduit went both ways, and she could drag a portion of herself out from this world, and partially merge into the mists.

The Seiyal continued a frenzied barrage of swings, but the hazy Irid continued to dodge, occasionally slashing back towards him with attacks of her own that utilized her talon-like fingernails. A Reth’s nails were considered a very attractive feature, and for the sake of vanity, Irid prided herself in keeping hers extremely long and sharp.

This practitioner, she thought, was simply too slow. His attacks were large and telegraphed ahead of time, and since she was difficult for him to see or sense, they were slightly off-target as well. She almost fell as if she were playing around with him. She was simply on another level, as far as he was concerned. Deciding not to waste time, Irid waited for the man to make a mistake, when he overcommitted to a swing and was forced to take a step forward to maintain balance. She weaved under the blow, releasing the pressure inside her soul as the conduit snapped back into place, her body fully returning to this sector of reality.

The man realized that she was behind him, but there was little that he could do before her attack landed, a brutal, crushing blow that his attempted dodge could not resrtrain. Her razor sharp fingernails tore into the flesh of the Ceirran’s back, the claws gouging deep chunks of meat out as her sanguine energies clashed with the miasma within the man’s body. He grunted, quickly coughing up blood and chunks of flesh, before she removed her hand from his internals, and he fell to the ground, as if he were replicating the motions of the formless practitioner resting on the floor just a few feet away. His mouth gaped open and shut as he stared up at her, rage still filling his eyes as the life within them faded.

A true zealot, she thought. This was no surprise. Only the most dedicated would be willing to commit such an atrocity against a force like the Redwater Sect, whose numbers largely consisted of youths.

Irid peered down at the man’s body, checking to make sure he was dead. She would feel greatly embarrassed if she were to make such a foolish mistake.

Irid had never quite understood the Seiyal fixation with wearing robes instead of body armor. She personally lacked armor because she was a civilian. For the Seiyal, the genesis practitioners in particular, there was little reason not to wear any. However, this man would have had a much greater chance of defeating her had he been properly equipped. They truly were a foolish species, each and every one of them. She might never truly understand their thought processes, she thought.

With the Ceirran slain, Irid glanced back towards the Seiyal he had wounded before she arrived. He was still breathing steadily, but she knew little of Seiyal medicine, and could not guess whether he would survive or not. Perhaps if she were to take him to a hospital, now, but she knew she could not spare such an effort, not when she still had important tasks to fulfill. There had been more than one invader, after all. Irid kneeled beside the young man, quickly deciding on her course of action.

She used her sharp claws to cut strips of cloth from the young man’s robes, and quickly fashioned a tourniquet which she cinched onto the place where his limb had been severed. If the blood loss was mitigated, he would certainly survive. Despite the pressure of the situation, Irid felt that she could spare a few moments to save the kid’s life.

Particularly given the fact that he seemed to be a formless practitioner. If it had turned out that he was one of the Riverfiend’s disciples, she would have regretted abandoning him to his demise.

Suddenly, a voice emerged, speaking from someplace behind her back. Irid spun, searching for its owner, whose presence she had not noticed, but it quickly became clear that it was emanating from the walls, presumably from some sort of hidden speaker. It was the voice of Lady Rachel.

“Do you mind if I ask you for another favor, Irid?” Rachel asked.

The words were spoken in that alien tongue which Irid had learned years ago. All Reth merchant ships needed at least one person fluent in the language of the trueborn, and one who could speak with the Staiven. Being able to speak with a Terran Shade in their native language was a great honor for Irid.

“Whatever you desire, Lady Rachel, it shall be done,” she replied.

“I am happy to hear that. The leader of the invading force is a man named Juen Hadal. I need you and the others to capture him, rather than kill him if possible.”

“Can we cripple him?” asked Irid.

“You may do so if necessary, but it would be better if you did not.”

“I see,” she replied. “I will share this with the others.”

“No need,” said Rachel. “I’m currently speaking with the others as well.”

For a moment, Irid was surprised to hear this, but then she remembered who she was speaking with. It was not strange that a being such as a trueborn Shade might be able to have learned their language within the weeks they were here. Still, it rankled her slightly to realize that she was no longer unique in her ability to communicate with the woman.

“I see,” she replied simply.

Moments later, a terminal she had placed into one of her robe’s internal pockets buzzed, and she heard a familiar voice. It was Agaral, who had been the inventory manager for their merchant group. She and him had never fully gotten along with one another.

“I’m assuming she spoke with the rest of you as well?” he asked.

“Indeed,” said Irid. “We are to capture the one named Juen.”

“How will we know who he is, though?” chuckled Agaral. “Seiyal all look the same to me.”

“Don’t worry, said Rachel, her voice suddenly appearing from the call, a matter which took Irid slightly aback. “I will tell you when you see him.”

“Much appreciated, Lady Rachel,” said Irid.

Agaral sighed theatrically, reminding Irid of why she did not particularly like him. Sequestered as they were, she had needed to deal with his attitude much more than she had previously had to.

“I find little desire to put so much effort into protecting these Seiyal,” he said.

Irid frowned as she heard his words.

“Are you really going to spout off about this where the Lady Shade may hear you? They are suborned to her, so of course we must assist,” she said. “You know well that our people owe much to Nathan Crawford and the Trueborn Children of Delithia. And we cannot forget her assistance in granting us food and housing while we are here.”

The others expressed their agreement, but Agaral did not seem to fully agree.

“There is no doubt that we will help her, in his name,” he said. “It is our honor to assist a child of Delithia. But how long do we intend to remain here? We have spent far too long kept from our people. We cannot live on Lady Rachel’s welfare forever, and I do not trust the Seiyal.”

“The Riverfiend works closely with both those Lee practitioners and with Lady Trueborn. If any Seiyal can be trusted, it is him.”

Agaral sighed, the sound crackling slightly on the communication device’s microphone.

“He is a Seiyal nonetheless, and one following the path of madness. I find it difficult to trust such men.”

“It is not a matter of trust,” she replied. “It is a matter of debt. If we failed to repay what is owed, we would stain our mother’s names.”

“Fine, then. I will drop the subject. I don’t mind the idea of slaying Ceirrans in either case.”

Irid sighed, closing the communications link. She had always felt that Agaral was a bit too close-minded about the Seiyal. After all, certain forces such as the Lee Clan could be considered their people’s closest allies. Prejudice, she thought, did little but close off opportunities for them. While she would not go so far as to trust an orthodox practitioner, Irid felt that a man like the Riverfiend might be a natural ally for them.

After all, if he was working with Lady Rachel, his goals would not be incompatible with Irid’s own.

She sighed, finishing the treatment for the young man, and returning to her feet. The Ceirran here was just one of many, and all but one would need to die for what they had attempted to do today. She had a lot more work to do.

Reth Fighting Style: [As their progression system utilizes only one type of miasma, the Reth lack such obvious and simple distinctions like the Seiyal have. Instead, the difference in Reth fighting styles is largely a matter of tactics, influenced by unique tricks and skills that a given Reth might have. One commonality between most Reth is the idea that melee weapons are unnecessary, spurning such implements in favor of their natural claws, or in modern days, the usage of firearms. Historically, they are known for using ambush and hit and run tactics, taking advantage of the sense-clouding traits of their smog, as well as their agile nature to move quickly, and strike upon their enemy’s weaknesses. According to Sunlit Hall, this is evidence of their cowardly and demonic nature.]