Just as all things must come to an end, so must all things begin anew. The Gods are so fond of their cycles.

Thousands of years ago, my cycle began. Destiny came to me, just as she came to the seven present "guardians," "chosen," "warders," whatever. She told me I would die protecting a beautiful young girl-- a girl that would seal fate and bring about peace.

Ten years later, the young girl was ravaged by barbarians as my fellow defenders fought and died around her. She never fulfilled her destiny.

What that destiny was.... I forget now. It does not matter. She failed. We failed. I failed. I live on. Why? Every classic hero has his tragic flaw-- his hubris. Every hero has something about him that makes him fail at some point in his life. Every hero fails, every hero dies. Every hero is mortal and fallible. Not I. No. I was a hero without a hubris. I was a hero who did not arouse the anger of the gods.

I was too perfect to die.

That was what I thought at the time. Little did I know that it was not my own valiant spirit that allowed me to live. No. I was no more a hero than the others that died. It was all Her choice. Destiny. She wanted me to live. She purposely cast her gaze elsewhere during the final battle where my charge died. She cast her gaze upon the others, and they all fell. She shunned me, avoided my own gaze. For that, I lived.

Time, Destiny, Fate, Reality, it all froze within me. Nothing would cause my body nor my soul to awaken from this walking stasis called immortality. Centuries passed, other heroes fought, defended, and died. I still fought on, defending the righteous, but I never died. No release.

Forever does something to the mind. You think. Think far more than a mortal mind is capable of handling without degenerating. At least, that was how my mind felt as it absorbed each new yet old experience. Redundancy in history. Cycles. Birth. Life. Death. Rebirth. Over and over again. Each life starting over with a fresh start, except my own. I craved renewal. I craved a new beginning. No. Destiny denied it to me.

So be it.

Destiny wishes to deny me my birthright-- my own death. That is her choice. This is my choice. I am The Murderer. An unclever name fitting of my blunt, brutal choice. Destiny chooses people to represent her, so shall I choose to eliminate her pets-- those that would bring about change. So shall I gather those that have likewise been shunned by Her gaze. So shall we break Destiny's grasp, and return ourselves to the cycle.

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"Greta! Cover Annalise, Jembres...Cover me. Vamp-Boy... if your around try to distract that Wizard!" Lenneth cursed under her breath. Despite her better judgment she had let Zander take the group into a bar that he said 'Was as safe as can be, and has the best whisky in Khazan'. Well... the whisky part was right, but she'd have to remember to kick the crap out of the Ex-Solider for starting the Brawl... which lead to the Police getting involved, which broke out into an All-Out Riot between a Faction of the Fallen and some Maniacal Heroes. And right in the middle of it was Annalise.

"Lenneth! Behind you!" Spinning around, Lenneth barely managed to bring her Katana, still sheathed, up in time to Block an overhead slash by some Punk with a Battle-ax. Holding 2 fingers to her forehead the Katana glowed a bright yellow and then a wind picked up, lifting the Punk up into the air, when a well placed Bullet from Jembres finished him off. Behind her She could hear the Wolf growling... she never did like that Mongrel... or the boy who always seemed to appear out of no where. For probably the 99th time she asked herself why she took this job.

"Look! All of YOU get Annalise out of here... I’ll finish this off! And next time LISTEN TO ME WHEN I SAY NOT TO DO SOMETHING" She shouted out. The feral growl behind her could only come from the Vampire. "AND IF YOU DON'T STOP OGLING MY JUGULAR I'LL STUFF GARLIC UP YOUR ASS AND OUT YOUR NOSE YOU DAMN VAMPIRE!"

"You over value your own existence mortal," Calonderial said in a quiet, and disturbingly calm voice. "I value the hunt, and fear you would prove sparse game," came the same voice, but from a shadow in the back of the bar. The other him, stood with several mortals standing in trance, fearing the death they know will come if they turn... not knowing it will come if they do not.

To Calonderial, this all was quite pointless. Mortals struggling in vain for power. A large, brutish looking man came up behind him, with a chair held over his head. He turned and stared deep into the man's eyes, peering into his soul, inducing a fear so deep that no mortal would be able to move under that gaze. With a contemptful laugh, the screaming of a man whose very essence of life was being drained from him filled the air and mingled with the sounds of the fight.

Gretta covered Annalise's ears as the screaming droned on in the background. It wasn't because Gretta wished to hide Annalise from the violence-- Annalise was far too accustomed to the screams of the dead-- she did it purely through instinct. She caressed Annalise's dirty blonde hair, slightly flattening out the curls in her hair as she stroked it.

Annalise herself wasn't nervous. She hasn't been nervous a day in her life. But rather than toughen up and refuse the protection, she simply huddled close to Gretta, purposely shying away her eyes from the carnage. She didn't need to know what was going on. She knew it all too well.

Gretta picked up the huddled Annalise with one arm. With her free arm, she reached into her coat. She slowly drew Vestian from his sheath which rested within the confines of her jacket. Vestian seemed to almost stretch outwards upon being fully exposed to the fight, rested and eager to draw blood.

The half-fey and her charge skirted their way around the battle, dodging and weaving the scum. The two reached the door, and just as Gretta was about to cleave it with her blade, the air about Gretta's nose wiffed of sulfur.

Gretta ducked to the side of the door, just as a gunshot rang out from outside. The bullet screamed through the door, narrowly missing the nonchalant Annalise, who simply turned her head to watch the bullet fly into the head of a man poised to shoot Lenneth.

Gretta spun on her heel and turned her head towards the man who was now entering the bar. He was holding an old fashioned six shooter, still smoking from the gunshot he had fired through the door.

"Annalise." Gretta whispered in a tone barely audible through the chaos. "Close your eyes. Even this will be too much for you."

Close her eyes she did, just as Gretta lifted her sword to the throat of the man as he finally set foot within the bar. Vestian did the rest of the work, almost leaping from Gretta's hand and tearing into the man's throat. As the blade traveled down his chest, ripping through his heart, lungs, and other vital organs, the wounds seemed more like bites from some beast rather than gashes from a sword. Finally, when Vestian came to the crotch of the man, he stopped, thrusted himself from the body of the gun-wielding man, and shook violently, so as to shed all of the blood and bile from his sleek form.

Gretta then resumed control and brought Vestian to her side. "You can open your eyes now, Gretta."

His ebon oculars fell upon Gretta and the child for a moment, quick steps carrying him through the thick fighting crowd, casual gunshots given as he went about covering the distance. Only a few more steps and he would be upon them, but no, some enormous dolt had to get in his way. Lips peeled back over a square jaw and the mohawked man stepped forward.

"I don't have the time for this." Jembres mentioned in a rather distant tone, ducking a hooking blow that came over his head, silk covered knee brought up into the man's groin harshly. The falling of the man was announced by an audible thunk and groan, slender digits brought up to brush off the front of Jem's suit gently. He smiled to Gretta and took her by the arm, the other hand dropping the gun into a holster before coming up to grab Annalise. Tightly knit sinew and muscle pulled the girl into an embrace against his chest as he pushed Gretta towards the door. His shoe slid into something warm and sticky, dark eyes falling to observe what it was. A dead body, how lovely. He looked to the calm child held in his arms for a moment and sighed. Despite how jaded he was she could still give him a run for his money.

How had this started again? Oh, who cared, he didn't have to pay for his alcohol this way. He looked back into the rioting room once more and then gave Gretta a soft smirk. "Just another night on the town eh?"

Throughout the chaos and carnage, Sacriel sat by his barstool, nursing his whiskey. Heaven had excellent honeyed drinks, but good whiskey was impossible to come by. Damnation, even the swill he's been reduced to drinking since joining up was impossible to come by. He managed to avoid the altercation, more or less. He didn't seem like much of a threat sitting slightly slumped over like that. The flying sword spinning around him and cutting down anyone who got too close was visually more exciting anyway.

Of course, there are always exceptions... Sacriel had noticed Jembres leaving with Gretta and the child. No, that would not do, not at all. Shifting in his seat, he went back to his drink. Narial noticed the shift and gratefully returned to her sheath. They've been fighting together a long time now, and she knew the signal for her to return. Unlike Vestian, she found no pleasure in carnage. If she could, she would throw up everytime she even had to administer a cut, much less a kill. As she re-entered her sheath, she directed her hate toward him once more. There she was, having to take the lives of more or less innocents and here he was, back turned to the murders, having a drink.

...Sacriel sighed as he felt the loathing on him. It was tiring the first time. As he stood up and downed the rest of his drink, a few patrons noticed the now absent blade and decided to chance it. They didn't know why, it was pointless to get into a brawl in a situation like this when people were getting killed left and right, but something drew them. They weren't fighters, they weren't metas, they weren't even packing. They were just normal patrons, yeah, sure the bar's got its share of punks, rabble rousers and so forth, but bar brawls almost never degenerated to this. Still, they were drawn. Something was pushing them, it wasn't the adrenaline, it wasn't the noises around them, it was something more. They walked up to him, their eyes showing their killing intent, but it was a detached sort of intent. They knew they had to kill him, they knew it's what they wanted to do, but it wasn't from blood lust, it wasn't that they were even aware that they knew they wanted to kill, it just was.

As they closed on him, Sacriel shot them his "Go ahead, piss me off" look. The first patron slowed a bit at that, holding the others back. Looking around him, Sacriel noted the fight was coming to a head. The others had done admirably, the child was out of the bar and presumably safe for the time being, the rest were just having their fun now. He turned his attention back to the patrons before him and decided that deterrence was the prudent course of action. He moved his hand up the first patron's chest and as it drew near, the flesh on the patron's chest fell away, allowing free access for Sacriel to pull the heart out. As he drew his hand back, the patron's chest closed back up, good as ever. Sacriel put the still beating heart up for his would be assailants to see before tossing it over his back. A shuffling was heard, a light growl and other assorted and decidedly fleshy sounds were heard. There, the dog was fed, the others can clean up, he's done his share.

The patrons stood there, stunned. The first patron was visibly... uncomfortable. Taking that as his cue, Sacriel faded out and reappeared outside to catch up with Jembres and the others. As for the patrons, he believed his deterrent was enough. Perhaps now they would think twice before listening to that non-existent bitch Destiny. Compared to Destiny, Lenneth was in a perpetual afterglow. As for the first patron, well, living without a heart was reportedly a less than ideal lifestyle. And live the patron would, for a long long time. He's made sure of that. He also made sure the group would have a new ally should the need arise. If he were to die before he could undo what he did, the patron would never die and know release. If and when the time comes, that patron could prove useful.

Ah, there we are, Jembres and the other two. Now to wait for the rest...

A body, bald, green, glistening scales slick with blood, rocketed through the swinging saloon doors that led to the back room. Another, slightly more humanoid but no less injured followed seconds later, thudding into the mass of humanity, alienity, divinity, and just about everything else-ity that currently clogged the barroom. The mass didn't notice. It didn't notice much, except for itself.

Several screams and a rather wet thud filtered through from the back door, barely audible over the roaring crowd. The doors flew back so fast that they came dangerously close to breaking the sound barrier, and a man strode through them.

Zander Jacobin looked like a force of nature. His face, all hard planes and angles, was contorted into an open smile, his dark eyes gleaming through black, mirrored glasses. A long tear in the black shirt beneath his tan trenchcoat revealed pale, glistening rolls of muscle. In one hand, he held a crate of whiskey.

His eyes panned expertly through the chaos, picking out Calonderial, Lenneth, Sacriel, and the rest. He didn't see Annalise, which meant that Gretta had taken her out, which meant that Jembres had probably gone with both of them. Which meant that, at least for the moment, the fun was over.

Spoilsports.

Tucking the crate, with its fragile, valuable contents, closer to his body, Zander waded into the fray. Nobody gave way before him. It is generally impossible to give way when every square inch of ground about one is clogged with people who are trying to kill, maim, wound, or otherwise do things detrimental to one's health and welfare. However, somehow, he moved forward.

"Ummm... excuse me, neighbor... Terribly sorry about your hand, there... Sorry, the drinks are for company members ONLY, have to insist... I do hope that you can regrow that arm... I'd give you the address of a doctor, but I really don't have the time..."

True, the crowd did not give way before him. However, it did most certainly give way after him. This was probably due to the fact that people do not like to be very close to dramatic, personal evidence of their incipient mortality. And, of course, the fact that most sane people, even in the middle of a barfight, don't like getting the blood, bile, and similar bodily fluids of their fellow barfighters splattered all over their clothes.

Off to Zander's left, a young man in military fatigues pointed a gun towards the flimsy balsa-wood front door and fired three shots. There were only two doors to the bar. Zander had just emerged from one of them, which meant that the punk was firing at the door Jembres and Gretta had taken the girl out of. Of course, the chance of him actually hitting anything was very small, but Zander didn't like chance. It was so uncertain.

He turned and began working his way through the crowd, towards the punk with the gun, rolling over bystanders and combatants alike, like a freight train squishing pennies to the tracks. In a matter of minutes, only one man stood between him and the punk, a large fellow, something like seven feet tall and almost as wide. In a flash of clarity, Zander got the impression of "big", and "muscles". His hand blurred out, and the bulky fellow collapsed to the ground howling, meaty arms closed protectively over his crushed ribcage.

The punk turned to face Zander just as he stepped over the fallen muscleman. Their eyes met, Zander's cold blue gaze piercing through mirrored glasses, into the kid's nanotech-modified diamond retinas... The gun came around, a streak of gray-green...

Zander's jab lifted the punk off the ground and sent him rocketing backwards through the crowd, into the wall next to Calonderial and his happy meal.

With a shrug, Zander clenched his leather-gloved fist until the knuckles cracked. As he turned to walk out the door, still clutching the whiskey crate to his body, he whistled a slow, half-remembered tune...

A tune that Sdaehri quickly picked up on. Clapping his hands to the rhythm. Watching and giggling along in a happy revelry, all whilst the wolf tore through the last few remaining patrons of the bar.

"life hard. us know. you live. you hurt. you die. us know, us will die. but us have fun 'til then. you no have fun. sorry. wolf not sorry though. wolf only like hurt. no like play. you like hurt too. you fight. you try hurt chosen. bad. so you no complain. you get what you ask. us sorry still. us no like blood. is messy icky. but wolf. wolf like."

Sdaehri rambled on, even after the wolf finally ravaged his final victim and disappeared back into the aether. All that was left was the little boy, still clapping along to the happy song of Zanders, mumbling on and on about the odd thing called destiny...