Aftermath

[Strazio Rockwell]

Illidan Stormrage. The name nested in Strazio’s brain, worming into his psyche like a parasite. In a matter of minutes that stranger had found his way to the top of the rage mage’s list. He wasn’t quite sure he knew what an elf was, but it did not matter Illidan would be dead regardless. Strazio glared at Kerrigan’s rapidly deteriorating corpse. Sparks danced across his flesh, fizzling out into the open air. As champions fell the battle slowly smoldered to a halt. The defenders had won, but the battlefield told a story of great loss. Defenders lay dead and dying, their bodies scattered outside Darkshire’s walls. The attackers were in full retreat, with the only remaining forces being too feral or too stupid to follow their leader.

Strazio fell to a knee, the twin afflictions of fatigue and blood loss dragging him down. He looked down at the series of puncture wounds in his gut, each of them vomiting dark red blood. A growl escaped his lips and he smacked his fist against the wounds, trying to use the pain as a means to revitalize himself. His world drew back into focus and he used scraps of his energy to sear shut the open blood vessels. The recovery process would be an arduous one and his insistence on cauterizing every cut would only make it worse. Taking a deep breath he stood and took a step forward. The battle wasn’t over until every last attacker was dead.

“Strawso!” the clown’s voice shouted at him.

He had almost forgotten about the high-blood. Gamzee broke into a half-jog and came side-by-side to Strazio. The white haired mage regarded his apprentice with a nod.

“So you won?” Strazio asked.

“Kind of,” he said and shrugged, “still in one piece ain’t I?”

“Yeah, well, wish I could say the same,” Strazio said and spit.

Gamzee leaned over and inspected his companion’s wounds, “that looks like it hurts bro, you gonna be okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” Strazio answered, his body shivering, “we’ve got a battle to finish.”

The mage started to trudge forward, but faltered and fell to a knee once again. He cursed himself and stood up again. Just how much blood had he lost? Probably more than most people could stand to lose. Gamzee followed along, his face scrunched into a worried expression. He knew Strawso was tough, but everyone had their limits. Then an idea hit him, ingenious in its simplicity. From seemingly nowhere he produced a plastic bottle filled with a sparkling red elixir. He unscrewed the cap and tossed it aside before jogging to catch up with Strazio. The troll threw one arm around the injured mage and held the open bottle up to his face.

“Here brother,” Gamzee said, “it looks like you could use some motherfucking liquid refreshment.”

The sugary sweet scent assaulted Strazio’s nostrils and his stomach turned. With a clumsy hand Strazio pushed the fizzling drink away, but Gamzee was insistent and pushed it back. There was no escape this time. Swallowing his pride the mage snatched the sugary drink from his companion. He drank and he drank, his brain lighting up as the carbonated beverage assaulted his senses. He had never had anything quite like it and, to his surprise,  it was good.

“It’s sweet,” he said in between gulps.

“That's the motherfucking miracles doing their mirthful work,” he said, “drink up.”

Drink he did, guzzling the sparkling red liquid as fast as he could. Strazio finished the Faygo and tossed it aside. He wiped his lips with the back of arm and growled. His head was still fuzzy, but his body felt full of energy, jittery, sugary energy. The rage-mage stomped forward, his apprentice matched stride. 

“All right, let's put these bastards into the ground,” Strazio said.

Cleaning up the stragglers proved to be relatively painless. Strazio and Gamzee made their way from one end of the killing fields to the other, leaving a path of crumpled corpses. It was a slog to end all slogs, several hours worth of combat stacked on end. Once they had finished their warpath they made their way back to the breach in Darkshire’s wall. Makeshift medical tents had been constructed to deal with the injured. The mage refused treatment, and Gamzee was unscathed beyond a few scrapes and bruises. Strazio found a knee-high chunk of rubble and sat down.

For a long time he sat and watched the medics go about their work. Long ago he had dabbled in healing magick, or tried to, the precise and focused movements required proved to be beyond his control. It pained him to think that his job was done, Darkshire was safe, and now it was up to others to pick up the pieces. This was his limitation, he was a destroyer and that was all that he could do. His absent thinking stumbled back to Mara and Collin, they were always there to pick up the pieces. He glanced over at Gamzee and then back across the battlefield. The war wasn’t over, but it was now time to rest. Strazio, burned up and exhausted, stretched out across the shattered section of wall and closed his eyes.

[Strazio Rockwell]

Strazio did not rest for long. When he opened his eyes not much had changed. The remnants of Darkshire’s militia worked to pick up the pieces. Strazio watched them, his body too much of a battered mess to provide meaningful assistance. Turning to his apprentice Strazio only found empty space, the young troll had wandered off somewhere. Not that the mage minded, peace and quiet was hard to come by with his hyperactive companion. In the distance he caught sight of a limping warrior, a man clad in hardened leather armor and covered in blood. As the stranger approached a familiarity washed over Strazio and he stood to greet the man.

“Rumford!” he shouted.

“Hell of a day isn't it Straz?” Rumford responded, his voice strained from overexertion.

“Indeed,” Strazio said, taking a few steps closer to the sergeant,  “are you okay? You look like hell.”

“You look pretty banged up yourself, I’ll be fine, just a few close calls is all,  it’s been awhile since I’ve seen a battle like that, lost a lost of people today.”

Strazio frowned and looked off into the distance, “this’ll be the last one if I have anything to say about it, I’m tired of this shit, I’m ready to kick down Dracula’s door.”

“Well I hope you're right, I’m getting to be too much of an old fart for this shit,” he said with a chuckle.

For a the two stood and stared across the battlefield. Rumford unclasped his helmet and held it to his side. He had gotten lucky and he knew it. Sure his skill carried him a decent ways, but the only difference between him and a corpse was little more than a coin flip. His squad had been devastated in the first wave and although he had experienced such wholesale slaughter before it still burdened him. He sighed and sat against the crumbled section of wall and stretched out his limbs.

“It never gets easier does it Strazio?” he asked, “death I mean.”

Strazio didn't answer.

“I’ve lost count of how many soldiers I’ve seen perish, fathers, mothers, brothers, daughters, you’d think it’d get easier seeing good people die, that their deaths wouldn't phase you as much,” he paused, “maybe I’m just not cut out for this.”

“People die,” Strazio responded, “and sometimes good people die for the wrong reasons, it ain’t right, but that’s how life is, that's why I fight, Rumford, sometimes I can't save them, but I sure as hell can get revenge for them.”

Another empty space filled with nothing but the quiet hustle and bustle of those around them. A messenger, clad in yellow stripes and pennants, ran towards them. Upon reaching the two she stopped, clearly out of breath.

“Sergeant,” she said exasperated.

“Messenger,” Rumford responded.

“A member of the junta has been murdered, you, Sergeant Ruthergive, and Sergeant Mallon have been ordered to return to the town hall with your men and secure the area,” she said, “do you understand?”

Strazio’s mouth hung open, a tingling sensation travelled through his lower back.

Rumford spoke, “all my men are dead.”

“Your appearance is still required,” the young girl responded and without waiting for a reply took off in a dead sprint.

“Fuck,” the sergeant said, re-equipping his helmet and standing up.

“I’m coming with,” Strazio said and stepped past his companion. 

Darkshire was in a state of semi-controlled chaos. Soldiers stormed up and down the streets, each of them heading to their personal posts and tending to their duties. The capitol building was swarming with civilians and soldiers alike, the news of a slain politician traveled fast and a soft panic shuddered throughout the city. Strazio pushed pashed a wall of bodies and stormed through the large wooden doors. Inside he was stopped by a captain and several guards. Rumford stepped in behind his hot headed companion.

“Let me through,” Strazio demanded.

“Sergeant Rumford reporting for duty sir,” Rumford said, pulling Strazio back by the neck of his shirt.

The captain nodded and pointed towards the door, “greetings Sergeant, you and your men are to form a perimeter around the town hall, allow no one in or out.”

“My men are all dead Captain Ruiz,” Rumford responded.

“I see,” Ruiz said, furrowing his brow, “this whole thing is turning into more of a clusterfuck every minute.”

Strazio stepped between the two and asked, “who was murdered?”

“Now who the hell are you?” Captain Ruiz said, instinctively puffing up his chest.

“Strazio Rockwell.”

“Ah you’re a prime, well, prime or not you’d do well to respect the chain of command,” the captain said, his voice raising in intensity, “especially in times like these.”

Strazio growled and threw his hands up, “I don’t give a fuck about the chain of command, I need to know who the fuck died Omni damnit!”

Captain Ruiz narrowed his eyes and stepped chest-to-chest with the prime.

“You wanna try that again soldier?”

Strazio grinded his teeth and locked eyes with the indignant captain. Small sparks danced across the prime’s body, faint vestiges of his barely-controlled power. Exhaustion and anger formed a powerful tonic and clouded his judgement. Strazio cursed under his breath and took a step back. Rumford exhaled upon seeing his friend step down. He exhaled too soon. Strazio’s body sizzled and erupted into a cloud of sparkling motes of energy. They surged past the captain and his guards, reforming on the other side as a white-haired and very frustrated prime. The transformation took a toll on his body and little fingers of smoke drifted from his flesh. Before the others could think to react he broke into a dead sprint and rushed through the halls. A minute later he had rushed past a few other guards and slammed open the door to Demitri’s office. 

It was a bloodbath.

“No…”

Demetri’s body was splayed open, torn apart by some unholy force. Strazio’s heart stopped and skipped several beats. Exhausted both mentally and physically he collapsed in the doorway, falling to his knees. His fingertips dug into the floorboards, his nails scratching against the wood. A tightness formed in his throat and he fought back the urge to tear up. Behind him he could hear the rushing footsteps of the guardsmen sent to retrieve him. His eyes caught sight of a curious red stone, a tiny ruby embedded into the wood. Familiar. He sat up and pinched the stone between his fingers and examined it. The prime remembered his first foray into the Pale Moors. He tossed the stone into a pool of blood and after a few seconds it sizzled and a small explosion sent a puff of smoke into the air.

“Nemesis,” he muttered.

Behind him he heard the guards finally catch up and he stood to greet them. Rumford was with them and urged the prime to leave. One of the guardsmen grabbed Strazio’s arm and tugged at him. In a blur of motion Strazio snatched the man’s wrist and held it in the air.

“Don’t you ever touch me again,” Strazio growled.

Once outside Strazio split from Rumford and returned to the breach in Darkshire’s walls. Once outside the confines of Darkshire he screamed. He yelled and shouted and cussed and cried out in vain. His throat burned and his lungs wheezed after every torrent of aggression. Coils of white lightning wrapped around his arms and he fired spear after spear of magick into the sky. His already diminished reserved of energy reached empty. Soldiers watched from afar as their defender threw a tantrum. Strazio raged at the injustice of the world. He cursed Omni for creating such a world and he cursed Dracula for exploiting it. He fired another blast of energy and it fizzled out halfway. Strazio tried to fire again but was able to conjure nothing more than a small smattering of sparks. He screamed one last time and fell to his knees, utterly exhausted.

[Strazio Rockwell]

“You’re a sorry state for a defendah,” a familiar voice, speaking broken English called out to Strazio.


An unwelcome visitor that Strazio did not care to indulge. Hooded and clad in ragged leather armor the man strolled towards the fallen prime, his crooked teeth shaped into a smile. Strazio stood. Damaged cords of muscles twitched and writhed beneath his skin, begging their owner to rest. The man carried an acoustic guitar, rather the remains of one, it had been smashed in half. Strazio narrowed his bloodshot eyes and glanced at the familiar guitar. Something registered in his mind, but he couldn’t put his finger on quite what it was. A subconscious realization that sent his heart into a rapid-fire drumroll.


“Fuck off Rook,” he said, “I’m not in the mood to deal with some second-rate scout.”


“Shame,” Rook answered and lowered his hood.


The man’s face shuddered and twisted as if a thousand critters were hidden under his skin. Black smoke poured from his mouth and obscured the rest of his rapidly shifting body. Bones crunched and snapped into place. Ligaments stretched and rebounded to their newfound positions. From behind the veil of smoke Demetri stepped forward. He smiled at Strazio’s confusion.


“Are you in the mood to deal with me?”


“Who the fuck are you?” Strazio asked, pointing a shaky finger at the doppelganger.


Demetri pretended to be shocked and held up the broken guitar, “why I’m your friend Demetri, want me to play you a song, I remember you liked my music.”


There was a moment of silence. A low-lying fog of smog pooled around their ankles and began to slowly rise. Strazio grinded his teeth, and clenched his fists. What little energy he had left focused itself into a torrid ball of rage that nested itself in his chest. Without a word he pointed an open palm towards the interloper. He dumped every last ounce of energy into his hand, every last scrap of rage and discontent. And were it not for his earlier tantrum it would have been a tremendous attack, but as it stood nothing more than a sparkler’s amount of lightning erupted from his fingertips. Demetri laughed and threw the shattered guitar at Strazio’s feet.


“Out of juice Strazio?”


“Bite me,” Strazio said and lowered his arm.


Coils of shadow wrapped around Demetri’s legs as he sauntered towards the weakened defender. Strazio stood his ground, full of impotence and rage. Demetri’s face crumbled into a cloud of ash, revealing a set of glowing orange eyes. Where there was once a human face there was now an expressionless mask. There was no mouth, only a triangular-shaped vent that exhaled smoke. He carried a sword, double-edged and studded with ruby flecks, across his shoulder. As he approached Strazio swung at him, a wild haymaker that carried little force. The doppleganger kicked him in the chest and sent him sprawling belly-up.


“You better banish me Nemesis,” Strazio growled, “you’ve got a large debt to pay and nothing short of the Underverse will stop me from coming to collect.”


“Do you know how many people your imputence has slain?” Nemesis asked, his voice filtered through a respirator.


Strazio did not respond.


“Quite a few,” Nemesis spoke, “you see I’ve never died before, I really should be thanking you, that week I spent waiting to be resurrected gave me time to think, you want to know what I thought about Strazio?”


Strazio turned his head away.


“Not even a guess? You’re a lot more reasonable without your powers,” the hunter paused to chuckle and then continued, “I thought about vengeance Strazio, and you know what I did once I was reborn? I went back to your little watchtower, and you would not believe how disapointed I was to discover that neither you nor your friend were there, but instead a bunch of greenhorns, and I tortured every last one of them, you know what they told me? They told me that you had left for Dante’s Abyss and your friend had been promoted. Well I couldn’t just follow you to D.A. so I found our dear friend Rook and used his likeness to infiltrate Darkshire, you see, I’m very patient and this moment is my reward.”


“Just kill me already,” Strazio responded and raised his middle finger.


“If you insist.”


Nemesis raised his sword, bisecting the sky above his prey. Strazio kept his eyes open and fixed upon the sharp edge, a familiar look of frustration painted across his face. Of all the deaths he had experienced in the Omniverse, this one was by far the most insulting. Without fanfare the hunter swung, cleaving through the air. It took a moment for Strazio to register what had happened. The point of the blade stopped mere inches from his forehead. Wrist thick vines coiled themselves around the blade, and pulled against Nemesis keeping it locked in place.


“Now now, we’ve had enough death for one day,” a lyrical voice called out through the smog.


Prancing through the shadows came a man clad in green. His robe, which was more of a long-sleeved dress, fluttered against the slight breeze. From his wrist came the bundle of vines and as he approached they were pulled taut, keeping a constant pressure against the sword. He smiled a sweet smile and waved at the two combatants.


“Wouldn’t you agree?” he asked Nemesis.


“Who the hell are you?” Nemesis shot back.


The green man smiled and bowed, “my name is Valerie LaMolle, normally I’d offer to shake your hand, but given the current state of affairs I’m under the impression that would be ill-advised.”


“You’re not going to save him,” Nemesis responded and tried to free his blade, “he was dead the moment he messed with me.”


“Ah, your tenacity is quite lovely,” Val chirped, “wouldn’t you agree Strazio? You always seem to make the most wonderful friends.”


“Either kick his ass or fuck off Valerie,” Strazio shouted, crawling out from underneath the blade

[Gamzee Makara]

Gamzee kinna just wandered around the medical enclosure for a while. Then, when he was bored of that, he wandered across the empty battlefield like a lonely spectre. There was this weird heaviness in the atmosphere, something that was all kinds of new and uncomfortable to the alien teen. Except that it wasn’t exactly a bad feeling, it was just there. Very present and tangible, something that he assumed he was going to have to get used to. The quietness of no man’s land after the battle was a surreal thing. The stench of blood and mud a-and things burning so much burning.

It was a little much.

But something about this atmosphere felt natural to Gamzee. It was as if every breath he took walking through the fields of death felt clear and collected, despite the heavy musk of dead things. Quite frankly, it scares him a little bit. Sure, trolls were used to killing each other for shits and giggles, but all of this unnecessary death really should’ve been killing his good vibes. It wasn’t - hence his uneasiness. That’s a good word for this feeling. Uneasiness. Soothing uneasiness. As he carefully hopscotched through a muddy patch of ruined road, his head was full of brain soup. Everything feels muggy and invigorating at the same time and it was a very frustrating feeling because the poor clown can’t quite figure out how all this death and decay REALLY makes him feel.

On one hand, his body felt like he had just chugged a gallon or four of Faygo. He could almost feel that wicked elixir coursing through his veins. On the other, he just feels so very sad, and a little disgusted with how amazing the atmosphere makes him feel. I mean sure the fighting was hella good fun, all smashy and bashy and clowning around, but then again he wasn’t lying face down in the mud juggling his entrails like half of these poor secondary dudes.

“That’s me, brother. That’s all me.”

Gamzee stops in his tracks and whirls around so fast he almost slips. He opens his mouth to speak, to ask a question, but no sound comes out. He’s afraid that if he said something it’d be his voice or that the voice would be him or something equally nonsensical.

“All this chaos and entropy and shit. Feels good man. Real good.”

No, nononono, no. He was not doing this right now. This is not something that’s happening. Gamzee starts running back in the direction of life and safety, towards the medical tents and military encampments.

“Oh don’t mind me, motherfucker. I’m straight coolin’ in this bitchin’ head of yours. Hella chillin’.”

“Shut up,” Gamzee murmurs to himself, almost tripping over a couple of corpses in his mad sprint.

“Just wait, brother. It’s a wicked reckoning coming on. It’s a Murder Party, motherfucker! And you’re the hos-”

The voice fades into the recesses of his mind, out of Gamzee’s mental reach as he nearly smacks right into tent of vague importance. The canvas smacks him out of his fervor, bringing him back to earth. Or uh, Omniverse. Whatever. Maybe he should find Strawso, ask him if this was a normal part of getting in touch with the magey part of his ragey side... Or if he should go ahead and start swilling slime again. Gamzee tilts his head to the sky, unsure of who to pray to anymore. The Mirthful Messiahs aren’t here, man, just that Omni dude. And even if they were, they probably couldn’t help him with this. It’s gonna take more than every miracle conceivable.

His attention is brought to the particular portion of sky that happens to have spears of white energy being shot through it, the particular portion of sky that happens to be right above the breach.

-------

It wasn’t hard to find Strazio Rockwell; all the alien had to do was follow the sounds of a cranky rage mage. Gamzee wasn’t really sure what was happening, but it seemed to require the attention of someone who was pretty good at the talking thing.

“Whoooooaaaaaaakay there I’m kinda with the green guy on this one. I’ve seen enough of all that dyin’ shit today. No more killin’, no sir.”

Something felt weird about saying that. Gamzee wasn’t sure if he was really one hundred percent certain as every word coming out of his mouth. That didn’t matter though, all he had to do was say it with feeling. Strazio raised an eyebrow at his apprentice. The smokey, creepy motherfucker tilts his head a bit to the left, apparently bemused by the interruption.

Valerie was the first to respond. He did so with a pleasant tone and smile, clasping his hands together. “Ah! Finally, another level-headed individual. How fortuitous.”

[Strazio Rockwell]

By now their immediate surroundings had been consumed by the choking fog. Whispers and distant screams faded in and out, like they were in the heart of some schizophrenic’s brain. Nemesis stood eerily still, every muscle frozen and unmoving. Shrouds of shadow washed over him, and were it not for the bright orange headlights he called eyes one would be hard-pressed to spot him. Valerie fidgeted, not for fear or nervousness, but rather the byproduct of an uncontrollable compulsion. Strazio had managed to crawl a few feet away from his attacker, but his weakened state made movement difficult.

“Ah, the prodigal apprentice Gamzee Makara,” Nemesis spoke, his voice filtered and reverberated through the mask.

“Woah, that’s creepy,” Gamzee said, a row of icicles digging into his spine, “how’d you know my motherfuckin’ name bro?”

“That isn’t all I know about you,” Nemesis responded.

On an almost subconscious level the troll could feel something picking away at his brain. A strange vulnerability shuddered through his body and his stomach did a backflip. The thing that stood before him absolutely oozed bad juju. He tried to spot Strazio, but the white-haired was buried beneath two feet of smoke. On instinct his body tensed and entered a fighting stance, his clubs materializing in a puff of rainbow smoke.

“So quick to violence,” Nemesis chided, “you’re a lot like you friend Strazio, except he doesn’t pretend to be a peace-loving hippy.”

“Fret not my horned companion,” Valerie interjected, “this one speaks with a tongue dipped in silver, but his words are as weightless as this fog.”

“Are they though?” Nemesis responded, “my eyes do not lie, and I see into your wretched little heart troll, and you know what I see?”

Gamzee turned his head down and spit a faygo-infused lugey, “I don’t care what you see brother.”

“I see the heart of a coward and a murderer, a creature too afraid to admit that it’d rather see the world dead.”

“Silence you!” Valerie commanded and sent a veritable tidal wave of thorned vines at the interloper.

The vines wrapped around Nemesis, strangling his limbs and cutting into his clothing. Where there should have been blood, there was only smoke. The hunter laughed. He laughed and laughed, an echoing chortle as ephemeral as their surroundings.

“Don’t worry,” he taunted, “I’ll be back to kill you all, well, that is if your grey-skinned friend doesn’t beat me to it.”

Without another word the man exploded into a puff of smoke. After a few seconds the unearthly miasma dissipated, and Valerie strolled over to the downed Strazio. The green mage crouched next to his pupil and placed two fingers on his neck. A pulse, faint and slow, but still present. Gamzee watched from a distance, his mind spiraling in on itself.

“Help me drag him back to Darkshire,” Val shouted over his shoulder.

Snapping out of his stupor the troll responded, “uh yeah, sure I gotcha brother.”

---

The medical tent was filled to capacity with the injured and maimed. Teams of surgeons, clerics, and other medical personnel worked feverishly to stitch up the fresh tide of wounded. Strazio opened his eyes to the sight of a surgeon finishing the last stitch on his torso. His entire body hurt and it felt like a line of fire was cut through his gut. He was used to this body-encompassing pain, but it was never pleasant. Valerie sat across from him, twiddling his thumbs and humming pleasantly. Gamzee sat on the floor, scratching a pattern in the dirt with a stick. Strazio held up a fist and smacked the edge of his bed.

“God Dammit,” he muttered.

“You’re awake, splendid!” Valerie said, clapping his hands together.

Strazio sighed.

“Now tell me my perpetually perturbed tulip, just who is your friend here?” Valerie said, “he’s been awfully quiet.”

“That’s Gamzee, he’s my partner,” Strazio said.

Valerie’s mouth dropped open for a bit and then he grinned, “oh, that is wonderful Strazio, I’m so glad that you’ve found a lover in this wonderful world.”

“Pffft,” Gamzee exhaled air through his mouth, and snickered.

“No, damnit, Val you’re pissing me off,” Strazio fumed, “he’s not my lover, you bastard.”

“Yeah, he’s teachin’ me how to sling spells and all that mystical shit,” Gamzee added.

Strazio shot the troll a withering glance and he got the feeling he had said something that should not have been said.

“He’s teaching you magick?” Valerie asked, biting the tip of his thumb.

The two primes answered simultaneously, Gamzee said yes while Strazio said no. They shared a glance and Strazio threw his hands up in indignation.

“Fuck it, I’ve got nothing to hide,” Strazio said, “yeah I’m teaching him magick.”

“Oh my,” Valerie said, putting his hands to his mouth, “you’ve barely got a grasp on your own magick, has he performed the rite yet?”

“Yeah,” the white haired boy said and avoided eye contact.

“Oh no no no, that is not good at all,” Val turned to Gamzee, “has he gone through the tenants of magick with you? The risks? Anything?”

Gamzee scratched the back of his neck, and looked to Straz for guidance “uh, yeah?”

“Oh my poor peculiar little Gamzee, he has not has he? You understand that magick is primarily emotion-based and that if one does not have a strong grip on their psyche it can have disastrous results.”

“Oh come off it Val,” Strazio said, “I was pretty unstable and I turned out fine.”

“Hardly, were it not for your tempestuous temper your grasp on magick would be nonexistent,” Valerie said, “and even still your magick is so destructive that I’m surprised you haven’t killed yourself with it.”

Strazio remembered the fight with Harbinger, and the fact that he had killed himself with his own magick.

Strazio’s phone buzzed and he checked it. He spent a few moments reading his messages. The Rock had sent him a series of texts regarding the upcoming Dante’s Abyss. At first it annoyed him, but then he remembered his prize from the first Dante’s Abyss, The Necronomicon. An artifact of unrestrained power and the perfect weapon to realize his revenge.

“I’m done with this shit Val,” Strazio growled, sitting up in his bed, “my apprentice and I have places to be, and I don’t really want to sit here and listen to this garbage.”

“Fine, corrupt this young practitioner and send him down the path of unrestrained rage like yourself,” Valerie shrugged, “I’ve little stake in this beyond my disappointment.”

“Oh fuck off already.”

[Strazio Rockwell]

“Come on let’s get going,” Strazio said.
 
The battle-scarred mage tried to sit up in bed and stopped about halfway. His body shuddered and he laid back down. After a few seconds of angry breathing he tried again, and once again he stopped halfway before falling back down. Small globules of blood seeped through the dressing around his gut and he clutched the stained cloth. Under his breath he cursed and tried to move again, this time he didn’t even make it halfway. Beads of sweat trickled down his brow.
 
“It hurts,” Strazio groaned and turned onto his side.
 
“You must rest my vicious young friend,” Valerie said, “you’ve got time, your bloodsport doesn’t begin for a few days, so please rest.”
 
Once again Strazio tried to rise.
 
“Oh my sweet summer child,” Valerie sighed and held his palm in front of Strazio’s face, “go to sleep.”
 
From his palm sprouted a blue and purple flower. Strazio went cross-eyed trying to focus on the yellow center of the plant. It took only a moment before Strazio recognized the flower. He managed to get out the “oh” of “oh, no you fucking don’t” before a puff of golden powder covered his face. He tried not to breath, but the cloud of pollen agitated his nose and he sneezed. His body grew heavy and within seconds he was sound asleep.
 
Valerie sighed and looked over at Gamzee, “what an unfortunate soul.”
 
The troll shrugged and said, “he’s alright.”
 
There was a moment of silence before Val clapped his hands together and stood up.
 
“At any rate it cannot be helped,” he said, “as powerful as he is he must make for a terrible teacher, come along now dear Gamzee, I’d be remiss if I did not offer my tutelage to such a fresh practitioner.”
 
Gamzee stood up and glanced at the sleeping Strazio, “what about him, he gonna be alright?”
 
“Ah, yes, yes, he needs the rest,” Val answered, “he’ll be cognisant in a few hours, the Circadian Rose doesn’t last very long.”
 
---
 
Perhaps it was idle curiosity that entranced the troll or perhaps it was a simple case of boredom; perhaps the troll did not even know why he followed Valerie, but he did. The two wandered beyond the walls of Darkshire and into a nearby grove, or rather the remains of one. As with most things in the moors what was once a prosperous font of life was now a decrepit shade of its former glory. Harsh weeds strangled the life from anything that dared to grow. A smattering of dead and dying trees scratched the grey sky above them and sludge-filled lake bubbled and frothed nearby. Valerie hummed softly, oblivious to the rot around him.
 
“This place is giving me all kinds of nasty vibes,” Gamzee remarked.
 
“Ah yes, it is a wretched place indeed, but we are short on time so it will have to do,” Valerie answered, “shall we begin?”
 
The troll rubbed the back of his neck and replied, “yeah, sure, let’s cast some motherfuckin’ spells and shit.”
 
“Splendid,” Val said and clapped his hands together, “now there are a few things you must know before we begin, and this may be a bit much so please try to listen.”
 
Gamzee nodded.
 
“Firstly, magick is inherently entropic, it requires a catalyst, one that will be damaged or sometimes completely consumed in the process, for Strazio that catalyst is his flesh and blood, for you it may be something as simple as a rock,” Valerie began speaking, his hands performing intricate motions as he continued, “secondly, magick is more of an art than a science, just as an artist’s skill exists within his hands rather than brush, magick is powered by your own fortitude rather than any external force.”
 
The troll looked at his hands, scrunched his face for a moment, and then raised his palm outwards.
 
“S’aight,” he said, shaking his hand, “so how do I go about slinging righteous lightnin’ bolts like my compadre’?”
 
Valerie wagged his finger in the air, “now that is tricky.”
 
He scampered over to a tree and rubbed his hand along the bark. Once he found a suitable spot his dug his nails into the bark and ripped off a chunk. A thorn sprouted from his fingertip and he etched a sigil onto the smooth side of the chunk. Once his engraving was done he walked over to the troll and handed the piece to his student. Gamzee held the bark up to his nose and sniffed it. He wasn’t sure if it smelled like magick, but then again he wasn’t sure what magick smelled like in the first place. 
 
“Magick is channeled through your emotions,” Valerie began again, “a heart filled with rage can only hope to produce destruction, while a more reserved practitioner could conjure something as permanent as a mountain, the heart is your guiding star when it comes to magick, that piece of bark will be your temporary catalyst, close your eyes and imagine that sigil, trace it with your mind’s eye and focus on it, breath and allow your instincts to guide you.”

[Strazio Rockwell]

The white-haired boy sat, hugging his knees, in front of his friend’s grave. He had been sitting there for a long time. A familiar rifle rested against his shoulder, cradled between his arms with the barrel in the air. It was an old VSS Vintorez, issued to members of Russia’s special forces. Not that the boy knew that, words like Vintorez and Russia were foreign to him; having existed in, quite literally, another universe. At his side, muddy and broken in half, sat an acoustic guitar. The grave itself was simple, a mound of dirt with a headstone that read “Here lies Demetri Khrushchev, Defender of Darkshire and her people, may he rest in peace.” Shovels, wielded by tireless gravediggers echoed across the graveyard, as their wielders moved earth to bury the fallen.

“Ah yes Strazio, the unfortunate duality of existence, life and death, one pointless without the other,” a voice called out to the boy.

Strazio did not lift his head, he knew who the voice belonged to. His former teacher, clad in green, sat down next to him. The flamboyant mage studied his pupils face. Much of the dirt had been washed away and all that remained was a few bruises and faint bloodstains. Valerie sighed and looked to the sky.

“What a melancholy day,” he said, “though cliched it would be a proper day for rain.”

After a few seconds of silence Strazio answered, “I hate the rain.”

“Yes, but without it we’d starve, my friend.”

There was a long patch of silence. They watched pallbearers pass by, carrying the latest corpse to its resting place. The death toll wasn’t officially stated, but it was staggering, any fool could see that.

“I just,” Strazio started, sighed, and continued, “I just don’t get it Val, no matter how strong I get, no matter how much rage boils in my heart, no matter how focused my hatred is, I still can’t protect those that I care for, it isn’t fair, Demetri is dead because I couldn’t protect him, hundreds of soldiers are dead because I could barely stop one attacker, I hate this suffering and I can’t do anything about it, Dracula and Nemesis are free to do as they please and Demetri is gone forever, where’s the justice in that Val? What is the point of revenge if my vindication does not bring back the dead?”

Valerie stared off into the distance, a faint smile on his lips, so subtle that one would be hard-pressed to call it a smile.

“At the end of the day everyone dies Strazio, whether by blade or time it matters not, and as I’ve told you since day one your vengeance means little in the grand scheme of things,” Val responded.

“So then what’s the point?” Strazio asked “I kill Dracula and there’ll be someone to take his place, hell that’s if he even can be killed.”

Valerie thought for a while, “I don’t think I can tell you that, and as much as you might hate to hear this I think you’ll have to find it out on your own.”

“Damnit,” Strazio muttered, “I hoped you weren’t going to say something like that.”

More silence. A lot more silence.

Strazio stood and turned away from the grave, “well, I suppose I’m not too good at anything else Valerie, I might as well stick to cracking heads, even if it might be pointless I don’t have anything better to do.”

“That’s the spirit!”

The boy slung the rifle over his shoulder and began to leave.

“Nice talking to you Val, but I’ve got a competition to win.”

[Gamzee Makara]

Did someone say skull cracking?

"Did somebody say crackin' skulls?! Woo! FUCK yeah!"

Heads turn, as they so often do when Gamzee says something that Gamzee would say. Valerie gives a polite little wave in the troll's general direction, beaming just a tad at his new acquaintance. Judging by the apprentice mage's tone, one could only assume he had already overcome the little practice trial Valerie had assigned him, and in such a short time as well. Strazio always had a habit of keeping colorful company, but this boy had proved to be a significantly intriguing character. They made quite the duo indeed. It seems that today was ripe with cliches, for the planty magician sincerely hoped that they would not lead each other down their own separate paths of ruin. They must stick together to have any hope of quelling their respective rages.

"Just in time, Gamzee, though you missed the existential crisis bullshit," Strazio says with a nod in his apprentice's direction. "Don't suppose you know what Dante's Abyss is?"

Gamzee nods vigorously.

"Nope!"

Strazio opens his mouth to say something, thinks better of it, and sighs before continuing. "Well, the easiest way to explain it would be to call it a combat tournament type thing. You'll probably die. I'll probably die. Hell, we might kill each other. It'll be great practice."

"But we'd respawn right?" Gamzee asks. "No hard feelings?"

Strazio shrugs before responding, "Not between me and you, no. I'm using it as a lesson, but I can't speak for the other combatants. I won't lie to you, Gamzee - you may make some powerful enemies."

"Sounds like a good motherfuckin' time, bro!" The alien crows, stressing the 'i' in time.

The Avatar of Rage smirks. It's little banter like this that reminds him he and Gamzee do actually have a similar approach to life despite their differences in demeanor, and keeps him from regretting taking on an apprentice.

"That's the spirit," Strazio echoes.

-----

Okay, so a juggalo, a suicide bomber, and a plant walk into a bar, except that bar is actually a registration terminal for Dante's Abyss.