The sleepy little town of Halnark, only it was wide awake now, with the sounds of fighting in various parts. A strange cult had been causing problems in the Lorinian Kingdom over recent weeks but this was the first time anyone had seen them attack in such a force, several large groups of spellcasters and summoners with maybe a handful of warriors between them suddenly appeared in the town and started attacking. There didn't seem to be a clear pattern of attack, it seemed almost random, but there were those in the town that knew there was something worth such a major assault.

In order to protect this secret they needed outside help though, but their options were few, not many warriors or gunslingers passed through this town, while they had some guardsmen, it simply wasn't enough. But then some-one appeared. A woman clad in leather armor and red clothes, armed with only a short blade and a gun. They knew who she was, Isshon the Bloody, Isshon the Merciless, wanted for crimes, especially murder, the stories of what those murders were, however, always seemed shady at best. Regardless of this shady past, they needed help, so they hired her.

They made a horrible mistake, at least that was how they probably felt, they always did. Dark clouds hung overhead and a swift wind blew, to some it would have seemed like death was walking the field, and with a pretty face. With a dark demeanour and a red battleskirt, Isshon walked with calm pace along the war-torn street. She honestly didn't know the purpose of the attack on this place, but she'd been hired to fight them off, and that meant money, it was about all that mattered to her anymore.

These people that had struck the sleepy little town, these cultists. Had they been expecting an easy victory? Maybe, had they been expecting a seasoned, professional killer? Perhaps not. It suggested many things, all as likely as the next, but it didn't matter, not really. Steely gray eyes focused forward, watched as the cultists retreated, one turned, she could see the magic in his hand, as it sparked to life, a ball of fire, he tossed it, it shot towards her but she seemed to dash to the side, just barely avoiding it.

Her left arm flung out, silver repeater gleaming a soft orange as the flaming shot missed her. With a squeeze of the trigger the gun fired with a distinct ringing, the bullet found its home in the man's shoulder, he twisted around and a second shot dug into the back of his leg, the bones in his knee shattering and he fell onto it with a howl of pain. His compatriots had no choice but to leave him behind, or they would follow the same death, if not worse. It wasn't as though the woman enjoyed what she did, she certainly didn't act out in pleasure of the torment she caused, it was simply punishment.

As she finally reached the man, he was still crying for his fellows, but the cries were cut short as she drew her blade, swiftly digging it down into the man's heart. He wheezed for a moment before simply crumpling entirely. She withdrew the blade and looked towards the retreating cultists. Their terror probably increased when she moved again, because she was no longer walking. She set off at a sprint, her dress splitting at the side to reveal long stockings and boots. If there was any way to stop an attack, it was to kill everyone, she wouldn't let them retreat that easily.

They made a mistake hiring her, she was perhaps a worse monster than the cultists. And the latter made a mistake in attacking this town. It was all one big mistake. Did she even want to be here?

This place was too peaceful, the people were pretty nice, she guessed, hard working farmers on the surrounding land, a nice church and graveyard on the south side. Even the tavern she'd visited to stay in wasn't so shabby, she didn't even have a price on her head here. But then this happened. Did problems just follow her around?

The sky was red as the dying sun bid his goodbye to the world, a sole figure overlooking a battlefield that had become the small town of Halnark as the shadowy being chanted a guttural litany of long forgotten worlds, a wicked athame dagger slicing pale flesh as dark power left only crimson blood behind. With each slice of skin a corpse, as if held up by strings, stood back up and fought the cultist's enemies, the light blue eyes, made crimson by their translucence, looking nearly stoically as fresh tears ran down pale cheeks. This was a massacre, but Garet could not stop, for stopping would mean the men;s life would be for naught. The cultist's brothers were gone from the living, but their body remained, and never would Garet relinquish a friend.

Garbed in flowing and dark robes, the chant grew in pitch as the toll of grief and blood loss made the constant resurrection less frequent, until soon none came, the cultist on hands and knees, swords and guns pointed and the frail figures as crimson eyes glared in hate and hopelessness at previous prey. It all was because of that woman, and that woman would pay!

Oh, Lord Chazal, God of Trickery and Vengeance, hear me out...

Praying for the Cult's Patron was a last recourse, but a necessary one all the same. He was ruthless, He was unpredictable, but He had never led them astray, and so Garet would ask one last boon of the God, that the cultist's work be completed and the blood of a murderer of His followers be shed in exchange for the albino's life.

There was no life to be had in defeat, anyways...

In Isshon's mad dash to kill the rest of the cultists her moves had been swift and without regret or mercy. She would slash quickly with her blade whenever they were too close or shoot them with her pistol, it wasn't a fancy one, or particularly powerful, but it was reliable. As she cut down the last of the cultist-come-zombie remnants, her movements finally slowed. She wiped the blade off and sheathed it behind her hip before she half-turned her gun, ejecting the empty magazine.

The empty one was pocketed and she quickly pushed a new one into place, making sure it was firm and pulling the slide back one before letting it set. She approached the very last of the cultists, the ringleader she supposed, with the same calm, cold demeanor she'd begun with. The town leaders were making their way closer, many of their own had fallen, though whether they wanted a prisoner or revenge didn't matter to Isshon.

She lifted her gun, pointed it at the lead figure and-you dont want to do that!-a singsongish voice cackled in the back of her mind.. Want? What did it matter what she wanted? Had she simply imagined that? By now she should have pulled the trigger. But nothing happened. She couldn't move her finger. What trickery was this?

Isshon stepped forward, willing herself with all her might to pull the trigger, but her vision simply blurred as blood started to pound through her veins, her grip on her gun even faltered a little, yet through it all she still couldn't fire,
"Wait! Don't kill him!" A stout man ordered, but Isshon ignored him, she stepped forward again, grasped her blade and drew it out, swiping at the leaders head, only to find she couldn't even let the blade get closer than a couple of inches. Why? Why couldn't she finish it?
"For goodness sake, I said wait! Are you so dead inside you don't even listen when you're dead set on killing others?"

Several gunshots rang out. Isshon had aimed towards the man this time, not in order to kill him but each shot hit the ground at his feet, making him dance backwards and collapse on his rear before the woman simply holstered both her weapons, glaring at him. How to make good of this situation..
"Dont presume you know my motives." She replied dryly, staring silently down at the woman. Why couldn't Isshon kill that person? It was starting to distress her internally. She'd never met some-one she couldn't attempt to kill.

The man brushed his brow with a cloth nervously, he wasn't so sure speaking out of turn would be good for his health as he watched Isshon turn her back on the situation, only to glare over her shoulder at the cultist,
"I will kill you," She stated simply, yet the words felt hollow somehow, as much as she wanted to believe it to be true, "But I suppose they want to interrogate you first." Isshon added, at least she could pretend that she wasn't incapable for now, at least until she could figure out what had happened.

The remaining town guard has surrounded the cultist, weapons still at the ready as their apparent leader stood up properly, folding his arms and staring at the cultist on their knees,
"Well we can do this the easy way or the hard way, on yer feet."

Patting and with bloodied hands making burrow on the dusty surface of the roof, Garet took deep breaths as the cultist awaited death, only to frown when it did not come. Did the ritual fail? Why was that lowly woman still standing?! Has Lord Chazal abandoned them? This did not make sence, the Cult had always been loyal, had it not? So why now? The Trickster was a force of His own, of course, but to abandon a faithful in that time?

Punching the ground bellow, the cultist let out a bloodcurdling cry of rage and hopelessness, far too gone to feel pain as delicate bones shattered and the lithe necromancer was holed up to her feet, crimson eyes full of hate and chagrin. Why did there traitorous eyes insist upon crying? Crying was week, feminine, and Garet was a man now.

At least until discovered otherwise...

The long and torturous interrogation left the young cultist of stone, and, when the villagers were about to be fed up by this blatant noncooperation, the curse of Lord Chazal intervened, in his trademark incomprehensible style.

As if a mere marionette, the cultist stood and writhed impossibly from tight bonds before dashing away, a streak of black in the night as something, perhaps guided by the cultist's lord, made the necromancer's body evade harm and seek another.

That other was the murderer of her kind.

As the red figure came withing sight, the human marionette found itself clinging to the other, before Garet came back to herself.

And then all hell broke loose.

Isshon had been given her coin for a job well done, it wasn't her job to clean up the mess, she didn't even bother counting, whether they short-changed her or not wasn't really a matter of concern, they would either be too scared to attempt it, or they would still pay her enough that she could get on with her travels. What they did with the cultist didn't bother her, she didn't care for interrogations, they were pointless, what was there to get out of some-one you'd already beaten?

She was about to leave this place, just if it meant getting away from the failure she'd somehow suffered beyond her own knowledge. Without explanation, she simply couldn't harm that cultist.. After felling so many, it made no sense at all. Yet now something else bothered her. She wanted to start leaving the town, yet she couldn't step further, her legs didn't want to move. It wasn't as though there were any kind of terror locking her in place, but she certainly felt confusion.

This was just like before. She desired it, but it didn't happen, like before she tried to will herself to move, but it only failed again. Once more her mind seemed to go hazy and her pulse raced as if this were the hardest thing she had ever attempted to do. Her focus and senses in disarray, she couldn't even tell that the cultist had escaped, and worse, that they were headed straight for Isshon. She turned around, at least she could do that, she even took a step, she could do that, strange.

What became even stranger was when she realized the cultist was right in front of her, arms out stretched. She didn't feel the threat of hostility, nor even her natural instinct to pull her weapons and defend herself. Even at this point blank distance she could easily have thrust her knee into her opponent or punched them swiftly. Maybe she was still dazed from the strange event, but ultimately she had to suffer the hug.

No-one had hugged her since..
"Wh-what...?! Get off me!" Isshon raised her hands, managing to at least push the cultist away and taking a couple of steps backwards. Beyond the point she couldn't pass before.. She didn't realize this. Her thoughts were focused on this cultist once again. Was there any point in drawing her weapons if she couldn't even kill them..?
Her eyes shifted slightly. One of the guardsmen, unsure of his orders, had leveled his gun, preparing to fire at the fleeing cultist.

Dont let him do that, the voice in her head returned, she would have taken the time to contemplate it if she wasn't already stepping forward, grabbing the cultist by the shoulder and pushing her aside. The guardsman faltered, but fired, his bullet finding its home in the red-clothed woman's side and she stumbled back, grasping the wound with a stunned look on her face.

What just happened? The pain would have put even a man on his knees, but her experience alone would have been enough to know she could survive it in spite of the pain, but the pain was numbed by the bizarre realization that not only had she just attempted to save the life of some-one else, especially some-one she'd vowed to kill, she'd also willingly allowed herself to be injured in order to do it.

She could only stare, stunned and confused, at the cultist. What was going on?!