Circle of Vengeance: Kung Fu Revenge Quest

One hundred years ago, the Magma Plains that stretched along the southern side of the gargantuan Eggtooth mountain range experienced a period of time where the rivers of lava that divided the various khanates of the nomadic dragonspawn that lived there receded almost entirely. Seeing this as a holy command from the divine Firebone Wyrm that slumbered beneath the earth, the man who would come to be known by his title of Krenkazaar, or simply the Drakeblood Khan to the rest of the continent, set out to unite his people. Displaying unrivaled military genius and a mastery of the Blood Gold kung fu style - as well as being a ten-foot tall dragonman with thick scales, sharp claws, and a prehensile tail - he swiftly unified the various tribes of his fiery homeland and set out to conquer new lands, becoming hailed as the Firebone Wyrm's will made manifest in mortal flesh.

The Krenkazaar burned his way through kingdom after kingdom - the interconnected forest-fortresses of the stout, bearded Tree Men were slashed and clear-cut, the windswept rock-spires of the insectoid Icathi hives were blasted open and their grubs feasted upon, and the giants of Brigundia found each of their citadels cut off from the others by legions of salamander-mounted soldiers, the same terms offered to each of them, and indeed all the foes of the Krenkazaar - submit and lend your resources to the cause, or die.

It was a scant 20 years from the inception of his campaign to the time when the Khan's armies set their scaled boots on every shore of the continent Wobudral. Believing the ambitions of the drakes would be satisfied for generations at least by the sum of their conquests, the nearby nation-states turned their eyes away. Ten years later, they came to regret this foolishness as the Krenkazaar set out across the Scaleblood Sea in a massive armada, meaning to further his mission in a new land. It was only through the efforts of a great many slapdash ceasefires, temporary alliances, and the hiring of an eclectic profusion of kung fu masters as mercenaries, yourself included, that this newest advance was halted and the Drakeblood Khan himself slain. You yourself amassed a kill total of three lesser chieftains and witnessed the battle between the rotund halfling master Bruen Ladlehand and the towering Krenkazaar, during which each laid the other low.

For your services you received a hefty sum of gold, several coveted halfling gardening techniques, and the title of Alderwoman of Brimbledon, the halfling governorship that had been next in the Khan's sights. During the years since, you didn't make much use of the title itself beyond leaning on it to get some favorable deals with halfling-led trading families - for all that you could pass for a halfling due to your height, you preferred to be known by your own merits rather than relying on the glory of a nation half a world away. On occasions like this, however, it helped to have another alias to go by.

You approached Shelldrop in a carriage that had been decorated so as to resemble a halfling-hill on wheels, with drapes of specially frilled green cloth affixed to give the impression of grass upon the slopes. The flag of Brimbledon fluttered proudly from a pole up above, and a halfling - Cheldric, an employee of yours - drove the carriage itself, proclaiming to all within earshot that the Alderwoman of Brimbledon had arrived on important business, and to please make way if you wouldn't overly mind.

Halflings - even in a hurry, they were still insufferably polite.

You're interrupted from your musings on past exploits by a shift in the noise outside. You can hear Cheldric talking to someone, and a gruff voice responding, which means you must have reached the city gates. You loosen the ornate shawl you've drawn around your head, and the voices become a little clearer - Cheldric is doing as you instructed and attempting to demand a meeting with the city governor on your behalf, and the guards are stalling, evidently never having heard of Brimbledon before. They want further explanations, or at least for him to wait for a higher-up to come see him. Delays on delays on delays.

Your cane thumps loudly against the carriage wall, bringing the conversation outside to a halt. "Cheldric," you shriek, pitching your voice upwards into the shrill falsetto that many halfling ladies habitually speak in. "Why have we stopped? I have business within the city that simply cannot be postponed!"

"I'm sorry, mistress," Cheldric calls back, his native accent stretching and flattening out the vowels in his words. "The guards are saying we can't see the governor right away - there's no Brimbledon representative in the city, so they can't be sure you are who you say you are."

"Is that right," you pipe out, and open the side door of the carriage, making a show of leaning on your cane and stepping unsteadily, hand on a provided rail as you proceed down the steps affixed to the outside of your vehicle. You are clad in a multi-layered dress of thin green silk that fades to pale blue as it approaches your limbs, your head covered in a shawl of similar color, and your hands absolutely festooned with rings set with precious gems. Together with your cane of gnarled grey ironwood, hunched back, and thick spectacles, you present the archetypal picture of a halfling grandmother, drawn up in all her finery before the secondary gate into Shelldrop - you've been admitted past the primary entrance, and are part of a crowd of people waiting in a gatehouse to be let into the city proper.

You look at the pair of guards, clad as they are in boiled leather and breastplates of the milk-white metal that comes from the city's mines, and sniff with the utmost disdain you're able to muster. "Well then," you snap in the best Brimbledon accent you can manage. "I hope the two of you are happy, inconveniencing an old woman like this! My bones ache with the cold, you know, and the road here is unacceptably bumpy. I've been wincing in pain for miles as I've been tossed to and fro as though I was voyaging on the sea again, and now I'm being told by you heartless young ruffians that I'm to wait to confirm my identity? I've never seen such a mean-spirited display in all my years!"

With each word you hobble closer, gesticulating for emphasis with your cane, and feebly poking at the leg of the closer guard once you're in range. They instinctively back away as you approach, the force of guilt you wield like a cudgel driving them backwards and twisting their faces into a mixture of pained exasperation and reluctant shame. "Look, Lady Alderwoman," one of them, a pale-skinned human with a bald head and thick mustache, says. "Dignitary from Bindlebon -"

"Brimbledon," Cheldric interjects.

The guard runs a hand over his head. "Foreign noble or not, the governor isn't seeing anyone right now. There have been a number of important matters as of late that require our administrator's full attention, and they simply aren't able to spare the time to address business propositions at the moment. There's nothing we can do about that." He's clearly repeating some pre-written spiel one of his superiors gave to him, but to his credit he finishes his delivery without stumbling over his words, even as you intensify your irritated glare.

"Well as it so happens, I too have business within the city that I cannot spare any time from," you bite back. "I have been wronged, and I cannot rest easy until something is done! The law must be upheld, to say nothing of common decency. What has the world come to, that protectors of the law such as yourselves won't lift even a finger to help an old woman?" You stamp your foot, making sure to put just the right mix of indignant entitlement and habitual expectation into your voice, looking closely at the guard's face to see if he takes the bait and accepts the implicit offer of passing the active inconvenience that is you off to someone else.

"If you have a criminal act to report, I can send word to our marshal to expect you," he offers, and you cackle internally at the poorly concealed relief on his face. "Our barracks aren't too far from here, on the end of the main boulevard if you go down the hill, to the side of the courthouse." He opens the man-sized gate behind him and whistles, waving another guard over. "Durray here will be able to guide your driver there," he says, turning back to you.

By the time he looks back, however, you're already hobbling past him with deceptive speed, slipping through the gate and past his compatriot before he can do more than register that you've moved. "That's okay, dearie, I can find it by myself," you toss over your shoulder, your voice carrying a sudden burst of pleasant cheer with it. "Cheldric, I'll meet you once I've concluded my appointment - go find someplace nice to stay, have a look at the ocean, why don't you?" You're gone before any of them can reply, crutching around a corner and vanishing behind a nearby wagon.

You stroll down the street, humming to yourself as you look back and forth, surveying the buildings you pass and the people within them. As a coastal city, Shelldrop's home to a wide variety of races - you see animal-headed people from the pyramidal deserts of the west, Hungarlings with their runed skin and braided hair, and an obese humanoid toad seated upon a stone palanquin before five minutes pass. Everyone seems to be here for a different purpose, though the part of town you're passing through seems to be primarily reserved for government buildings. You see scribes bustling to and fro, carrying bundles of scrolls higher than their heads. Petitioners line up outside of various buildings, waiting in line with expressions of boredom. General traffic in and out of the city meanders up and down the road, various hand-drawn carts, rolling wagons, and grunting porters carrying goods to and fro. No guards anywhere, curiously.

What you also see, prowling everywhere like sharks, are hard-bitten men who are trying very hard to seem official, poking their noses here and there into shipments or stopping people at random and questioning them. They wear no distinguishing outfit, though their clothes are all at least decent in quality, and bear no tattoos or other identifying marks, but you see them for what they are. The subtle reddening and striated patterns of swelling concentrated around their hands, the solidly-built legs and developed forearms, the confident ease with which they swagger about - these are the Powder Scorpions, clear as day. Doubtless they've posted themselves here so as to survey the flow of travelers into the city, and take a cut of any promising shipments. It's done politely enough, but they're effectively shaking people down in the street - doubtless they'd see you as a prime target for extortion with your expensive silks and many rings.

In other words, exactly what you want.

"Young man," you trill, waving a trembling hand towards one of the gangsters, a bulky, thickly-built man with a balding head of dark hair and blunt facial features. He has to be at least forty-five. "Young man, would you help a poor old woman? I'm in need of assistance. Young man? Young man?" He's trying to ignore you, isn't he? Better raise your voice. "Young man! Right over there! Please help me, I'm in distress!"

Having tried and failed to ignore your cries, the gangster ambles over, clearly irritated. He smells like smoke and sulfur, and his eyes are bloodshot. "Old lady, you're making enough of a racket to wake up a drowned man. What is it?"

You give your best gormless smile, staring up at him with a blithely trusting expression. "Oh, thank you, young man, you're so kind to give an old biddy like myself some help. Would you be so kind as to direct me to the marshal's establishment? I'm here on behalf of my family to retrieve some rare spices and jewels that were misplaced on our last trip here, you see - very valuable heirlooms and trading goods, they mean quite a lot to me and mine. It's vital that I recover them at once!"

The gangster's face undergoes an abrupt transformation from aloof and indifferent to very interested and trying very hard to conceal it. He leans closer, attempting a concerned expression. "I'm sorry to hear that, dame. Er, out of curiosity, were you with a trading clan, or…"

"Oh, no such thing," you tut. "I am Violet Flengannan of Brimbledon, young lad, a noble of that fine country! The Flengannans have been recipients of the Aldermanship for many generations, tracing our roots far back through the soil of time. It all started with my great-great-great-great-grandsire Aldregus Flengannan, you see…"

"I'm sure he was very noble, dame Flengannan," the gangster interjects, clearly sensing the rambling monologue that would've transpired had he let you continue. "I don't see any retinue with you, though - are customs different there than here, or are you on your own?"

You scoff. "Oh, they tried to insist on sending a few footmen with me, but I'm not worried about any of that pishposh. Who would be so callous as to harm an old woman, after all? No, I came with a driver and little else - I expect that once I speak with the marshal and retrieve my goods I'll be back on the ship home before the next evening - which is why I must thank you once again for agreeing to take me to the marshal's office, you're really so kind."

In other words: 'I'm a foolish, frail old woman who's unguarded and has a wealthy family, won't someone please take advantage of me?' You couldn't make it any more obvious if you tried.

The gangster is only too happy to take the bait, slathering a smarmy grin onto his face as he takes your outstretched hand, engulfing the entirety of it in his swollen palm. "I'd be happy to," he practically growls, turning and pulling you along as he begins marching through the crowds. You make sure to accidentally bash his heels multiple times with your cane as you keep up behind him, spouting off an endless sum of inane chatter about your fictitious halfling family as you go.

He leads you through the street in a relatively straight path, not to some hidden hideout as you were halfway expecting, but to a building that's clearly a guard barracks and jail. Curious, especially given how you still haven't seen any actual guards - could the Scorpions have simply replaced them entirely?

You're led inside and taken into an interior courtyard, where a few dozen gangsters are lounging. Some are smoking while leaning up against the wall, others have sat themselves at a series of tables and are rolling dice, while a few who look from their equipment and general bearing to be more senior are going through an unfamiliar kata, their feet scuffing up the pale yellow sand that covers the floor as they shift and stomp and breathe. Their form is sloppy.

"Boys," your escort roars jovially, receiving a chorus of welcoming replies in return. "Anyone seen Eddie? Got one here he'll want to hear about."

The other gangsters begin to tread towards you, curiosity drawing them in from all sides like opportunistic scavengers. "Nice rings," one of them drawls. "See them gemstones? She's a rich one for sure. Where'd you find this one, Mand?"

"Not just rich," your ostensible guide replies. "Foreign noble. She's here to talk to the marshal about the retrieval of some valued heirlooms." He grins like a shark, and you can see comprehension lighting up the faces of the quickly-growing ring of men and women surrounding you. Words slip back and forth, each one making it more apparent that they're weighing you like a piece of meat in their minds.

"Long way from home, isn't she?"

"Looking for help, I'd wager."

"Probably have a couple of nice, fat grandkids, don't you?"

"Don, she's more frail than a blade of grass, grandchildren clearly happened a long time ago."

"Still, bet she'd be missed. Nobles do love their elders, you know."

"Bet her family would want to make sure she has a safe trip home."

Mand, the one who brought you here, pushes you forward, uncaring of the stumble and startled yelp that you let out. "I wager Eddie will want to tell the boss about this, so why don't you lot keep an eye on her while I go find him, eh? Wouldn't want our guest getting lost, now would we?"

Right, it's about time to end the charade, else they'll keep up this insufferable smugness for another hour at the least. You turn on your heel, staring Mand in the eye. "But young man, you surely wouldn't leave me in the company of these ruffians! You promised me that you'd take me to the marshal."

Mand glances down at you, as if only now remembering that you're actually capable of objecting. His blunt features curl up into a sneer. "You're staying with them, old woman. They'll keep you safe while I go to fetch the marshal."

I'm sure they would, you snark inwardly. Content to project the image of a helpless old biddy for a moment longer, you twist your face into an exaggerated expression of confusion, looking side to side at the gangsters looming over you and letting your lips tremble and stammer. "I - I, why I don't understand. What is going on, young man? These are clearly not the city guards, and I do not wish to stay with them! I want to see the marshal so that I can retrieve my heirlooms and go home! Don't you have any compassion? Take me to the marshal at once!"

Your cheeks are flushed, your eyes swim with unshed tears, your legs quiver. You are the picture-perfect image of a pathetic old woman, confused and frightened but still with the idea that they have authority. Just the type of person men like Mand love to terrify, to watch as the illusion of power they've carried all their lives shatters. All he has to do is show you a hint of what violence he's capable of, and sweet gratification will be his.

Mand falls for it, taking your bait without a second thought. He seizes the back of your shawl with one grimy hand, sullying the pale emerald fabric with dirt and oil as he pulls downwards roughly, exposing the whole of your face and keeping your collar in a tight grip. "I'm tired of your yammering, you wrinkled bitch," he spits, shoving his other hand into a pouch at his belt. "If it weren't for the money we'll be able to get from your family in exchange for your hide I'd have snapped your neck already." He pulls his hand, now covered in black dust, from the pouch and clicks his fingers. Sparks flare upwards, and with a roar his whole hand comes alight with flame, seeming not to bother him any. "You should've known better than to come into Powder Scorpion territory unguarded, but if you shut your gob and don't make trouble we'll let you go back to your country in one piece." He clenches his flaming fist, the very picture of barely-leashed violence.

Your face is flat and calm as you take off your glasses. "Well then," you say, any hint of a Brimbledon burr dropped from your voice entirely. "I suppose I'll have to object a bit more strenuously." You can see from the confusion in Mand's face that he hasn't quite grasped the situation he's fallen into, so you decide to show him.

You move, and it rapidly becomes clear who in this room is really in danger.

AN: Second part of the update is pretty much done and will be up tonight or tomorrow, this was just a good point to break the scene off.

Xantalos said:

You move, and it rapidly becomes clear who in this room is really in danger.

Click to expand...

Click to shrink...

Your free hand coils upwards and strikes at Mand's outstretched elbow, folding the arm he's holding you with the wrong way. A foot stomps outwards, shattering his knee and buckling his torso downwards in pain. As ligaments snap and muscles seize, you're moving in, the handle of your cane looping over the forearm of his other, flaming, hand and jerking downwards as it lurches forwards, sending the man flipping head over heels until he lands on his back. You snap his intact arm in half with the haft of your cane as you plant it in the sand and execute a jumping step, vaulting upwards to catch another gangster with a stabbing kick to the face. His eye pops like a berry against the point of your shoe and he staggers back, clutching his face and wailing as you flip back, the same foot coming down in an arc to crush Mand's exposed throat. You land in a perfect one-legged crane stance, your hands clasped calmly over your belly.

It's been perhaps three heartbeats.

You look at the aghast expressions around you and sniff in disdain. "Let's not wait all day, now! Come on, show this old bitch what you ingrates are made of." Perhaps sensing that there'll be no escape for them without blood, they scream battle cries and charge you as one, hands lighting up in powder-conjured flame. You grin, wide and feral, and leap into the fray.

You hit the first one to reach you with a toe kick to the inside of the thigh, the augmented force of your blow fracturing the femur beneath. As they crumple, you meet their falling head with a rising knee, shattering every bone in their face as you grasp the back of their head and pull, stepping up onto their shoulder with your other foot a moment afterwards and leaping into the one behind them. You seize the forearms drawn up to guard their face while you're still in midair and shove your foot through them, snapping their head back in a spray of blood as you descend. Still gripping an arm, you twist so that they land on their side beneath you, and you step just so and break their extended arm in half over your thigh, then drop your knee into the back of their skull, silencing their screams with a sickening crunch.

A heavy boot-clad kick swings in from the side as three others approach you, and you step into its arc and spin and wrench until the foot faces backwards, using the momentum of the kick to throw the hapless gangster into the other three. They see it coming and leap, their flailing comrade catching only one of them. The other two close in, the air roaring and crackling as they swing their flaming fists in quick, looping arcs your way. You deftly parry their blows, not interested in singing your fabrics, and drop one with a vibrating punch to the sternum that shatters four of his ribs like glass. You duck the wild swing the other one tries to hit you from behind with and seize what's between their legs with the gnarled talons that are your fingers. You wrench, and they go down squealing before you slam a heel down into their temple.

Instinct flares and you roll, leaping out of the way as a terrific crack echoes outwards. A spark-covered pellet of metal sears through the air and impacts the opposite wall, and your head snaps over to where the gangster you knocked over with his comrade stands. In his hand is a bulky device, a thick tube of metal with a wooden handle that smokes at the end. Ah, so this is the weapon Oak had spoken of. You've seen the like before, if rarely.

"Missed me, you ninny," you crow, and dash towards him even as he fumbles with a pouch, clearly trying to reload. You're on him before he can do more than grab at his belt, and with one resonant slap to the belly you rupture his innards, then spin, slamming an elbow into his descending temple and fracturing his skull. Moving without pause, you grab the weapon from his spasming hands and throw it at the next group of foes, who've all drawn pistols. The handle crunches into the head of one in the center, embedding itself like a throwing axe, but as he falls his fellows are firing.

You leap forward, rolling and spinning in an abrupt zig-zag pattern that makes you hard to hit, and are able to dodge the incoming fusillade of bullets and close the gap between you and them. One tries to grab you and you sweep his legs out from under him, grabbing his head with one hand while he's in midair and slamming it into the ground with enough force to crush it like a melon. In the same motion you duck under a wild swing, pivoting so that your rear leg whips up and around to catch the offending gangster across the face. He's sent flying into one of his fellows, and you use the space created to turn to the other five nearby you. They've hesitated, ceding the initiative out of fear for what you might do, and you punish them mercilessly for it. Two fall with fragmented limbs, a brutal double knee caves in the chest and groin of another, the fourth you punch in the sternum so hard their neck breaks from the whiplash, and the last is subject to a dual eye gouge and simultaneous knee to the spine and dropping elbow to the face.

You lose yourself for a time in the brutal clarity that is combat. You move from foe to foe, dodging bullets and roaring flame alike, never giving your enemies a moment to rest or retaliate. This is a cornerstone of Thundering Bell style, that the sonorous rhythm of death you raise with your blows must be yours alone if you wish to triumph. You are, as far as you know, the sole remaining wielder of your style, and you exemplify its virtues perfectly. A slight touch from your hand is an injurious blow for the common man; a direct hit means almost certain crippling or maiming. Your small, wrinkled hands transmit damaging vibrations of force upon impact that ripple through flesh, tearing and buckling anything in their way.

The first dozen men were little more than a warm up for you, a means to loosen up your aging joints and get your blood flowing properly. After they fall, the next dozen follow even quicker. Most times the gangsters aren't able to fire their pistols at you with any accuracy, for you make a point of engaging large groups where they can't shoot without hitting their own men. As you thin their numbers out, however, the surviving few begin to resort more readily to their firearms, and you're forced to dodge, not wanting to be struck by the whizzing balls of lead. You use their fire as an opportunity to practice your timing, getting more and more adept at twitching out of the way just as flame blooms from the barrel.

In what seems like no time at all, it's over, and the ground of the courtyard is covered in bodies. Most are unmoving, with their limbs bent out of shape or pools of many-colored blood staining the sand beneath them. Some writhe in agony, their breathing labored. They're dead too, they just haven't gotten there yet. You flick your hands, removing the layer of vital fluids from your forelimbs with a single sharp motion. Your dress remains unruffled, your silver-white hair has remained perfectly done up in its compact bun, and your breathing is only a little ruffled.

As you collect yourself, you begin to register sounds you'd been ignoring during the scuffle, and hum in realization. Seems the barracks is in a bit of an uproar - understandable, mind you. You can hear the tromping of more feet approaching, and while you'd ordinarily be content with staying and massacring yet more hapless thugs, you don't feel like tiring yourself out on mere chaff. You've got to move - the question is, where to?

Article:

[] The Marshal's Office: If the guards have been suborned, it's a good bet the marshal has too. A chat with this Eddie is clearly in order, to gain some idea of the scope of the Powder Scorpions' operations.

[] The Jail: While not a full-blown prison, there are holding cells in buildings like this. Whoever the Scorpions have thrown into those cells may have valuable information for you.

[] The Vault: The Scorpions have been extorting travelers for a while, that much is clear. They must store the accumulated wealth somewhere, and with wealth comes records you can peruse.

[] Write-in: Where does Granny Flowers go? Must have some kind of asset she can use in her crusade against the Powder Scorpions.