“Banana hammock.” They all heard it, and they were all ready. The safe word. Tiber refused to leave Tyr on his own any longer, after learning of the attack on the border that had nearly seen him dead for the last time, or gone to parts unknown. The not-so-old-any-longer man had cursed himself for a fool. Too comfortable, too familiar with his ward. The thing about Tiber and Samson in being so well equipped to an ambush like this, was that their mana was incredible weak, barely there even after awakening.

Not so much, actually, their mana was just... Different, especially Tiber's. His awakening had been so bizarre, giving him a decent enough mana capacity, but it didn't run into imbalance when he lay hands on the steel. Tyr had performed several tests attempting to look into it, but he hadn't found anything, Brenn was likely part kijin – but Tiber seemed a full blooded nim. His near affinity with black steel was unknown, and Samson shared that trait.

All they felt from deuritium was a slight vibration in the hand, a little discomfort, nothing more than the barest itch. And what they'd do with their immunity was considered highly illegal. A war crime, simple and universal. by which people would get excommunicated by the church. But if nobody lived to tell the tale, it didn't matter. If it was for Tyr, they'd do anything, he had dominated them all entirely with his aspect – consensually and under oath. Every completion of a given task was like a drug to some of them, but that would relax over time as they acclimated to what amounted to a passive and constantly flowing enchantment between them all. Every discomfort taken from them, all aches and pains that might trouble a mortal man, just enough so they might feel a wholeness and complete lack of trepidation.

All taken unto the main, Tyr himself eating away at it all – while allowing them to maintain their humanity and concept of self.

With his new full-body implant, Tiber felt indomitable – and all the wolves behind him had received similar albeit lesser gifts. A whole host of them.

Originally, Tyr had intended to replace his own bones with an enchanted skeleton, only to find it impossible in it's current design. His body would reject the foreign matter and spit it out no matter how many screws and bolts they threw into the construction. Tiber, on the other hand, had accepted the addition of a metallic skeletal structure, only possible with Valkan who managed to develop some kind of receptacle for bone marrow.

The boy had never once truly asked him for help. He would not fail him now that he had. With a whistle, the first javelin left their formation, followed by three more before the charge. There was no battle cry. No need for that, these were killing men and they knew what business they were about.

To kill. Kill for the primus.

Tyr had given these Fingers a choice, and they had denied him. The code word used indicated a worst case scenario, making their approach yet more frantic. Lead by Samson and Tiber, rushing through the frosty ferns and nettles with sword and axe clutched respectively in white knuckled grips.

Hot bread and ale. Tyr had said that once, that those were his two favorite things. Tiber would ensure that he could continue enjoying the little things like that for the rest of his natural life. Slicing clean through the earthen wall splitting the ground in a path to intercept him. He rolled, feeling the earth quake beneath his feet. Lifting off with the powerful extension of a leg to leap skyward, soaring over the head of a blue haired woman and using her shoulders as a springboard. All of them were on him, all of these mages, except for the man who lay hanging courtesy of the javelin that had taken him clean in the sternum. A good toss.

“Shields!” Tiber shouted, slapping his own buckle. Just as a stream of black fire came toward him, it was stopped clean by an opaque barrier hovering less than an inch from his skin. Flickering into life and shuddering under the violence. Not much of the energy was left, but it could be considered a successful test run. With one hand on his sword, Tiber bounded toward a hawk faced man shouting something about a box. Crossing blades with him several times and relishing the pain in the other man's eyes.

He was better now, stronger than ever, healthier and clearer of mind than he'd been in so many years. He felt like Awl was inside of him again. First was the awakening Tyr had pulled him through, then the implants Tyr had crafted for him. That man he fought looked so like Tiber's father, even the style of saber they used was similar. The 'Raven' favored a straight sword, but he'd been trained in all manner of armaments. Curved swords like a saber, though, were only useful in their shape when fighting unarmored foes.

A fearsome duel erupted between them, Tiber giving as well as he received. Moving like a viper, it was clear who the more skilled of the two opponents were. All the hawk faced mage had in terms of advantage was magic, and assistance from his fellow mages. One who was sending clouds of glassy shards all over to cut at the unprotected joints of the blackguard until Samson barreled through the tree behind him and put a five foot rod of enriched deuritium in his gut, carrying him off.

Mikhail and Fennic were grappling with a scrawny woman, blown away by blades of iridescent energy that hovered in the air as the mages in the blackguard tried to ward against it. There were quite a few, but the problem was the skill levels involved – mages made to look like children by these Fingers. Tyr was nowhere to be seen and these enemies were exceptional. Of all the mages the old Sicario had ever hunted, these would've made the list of those he'd keep with him in his memories.

A good fight. Tiber thought to himself, squaring up against the saber wielder as Samson did the same against a man with a large maul in his hands.

–

“I thought he said these men were supposed to be weak...” Caspian's wrist had broken many times over, if not for the assistance from Rommel flinging light magic in his direction – he would've been beaten in the first exchange. This man he was facing, Tiberius Scarr, was a devil with the blade – and his strength was considerably beyond what his long wiry frame would suggest. Inhumanly so, in the very familiar way that made Caspian aware that Tiber had been gifted with grace. Just as they had, receiving an infusion of unearned power – it was no surprise that Hastur's method was inferior to a true primus. However he'd done it...

Shit. Caspian backed away, pulling water from the ground and into the soles of his boots. One of the disadvantages of his adeptcy was that he could only manipulate water. Not conjure it. Thanking the gods that it was winter and the moisture was plentiful, but Tyr's fire had burned hot enough to consume his reserves, all he could rely on for now was the pitiful powder at the periphery.

A hulking Agoronian man seemingly immune to pain was huffing, bleeding from a score of wounds and repeatedly bashing Shine's head into the ground with a hand larger than a dinner plate. She'd lasted all of five seconds before he'd pummeled her down to her knees and broke her across his knee like some wrathful god of war. Smashing clean through her auramancy with that wicked black axe of his, thrumming with sorcerous might as it ate through her wards in a shrieking crescent.

Raj was squirming, howling in agony and tugging at the deuritium spike in his gut. Begging someone to pull it out as the black veins were set in him... Nobody was available to help.

Hans was dead. Might even be dead beyond what Hastur's soul transferal was able to fix. Over a hundred men had swarmed their position and quite a few of them were mages. It wasn't looking good.

A half-orc with a flat face sprinted past Caspian and began harrying Yucca alongside a petite woman carrying a heavy staff. One with might and twin hatchets, the other with enchantment magic designed to subvert Yucca's aim and send her into a mindless rage. Now, her bolts of dark-flame were hitting allies just as often as their foes. The hedgerows were filled with archers in ranks, throwing black arrows into their midst. One of them found Klaus, striking with precision at his neck. Based on the blackened veins around the wound and the foaming mouth – he was in the same spot of trouble Raj was.

Deuritium... It was against the Krieg Accords to use deuritium offensively. Only a monster would authorize something so inhumane for use against other humans.

Pattoli's head whipped around, taking in the scene and calculating their position. Yucca was caught off guard in her disadvantageous duel, the large Agoronian man coming from behind to bash her face in with the reverse end of his halberd. Rommel was assisting Klaus, pulling the arrow free and hissing. All in all, it wasn't as critical as he'd thought. These men were talented, but the Fingers were by no means lost, simply on the back foot for the time being.

Once the element of surprise faded, the adepts recovered quickly, and when they didn't – the pods saw to their resuscitation. Only Hans was dead for now, the rest were fine, Raj had managed to get that bolt out of him before willfully ending his own life.

But that Tiberius Scarr, a man of great fame that they'd all heard of, he was beyond expectation. Cortus had taken these already talented men of their own and given them transcendent gifts – an artificio of Tiberius' level shouldn't be this able. Caspian found himself in awe of the mans speed, strength, and his skill with a blade. A devil. A real devil, but not an immortal one. As long as Caspian avoided the arrows pointed towards him, not all of which were deuritium tipped, he could recover. It wasn't over yet, drawn into the flurry of blades between himself and one he might've considered a peer in the past.

“Should've brought more black steel, dogs.” Hans spat, still alive – whether that was a good or bad thing – Pattoli couldn't decide. Rounding about behind the Agoronian with naught but a whisper, laying hand to neck. A death sentence for most, but the man seemed as resilient as he was muscular. Baying and tossing Hans off him like an angry lion, the skin at his back wilted but not much else. Again, the notability of these men was palpable – veritable nobodies for the rest of them – sans their appearance at the ascendancy trials. Hans could rust steel with his bare hands, and yet Samson had managed to buck him off before barreling forward towards a new target.

The organized skirmish turned into all out chaos. If struck by the deuritium, all they had to do was kill themselves before it tainted their blood. Raj returned, blasting a man with a hangdog face off into the forest and shredding his companions. One carrying dual gladius' roared in mournful outrage, losing his composure and charging, but Rommel wasn't just a healer, she spit him on her spear. Catching him in the gut and flinging him aside without apparent effort, otherwise content just to observe and heal.

“That was close.” Hans breathed, frowning at Yucca as her umbramancy began to spread around in all directions. They weren't bad, these men. Several of their own had been killed in the initial exchange with them, but there was a difference between the two forces. All nine fingers present were effectively immortal, or so it would seem. Tiber would find a way, he'd never failed a contract and one way or another he'd ensure that streak continued.

“Hans!” Pattoli shouted, not sure whether to be ecstatic or disappointed that the vicious man had miraculously survived. None of them understood the limits of this power Cortus had given them, and it appeared even a well placed javelin cast of deuritium couldn't put them down with any sort of permanence. “I need your help!”

“Aye.” Hans smiled wickedly, stalking over toward the half regenerated corpse of Tyr, hanging on with teeth bared, ripping the flesh from Pattoli's forearm. Vainly trying to force the prince into the metal box and shut the lid. But Tyr was anything if not determined, and Hans was anything if not the person with the greatest possible affinity for keeping him down.