An Unprovoked

As the sun reached it’s zenith, Markash stepped outside the outpost for a moment of solitude. His thoughts drifted to the Sanders family, and the delicate web of power he had woven around them. His meditations were disturbed as he heard a distant, muffled scream pierce the day, echoing from the direction of Natalie Sanders' manor.

Without a second thought, Markash raised his hand and wove a complex pattern of void magic before him. The shadows grew thick, coiling around his fingers like living tendrils before soaking into his body. He blurred as the magic took hold, and he took off his movements becoming liquid, swift, and silent. The world around him slowed to a crawl as he melted through the streets of Merrit's Bend, his feet barely touching the ground. The townsfolk stared in amazement as he streaked by, their eyes unable to fully follow the blur that was a Magister of the void.

The Sanders Mansion grew closer with each pulse of the magic that surged through him. His heart raced in anticipation. The walls of the mansion grew taller, the windows glinting with the morning light, as he approached. The screams grew clearer, more ****, and it was clear that time was short.

Leaping through the air, Markash's body rippled with the raw unshaped astral chaos, his muscles bulging and stretching as he drew upon it’s might. The ground disappeared beneath him, and he soared towards the source of the disturbance, his eyes locked on the second-story window. The glass shattered with a sound like a thousand splintering icicles as he crashed through, the frame giving way to his inexorable advance.

Inside, the room was a tableau of horror. The once-opulent decor now bore the signs of a brutal struggle. The guards lay scattered across the room, lifeless forms, their armor pierced and blood pooling around them. Natalie Sanders cowered in a corner, her face a mask of terror, her trembling hand gripping a dagger that looked pitifully small in the face of what approached.

The figure looming over her was a twisted caricature of a man, clothing torn, his skin an unnatural shade of purple, veins pulsing with an eerie luminescence. His eyes were pools of malevolent intent, and his teeth elongated into fangs that gleamed in the flickering candlelight. His fingers elongated into claws as long as daggers, dripping with toxin. The assassin's aura spilled across the room, vile and putrid, like a noxious fog that clung to the walls and filled the air with the scent of rotting meat. Despite his fearsome appearance, Markash recognized him immediately as a life Magister in his mid realm formation stage, Same as Markash.

Healers were life magi as well, but to know how to heal, one had to understand sickness. This was no healer. The very essence of the assassin reeked of decay and corruption. His power was a blight, a twisted mockery of what the Peerage had sworn to uphold. The air grew thick with the stench of spoiled flesh, the room seemingly shrinking around the vile presence.

As the vile creature lunged towards Natalie, Markash's hand shot out, a bubble of swirling entropy materializing around her. The assassin's claws met the invisible barrier with a sickening crunch, his movements sluggish and distorted as the very fabric of reality warped around him, holding him back . With a snarl of frustration, the creature tried to push through, but the barrier held firm, its power drawing from Markash's very essence.

Natalie's eyes widened as she saw the opening. With a swiftness that belied her fear, she scrambled away from the creature and dashed towards the shattered window. Her long dress fluttered in the breeze, each step carrying her closer to freedom. Markash's heart pounded in his chest, his concentration unwavering as he maintained the barrier. He could feel the strain of the spell, the power of chaos and decay that coursed through him threatening to destroy him from the inside out.

Natalie leapt from the window, Markash was **** to drop the barrier as the intruder turned to face him. The impact with the ground was less than graceful, but the adrenaline rushing through her veins numbed the pain. She could feel the warm wetness seeping through her dress, but there was no time to assess her injuries. The house staff rushed out from hiding. They gathered around her, helping her to her feet, whispering words of comfort and urging her to move. She stumbled away from the battle, her heart racing.

The fight inside was fierce, a cacophony of the senses as Markash's chaos magic clashed with the life mage's corrupted spells. The air was alive with the crackle of arcane energy, the very walls of the room seemed to pulse and breathe as the two powerful figures grappled. The assassin's blows rained down upon Markash, leaving a trail of putrid mist in its wake.

But as Markash watched Natalie flee, his thoughts strayed from the battle, a flicker of concern for her safety gnawing at the edges of his concentration. It was a mistake. The creature took the opportunity to land a heavy blow, knocking the wind from Markash's lungs and sending him hurtling through the shattered window.

The sun's rays pierced through the chaos of battle as Markash flew through the air before tumbling to the ground, his body bruised and his robes in tatters. The intruder had taken advantage of his split second of distraction, and the cost was pain. The blow had sent him through the window, the garden, the manor fencing. He struggled to his feet in the road outside of the manor. He tasted blood in his mouth and felt the warm stickiness of it trickling down his chin.

The creature jumped from the window, as though it were a small hop. It's skin pulsated with an unnatural glow, the power of life magic twisted into something vile and corrupt. "You should have stayed down Roanan." It spat. Markash's eyes narrowed, his breathing ragged. He wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing it across his cheek. The smirk that spread across his face was one of pure, unadulterated challenge. "You're not the first to underestimate me," he said, his voice filled with the promise of retribution.

The inquisitorial squires and a contingent of town guard arrived as alarms rang out through the city. "You've failed. Natalie Sanders is safe." Markash spat with a grin. The creature's eyes narrowed in anger and frustration. The town guard and inquisitorial squires moving to flank the enemy Magi.

"Kill the demon-spawn!" One of the squires yelled, charging forward with sword drawn. His fellows tried to follow. The creature's response was swift and brutal. It swept its arm, a wave of decaying energy washed over the guards. Their armor rotted away in an instant, leaving them to fall to the ground, their screams turned to panicked gurgles by the dissolving of their flesh. The ones lucky or blessed enough that their protections held, thought better of pressing their attack.

Isabella arrived on the scene, her eyes wide with horror. Her heart hammered in her chest as she watched the men she knew fall so easily. Her master needed her. Drawing on the power Markash had taught her, the temperature dropped as the latent moisture in the air formed into a spear of ice. She lashed out. The bolt struck true, driving into the creature's shoulder. It roared in pain, staggering backward, but it did not fall. Instead, it turned its malicious gaze upon her, its eyes burning with a rage that seemed to set the very air alight. "You dare to interfere, whelp?" it hissed, the words thick with disdain.

Markash righted himself with a grimace, the cuts and bruises crossing his body a testament to the brutal toll of the battle. He raised a hand, a silent command to the stunned town guard and remaining inquisitorial squires. "Stay back," he barked, his voice a mix of authority and concern. "You'll just get yourselves killed."

With a snarl of contempt, the creature turned its attention back to Markash, its twisted aura pulsing with malevolence. The garden, once a bastion of beauty, was now a ruin of shattered statues and uprooted plants. The scent of decay and magic hung heavy in the air, mingling with the acrid odor of fear and the metallic tang of blood.

The two Magi circled each other warily, their eyes locked in a silent battle of wills. Markash's hands danced with shadows, weaving the very fabric of chaos into a whip of dark energy that cracked through the air like a thunderclap. The assassin parried with a twisted vine of decayed thorns, each blow leaving a trail of blackened, withered growth in its wake.

Isabella, her eyes flashing with determination, drew upon her nascent power of ice and conjured a frosty shield. The clash of rot and frost sent shards of ice and shadows skittering across the ruined garden. The power of a second realm too much for her shield she took the lash of the thorn whip across her body, sending her flying. "Pathetic." The creature sneered.

She staggered to her feet, the color leaving her face as the disease of the vines spread through her. "You know nothing of me," she gritted through her teeth, her body struggling to stop the rot seeping into her body. The chill of her magic slowed it's spread, but the infection grew regardless.

"I know enough," the creature taunted, advancing on her. “Time for you to die little one.” The beast of a man lashed out, the vines worming through the ground racing towards her. The impact sent her flying to the side as the vines ripped from the ground where she was just a moment before.

Her Master dove to push her away take the blow in her stead, the violet sheen of his shield flickering under the ****. He slowly got back to his feet, the battle taking it’s toll "Isabella, You're done here. Go find Maya and Natalie." Markash's voice was commanding. He knew the rot would only spread and kill her even if they won. She needed a real healer's attention.

Isabella nodded, stumbling to her feet. She could feel the decay eating away at her, but she would not let it claim her so easily. With a grimace, she pushed herself to her limit, summoning a blast of icy wind to disorient the creature and create a path for her escape. It was all she could manage, and she knew it was futile to stay.

Markash watched her retreat with a flicker of worry, but he had no time to dwell on it. His eyes never left the creature as he stepped back, the stones beneath his boots cracking from the sheer power of his presence. The creature stumbled in the sudden frost, its steps faltering, and Markash took the opportunity to advance, the shadows around him swirling like a living storm. His hand shot out, a tendril of pure chaos reaching for the creature's neck, seeking to crush its life ****.

His attack was batted away and he was **** to dodge the counter, rolling deeper into the garden, luring his opponent away from the innocents. His eyes never left the creature's, a silent challenge. The uprooted plants writhed as they were dragged into the life magister's network of whips. Markash's dodging became more frantic, small casts that created void fractures like knives cut the vines as they attacked but it was a losing plan.

Markash was driven deeper into the garden, his breathing labored as the life mage's twisted vines sought to entangle him in a prison of decay. The creature's grin widened, revealing a mouthful of rotting teeth as it closed in for the kill.

His reserves were near empty, Markash's thought of retreat were interrupted by the thunderous hooves of an approaching horse echoing through the ruined garden. Castor, astride the his warhorse, burst through the gap in the fencing, his mace ablaze with a fiery light that seemed to pulse with a darker, crimson hue. The creature paused, sensing a new and unexpected threat.

The magister of rot was too slow. With a bellow of rage, Castor put every scrap of power he could muster into his strike, bringing the weapon down upon the creature. The impact was explosive, the ground shuddered as the mace connected with the man-creature's wall of roots, tearing through it and the corrupted life magic that had given it strength. The creature's body ruptured flying through the garden, like a festering boil, spewing forth a torrent of decayed viscous fluids and shards of bone.

The creature staggered to its feet, its body a patchwork of torn flesh and shattered bone, a grotesque mockery of life itself. Its eyes, now burning with a **** hunger, focused on Castor, who had dismounted and approached, the fiery mace held firmly in his hand. The priest's eyes were cold, filled with a steely resolve that had been forged in the fires of his own personal hell. "Begone, foul abomination," Castor roared, and swung the crimson-hued hammer in a wide arc, the air hissing as it plowed through the corrupted magic that surrounded the creature.

The blow connected with a sickening crunch, sending the creature reeling backward. Its rotten limbs flailed wildly, leaves and thorns flying in every direction as the ground around it cracked and split under the pressure. Markash, seeing an opening, surged forward, the shadows around him coalescing down the length of his sword, coating it in of pure chaos. With a snarl of his own, he lunged at the creature, the blade of void slicing through the air with a sound like the tearing of reality itself.

The creature staggered under the combined onslaught, the very essence of its being seeming to waver and falter. The rot that had once suffused its veins now retreated, revealing the true extent of the corruption that had claimed him. Its skin hung in tatters, revealing the bones beneath, and its eyes had gone milky and dull.

With a final, **** screech, it flung its arms wide, the vines that had once been a part of it unraveling into a writhing maelstrom of decay. Markash braced himself for the ****, his eyes never leaving the creature's. But the blow never came. Instead, the creature's body began to dissolve into a pool of viscous, black goo that spread outwards, enveloping the ground. The smell of rot grew stronger, a stench so potent it seemed to burn the very air.

The creature's **** throes were the stuff of nightmares, the once human form collapsing into a pool of putrefaction that spread rapidly, consuming the surrounding foliage with a sizzle. Castor and Markash stepped back, breathing heavily, watching as the last twitches of the monster's life faded away.

"Well," Castor said, his voice laced with exhaustion, "that was...unpleasant."

"Indeed," Markash agreed, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. He felt the cold stone of the garden path against his back as Castor helped him to his feet. The world spun around him, the aftermath of his battle with the corrupted life magister leaving him drained to the bone.

But as they stood there, panting in the ruined garden, neither of them noticed the subtle movement in the shadows. A creature, not much larger than a man's hand, slipped from the pool of decay that had once been the assassin's body. Its fur was mottled and damp, its eyes gleaming with a cunning that belied its rat-like form. It scurried away, disappearing into the cobblestone streets of Merrit's Bend, leaving a faint trail of corrupted energy in its wake. The rat's escape was swift, unnoticed by the exhausted combatants and the stunned onlookers.

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Maya's face was a picture of grim determination as she worked her healing magic over the grievously injured. The guild house was a hive of activity, the air thick with the cries of the wounded and the incantations of those trying to mend them. The Mayor pushed through the throngs of people, his heart heavy with a mix of fear and anger. His eyes searched for Chelsea, finding her in the midst of the chaos, her dress bloodied from helping with the injured.

Her eyes met his and she nodded towards Isabella, who lay **** on a makeshift bed, her skin pale and drawn. The Mayor rushed to her side, taking her hand in his, feeling the cold clamminess of her skin. The sight of his daughter in such a state filled him with a rage that threatened to boil over.

"What happened?" he demanded, his voice exhausted.

"The attack at the Sanders manor. She went to help Mark. It was another Magi."

The Mayor's grip on Isabella's hand tightened. His mind raced, trying to piece together what had happened. Chelsea's eyes met his, and he saw the same horror reflected there. This was the life he had chosen for her, and now the consequences sat raw and battered before him.

"What do we do?" he asked, his voice thick with emotion.

"We do nothing. Maya has stopped the corruption from flooding into her soul gateway, I did not understand the details, only that Maya's fire aspect allowed her to burn away the rot within and cauterize the worst of the damage. Now her body fights the infection." Chelsea spoke softly, her voice tight with tension. The Mayor looked up as the door to the makeshift infirmary swung open, revealing the haggard form of Markash. His robes were torn and stained with the grime of battle, his eyes smoldering with the residual fury of the fight. "Isabella?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

Chelsea stepped aside, allowing Markash to approach the Mayor's side. "She's alive," she assured him. "But it was close."

A tension he didn't realize he was carrying was released, as much a pain as she could be the damned girl was growing on him. "Lord Mayor," Markash rasped, his voice a mere echo of its usual self-assured timbre. Castellanos' eyes snapped up, his face a mask of concern. "Magister Roanan," he said, his grip on Isabella's hand tightening. "What happened at the manor?"

Markash recounted from the first screams to the battle in the garden. While the creature was defeated there were no signs of its master. The Mayor's eyes grew colder with each word. "The Sanders family must be behind this. They've always wanted the town, the link to the Empire" His fist clenched. “They’ve never been this brash. They know Natalie is distancing herself from the Mosspoint branch of her family.”

Chelsea stepped in, "We need to be careful. The church will not stand for such open warfare. We must find a way to bring them down from within."

"I have plans." Markash sighed into a chair as Chelsea began to tend his cuts and bruises. The Mayor nodded grimly. "We'll need evidence, something concrete to present to the Church."

The Mayor's eyes narrowed in thought. "I'll send word to my contacts. Someone must know something." He turned to Castor. "You'll help us, won't you? With your...influence within the Church?"

Castor's gaze flickered to Markash for a brief moment before nodding. "Of course, Mayor. The Church does not tolerate such acts of malice, especially not against its own." Despite his words, the priest's voice was tight.

Maya, who had been quietly tending to the injured, looked up. "The Sanders family is indeed powerful, but they are not the only ones with enemies. We must consider all possibilities."

"Possible yes, but who else would have reason to go after Natalie specifically?" Markash turned to study the mayor. "You had nothing to do with this?" It was, after all a good opportunity for Javier to remove a political opponent.

"My daughter is lying right there!" the Mayor barked, pointing an accusatory finger at the bedridden Isabella. "Do you think I'd risk her life for a political gain?!"

"I've seen nobles do worse." Markash said bluntly, his gaze unwavering despite the Mayor's anger. The room grew tense, the only sound the occasional whimper of pain from the injured and the crackling of Maya's magic as she worked.

"I didn't. Natalie belongs to you, I know you have use for her, and she is not a threat to the town anymore." Javier Castellanos said through gritted teeth, his anger fading into impotence. He knew Markash's suspicion was unfounded, but the chaos mage had a point. It did make a certain amount of sense.

Markash nodded, satisfied with the Mayor's response for now. "I will go to the manor and ensure she's safe. Stay with her," he said, gesturing to Isabella. He turned and strode out of the room, the clack of his staff against the stone floor echoing through the guild house. The Mayor watched him go, his mind racing with fears for his daughter's safety and the future of the town.

Maya eyed the Magister, her expression one of quiet concern. "You should rest," she urged him, her healing magic already working on Isabella. "You've been through enough."

"No time for rest," Markash murmured, pushing himself to his feet. His body ached, but the Natalie's safety was paramount. She was a linchpin in the coming days.

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He stepped out into the cobbled streets of Merrit's Bend, his tattered robes fluttering in the cold wind that carried the scent of rain. The townsfolk stared at him as he passed, a mix of fear and awe etched into their faces. The tale of his battle had spread like wildfire, and whispers of his power filled the air. He ignored them, his eyes scanning the shadows as if searching for hidden threats. His steps took him to the manor that had once been the Sanders family's bastion of power, now a symbol of the chaos that had been unleashed upon the town.

He found Natalie taking dinner alone, he approached her from behind and set his hands on her shoulders. She tensed at his touch but didn't pull away, a testament to the trust she had placed in him despite the horrors of the day. "You’re all right?," he assured himself in asking her.

"I am. You came." Natalie said, her voice hoarse. She had felt the tremors of power from the battle, had heard the screams and the thunderous clashes of magic. Her eyes ran over his form, looking at the cuts and bruises suffered for her. She leaned up and he moved to her as she kissed him. He felt the demon inside stir as her intentions became clear.

"Natalie," Markash said softly, his voice a gentle caress. "You don't have to do this."

Her eyes searched his, a mix of fear and gratitude. "But you need this," she replied, her voice confident and steady. She understood the power dynamics at play, the debt she owed him for her life more than once over. Her body was his to command, a small price to pay for the protection he offered. The demon inside chastised Markash for his weakness for offering the woman an escape. With a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of his burdens, Markash nodded. He allowed her to lead him to a guest room, his thoughts swirling with the chaos of his situation. The demon inside him, Aesmaram urging him to take what was offered. The door clicked shut behind them, leaving the two in a cocoon of tension.

Natalie's eyes searched his, a silent question in their depths. She knew the price of his protection and the terms of their pact all too well. Slowly, she began to undress, her movements a seductive dance intent on stoking his need for her. Her hands trembled slightly as she unlaced her corset, revealing the soft, pale skin beneath.

A pulse of lustful magic flowed from Markash as Aesmaram slipped his bindings, Mark's manhood came to full attention as Natalie danced for him. The demonic aura sensed someone watching from the doorway, but he said nothing, enjoying the show Natalie performed for him. Natalie stepped closer, her eyes glazing over with desire as her hands trailed down her body. She knelt before him, her trembling fingers unbuckling his belt. Markash's focus remained on Natalie, his eyes feasting on her bare flesh.

"My hero," she murmured, her voice a sensual purr that seemed to resonate through him. Her actions were a blend of gratitude and submission, a silent agreement to the terms of their relationship. He felt a surge of power as Aesmaram's influence grew stronger, demanding he take her. Natalie's touch was soft, almost reverent as she pulled his trousers down, revealing his erect cock. The tip was glistening with the precursor of his release, and she took him in her mouth eagerly. Markash groaned, his eyes rolling back as the incubus's power surged through him. The demon's influence grew stronger with every moan that escaped his lips, his mind hazy with a mix of pleasure and hunger.

Her tongue danced around him, teasing and caressing, her eyes never leaving his face. It was as if she was trying to memorize every line, every expression, every emotion that played out across his features. Markash's hands found their way into her hair, guiding her movements with gentle strokes as the demon's hunger grew. Aesmaram's whispers grew louder in his mind, demanding more, demanding everything.

With a growl that was almost animalistic, Markash pulled Natalie to her feet, spinning her around so that her back was to him. He bent her over the edge of the bed, her breath hitching with a mix of fear and anticipation. Markash had no hesitation, burying himself in her wetness in one swift motion, eliciting a cry of pleasure from her lips. Her legs trembled, but she did not fight him, instead pushing back against him, urging him to go deeper.

Natalie's moans grew louder, her body writhing beneath Markash as he claimed her with a ferocity that was both thrilling and terrifying. His hips pounded into her, each thrust a declaration of dominance. The room was filled with the scent their fluids mixing, a heady aphrodisiac that seemed to fuel the chaotic energy swirling around them. The bed beneath them creaked and groaned, the sound a symphony to the rhythm of their coupling.

The power the incubus took from their primal ritual fueled Markash, knitting his wounds. Each gasp and moan from Natalie's lips echoed through the room, a sweet symphony of lust and passion that Aesmaram craved. His hands moved up to her throat, gripping tightly. Her eyes widened, but she did not fight, instead arching her back to give him better access. She had given herself to him wholly, trusting him implicitly.

Natalie's body responded to his touch, her breasts bouncing with every thrust. She was a picture of desire and vulnerability, her skin flushed with passion as Markash's power grew with every moment of their union. The demon reveled in her willingness and utter submission, a thrill running through its being as it watched the scene unfold. The room was a blur of sensations, the scent of their arousal heavy in the air as they moved her walls clamped down on him, massaging his length, demanding his cum. Markash's strokes grew more punishing, he hammered into her, pulling back his full length before driving back into her core. Natalie's cries grew more urgent, her body tightening around him as she neared climax.

"Mine," he grunted, his grip on her throat tightening, "You are mine to command."

Natalie's eyes rolled back, and she moaned in agreement, "Yours to use." Her voice was barely a whimper, but it was all Markash needed to hear. He drove into her deeper, she cried out. "Yours to fuck! Oh yes! Don't stop!" Her words were a sweet symphony to his ears, a declaration of her surrender to his will.

The flash of power released as they climaxed shook the walls of the manor, sending a tremor through the very foundations of the building. Natalie's body spasmed around him, her walls clamping on him as her orgasm tore through her. Markash felt the power rush through him claimed by the demon. Aesmaram's influence stronger than ever. The demon reveled in the energy, healing his wounds and bolstering his strength.

"Natalie," he whispered, his grip on her throat loosening as they both came down from the peak of their passion. He pulled out of her, watching as she slumped onto the bed, her body a boneless heap of satisfaction. The demon's power retreated, leaving him feeling more human than he had in a long time.

Her eyes searched his, a mix of emotions swirling in their depths. "Thank you," she murmured, her voice hoarse from her screams.

"For what?"

"For coming for me," Natalie whispered, her eyes closed in post-coital bliss.