Nine Swords

Jack Pendragon rubbed his temple in frustration. He recognized the voices of the some of the old guard. Others were unfamiliar, which meant they were probably the new bloods.

He was going to have to work with them. The thought pissed him off but there was no way around it. At least there would be a library to help pass the time.

With a passing scowl, Jack removed the blindfold and flung it forward. "I'm in," he stated while scanning the room. The new bloods were easy to pick out even if he hadn't known all of the Old Guard here. They had absolutely no discipline, revealing emotions of fear and nervousness. Pathetic.

He resumed rubbing his left temple, sure as sh*t that he was going to get a headache before all of this was over.

Maxime looked around the table with a dry expression on her face. "It's not like the invitation came out of the blue." She waited a moment, then drew a breath. "So, who's still playing hard to get?", she finally dropped with amused sarcasm.

Out of the blue my ass, Frantz Lyric thought. Last he knew he was in Tennessee, fighting a giant living tornado. Problem was, fighting a living tornado is freaking hard. First off, hitting the thing with a sword is incredibly inefficient, gotta rely on magic a lot more than your dukes. Second of all, fighting a living tornado just plain blows. Literally.

Last he knew he was blasted off his feet so hard he got a glimpse of the ruins of his old house and then stadium his city had taken shelter to before blacking out into the clouds, the cold moisture plummeting throughout his body as he shattered through them.

Last he knew… Hell. He had woke up here, wherever here was, dark, dry and sitting proper. God damn if that ain’t inconvenient.

His wounds were healed though, couldn’t complain about that. Sword was gone though, probably gone for good in the winds. He’d probably have to find a new one.

But these guys, and gals, he noted, were talking some big stuff, or at least they thought they were. Some bits about a table, blindfolds, starting new kabob… or was it cabal? And the Templar. He heard of them, back in his home town. Bunch of crazies in red fighting the darkness back from whence it came? The Men in Blue made it out like that anyway. His ears were ringing still from a concussion he barely remembered, but he could still make out an unforgettable sound he’d became aware of over the last 3 months of living in chaos: silence. Which meant only one thing. Everyone was waiting for him to take off the god damn blind fold. He moistened his chapped lips and put on a polite smile.

“Hi. I dunno who y’all are exactly but I think I mighta been brought here on accidentally. But. I reckon I might not sanctioned in just waltzin’ out of here either.”

He flipped his blind fold down off of his face and gave a quick glance about the room. Seven people of different statures sat around the table with him, some weathered, some seasoned, some green to fightin’ he gathered. An eighth stood silently in the back, watching all of them but saying nothing. A man in a monitor returned his eyes. None were armed. Lucky day, Lyric thought. I can take them. “So if you’d pay attention t’that man with the gun in that corner there...”

He stood up in a flash and swung his chair at the man to his right. A grand slam swing too, if you asked him yourself. He was getting the home run hell outta there.

Jack was still scanning the room when the chair collided into him and sent the man skidding across the floor with stars in his eyes. He spat the blood that was pooling in his mouth and charged after the damned fool that decided to attack him. Be a cold day in hell before an outsider hit a true Templar and got away with it!

Jack began chanting as he caught up with the runner, calling on the power of his Blood Magic.....

"That's my kinda stupid..."
Conlan mutters landing his chair's four legs loudly on the floor. He swipes his open free hand in the air in front of him the door out slamming hard in front of the runners. He takes one more sip of bourbon from his flask and stands screwing the cap back on secure.

Maxime tilted her head aside toward her neighbor without missing a second of the unexpected distraction. "Aw, Conlan, that's mean...", said Maxime with a smirk that contradicted her words in every way as the door was shutting, two bodies heading quickly toward it with determination and force of inertia...

Jack's blood magic courses through his veins as he catches up to the dumb whelp

Frantz kicks himself off the closed door and slams his foot into his assailant's stomach, only to feel the cold weakness in his leg as Jack's ancestral magic sapped some of his life. In retaliation Frantz flips his other leg and catches Jack in the head and sends the man crashing into the floor. Frantz makes his way to the door thinking of the short lived victory he has achieved. Jack snaps his legs around and trips him into the nearby flagpole, which Frantz grabs to use as leverage to kick Jack in the head again. The beaten man begins chanting and lunges at Frantz causing pain to flare throughout his entire body. Frantz recoils and opens the door to run away, but turns around and head buts Jack. The Old Guard stumbles back before charging back into Frantz to sap more strength from him. Frantz grabs the flag pole and uses all of his strength to swing it into Jack, breaking it in the process. He beams at his home-run while Jack catches a pointed tip of wood and stabs Frantz in the arm with it. With a last effort Frantz swings the flag pole around and cracks the blunt end against Jack's head, knocking him out cold.

Frantz opens the door and runs to home base

Jack stirs and the blood magic finally kicks in and gives him back his strength while healing his wounds. He grumbles a bit as he flips his chair upright and sits down at the table. "Wonder how far he'll get before they drag him back screaming." The thought mended his pride as he glanced to Maxime and Conlan, "Care to take bets?"

Maxime tilted her head slightly, her eyes fixing Jack a moment. "He started it, you stood up to the challenge, yet he got out with his pride intact." She started to smile slowly. "I think he will be back. And so, I'll save my money for a round if you and him actually end up having a beer together." Her smile stretched wider. "But that was entertaining and educative..."

Conlan shrugs. "Who knows. He'll be back around either by force or on his own." He measures up Jack's injuries pausing. "He's got talent and the spark, though, I'll give 'im that." Glances over at the monitor and sits back in his chair wondering how well everyone else was screened. "Not sure if the kid heard, understood, or believed the part about 'just walking out'. "

"Twenty, U.S. on fifteen minutes."

Jack ignored Maxime's comments. He'd admit the kid was good, not many people could take Jack down so easily...luck had to be on the whelp's side. Still didn't explain why the healing had only just started.

"Not sure he was listening at all. Was acting like a cornered rat," he rubbed the throbbing side of his head that took the most abuse, "...a rat with a flag pole."

"Anyways, I'll take your bet...though I'll say anywhere above 30 minutes and he won't be conscious." His body still ached from the fight even though he had used enough magic to sap far more energy than he needed to heal this.....