Vincent Valentus his name was, if memory served Ros well. She had always had a problem remembering the names of those she didn't care much for, and this man received no special treatment. She did remember that he was no longer mortal however, inflicted with the curse commonly known as vampirism, although it went by several names across the continent. She also knew quite well that the world would be much better off if he were to suddenly find himself without a head. While such a brash and aggressive attack was rarely something that Ros would do, this time was an exception, and she was spending this time preparing herself for the assault. It was always an exception when someone had kidnapped friends of yours, and Ros looked as if she was preparing to go to war over this, examining weapons and fixing up what armour she had.
Her armour had been crafted out of hand picked pieces of hide, leather and fur from beasts that she had hunted herself over the years, and the suit of skin lay upon the ground as if discarded. It was not done without purpose however, as the buckles were undone and strings kept loose, making it easy to slip on at a moments notice. All she'd have to do would be pull it on and tighten a few straps. Some thread and fur lay scattered around it where Ros had been making repairs and alterations, and to anyone but the elf herself it might have been difficult to tell the pile of litter and the piece of armour apart, both of which looking torn and broken. Ros took great pride in her armour however, and any comments saying otherwise would likely result in a broken nose. A small sword within its sheathe of leather was left resting up against a tree, the blade curved sharply half way down, and Ros herself was sat down atop a fallen log. A construct of wood and steel rested in her arms, the string pulled back and the bolt loaded. Although Ros had been using the same weapon for years now, she still felt it necessary to check the weight and balance. She was checking everything ruthlessly, searching for any kind of imperfection. This wasn't a regular hunt where one mistake could be made up for with a lucky shot. A mistake meant she was dead, and likely the three others too, that was if Yan and Vincent hadn't already become prey. Vampires were tough, even if Ros' experience with them was limited.
Across the other side of the forest clearing, slumped up against a sturdy tree, was a stout figure. He looked dizzt and struggling to stand, barely able to hold up his own weight. “C'maaaan, Roshh!” he yelled, his voice slurred and broken. A glass bottle was held in his hand, filled half way with a vibrant golden liquid, and several other similar bottles littered the floor around him, which explained why the man seemed to have so much trouble standing up straight. Usually it would take a single pint of dwarven ale to knock a human off of his feet, but Togrin was no human. Dwarves were particularly resistant to intoxication, and only the strongest ale will do. “La- laghten up fer once! 'Ave shum booze!” He took out a fresh bottle and threw the thing at full force towards Ros, although it fell short and hit the ground, cracking the glass but not shattering it.
Ros was tempted to fire a bolt through the man's thick skull and leave it at that just so she would have to put up with his drunken slurring, but she knew she wouldn't be able to pull of this rescue attempt on her own. Togrin was a drunkard and a fool, but he was strong and tough, and he seemed to be a better fighter drunk than he was sober. Ros found it best not to humour the dwarf though, and continued with her work.
“Fane, faaaaane! Ah'll shtop wid' all da' drinkin' if ye' jush' hurreh' up! Thell 'ave been made bat food ba' now.” Togrin took another gulp of his ale leaving an inch or two of liquid left in the flask. He stumbled over, the thick but finely crafted dwarven plate metal he wore rattling with every step. “Cem'an. Less' jus' go in der', knock aht a few a' der bloody pointed teeff an' kick shum arse. It'll be fun.” He held his hand out, holding the bottle of ale out for Ros to take. It'd help her relax, even if Togrin's drunken state didn't comprehend the idea. He just wanted another drinking buddy.
While Ros' face remained expressionless for a moment, it was not long before she placed the crossbow in her arms onto the floor and took the glass with one of her spare hands, swallowing what was left in a single gulp. A grin burst out across Togrin's face, although it was met with only a faint smile from Ros, although it was more than what he would usually get. “Ah fink' ish 'bout time we showed 'dem Victush-whateversh 'dat when peopulsh take ar' people, dey get... Uh... Ah, who really caresh 'baut a speech? Let's just go give 'em all sam' new scars.”
“Fine, let's get to it. I've got a nice silver bolt with Valentus' name on it,” she replied, clambering up to her feet. To war, it seemed.
When Jarren shouted for Ros and Togrin to begin their ambush of the ruined manson, hoping to hear the sounds of explosions and the screams of vampires as their heads were cut off, they were not met with the response that they had been expecting. A faint music wafted through the ruins, played by some kind of wind instrument. A pipe by the sound of it, although Jarren and Yan Zhe would have likely recognised it as a harmonica. One they would have heard frequently since meeting Togrin. It was only a few notes and the tune was particularly slow and basic, but it was enough to draw the attention of those within the ruins. Some of the vampires turned their heads, wondering where the noise was coming from, although the echoes that bounced off of the walls of the mansion made that extremely difficult. There was a rumble and a sizzle, and the faint smell of burning wafted into the room. Ros wasn't even sure if vampires could smell any more, but their allies inside would have likely been able to. There was a crack and a rumble, and then an ear-splitting screech as fire lit brimstone, filling the room with smoke, dust and rubble, not to mention a great big hole in the side of the mansion. Then there was the sound of a click and a low whistle, and a bolt of oak and silver lodged itself into Vincent's back, just below his neck.
Togrin, as impatient as he was, didn't waste a moment charging into the fray, now standing but clearly still drunk. With a hammer in hand and particularly well armoured, that would certainly not be a suicidal move though. He charged forwards on short but powerful legs, heading towards one of the vampires that stood beside Yan Zhe, and with one fell swoop he smashed the beast in the side of the face with his weapon. His figure partially obscured by the smoke, the creature of the night didn't see the blow coming, and it was knocked to the floor. Togrin pulled a knife from his belt and shoved it into the man's hands, both of which were still bound. He would have enough leeway to slice through the ropes with the knife however, and Togrin didn't want to waste time helping the man out of his binds when there were skulls to crack. “Get up! I don't wantsh ta' be babysittin' ye'!” he yelled to Yan, once again placing the harmonica to his bearded lips.
Taking a more subtle approach, Ros had pinned herself against the wall of the mansion, where she was far less noticeable. Loading a second bolt into her crossbow, she fired it off towards a group of three or four of these vampires, hoping it would hit one of them. People, if you could even call them that, were a smaller target than what she was used to, and while Ros would have easily been able to hit a single target in the clear, the dust that hung in the air made it just a little more difficult, and she didn't want to have to take any chances. It struck inches from the vampire's dead, blackened heart, but silver burnt the flesh of the undead no matter where it hit. It toppled backwards, injured but not dead, as Ros saw a hand reach up and pull the bolt from his chest. Ros hoped that Yan and Jarren wouldn't stay to fight and would instead run out the way that Ros and Togrin had gotten in. Thirty odd heavily armed vampires would not go down easily.