Noblesse Amissus IC

[The Bearded One]

(It's a bit rougher than I would have liked, but ah well.)

The creature, much larger than that brought in by Magorrath, was heavily scarred- the hardened ridges crisscrossed its hide, and out of its back a broken spear was lodged, the wound around it long since healed, sticking it fast. All about the crocodile hung the inexplicable smell of salt in such amounts that it battered the senses as strongly as if it had been only yesterday that its maker turned on his creation and beast battled madman in a struggle to survive. As it strove to devour Tim and Vivienne it favored its left side, the reason apparent enough to the observant- the left eye was shut tight and surrounded by scar tissue, a remnant of a past battle.

"If you'd like, but I don't expect you'll be winning any races!" Tim said to Vivienne just before tripping over his own feet, vacating the space just as the crocodile's tail smashed into the ground he had occupied previously. "I can distract him, maybe... but just you wait and see, any moment now someone's going to dash out of the bushes and slay the beast!"

As the Trroc spun it snapped towards Vivienne, missing her by mere inches before it changed targets to Tim once more. "Aaaaaaany moment now." he said cheerfully as the Trroc spat a gob of acid which whizzed by his face.

"So, you are a sister to the darkness, then?" Tim asked, his foot catching a large branch that sprung up from the forest floor and cracked the beast's jaw, turning its attack. "Tis well enough- darkness mages are not well liked, but it is a more prodigious state than a Death mage. I had some practice with darkness, before my mana settled. Oh! I know, I could give you pointers!"

It was now that Magorrath came, barreling out of the underbrush to tackle the creature.

Rushing to help, Tim somehow tripped in such a way that he flipped completely over, one leg outstretched, falling flat on his back with his foot arcing inexorably towards the soft nostril's of the creature's snout- and then he was upright, standing on Old Salty's head. Twirling and mashing the creature's eyes and ear holes in the process, Tim bowed low.

The Trroc, insenced, thrashed about in its attempts to dislodge the man. Falling hard, Tim wrapped his legs about its mouth. Catching his hands upon its eyes, blinding light spilled from the cracks between his fingers, and the beast doubled in its struggles.

As Old Salty thrashed about, a look of mild concern spread over Tim's face. "Help please!" Tim said as he was whipped inches from Vivienne's face, clinging to the crocodile's head with all his limbs. "But don't use magic, please." he said as the whirling, bucking creature whipped him past once more, almost bowling over Magorrath. "You'll probably faint."

"If you use magic"

"Or die." A shining object was flung from Tim as Old Salty smashed his head repeatedly on the ground, and struck a tree, falling to the ground. A belt knife- not the ideal weapon against a creature three times the length and nearly four times the width of a normal man, but certainly better than nothing at all.

"Help."
-------------------

MEANWHILE, BACK AT THE BEACH

All about Bormont and Iris, the dead lay. Perhaps fifty bodies in all where in sight- a mere eighth the passengers aboard the ship, and no sign of the crew besides a well-worn leather cap held tight in the death grip of a curly-haired boy, no more than nine. There is hardly any stench- the salt and sun have begun the process of naturally preserving them, and the rot has hardly set in yet. Here and there, the soft sigh of a corpse settling would come out. But then, there was a rasping wheeze, and a woman who was face down moved slightly, a cough raking her frame. Besides this one person and the two of them, no other person shows life at this time.

"H- hel- elp m-" the woman's faint voice seems to say, only just barely carrying to your ears, each syllable an obvious struggle.

[Zombehs]

Bormont just raised an eye at Magorrath’s instructions, for he certainly was not digging graves for the dozens of corpses. He watched as the hunter ran off into the forest to join his companion in their rescue of the other lady and just shrugged dismissively as he kicked at the sand. He looked around and felt his spirits drop at the sheer number of the dead, even in the Brotherhood he hadn’t seen so many. It was a field of corpses and he closed his eyes to murmur a prayer. It’d been hard during the frenzy of the day’s activities to actually take things in, but now that he got a good look at his fellow men and women, he felt a deep sorrow. If the three of them were truly the only survivors, the only word to describe such a scene would be tragedy.

His closed eyes were broken by the rough intake of breath and Bormont snapped to, whipping his head around. His eyes quickly came to rest on a lady not too far from him and as he noticed that, yes she was indeed still alive, he wasted no time. His feet kicked up sand as he ran over to the breathing corpse. Even without taking her wounds into account, she looked and sounded to be in horrible shape. He knelt at her side and tried to carefully flip her around, though even moving her as softly as he could it seemed every movement just caused her pain.

Bormont grimaced when he saw what had been done to her body. It’d been butchered, so much so that even her clothes did nothing to hide the scars. His hands subconsciously reached up towards his own scars and he shivered a bit at the uncanny resemblance. Her state is pitiful and her very attempts to speak cause his heart to lurch with both sorrow and a seething rage. He bit his lips as he gave the woman another look over and quickly realized that she was beyond saving. Her injuries were simply too great and in the middle of nowhere there was no way she’d get the medical attention to save her life, if such a thing was still possible at this point.

His hands trembled as he unsheathed the dagger from his thigh, twirling the small blade so he held it in an underhand grip. He was leaned over the lady so his movements were hidden from her and he brushed the hair from her once and still pretty face. His eyes were moist and he shook as he nodded slowly. He didn’t speak as he didn’t trust his voice not to tremble and shake, his lips curled into a sorrowful smile. Instead he just lifted her head slightly and touched their foreheads together, the last intimate moment the lady would ever feel. His hand trembled, but drew the dagger across her neck swiftly and precisely. It was a clean cut, she’d have fell unconscious almost immediately and would pass soon afterwards. The task done, he laid her head to the ground slowly before he stood up and stepped away from the dying woman.

He didn’t make it far before his dagger dropped to the sand and he followed after, falling to his knees. A hand combed through his hair as Bormont’s entire body shook. He’d killed before, on the rare occasions when he and his comrades hadn’t been able to subdue criminals, but this was different. He’d never had to ease someone’s pain by giving death, never felt the sensation of their lives leaving their bodies. He didn’t sob, but his eyes glazed over as he relived the moment. He knew that until his dying day, those blue flecked green eyes would never leave his memories.

[The Bearded One]

As the woman's head slumps to the ground, her horrible pain eased by her slipping from consciousness, both Bormont and Iris hear the faint sound of approaching footsteps. After some short minutes, a small group in plain brown robes bound with rope instead of a belt came into view. At first it appears that they are all men, their heads having been shaved, but upon their approach it became apparent that four of the twelve people are females. Upon seeing you, three of the group hitch up their robes and run, calling out, the one of them holding a kind of stiff leather bag away from herself, trying not to bump it with her leg.

"Are you a'right?"


The two women and one man skid to a stop on the sand, one of the women crouching down beside she who's throat Bormont's blade had cut, her hands trembling as she tried to stem the flow of blood.

The man puts a gentle hand on her shoulder "Celia, leave 'er, lass- whoeve' cut 'er throat ha' done a mercy. She was'nae goin' tae live the day..." glancing towards the rope-like scars on the dieing woman's arms, he adds "an' ye ken wha' happens tae the ones who do."

The kneeling woman, who's name was apparently Celia, resisted his pull, batting at his arms before bursting into tears. "Damn tha' Grin- damn 'im strit tae Jor'ul's kiln. Do ye see wh' e's done tae 'er Kairn? Cut 'er all up, an fer wha'?"

A croaking sob escaped Celia's throat as the man pulled her now unresisting body to her feet and hugged her tight."I ken yer new, lass, an' yer nae used tae 't, but we cannae waste the time. There may b' vitims we [I/]can[I] save. Now be a good lass an' Gi' Sileas yer aide- 'll ta' care o' the lad."

Cileas wiped her eyes, nodded, and went to take the bag from the woman who had lagged behind.

Turning his attention to Bormont and Iris "Lad, lass, a' ye alright? We're doktors- healers, ye ken? Do ye be harmed- an' are thar other survivors?"

[RubyCrown]

"Iris Delane," she replied and dipped her head slightly in a nod of acknowledgement. Hadn't they already introduced themselves earlier though? "You are Bormont, correct?" Surely so, she wouldn't have gotten his name otherwise. Renji's mercy, was she ever tired. It couldn't have been long since she woke up, but so much had happened in the short while and she was still trying to process it all. Maybe the fact that she hadn't been able to was a good thing or a mixed blessing at the very least. It did allow her to ignore the dead around her, now that they were no longer animated.

Her gaze had followed Magorrath as he charged into the forest but she gave a start at the weak cry for help. She paused a moment after turning around, eyes wide, and trailed behind Bormont as he went to lend what aid he could. When the other woman was turned over, Iris was not quite able to stifle a gasp of horror. A chill ran down her spine when she realized that the injuries that had weakened the other woman mirrored her own healed scars. She drew her arms closer to herself in an unconscious gesture for comfort as she stood passively by, feeling more useless and disgusted by her inability to help by the moment. Her mind drew a blank at first but it didn't take long for her to make the connection between the drawn dagger and what he intended to do. She almost protested but ended up saying nothing. Even her inexperience in these matters couldn't cover the fact that the injured woman's wounds were grave. There were no supplies available to treat them, even if a competent healer were around to use them. Instead, she steeled herself to watch as the woman's life ended and dredged up a prayer she had read long ago to send her spirit on the way. It was the only respect she could give, after all.

She offered no comfort to the obviously shaken Bormont as she scarcely knew what to do with herself at this point. What she did do was pick up his dagger and wipe it clean of the blood before offering it back to him silently. The faint sound of approaching footsteps made her look up and tense. Her anxiety faded a bit when it seemed like they didn't have any hostile intentions, an observation further supported when they identified themselves as doctors. The part of her that worried over whether or not the death was necessary was relieved when one of them confirmed that it was inevitable. "I-I'm not injured." Alright was not an adjective she could apply to herself at this time, though she neither wanted to elaborate on her emotional state nor the scars that eerily mirrored the dead woman's injuries. "I cannot speak for the others but there are indeed other survivors. They didn't look hurt. Although..." she looked towards where Vivienne, Tim, and Magorrath had ran into the forest, "I'm not sure if that will remain true." She fell silent but frowned after a bit of thinking. Did the doctor also say something about those who survive whatever it was that was done to the dead noble? Wouldn't that meant that he could provide answers if she were to ask about her own scars? Would it be wise for her to do so? The inner debate kept her quiet as she tried to decide.

[Hawlin]

"I don't..." she began, sinking to a knee mere moments before Magorrath tackled the beast out of harms way. The world was a haze, rapidly fading of colour which she blinked back to, multiple times until it became an automatic sensation. Reality, relentless, she lived to live; the motions were numb though an agony tore through her as her arm shot back, her body stooping as she assumed a runner's stance as to avoid the knife and, in turn, give her the angle to reach for it.
I am a noblewoman, sister to none. I am guilty of only that which has inflicted itself upon my concepts of reality...I am guilty only of my guilt...no, your guilt is a shared ownership of your supposed comrades...
Her fingers twist with a sensation of an electric shock, wrapping themselves around the knife. She pulls the blade from the tree, dancing it between her fingers with an unholy grace before reaching the heel of her palm. Her thumb catching the hilt and forcing the blade reverse in her hand...I see her expression grow blank.
I am guilty of my responsibilities and, in turn, those I failed to serve in my nobility...NO! The nobility that still surrounded you has wavered and failed. Do you not understand?
She stumbles forward with a puppet's grace, forced upon the balls of her heels as she leaps, her expression awash with a grim intent. "N..no...I don't"

Noblesse oblige

Sand and soil kicking up from the momentum, she tumbled over the beast's primal lashes, driving the knife into its lower back with both hands, finishing with a turn. She seemingly balanced on the knife for a moment before twisting around and collapsing hard into the ground behind the beast, her toes sinking into the earth before she let out a low hiss. With the force of her remaining ounces of strength, driven by some deranged feral will, the knife bumped through the monster's scales as it worked it way up its spine, as far as she could physically reach. Her body shook with adrenaline and exertion, gasping for every breath she took.

I am guilty, only of those I have failed to protect...'Close...'

[RedDusk]

It was supposed to be an easy job. He had it all planned out weeks beforehand. Debts were paid, favors called, paper forged. He had left nothing to chances. But somehow, fate still managed to find a way and spit in his face.

The cruise ship was a perfect target. By the end of the first night, Krainen had managed to gather quite an enormous amount of wealth, mostly trinkets, silverware and jewels, all were carefully tucked under his personal belongs in a wooden chest. Those piss for brain noble wouldn’t even going to miss them. Even if they did, well, he wouldn’t be here until then. He was leaving at the first port, making his way back to Laupine, his pathetic hometown. That was the plan. At least, until the storm. Nothing ever went according to plans these days.

So here he was, lying face down on the sand with crabs in his hair, a dreadful headache behind blood-shot eyes. It felt like one of those nights when he got into a drinking contest and lost, only worst. But he remembered the night before. He was standing on the deck when the damned storm hit. For a moment then, he thought he was a goner. It seemed the good old luck hadn’t abandoned him yet. He was still very much alive. With a groan, he pulled himself up, the soft sand sank beneath his feet as he stood, taking in his surroundings. Nothing much, just a boring beach with seagulls, rocks, bodies and sand. A lot of sand. But there was no sign of his wooden chest. He was expecting this. The moment that ship sank, he had already lost all hope of recovering his loot. He was a greedy man, that was true, but he knew enough to give up at the right moment.

Getting stuck on an unknown island seemed about right to him. So he turned to the corpses on around him and began checking for valuables. Nothing much, though, just a few coins and a cheap necklace. But he knew this wasn’t all of them. The cruise ship carried more nobles than this, which meant at least one of them bound to have something useful. He didn’t even have a simple kitchen knife with him, and there was absolute nothing around here to use as weapons. Expect some rocks and sand. Right. So he could go hunting by blinding his preys with sand then throwing rocks at them. This was getting stupid.

As he reached for the last body, a poor man spread out on a piece of wood, with bloody splinters sticking out of his chest, he noticed something usual. The blood pooled beneath the body moved. Instinctively, he jerked his hand back, silently observing the corpse. He checked the pulse before. The noble was very, very dead. There was no doubt about it. So he reached out again, an attempt to confirm it. The movement strengthened. Tiny threads of red blood leapt into the air, wrapped around his hand immediately. But he didn’t jerk back this time, instead watching with fascination as the blood seemed to move whenever he willed it, thin and thicken to match his thoughts. And it was then, he noticed the scars. They ran across his skin in strange pattern, completely different from the ones he acquired during his many travels. Somehow, they might be responsible for his newfound power. Or not. He didn’t know much about how magic worked, except the fact that if you didn’t kill them fast enough, mages could be quite a nuisance.

But he wasn’t a fool either. Blood magic was something he had heard of before, and he knew about its capabilities somewhat. Like how powerful mages could control people like puppets or freeze their blood on the spot. Most were just wild tales in taverns to scare off children, still, he was hoping there was some truth in those words. Freezing blood sounded like fun. Turn out, he really could freeze. But not others’, sadly. Just his own. The best he could do with that noble’s blood was make little red threads, and he couldn’t even do it from a far. This was a bit disappointing, though. But at least he was able to make a blade for himself. It was a crude piece of work, looking like sharpened red stone than real blade, with tatter cloth wrapped around its handle. And it was shorter than what he normally used, but still, he’d got a weapon now. That must count as something.

After a few moment sitting mindlessly on the beach, trying to come up with better plans, Krainen decided to travel deeper into the forest. Maybe there were other survivors around. After all, the ship was large, and if he was correct, only a small fraction of it washed up here. There might be other beaches and other survivors. And they might have gold, or something equally valuable with them.

His search was cut short by a series of wild thrashing, roaring and screaming. The noises were near and from the foot prints around, he knew it was something huge. Giant reptiles weren’t usually good for business, but still, he went to check it out. Then the fight came into view. Three people, two men and a woman, were fighting the said reptile. The thing was even bigger up close, the scent of salt came from its thick hide was sickening. He didn’t know about the men, but couldn’t say the same for the woman. She was on the ship. He knew. He had paid her some special attention, since he could tell she was the heir of Vyrewatch even without the ring on her fingers. And he could also tell how much that ring worth to the right person.

As the female noble fell to the ground after her attack, Krainen rushed in, his eyes locked on the spear sticking out of the monster back. The wound might have healed, but with the right muscles behind it, he could open it up again. Putting all his weight on the brittle piece of wood, he drove the spear in, hoping to slow the beast down, before reached down to grab the woman by both of her shoulders, dragged her out of the danger zone.

“Milady? You’re alright?”- He kneeled next to her, one hand on the handle of his red blade, while the other was still on her shoulder. She looked like a corpse.

[The Bearded One]

(Hmm, sorry, it's a bit late, and a bit rough, but here it is)

ON THE BEACH

Kairn pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs in relief. "Ach, thank Kai; yer tha fifth wreck this month, an' we dinnae ha' much medicine left... We best be sure though- a'm goin' ta' need a wee blood sample if'n- Gah!" He jumped as a slight ripple goes through a human sized patch of air and a man steps out of it.

Tall and shirtless, with a shock of red hair held in place by a cloth wrapped about his head, the man would be handsome, were it not for the heavy scarring on the left side of his face- black and cracked, the flesh appears charred, and so immediate is its impact that many would at first overlook the very similar scar that stretched from elbow to wrist on his left arm, or the tattoo on his chest (which was simple, if odd- a cross, surrounded by a circle, and around the perimeter of the circle a smattering of pictures and symbols.

"Where?" the newcomer asks Iris quietly, his face completely neutral.

"For Kai's flamin' bucket, stay back, Drustan! They're nay hostile, an' nay everyone's keen on the Syngraphum, ye ken!"

"If they are in danger then I must act." The man simply states, then turns his stony face back to Iris. "Point in the direction they went."

----------
IN THE WOODS

Old Salty was angry. Its tiny reptile brain, made cunning by magical intervention and years of evading death- filled with anger, wallowed in it, was sustained by it. More than a hundred years ago it had been plucked from its tree and experimented on, and twenty years later it had killed its master as it tried to drown it. In the time that came after it had been hunted, harried, followed and forsaken; it had eaten hundreds of creatures, human, tildeer and but it had never been so wounded, nor so full of rage as this. Beaten about, blinded by such painful light, cut along its back and now its old wound opened up? These things clearly demanded killing to prevent these dangerous things from following and attacking it.

It had not, however, gotten to this age by fighting when wounded, and it did not like the feel of this newcomer. It could not be called 'planning', for it was far too refined a word, but the Trroc... connived to flee. First it had to remove the pest that clung to it though...


Rushing to a tree, the Trroc snarled as it smashed Tim against the trunk again and again, Tim's shining palms briefly leaving its eyes with each hit as he cried out in pain. Difficult to see in all the commotion, an angry frown spread across Tim's face as the flashes of light from from his palms and between his fingers, as well as the pained hisses of the Trroc, grew in intensity.

"Stop it! You're a bad lizard!" Tim said, slamming his forehead into the area right between the Trroc's eyes.

[Keregol]

Magorrath clinged to the rampaging reptile through its thrashing about the underbrush , he was unleasing a flurry of punches and kicks but the toughened scales of Ol' Salty couldn't be defeated by fists alone. Then he remembered something , something universal to defeat all beasts "Punch it in the snout!" Magorrath yelled hoping that his yell could be heard over the cry of the Trroc. He clambered over the Trroc feeling like an insect on the mighty beast , he was at the neck now the beast thrashing harder than ever reared its head and snapped at Maggorath.

Magorrrath jerked out of the way of the crushing bite almost losing his grip on the beast , the Trroc snapped again but Magorrath was ready this time he brought his foot down hard unto the Trrocs snout its face contorting in ugly rage. The Trroc unleashed a terrible cry deafining the forest and all other sound but Magorrath wasn't done he barraged the creature's senses punching and kicking in its nose and ear holes cutting short its cry. "Can we finish this up?!" he yelled unsure how loud he was talking and how close they were.