With Gerard remembering that they were here primarily on a rescue mission, Tyaethe followed into the mausoleum and down the stairs--barely squeezing past Maritza in time; that would have been awkward. Rather than attack the mercenaries that were assembled on this floor... she kept walking, starting to hum to herself.

That wasn't to say that the mercenaries were entirely ignoring her, but attacks that did nothing more than nick the flesh on an arm at best and were mostly deflected or avoided quickly became less important with the threat of the knights rushing down the stairs, all too happy to attack those foolish enough to turn their back on the real threat.

It was towards the stairs to the next floor that Tyaethe came to a halt, swinging her blade up properly to catch the shaft of the attacking weapon on its hooks--which, uncomfortably, left a runed axe close to her face. The vampire was still but a moment before breaking off, towards the melee, to get a look at this opponent.

Chainmail, an equally-runed helmet with guards around the eyes, the axe... even without taking into account the blond beard and its braids, or the impressive musculature on display, there was no difficulty guessing where this man had come from. Even his threat was commensurately above that of your common mercenary. "You're a long way from Barukstaed..."

Aside from a grunt at the name, he gave no response, having pulled back the axe and settled into position.

To say the guards were unprepared for such a fierce attack was an understatement. The number that had swiftly begun to filter up the left stairway were almost immediately met with Maritza's furious assault, slammed into walls, broken against the stone. Any who escaped this fate were reeling from the assault of the naga, and thus were ill-suited to defending against the other knights as they pushed their way down the stairs.

But Fanilly had researched strategy enough to know what the trouble of this engagement was. The stairways side by side meant that mercenaries could easily rush up the other stairway and surround them. Even though they were more skilled, being penned in between two groups of mercenaries would mean that they would have to fight on both sides... and that was a dangerous situation in such an enclosed space, especially one that their opponents likely knew better.

One of the mercenaries had been knocked out, cold, by Sir Jarde... but at the same time continued fighting like that would be far more dangerous then she was willing to risk. It was best to aim for capturing the leaders. There was little other choice then to kill their opponents here and now.

On top of all of this, they had to move quickly. They had to. Fanilly couldn't allow herself to fail at this, not when the life of the nem girl's sister hung in the balance.

"... We will split our numbers," she said, finally, straightening near the top of the stairs. The initial defense was being battered through quite effectively, so she had to take the opportunity to dispense orders when she wasn't immediately caught up in the fighting.

"A two-pronged assault will make it harder for them to stop us," she continued. It seemed as if Tyaethe had already hit upon the same idea, having made her way deeper already. "Dame Tyaethe has already headed deeper. Half of our number will take Vosahnn and accompany her, the others will remain with me!"

There were already footsteps hurrying up from below... And she could hear sounds of fighting as well. Tyaethe had already begun to engage someone down there, and given how it didn't immediately stop she had to assume it was someone more skilled then the average mercenary.

Speaking of which...!

Something whistled past her face. It was clear that the one responsible had missed almost deliberately, as if to get her attention, and Fanilly almost immediately took cover to avoid being hit by the followup shot.

It never came.

There, strolling up the stairway almost casually and flanked by reinforcements, was figure of a tall man clad in black leather armor, a hood hiding his features.

"Well well well, the Iron Roses? Hmm, you've made short work of many of our mercenaries, too, just what were we paying them for?" he cocked his head to one side, resting a crossbow on his shoulder. In his other hand was a shortsword. "Are you lot any better, or should I lower my expectations accordingly?"

He glanced towards the mercenaries at his sides, who seemed to be quite concerned about the amount of dead on the stairs and in the entrance hall.

"Well, no matter, I'm certain I know exactly how you got here so quickly and who told you," he continued, his tone still casual as he addressed the knights, "That will cost her one whole sister."

Fanilly's eyes narrowed. Right now, there was still a chance for the others to make it deeper, half of them had to go as soon as they could...!

"With me!" she said, finally, beckoning to Vosahnn and at least some of the others. Her decision-making had to be swift, and if Tyaethe was caught up in fighting and at least one of the conspirators was here it was best for her to take the nem girl and try to force a path deeper into the mausoleum and leave the rest to reinforce Tyaethe. Right now there was still a path down that wasn't fully barricaded...!

---

As three of the Throne Knights including the captain himself(now accompanied by a girl recognizable as the royal family's young court mage) accompanied the Princess and the Roses who had chosen to stay behind to defend her headed into the back halls and up the stairways, it was as if they were taking a stroll into history. Portraits of notable figures, and of course the royal family, lined the walls.

One in particular stood at the end of the hall. It was by far one of the largest paintings, depicting a rather striking sight. The first was a scene that every adherent of the goddesses would know. The towering, black knight, a crown of spines rising from his helmet and clutching an enormous sword . A single, ethereal-seeming young woman in armor, clutching a silvery blade. Both of them on a rock jutting high above a plain. The battle raging below.

The Duel between Saint Lilianna and Orodrunn was the end of the war between all peoples of creation and the forces of the second dark lord. She had in the end miraculously shattered the black blade, Angroron, and pierced his armor to slay him. It was a scene familiar to all those who worshipped the Goddesses.

Also notable was the absence of a particular portrait for one generation of royalty...

Prince Meren, still clad in his gleaming, royal-seeming armor, had butchered the other members of the Royal family by surprise in the night, all save his younger sister, whom he had become obsessed with. Elionne challenged him to battle, In a bout of furious combat after which Meren believed 'he would make his sister his own', Elionne slew the mad Prince by piercing his chest, and the Royal line survived through his younger sister.

The reviled madman's portrait had been removed from the walls and burned.

Eliabelle turned to the left, and soon enough they reached her room. Within, it was rather lavish, with a four-poster bed laden with pillows(and a stuffed dragon toy) and blankets, a large bookcase full of various volumes, a desk, a body-length mirror, a nightstand, and even access to a balcony. The glass and steel doors leading to the balcony were shut.

Captain Balsung leaned against a wall, as the other two Crown Knights took positions outside of the Princess's bedroom.

"We've heard not the slightest rumor of their return," he said, finally, "As far as we know, they were all captured or slain after the traitor fell to your last captain. They should all be accounted for now, so we've know clue whatever dark and filthy rock these bastards crawled out from underneath.

The Court Mage remained silent, blushing faintly and shuffling her feet as she stood as close to the Princess as possible. Eliabelle, desperate for some form of normal conversation, headed to the bookcase and took a red-bound novel from a shelf.

"S-so, have any of you read Fireheart?"

It was a hundi-written novel, about a young hundi on her coming of age journey. It had become quite popular in recent years.

@HereComesTheSnow@Asuras@jdh97@Animal@TheFake@Crimson Paladin@PaulHaynek@FlappyTheSpybot@Raineh Daze@ghastlyinc@Krayzikk@Heartfillia

Gerard Segremors

Their forces had indeed split between both stairwells, both Gerard and his Captain having their intuitions be rewarded by the clattering of swords and mail echoing up the leftward steps, a clanky herald to the stomping of feet and dull flickering glow of torchlight. Their intention was clear— pen the invading force between both ends of a crab's claw, and crush them much the same. With such an enclosed space to fight in, there simply did not exist room to meaningfully fend off a two-pronged attack. That fate was inevitable if they did not act against it.

Segremors, impetuous and intrepid Segremors, had other plans.

"You heard her, on me!"

Scant few seconds between now, with the Captain issuing directive, and contact with the enemy forces. Hopefully his plea, overstep or otherwise, reached the ears of those undecided above. The more that could quickly descend, the better their chances of quickly aiding their Paladin became. Tactically sound planning and the general understanding of such made it quite unlikely

But if nothing else, he was not unused to clearing a path from the front.

A trio of mercenaries, revealed by an orange glow, surged upwards towards the knights—

And just as they rounded the bend, a starved wolf fell upon them.

He had the advantage of height, of gravity's inescapable pull downward adding to his momentum. While he did not have the element of surprise, his shout having alerted them to his presence on this path, neither did they— and he did have something nearly as useful. When one came down to brass tacks, it left the foe flustered and reactive much the same.

Vor.

The first, bearer of a torch and crossbow, was met with a boot to the sternum, heel digging into the solar plexus and driving away wind from his lungs. He staggered back, desperately raising the weapon and loosing a shot— but his foot, rather than bracing itself and catching his weight, found only the void. The bolt sailed high above the knight's charcoal locks as the sellsword fell, crashing into the second man behind him, overzealous in his want to assist. The force slammed both into the wall, knocking the back of the second's head into the stone with a dull thud.

Gerard had been there. It had earned him a scar just above his jungular. It earned the mercenary a blade through his—

Steel flashed: No time for sympathy.

Their third was savvy. He did not get caught in the groaning pile of limbs and metal before him, instead swinging his arming sword in a high arc as Gerard entered the space. Unable to stop that selfsame momentum, the knight's longsword rose to intercept the cut before it split his brow in two. In the realm of action and reaction, getting caught out of position like this ensured that the perfect move was exceedingly difficult to make as opposed to the soonest impulse.

Seeing both hands occupied with blocking, his opponent reached for a dagger, sheathed on his belt. Quick and practiced, he did indeed rip the blade free— only for his jaw to snap as Gerard's steel pommel crashed into the point of his chin. In that same moment, the knight had roughly shucked his intercepted sword to the side, off the center line, and brought his own longsword, grip first, back in a strike almost more at home in staff fighting than swordplay. If there was a knightly name for it, Gerard didn't know.

But it did what it needed to.

The mercenary let out a pained cry, his jaw momentarily loose as he likely saw stars, and Gerard struck again, grip changed to that of a miner as he brought the sword down. By contrast to before, a spur-of-the-moment reaction; everyone, even a man such as he, knew what the hell a Mordhau was.

The third mercenary fell. He would never rise.

His blood pumped ever hotter as he continued downward, carving a path for the knights in his wake. That little girl was all on her own down there. There would be hell to pay if they were too late to save her from harm. This group had made their choice in holding her hostage. Craven fiends. Despicable wretches. With the Roses now raiding the compound, they had to assume the worst.

A fourth, midway down. His mace, flanged and perfect for cracking skulls with or without helmets, drew a dull orange arc as it reflected the light of the torch above, intent on painting the wall red with brain. Wrenching the entirety of his torso down, the Reonite threw his head out of its path, bathed in sparks and dust as it smashed into the stone next to his shoulder. Following the motion of its wielder's body, sword became spear as its point buried itself into the man's femur. Stepping downward, he regained his base and ripped upwards. A growing stain of crimson became a torrent.

They would need to outpace news of their arrival to give Vosahnn's sister a good shot at living to see the sun again. They had made good on their word enough to convince Tili that she had no choice but to assassinate a member of the Royal family. There was no reason to believe she had lied about the stipulation placed upon failure— to say nothing at all of going turncoat.

As Tyaethe had said, this was a rescue mission. If he allowed them to get bogged down here, then all was for naught. Each second the knights were forced to engage these grunts was a direct threat to that Nem's life. That urgency weighed on them all. He forged on again, feeling the spiral seem to take forever as bedlam echoed around him.

A heat rose in his chest. Familiar, now, and driven. The world around him sharpened, the sounds of metal clashing in the chamber ahead cleared. He could not leave one man that stood in their path alive. The knights at his back needed them dealt with, the girl that lied ahead all but had each of their blades to her neck. His comrades simply could not afford being checked in their assault.

It flowed through him in waves, bolstering his muscles and seeping into his breath. While not quite yet the tar colored-fury that had so taken him in previous battles, not yet, he knew its beginnings well. It seemed inescapable in battle, from the moment it had truly become his craft. When he fought, it awoke in him a rushing frenzy, a ferocity that lay beyond the realm of simple skill at arms.

And he knew that meant he could crash into those obstacles like thunder itself. In this moment, it could be a welcome strength.

Let it come, then. When they reached whatever foe Paladin Tyaethe was fighting, he vowed it would serve their cause. There were worse things in the world than spirited reinforcement, when trying to break through. That much, he was certain he could do— even in combative trance.

Reon guide me.

With a single sickle out, Jarde began fighting and taking down mercenaries. He caught an overhead swing from a sword with his weapon before using a leg to sweep the mercenary off his feet. One kick to the face was enough to knock his latest opponent out of the fight. Looking over, he saw Tyaethe make her way downstairs. Presumably to rescue the hostage before the mercenaries could do anything to her.

"Dame Tyaethe has already headed deeper. Half of our number will take Vosahnn and accompany her, the others will remain with me!"

The Captain had given her orders. Jarde moved to join Fanilly when a whistling sound made him instinctively roll to cover. He awaited another shot, perhaps a volley, but none came. Figuring that there was none, Jarde rose and rejoined his Captain. Turned out, the bolt was but a warning shot. A signal to catch the Iron Roses' attention.

"Well well well, the Iron Roses? Hmm, you've made short work of many of our mercenaries, too, just what were we paying them for? Are you lot any better, or should I lower my expectations accordingly?"

A tall man in black leather armor and a concealing hood sauntered into the scene along with some reinforcements for the mercenaries. Armed with a short sword and a crossbow, there was no doubt that this one was a boss of these mercs. Jarde expected him to be harder to fight than the others and for that, he pulled out his other sickle.

"Well, no matter, I'm certain I know exactly how you got here so quickly and who told you. That will cost her one whole sister."

"Well, can't we talk about a discount? Times are hard." Jarde replied with humor but then turned serious. "Give up. We've got the Captain of the Iron Roses here, and her blade's still wet with Bandit King blood. Not to mention that... okay, we're quite even with numbers. But we're Iron Roses, if you didn't already know."

"With me!"

Fanilly called out to Tili and lead a small group downstairs, making a beeline for the hostage and leaving Jarde to fend off the mercenary reinforcements by himself. He wondered if Fanilly wanted him to come with her or if she trusted him to hold off all these mercenaries. Jarde watched Fanilly make her way downstairs, still dumbstruck as to what he should do.

Noticing that his chance had long went away, Jarde looked back at the hooded merc and all his friends at his side. "Uhh, I think we got off on the wrong foot here..."

Fleuri Jodeau

Fleuri watched as the Knight Serpenta launched herself down one of the staircases and engage the mercenaries out of view. From the sounds emanating from the staircase, the mercs weren't faring too well. Tyaethe followed Maritza down the stairs in her usual unhesitating fashion.

Before things could devolve further into chaos, Fanilly spoke to give the remaining knights their orders.

"We will split our numbers. A two-pronged assault will make it harder for them to stop us. Dame Tyaethe has already headed deeper. Half of our number will take Vosahnn and accompany her, the others will remain with me!"

Fleuri had no time to decide before more of the enemy forces arrived at the bottom of the other staircase, their leader firing a crossbow bolt at the captain and causing her to duck for cover.

"Well well well, the Iron Roses? Hmm, you've made short work of many of our mercenaries, too, just what were we paying them for? Are you lot any better, or should I lower my expectations accordingly?" Well, no matter, I'm certain I know exactly how you got here so quickly and who told you. That will cost her one whole sister," the hooded man menacingly proclaimed.

Fleuri's initial reaction was indignation at the man's cruel threat and correct assessment of the situation. As the man's words repeated in his mind, however, he caught a detail that he had missed.

"With me!" the Captain ordered, commanding any volunteers to follow her into the depths before the mercenaries could barricade their way. Fleuri shrugged and turned his attention back to the hooded man. Maritza and Tyaethe had already descended, and Fleuri didn't want to leave Jarde and Gerard unchaperoned.

"It will cost her sister?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "That would infer that she is indeed still alive." Fleuri turned to Fanilly. "You heard the man, Captain, we still have time to save her. We'll cover you and rejoin once this knave no longer poses a threat."

In truth this wasn't any sort of new revelation of the situation, but he hoped it's revitalize their resolve and get under their foe's skin, something that Fleuri wasn't quite done with yet.

"Judging by your sharp wits, particular interest in the how's of our current situation, and disdain for your hired help, I'd wager a guess that you are one of the conspirators. The Crown would be very interested in what you know if we took you alive," he assessed, lowering the visor of his helmet and readying his sword. Whether or not they'd be able to take him alive was unclear, but he had resolved to not let this murderous rogue escape justice this day.

A full-tilt sprint down the stairs that had been cleared was the best path forward. They had to reach Vosahnn's sister. They couldn't end this with the nem's sister dead. They couldn't...!

Even as that fear played at Fanilly's mind, she spurred herself onwards. Not a moment of doubt could be allowed. For that single moment could be the difference between life and death for the girl who was at the bottom of the crypt. The roguish man who had been leading the mercenary reinforcements had made it sound quite clear that she was alive... and Fanilly hoped that whoever was at the bottom with her would rather have a hostage they could attempt to use then a corpse that would seal their fate.

Rescuing a hostage wouldn't be easy, but it was their best chance!

The mercenaries had divided their forces too, but the bulk of the reinforcements had accompanied the cloaked man that gone up the right side. The moment Fanilly met one of their number, a tall bald man with a two-handed hammer, she ducked low under the initial swing! Driving herself forward, he staggered back and used the handle of his hammer in a bit to deflect her thrust. It worked, metal screeching against metal as he raised his hammer again...!

But she was faster, slicing through his side, cutting through leather armor and flesh in a single swing. To end his suffering more swiftly, she thrust the blade once more, upwards and through his heart.

But as she turned...

Fanilly was forced to bring her sword up, sparks flying as metal clashed on metal. Her attacker this time was a man in armor, plate armor, with dark hair and a light beard, grinning as he pushed his strength against her. At his sides were no living, human mercenaries...

But skeletal husks, some with no flesh at all showing bleached white bone underneath, others displaying some scraps of flesh, holding swords and shields, axes and maces... there were at least a dozen of them.

This had to be the work of the necromancer...!

---

The hulking Barukstaedian man was quite clearly a cut above the other mercenaries. Not only was he clearly far stronger and more skilled, but the runes on his armor and weapon spoke of some form of magical enhancement, though at the moment it was difficult to tell exactly what this meant.

What was quite obvious was the fact that he had already begun to move again, both hands on his two-handed axe as he made a bit to use the head as a ram, before swinging it once more to use the edge!

"Iron Roses? Yes, I'm quite aware," the hooded man commented, cocking his head as he spoke, face still concealed by the hood. "And I'm sure you would love to take me alive... but I think you're a little late."

Almost immediately he fired his crossbow before following it up with an incredibly, almost impossibly swift lunge forward. The mercenaries at his flanks, too, began their charge.

@HereComesTheSnow@Asuras@jdh97@Animal@TheFake@Crimson Paladin@PaulHaynek@FlappyTheSpybot@Raineh Daze@ghastlyinc@Krayzikk@Heartfillia

Despite the limited confines, Tyaethe appeared to be relying on making space against the behemoth, only briefly pushing off the axe as she looked at the runes decorating all of his equipment. Not that she had any clue what the runes themselves might individually mean but there was always the chance of it being a familiar design.

"Do you know how many of you northmen I've killed before?" the vampire asked, dropping under another swing before popping back to her feet, "There was this big invasion force about two hundred years ago. The Vos Korvungand? You might recognise this."

Whatever the next words out of her mouth were, it was obviously that it was some sort of foreign battle cry... albeit repeated in a rather bored tone. At least, unlike everything else, it got some sort of response, even if it was only a vaguely annoyed grunt and another attempt to cut through the annoyingly-dodging paladin as she got closer to the others.

"Ah, so you can speak after all! Not that you seem to understand a word I'm saying."

Fleuri Jodeau

As soon as the hooded man readied his crossbow, Fleuri began to dodge out of the way. The crossbow narrowly missed his unprotected arm, cutting cleanly through the fabric of his cloak. If he had time to think in the heat of the battle- which he didn't- he'd probably be grumbling to himself about how this was a perfect example of why he didn't like not being able to properly suit up for this mission. But with things as they were, Fleuri barely had time to assess the damage before his opponent rushed at him with a shortsword.

Reflexively, Fleuri thrust his sword at the hooded man, aiming to parry the incoming shortsword. He had been forced onto the defensive by his opponent's lightning-quick aggression, but for the split second he had to react, he still had the advantage of superior reach. Perhaps a more opportunistic or aggressive knight like Tyaethe would've gone straight for a counterattack, but Fleuri's impulse was to play it safe. The Crown Knight claymore he had borrowed wasn't exactly the same as his own sword, but it was close enough that it shouldn't be a hindrance.

The hooded man was not Fleuri's only worry. He was accompanied by more mercenaries, and they were attacking as well. Assuming the rest of the knights were going with Fanilly, it looked like Jarde and Fleuri had their work cut out for them. On the other hand, if they survived, this should make for a good story the next time they attended a royal ball.

The fight between the hooded man and his mooks against Jarde and Sir Fleuri began.

The hooded man opened up with a shot from his crossbow at Fleuri who narrowly evaded it. The two lunged at each other and their duel began, leaving Jarde to take on the rest of the hooded warrior's men. Jarde felt he was more suited in duels but then again, his specialty was striking at the sides to support his allies. A head-on fight was not his element but this was the situation he was in and there was little he could do about it.

Jarde bent backwards to evade a horizontal sword swing before making a leg sweep to knock the enemy mercenary off his feet. His next attacker had an axe and went for an overhead swing which Jarde blocked with his sickles before kicking the attacker's left leg to force a crouch. Jarde finished it with a rising knee to the chin.

More were coming at him, but there were also some going after Sir Fleuri. A single, distracting blow from them could tip the duel against the Iron Rose knight and Jarde was not going to let that happen. He needed all the mooks' attention on him.

He ducked and weaved through swings until he reached his targets. They were focused in getting a hit on Sir Fleuri and so they did not see Jarde's flying kick that knocked one of them away. Realizing that Jarde was onto them, they broke off from Fleuri's duel and went after Jarde. Now the senior knight can focus on the duel but unfortunately, Jarde was more outnumbered than before.

He needed to take whittle them down as fast as he could, to reduce the mob's combat effectiveness. Jarde aimed for their hands, their feet and joints. They would be expecting fast killing blows so they did not expect being attacked on their seemingly non-vital parts. Jarde's sickles sliced and cut, leaving mercenaries screaming on the floor and clutching their limbs.

But quantity was beginning to prove its quality when a mercenary managed to land a blow, a sword slash to the back while Jarde was busy with another. His light armor managed to protect him, but Jarde realized that they got a hit in. He needed to up his game. The mercenary now tried for a thrust with his blade but Jarde, almost a blur in speed, spun to dodge before slashing the mercenary's leg and then his sword arm. All within half a second.

The mooks' numbers were thinning now. All Jarde needed to do now was finish them off and maybe help out Sir Fleuri against the hooded warrior.

Gerard Segremors

@VitaVitaAR

Bone scattered with a swing, steel biting deep against the structure of magic holding the calcium together.

No blessing meant no permanence to his strikes. No holy light meant no way to push them back. No sacred oath meant no way to strike fear into the hearts of the undead. Not good. For all his faith, Gerard was no Paladin. Not even a squire to one, like Fleuri. In the face of such an unnatural, ungodly opponent, he was nothing more than a normal man, clad in cold iron.

That said.

The skeleton that had stood in his path moments ago was out of the way, offering a clear shot at the armored man accosting his captain. Halting their advance. In the moments it would take for the forces of unearthly arcana to pull the bones together, giving them form anew, Gerard was already moving. They had no time for being held here. The man in full harness was priority. Kill him, and the skeletons could be dealt with in the advance.

There was a silver flash in his peripheral. He threw his head to the side, twisting his trunk. Almost enough. Flame. Burning. Skin torn across cheekbone. Got him. Blood below the eye... did not hinder vision. Superficial.

He swung, rebounding the twist he took. It loaded his hips anyway. His sword smashed through a ribcage. He set off. His tunnel vision had gotten him hurt, but it also illuminated why he had every reason to help the small Captain take this man down— if he didn't, she'd be surrounded. Pincushioned. Skeletons were not terribly strong. They would not need to be, if a target was distracted.

Most of the man's body was covered in full harness. Hard to penetrate with a longsword in the best of circumstances. Here was almost right out. The best thing to do would honestly be to ground him with either wrestling or some other method, then slip a knife into his throat or armpit. He wasn't in the ideal circumstance for it. Too much going on, too close to the captain. First priority was freeing her from this deadlock against a larger, stronger opponent.

Let him face somebody his own size, maybe.

"Ma'am."

The grunt came from Fanilly's left side, heralding an oberhau plummeting squarely for the armored man's skull. He was a rich sellsword to afford all that armor, forgone helm aside— this wouldn't end the engagement. He more than likely earned it through battlefield experience within this mercenary group. So saying, he could handle another attack coming in at him during a bind. There was no chance he'd not seen it before— Gerard could name dozens himself.

But once Fanilly was free to act, how long could he fend off two blades working in concert?

"Sirs." A calm voice all the more notable for the thrumming undercurrent, a riptide lurking beneath a placid surface, greeted Jarde and Fleuri. ""Morire."

A rippling arc of reflected light whipped out ahead of a matching arc of steel, cleanly separating a mercenary's head from his shoulders before he could slip around Jarde's guard. The stream flowed back to its origin tainted red with blood, spiraling gently around the tip of Nicomede's spada. Nicomede's armor, clean and immaculate for the ball, was stained as only fighting close enough to hear your opponent's heart beat could make. Had the stone floor not run with enough already every step would have left a crimson print in the age old dust, and small rivulets ran down every metal edge. Drops had spattered on his cheeks, a stark contrast in the dark to the blue of his eyes.

It burned not to accompany Captain Fanilly and the others into the depths to rescue the Nem's sister. Conventional or not, his beliefs as a Mayonite urged him to protect the helpless. And the most helpless person in the entire gods-forsaken structure, beyond a doubt, was her. But the auspices of his protection were not solely for the defenseless, and it would not do to forsake his new friends and colleagues, either, now would it?

"I apologize for my tardiness," He continued, flowing out of the way of a blow from a bastard sword and pushing it aside with his offhand. His spada darted out, the concentric spirals at its tip accelerating and tightening as its just barely pierced the weaker armor and skin under his arm. The man barely noticed, readying his own counterattack with a sublime skill and speed wasted upon his profession. Then he faltered, a wet gurgle emanating from his throat as a jet of water stabbed deeply into his chest. The fluid, now truly the burgundy of his earlier cabernet, withdrew with his blade. "Lancia. But there were some stragglers that required my attention. Now, this seems a more even fight, doesn't?"

And it did, at least to Nicomede. The hooded fellow was definitely the biggest threat, and he began making his way carefully but swiftly through the remaining mercenaries towards Fleuri to assist. His arrival had split some of them away from Jarde, no doubt enough to make the fight much easier for them both, and the truth is that Nicomede didn't hurry. Not to say he didn't make swift progress; but he never seemed hurried. As with all things, he seemed to flow through the opposition. Occasionally he needed to dodge, actually alter his own path to evade danger, but more often than not force was simply directed aside and countered with lethal force.

Without the benefits of well made full plate armor, the first blood was usually crippling, if not always fatal.

"Holding up alright, Sir Fleuri? I imagine Sir Jarde and I will be able to assist in just a moment."

When it came to a test of strength like this, Fanilly couldn't deny she was at a disadvantage. For all the finesse that had been drilled into her, there was no ignoring the fact that the armored man was stronger then she was, and likely carried with him significant experience. But... she couldn't give in!

"You're not cut out for this, little girl," he snarled as he forced her back, "Let me demonstrate!"

She couldn't keep holding him back much longer, not with the undead he had brought with him...!

But at that very moment, Sir Gerard broke through the skeletons, bringing his sword down for a devastating overhead blow! Now it was the armored man's turn to be on the back foot, forced to disengage from Fanilly to save his own life, using the side of his blade as a barrier between his head at the edge of the knight's weapon.

The instant she got an opening, Fanilly surged forward, the razor tip of her sword glinting in the light of the torches as she immediately targeted one of the gaps in the man's armor. Cursing, he sprang back, clearly having anticipated his wall of skeletal reinforcements to withstand assault a little longer, even if they were capable of reforming provided there was enough of them to keep moving.

"Somewhat more capable then I'd thought, then," he commented, swiftly making more distance between himself as several of the remaining skeletons moved in to delay the knights' approach. Fanilly's eyes narrowed... this was cowardice, wasn't it? He'd only wanted to fight when he had a clear advantage, but now that he had two opponents he was making sure they couldn't close the gap and avoiding any direct conflict.

"Your undead won't protect you, nor will they prevent us from carrying out our duty," Fanilly asserted, raising her sword towards the man as the skeletons raised their weapons to defend him, "Surrender now and you will at least live to be brought before a court."

"Hah, as if you're in any position to make such demands," he replied, his free hand digging into the pouch a his hip. What he drew forth was something gleaming, red, a sort of talisman...?

"Tell me, Iron Rose Knights, have you ever heard the name Reddb-"

But before he could demonstrate whatever it was the talisman did, he let out a cry of pain, dropping the talisman immediately!

There, slipped into the joint at his elbow, was a gleaming dagger! Fanilly was suddenly struck by the realization that the ensuing chaos had made it difficult to keep track of the nem. Had Vosahnn...?

If she had, she had done her best to immediately return to the right side of the room, getting out of the way as swiftly as possible.

"Damn you little bitch! Kill her, kill her!" the armored man growled, clearly suspecting that the nem had been responsible. The skeletons lurched towards her, and Fanilly almost immediately sprang into action, bringing her sword sharply downwards and causing one to collapse into a heap of bone, fracturing its skull.

Now he was directly targeting Vosahnn, but at the same time, his anger and pain had lead to him making a critical mistake. The undead he'd used as a wall were departing in their attempt to kill the nem, leaving him open to a direct attack...!

---

The armored Barukstaedian's axe swung again, and again, as he kept up his assault. However, Tyaethe's taunting seemed to have served only to make him somewhat annoyed... it was clear he either cared little for the fate of the Vos Korvungand, or quite simply because he was more concerned with the fight at hand then anything else.

This time, however, the runes on his axe were beginning to glow... the next strike he made would have considerably more explosive force behind it!

The agility possessed by the hooded man was almost unreal. Not, it absolutely was. Just how could a man move so swiftly? How could a human being move with such agility? His strikes, the manner his body moved, it didn't seem as if it should have been possible.

But an Iron Rose Knight had likely seen such swiftness before, hadn't they?

The next strike that Fleuri made was not parried or dodged.

It was caught.

The man's hood had fallen down. Beneath was a handsome, clean-shaven face, black hair... and crimson eyes.

He'd caught the edge of the borrowed claymore in his teeth.

His fangs.

He freed the sword and stepped back, straightening.

"Allow me to introduce myself," he began, "I... am Damon Cal."

@HereComesTheSnow@Asuras@jdh97@Animal@TheFake@Crimson Paladin@PaulHaynek@FlappyTheSpybot@Raineh Daze@ghastlyinc@Krayzikk@Heartfillia

As the Barukstaedian's glowing axe came swinging down, there was oddly familiar rapid thrumping noise from up the stairs behind Tyaethe followed by a much more recognizable voice.

"MOVE!"

The Naga shouted, expertly throwing a short handaxe at the massive Northman's head, presumably "borrowed" from one of the mercenaries. Already committed to a swing, the Barukstaedian twisted the sweep of his axe back up intercepting the thrown weapon in an explosive shower metal shrapnel and wood chips. Before the Northman could completely return to a ready position, Maritza slammed into him, grappling for the enchanted axe.

Skidding backwards, the massive warrior brought the Knight Serpenta's charge to a halt, albeit only after getting pushed back several feet. While the Barukstaedian may have had the better upper body strength, Mari had all the leverage of her lower half. And so, if only for a few moments, the two were evenly matched.

"Tyaethe! NOW!"

Jarde thought it was him and Sir Fleuri alone against the hooded man and his goons. Fortunately, another Iron Rose joined the fray. Sir Nicomede arrived and began helping Jarde deal with the mercenaries. Now that the tide has turned, Jarde's morale was raised and doubled his efforts at routing the mercenaries so they could help Sir Fleuri.

Fortunately, the enemy was losing heart at seeing so many of them fallen and the three Iron Roses still alive and well. They were fearful of fighting any further and on the verge of running away. Sir Nicomede made his way towards Sir Fleuri who dueled the hooded man.

While the mercenary enemies were easy to deal with, Jarde saw that the hooded fought Fleuri with unparalleled speed. He was fast, even faster than Jarde who prided himself with his agility. He was almost like a blur. Who could move that fast? But then something more surprising happened. Sir Fleuri's next strike was not evaded or blocked, the hooded man caught the blade on his mouth.

The hood fell off, revealing a handsome face with black hair and crimson eyes. His teeth were more than that, they were fangs.

"Allow me to introduce myself, I... am Damon Cal."

Damon let go of Fleuri's claymore and allowed the Iron Roses to behold him. "Uhh, we have a vampire here." Jarde pointed out the obvious to his two allies. "Uhh, what do we do?" He was getting a little worried. If Damon could move that fast then Jarde would be at a clear disadvantage. Fortunately, he was with two knights who likely knew how to deal with vampires and had powers of their own.

Gerard Segremors

@VitaVitaAR

A blued gleam behind the crook of the opponent's elbow heralded a howl, full of rage, pain, swearing vengeance. He had opted for maximal safety, retreating from their range immediately after diverting Gerard's strike with his own blade and imposing a skeletal wall between the pair of Roses. It had proven to be an obstacle beforehand, something worth taking note of, but now...

"Kill her, kill her!" he howled, glaring fury in the direction Vosahnn must have fled.

Bone snapped beneath steel as the Captain darted to the side, following that same wall of reanimated corpses and interposing herself between it and their young Nem charge. New orders given, they began to move as one towards the side of the chamber. Gerard was similarly quick on the uptake—

But rather than dashing to the right side of the room, he instead surged forward. This was an opening he would be braindead to not take, even within the deepest pits of the fervor that consumed him. His Captain could more than handle keeping young Vosahnn safe from mindless skeletons— that much he could plainly see. Here, against this man, she could be said to lack size, strength, experience— her training was nothing to sneeze at, but Gerard did not believe it was particularly boastful to conclude that this fight suited him better.

He would ruthlessly push the advantages on the table.

A compromised arm.

A distraction, blinding lust for reprisal.

That same horde Fanilly engaged, now so far away from him.

Fights were decided by moments, and this one Gerard seized.

Naturally, the burst of motion in his peripheral was noteworthy enough for this man, experienced in spite of his clear outburst of anger, to take note of. To catch a man like this wholly off his guard would be asking too much. However, he was nonetheless forced to react rather than act— Gerard had all at once filled the space that existed between them, bearing down on him with blade drawn.

Immediately, in the same instant the armored man's eyes widened, Gerard swung.

A zhornhau to open. Diagonal cut starting from the right shoulder, something quick, high, and immediate— draw the eyes. Feint.

Off-balance, stuck in readjustment, he would bite on defending it. Heavy strike right for the head again, no chance that did not flash every warning signal.

He felt the clash of blade on blade, but not the pressure of a bind. Immediately, Segremors stepped forward and to the left on a diagonal, his longsword riding rebound and twisting in his grip to attack the other side. Zwerchau, a windmilling horizontal cut at head height. Delivered by the twisting of the arms above oneself, it could rapidly attack either side with successive strikes. Great for pressing an advantage and driving forward, further and further into space.

His step in had served a dual purpose— not only did it activate the legs and hips in powering the Zwerchau, it took his foot position much closer to that of his unnamed foe.

If he could get close enough, he could initiate a wrestling exchange by tripping him over that lead foot if he barred his vambrace over the man's throat, and the Knights would have their prisoner with a fresh blade against his neck quite quickly. No way this one wasn't some kind of big shot within the present corps— the plate alone was reason to believe he fit the desired bill.

If he could not, and his opponent gave ground, he would continue his furious assault with more strings of cuts, either herding him away from that talisman or outright killing him, ending the threat for good.

As long as they won, Gerard personally found himself unbothered with either outcome.

Oh-ho, that was interesting, some sort of charge effect on the weapon? Was it something she could overpower? This was what she wanted, the Barukstaedian to put his full force in and find out that it still wasn't enough. Exciting and... well, the Vos Korvungaard were all long dead but it was still fun to relive parts of that battle. Not the cavalry charge, but the mopping up...

Unfortunately... well, for her, not for their overall goal, Maritza had returned to help, slamming into the man and locking him in place. That was what she got from playing with her food, though... maybe she should have finished him earlier. Regardless, recovering from her impromptu leap out of the way, Tyaethe adjusted her grasp on the sword to place her hand up the ricasso. If that armour was magic, it would be pointless to try and smash through it in a reasonable time and with him effectively held in place, she just needed to line it up and...

One thrust later, and the weighty sword was thrust through the exposed armpit and into his chest, ending any chance he had of fighting back... or surviving beyond the next few seconds.

"Is someone talking about vampires...?"

Fleuri Jodeau

Fleuri's reaction to the hooded man catching the sword in his teeth was initially bewilderment at the audacity of such a move. It quickly gave way to a wave of terror, however, as he saw the man's red eyes and bared fangs.

By Reon, this is no ordinary rogue. This man is a vampire, Fleuri thought as he stepped back, assuming a defensive posture as his foe let go of the sword. It was fortunate that the crown knights' helmet hid the look of fear on Fleuri's face, although an astute observer would note the discomfort in his movements.

"Allow me to introduce myself. I... am Damon Cal," the vampire spoke. In the span of a few seconds this vampire had gone from an arrogant noble to a vicious, sword-biting predator, then regained his civilized veneer as quickly as he had discarded it.

I don't recognize that name, but it seems that Phoran was not the only member of the Cal family to head down the path of damnation. If Fleuri wasn't still shaken from the surprise revelation that he was fighting a vampire, he might have retorted with some stinging banter. Calm yourself, Fleuri. If they see you're afraid, they'll be afraid too, he silently told himself, recalling an old adage: courage is the art of being the only one who knows you're scared to death.

"Uhh, we have a vampire here. Uhh, what do we do?" asked Jarde. The reaction and worry of his fellow knight made further strengthened Fleuri's resolve to steel his nerves.

"I'll tell you what we do, Jarde," Fleuri said, doing his best to compose himself, although his voice was still a little shaky. "We reconcile him with the death that he has fled from. We spill his unjustly taken blood as Reon demands! And we bring him to justice for his treasonous conspiracy!" By the end of Fleuri's command, the fear in his voice was gone, replaced by the zeal of a devout Reonite. He was still afraid, of course, but it no longer showed as much as before.

"Follow my lead, and don't allow him any breathing room!" Fleuri commanded. Perhaps it was out of line, and perhaps it was a poor choice of words, but now wasn't the time for those concerns. He rushed forward at Damon, raising his claymore and swinging it down diagonally with all his might. Fleuri had some knowledge of vampires, and he knew that while stab wounds and shallow cuts were of little threat to them, they would not ignore a potentially dismembering blow. It would be up to Jarde and Nicomede to capitalize on it, however, but he trusted in the skills and resolve of his brothers-in-arms.

@PaulHaynek@Krayzikk

Damon Cal's fangs were met with Nicomede's own.

The knight's lips curled back in a snarl of hatred entirely unfeigned. No psychological warfare, no tactic to bolster his own morale, only a singular distaste for the man before him. No, for the monster; whatever the man had been in life, whatever he could have been as he was, he had chosen to be a monster entirely independent of his new state. Unforgivable. Nicomede would grant, if pushed, that perhaps his condition wasn't his fault. Reon recognized it.

But in this instant he didn't care.

The finer points of the morality and the ethics of vampirism were entirely irrelevant compared to the fact that Damon Cal had become a monster by actions, and at the end of the day Mayon decreed that monsters were to be stopped. Innocents were to be protected. And that was for a Knight to do. There was a natural time to die, for a man to meet his maker. And when that day came he would face it with a courage that no man too afraid to die could ever match.

And that was why Damon Cal held no fear for Nicomede. For his speed, his strength, his unholy longevity he was a coward and no Knight would ever be killed by a coward. Mayon, his own movements spoke of it! No, supernatural or not there was no match for simple skill. Slow is smooth. Smooth is fast. Efficiency trumps speed every time.

"I don't care who you are. I'll happily settle for dead."

Nicomede flowed forward opposite the direction of Fleuri's swing, going towards and slightly past the other knight at a rapid clip. If the vampire attempted to flee away from the swing he would be driven straight into Nicomede's waiting arms, and if he fell back he surrendered the initiative. If he caught the strike, well, that was fine too.

Because his spada was whipping out from the opposite direction to slice the muscles behind the vampire's knee. He would regenerate, sure; but he would be out the use of his back, and thus stabilizing, leg for at least a moment. More than enough time to continue to follow up.

Precision was a power all its own.

Putting the skeletons down for good was no easy task. It was not completely impossible, as enough structural damage would ultimately render then largely useless. But dealing such damage with a sword...

Fanilly had to do her best, she couldn't let a single one of the undead's numbers past her!

Using the pommel of her sword as a blunt instrument, she brought her weapon down as sharply as she could, a crack resounding from its impact against the skull of one of the skeletons. While she could hardly be described as a physical powerhouse, the young knight's speed and the weight of her weapon being brought down hard successfully cracked the aged bone, temporarily sending the skeleton to pieces as it did. Immediately she began kicking the bones apart. If she couldn't do enough damage in a single blow to permanently disable them, she could at least make their revival take longer!

The skeleton's less-then fluid movements were also a boon for her. While their numbers were not insignificant, they were not the fastest opponents! She could keep Vosahnn safe!

Metal rang against metal as she deflected a blow from one of the undead, before swinging her sword through its ribcage and spine at full force, knocking it apart and cutting through bone! As long as she could keep this up, as long as they could open a path deeper...!

The armored man gritted his teeth.

Circumstances had turned against him quite swiftly. With the pain shooting up his arm, the dagger still lodged in his elbow, he had been placed at a considerable disadvantage. With each clash of steel against steel, he was forced back, losing ground. And yet there was no room to disengage, not to retrieve the lost amulet nor try and call some of the skeletons back to assist him.

"Damn you... damn you! Where is that blasted mage...!?"

His frantic self-defense furthered devolved, a string of curses erupting from his lips with each clash of the two men's weapons.

But he wasn't leaving a big enough opening to pin down. In spite of being injured and enraged, he was still managed, even if only barely, to make himself far harder to take prisoner then to kill.

With the mention of a mage, it was likely there would be reinforcements soon, and given how they were already surely running low on time...

---

The Barukstaedian man collapsed, with one final glare and a wheezed curse in his own tongue directed not at the one who had taken his life, but at the one who had interrupted the fight and pinned him down.

Perhaps this much was to be expected from a northman. He died glaring at the naga, his ire wholly directed at the one who had prevented the battle from continuing.

As for Damon Cal...

It was an almost surreal sight. As the blades came down, the vampire simply grinned, springing into the air almost immediately. Of course, such a move would hardly matter when it came to the blows that Sir Nicomede and Sir Fleuri had unleashed, they still bit through flesh and bone, they still served to sever one of the vampire's arms and one of his legs, the former still gripping his crossbow. This would be expected, perhaps, to be a crippling blow even to one who could heal from such damage, and yet...

Damon Cal hardly seemed bothered, even as he managed to land, with disturbing grace for the blood spurting from the severed stumps, on his single remaining foot several meters away.

"... My my, good work," he commented, "But... it's not enough."

Rivulets of blood suddenly became solid, like thread, snapping the vampire's limbs back towards his body. In the blink of an eye, they had already reattached.

And he was already leveling his crossbow squarely at Fleuri.

@HereComesTheSnow@Asuras@jdh97@Animal@TheFake@Crimson Paladin@PaulHaynek@FlappyTheSpybot@Raineh Daze@ghastlyinc@Krayzikk@Heartfillia

So that was how it worked.

No doubt continuous enough dismembering would eventually wear out his ability to heal, but it would be a long, lengthy, and bloody process. And as satisfying as it might be the Knights would grow exhausted long before they succeeded. Fire would help, but alas none among them possessed that more Reonite magic. But Nicomede missed nothing, and he watched the trails of blood rejoin the vampire's lost limbs. It was his greatest strength, more than the force or speed of his arm. Swiftness could be accomplished by mortal men as well as strength, but a mortal man will die if he bleeds. A mortal man's arm will not return to its place, nor his head to his shoulders. That was the clearest divide between the creature before them and themselves.

So it would be taken away.

But he had not been idle in that moment and as the vampire had leapt back he had pressed on, eager to keep the monster from creating a gap. The bloodied liquid followed the lead of his off weapon this time, seeking to end the ranged threat the same way he had stopped the Nem assassin.

"Tagliare." The water shot forth to sever the crossbow's line and Nicomede followed it, staying in close and low while his spada swept again at the vampire's leg. "Sirs FLeuri, Jarde! Sever its limbs!"

There was no time to explain, and no way to do so without giving up the game. But he knew how to put down the creature, and put him down hard. Against someone else it might have a been a certain moral conundrum; Nicomede was not squeamish, but using a man's own vital fluids against him simply seemed wrong. It felt near to a very serious border, a line that should not be crossed. Not even against the wicked. It wasn't even something he was certain he could do against a living being, and certainly not before it had been separated from its owner.

But this was not a truly living thing, not anymore, and he would feel no qualms for what it might require to stop it.

Water is the most abundant resource in all the world, and found in most liquids. A fact the disgraced noble had amply demonstrated when he weaponized a glass of wine earlier in the evening, and one he continued to demonstrate with the bloodied water that presently sought to destroy another crossbow. Without a counteracting magic the work of one part would affect the whole, and dueling magics would come down to the practitioners. The monster might be stronger, but he wasn't smarter.

And blood was more than half water.

At the first drop of blood from his blade or any of his comrades he would utter the word, the growl, that would prevent the monster's blood from rejoining until he had conquered Nicomede's own will, the will of a human being;

"Rottura."

If it had the will for it at all.