"I sent my knife through a spell-slinger's eye, that was one of the highlights." He countered, free hand whipping forth in the motion every mercenary knew, most were good at, and a select few fully mastered. Being in the second cohort was good enough for most anyone. Good enough for him, so far. "I couldn't get out of the way of all the arrows from the Talderians, but their ace couldn't get the dent from the Mordhau out of his helm. Bought me time to do the old gorget can-opener."
Best fight of his life, even with all they'd done... Gerard wouldn't expect anything less. Even the Demonbreaker, towering, glimmering juggernaut of holy steel that toyed with he and Serenity like children... the wraith that he had been paled to his life, and paled to Agrahn as well.
"Florian... I would bet." he grunted, "Wish I'd gotten him, might have gone out something cleaner... Agrahn was a monster. Spent the whole time wrecking me with each swing. Took all I had just to keep him from cutting through me outright. I think the only thing I got in on him was..."
A finger brushed an errant lock of coal aside from his gaze. Long, he remembered thinking at the ball, longer than ever. The brow beneath echoed with a soreness it never earned.
The maid nodded when she saw the ash on the knight's shirt. It wasn't as if her duties necessarily covered the other knights aside from the Captain. She was raised alongside Fanilly, one of her personal maids. But now that she was Captain, her personal maids' services were at the disposal of everyone in Candaeln.
"Very well, as one of Lady Danbalion-er, that is to say, the Knight-Captain's personal maids, I shall make short work of this," she asserted, with no small amount of pride. As far as maid work went, it was only obvious that working for the Knight-Captain of the Iron Roses was something to take pride in.
Especially since she had known her for so long.
However, as she approached, the purple-haired maid paused for a moment. Was Sir Lein taking boxes from the supplies...?
"Forgive me for asking, Sir Lein, but where are you going with those boxes, exactly?"
A scream disrupted her opponent’s attention, and Serenity slowed her own swing, tapping the wooden sword against Fanilly’s helm as her gaze was diverted.
“That’s that.”
Serenity removed her own helmet upon the conclusion of this spar, peeling a strand of sweat-slick hair away from her temple. Her body felt warm enough, her heart beating at a measured pace, and her mind was still alive, simulating the options she had. It would have been different if she had been equipped the way she normally was. It would be different too, if both of them were in full plate.
But it wasn’t.
“Have them bring your food here,” she spoke. “It’s best to review immediately after, while the sensations are still fresh, Captain.”
Serenity would eat on her own time, after. For now though? There was a lot she had to say to Fanilly.
The issue with characters like Ser Lein is that their rogueish impulses are part and parcel to their identity - they usually stem from deep within one's biography. I have no doubts that in my absence he has been reprimanded for similar incidents, but arrogance, in my experience, trumps punishment or criticism. Thus preventative long term measures are exceedingly difficult to implement. I sometimes question in my mind Tyaethe's judgement when it comes to recruitment - although Lein's skills clearly have some unique merit. I suppose it isn't my purview to weigh whether said virtues nullify the insubordinate streaks or not.
This does bring me to a dilemma, however, because of the two people stood in front of me, the maid is not the authority. Technically speaking, Ser Lein could make up a whole manner of excuses that would not need to be verified necessarily: 'What, are you calling a Knight a liar?'
Suffice it to say it's probably necessary for me to step in - if only for the sake of this poor maid not having to be misled and possibly punished for accidentally letting Lein do whatever it is he's attempting to do. If he fools me - Mayon willing - I'll bear whatever consequences arise (admittedly, likely little to none at all).
"I must myself confess to be confused...do your quarters require...eh...spring cleaning?"
My eyes narrow liberally at the Hundi. Curiosity was building, however. I would like to see this particular web unravel.
Like usual, a warm summer morning was to be spent in the flowerbed that lined the Candaeln courtyard. The soft fragrance lingering in the still misty air, the melodic chirping birds and silent sight of butterflies. It was best enjoyed alone.
The Ingvarr quietly strolled up and down the garden that he (mostly) maintained, quietly admiring the life that sparked in this often ignored corner of the castle, but also on alert for any dangerous invaders that threatened its tranquil bloom.
”And there it is.”
Garden weeds. Taking everyone’s nutrients and harboring dangerous poison and even diseases for the humans too. And yet they’re everywhere.
Steffen stopped by the patch of dirt containing those pesky grass and, with his immense strength, pulled the grass out completely to its deeply seated root.
Amidst the smell of damp dirt and grass, of flowers and dew, there was another scent mixed in. A pungent smell, sharp and oily. The smell of paint.
The courtyard was best enjoyed alone, but on this morning, there were two present in this little-visited portion of Candaeln. Serenity, dressed in drab blacks and grays that did well to hide the flecks of errant colors upon them, stood before a canvas. A palette in her left, a brush in her right.
Paused, midstroke.
She nodded towards Steffen, once.
“Good morning, Sir Steffen.”
Poking his head up from the flowerbed just in time to see the gesture, a smile was given.
”Good morning!” The Ingvarr waved, before realizing he was holding a patch of grass and dirt. He promptly tossed that into a nearby bucket. ”I hope I’m not ruining the view. Terribly sorry about this mess.”
Steffen dusted off dirt from his hands as much as he could before heading over to Serenity, curious to what she was doing. It was already rare to be seeing her outside of the training yard or the library, not to mention her more laxing outfit too.
“No,” Serenity shook her head as she set her brush down. “Though I hadn’t expected you to be the one doing this, in the stead of the gardener.”
”Ah, well.” It was technically not his job. ”I just like doing garden work, so I offered to help. Our gardener is also double-timing as a chef, so any help is nice I guess.”
Steffen looked at the painting Serenity was working on. ”That looks pretty good. I also didn’t expect you to be out here with the canvas so early. Part of your knight training or?”
Strange, that. They had a good amount of servants working around the castle, and yet one of them performed two roles? One could expect a shortage of knights after the War of the Red Flags, but the castle’s non-military occupants hadn’t reason to step on the field. To be lacking here…
Well. Not that Candaeln was her castle.
“It’s rudimentary,” Serenity replied. “And yes, this is training. Half of martial arts is the arts. Do you not garden for similar reasons?”
”...yeah…no? It is art indeed, but I’m not really doing it for the purpose of knight training.” Steffen glanced briefly back at the flowerbed, his arms folded. ”I just like it. It’s so peaceful to just sit down, contemplate, reflect…you know. Helps to get your head straight sometimes.”
“Hm.” She neither agreed nor disagreed.
If one wanted peace in the current state of Thaln, one didn’t have to go so far. The very reason why they could be stationed in Candaeln and live at their leisure was because there was no war, only miscreant conspirators and lawless ruffians.
“Where did you learn to do this?”
”Not where exactly. I taught myself most of them.” Steffen said, his sentiment instinctively getting a bit ahead of his usual word consideration. ”My mom liked to do this, and when I was younger I liked to observe her. So I kinda just picked it up naturally when I got to it myself. The rest is up to experience and my own creativity, I suppose.”
No books, no tutors, it was simply just keen observance, a bit of passion and a respectable number of hours put into it.
”How about you? Does anyone teach you this or you learn it yourself?”
“Passion and dedication.” That was admirable of Steffen, certainly. There were no diamonds in the rough that could be polished without external help, but while some benefited from the guidance of craftsmen, others were polished through their own efforts, tumbling through the world.
“As with everything I know, a master lays the foundation, and my efforts build up the rest. Though there is certainly nothing natural about this.”
She gestured towards her work once more. At a distance, at a glance, it was a serviceable painting, but upon further inspection, there was a void of something. It was art that captured an instance, but that instance lacked any particular meaning.
The garden before her was a garden bathed in morning.
And thus, she painted the garden, bathed in morning.
”Hmm.”
He tilted his head slightly. Just from his pure artistic sense, reading into Serenity’s brushstroke like a small glimpse into her mindset.
”I…yeah.” Wrinkles appeared on his forehead. He wasn’t sure how to put it, not only succinctly but also not to make Serenity upset about it. ”It feels a bit ordinary.”
It’s not that the art lacked or even needed an inherent sense of meaning, but it’s that it felt that this was anyone’s painting with hours of practice, not Serenity’s. If that’s her goal to just be able to capture the instance of her memories, then sure, but judging from her tone, she might be unsatisfied with the progress.
”But I can see your hard work. If you don’t mind, I can try, like, adding a bit of advice?”
“I do mind.”
A brusque response, but not an unexpected one when coming from Serenity. She was quick to offer help, but rarely asked for help. And then, there was…
“If it looks like what you see, then it’s as I intended.”
A contradiction, mayhaps, upon her emphasis of art just moments before.
”Oh…”
Steffen didn’t expect that. He felt a little hurt hearing it but reminded himself it was just Serenity. She always had that uptight element to her, maybe a little too inside of a box.
”Alright, alright, I’ll chill.” He said. ”Do you intend to go anywhere or do anything with the painting? Or is it just practice?”
“Do you in-”
She frowned. Then smiled. A thin smile. A slight shake of her head, as if shaking off bad habits, worse preconceptions.
“It’s observation. There is more that an artist can see than a common man, whether at a glance or with greater study. As such, it is a useful trait to obtain.” Now, she had answered him, so now she can ask him in return. “But, Steffen. Do you intend to go anywhere or do anything with this garden?”
”Well, do you like how it looks?” Steffen asked, a more tender smile appeared. ”If you spend a quiet afternoon or a lunch break here, would you like it?”
She took a second longer than her posture would’ve implied, swallowing the words that came most naturally. Neither of them were close enough for the behavior that she exhibited with other knights. There was a cleanliness to Steffen that was different from the ardent zeal of Gerard. “I like it. Though I question why you’d think I was here, if I didn’t like it.”
”Well…” Steffen leaned his head left and right, his words too jumbled in his head to come out immediately. ”It’s just to be sure I guess. I don’t doubt your enjoyment here.”
”But yeah, if so, I’m glad. That’s what I want to do with the garden.” He glanced back at the flowers, the plants that were blooming and prospering under his care. It was like his own child. ”For your and everybody else’s enjoyment at any time.”
”Does that sound good for intent?”
The Ingvarr’s palm covered his other hand, placed in front of his chest as he asked. It was not out of purview for who Steffen is, but one might still find it comical: a gigantic warrior from the north, looking reserved, demure.
Serenity raised a brow.
“If I say no, would you stop?” She picked up her brush once more, guiding it over the rays of light cresting over the ramparts of the keep. “Don’t ask for approval if it’s your answer. And if it isn’t your answer, don’t speak as if it is.”
”It is, it is, don’t worry.”
Ever so serious Serenity...
”Sure, I’ll take up on that advice.”
He didn’t want to aggravate her further. The response felt a bit instinctual, as if this was not the first time he had heard of it. It was best that he just maintained his cordiality rather than pushing back. At least for now.
Silence fell after. They were stubborn in their own way, set in their ways either by nature or conviction. Gradually, Steffen peeled away from Serenity, attending to the garden once more, while the lady herself remained where she was: back straight, eyes focused, brush moving forcefully, purposefully.
And thus, time passed, in this silence neither comfortable nor hostile, the sun rising higher, the insects roused by the warmth of day, the vibrance of life granted further vivacity by Reon’s blessings.
Serenity stopped.
The shadow she cast was one that only remained beneath her. She set her brushes down, rose from her seat, collapsed her easel, and wrapped up her palette. Three examinations to check the dryness of the paint, thirteen steps to bridge the distance between her and the Ingvarr.
“Do with it as you wish.”
In a garden bathed in morning light, there was the suggestion of an individual amidst pastoral scenery. A study that began in observation and ended in motion.
And without pause, the knight with flaxen hair left, heading into the shade of corridors and stonework.
Holding the painting by the back, not letting his dirt-covered hand ruin the knight’s dedication, Steffen gave a little smirk. ”Nothing natural, huh?”
Eventually, a painting ornamented Steffen’s office. An otherwise average painting, but nonetheless appreciated.
Lein smiled for exactly half a second to Sergio that sent a brief but entirely comprehensible message. I'll flay your backstabbing whoreson skin alive.. "As I say, a favor. I'm just taking these to where I won't get caught up in a trap." Lein replied with such confidence that as if all along, everyone should have known that Lein was ferrying out wine siphoned surreptitiously from the castle supplies, and they were stupid for asking. And as soon as he stepped over the thresh-hold, Lein switched from keeping up the self-assured attitude to a full sprint.
He wasn't sure what happened next exactly, but he could piece it together from the terrible, splitting pain at the back of his head, the cold wine seeping into his clothes, his new orientation being much more horizontally inclined, and an entirely unimpressed maid that was standing over him with a bucket with a freshly dented lip.
"Good arm," was all the Hundi said lying scattered on the stained flagstones, and bracing the last vestiges of yet another of his broken schemes as the embrace of a sorrowful blankness took him.
"I can't imagine his was any softer, though. Seems like growing a hard head is a defense mechanism." Blade up again, over the left shoulder. "Florian didn't really say anything like that to me, though. There wasn't much opportunity to speak it felt like." He surged forward like a spring suddenly released, point flying out towards his imaginary target as he stepped slightly to the left. Changing the line of engagement. Stopped as though parried; raised his blade to cover, imaginary opposition sliding off his flat as he stepped back to the right, blade whirling in a tight cut down into the short guard.
A quick jab forwards, arms extended in long guard for a moment, before drawing back, posta frontale, ready to defend from any retaliation. A smooth progession, a sequence fast even for a trained eye, though Gerard at least would recognize how slowly and deliberately Fionn was stepping through it, his focus drawn almost entirely inward, away from the conversation. "When he did, though..."
He stepped forward again, blade rising to turn a probing thrust; their blades met again in the eerie silence, points brushing against one another lighter than a feather. The touch was almost soft-like the breath of a breeze in spring, ahead of an oncoming storm. A gentleness belying the killing intent that drove the probing contact. For all that Fionn knew his skills with a longsword were very proficient-some might even say excellent-he knew the knight across from him was perfect.
"Reactionary," the other observed in a clinical tone. "Defensive, restrained...butbrutal.Curious combination." The pressure eased off for a moment, the other's tip circling around, changing the angle for a the barest moment to seek an opening. Fionn responded in kind, restoring the original orientation just as the knight lunged; the thrust was beaten down and aside, and he stepped forwards, a quick cut towards the other's face. The other blade came back up just as quickly, a hanging guard, now the blades crossed at the forte. Both knights as tight into each other as their bladework had been.
Fionn stepped forwards quickly, bringing his pommel up towards his imagined foe's face. Continuing past, whirling around again, blade once again crossed with some unseen enemy, nearly nose to nose. Stretto, as he'd been taught to call such a close distance. "He didn't really focus on anything about technique with me," he continued, pausing for a moment. Didn't call out any deficiencies or the like. I think he knew that I know where I lack. Just commenting on my thought process."
There were opportunities. Seize his blade and strike low. Step off line and continue in with a pommel strike to the face or neck. Wrap his blade beneath the guard and send the other's flying, grasp his arms and throw his opponent down across his leg. But in each opportunity, an obvious invitation, any number of chances to counter, to make each opening a trap.
Their steps continued, each twisting on the balls of their feet to face each other again. Himself back-weighted, blade across his shoulders. Aggressive and inviting. The other, forward-weighted, blade low and to the side. Solid and indomitable.
"No sense prolonging the fight-or the suffering," he replied. "It's quicker. Direct, like." Almost as one they shifted stances; his blade came forward slightly, point threatening the other, hilt high next to his brow. The other shifting back, blade closer in, in-line, but still down. The traps remained clear.
Damn you, Florian, he thought suddenly. He almost thought he saw the hint of a smile on the Mirror Knight's face. Not Cyrus, not Parvan, I have to get the knight that wants to pick me apart inside and out. He wasn't sure how long they'd been at this back-and-forth, constantly feeling the other out, but compared to the speed with which most of his engagements usually ended it felt like an eternity.
"No reason to waste time and energy."
"That's not all there is, is it?" Florian asked, his cheeks as of yet unmarred by the sweat that beaded on Fionn's own. "Such a valiant, true, idealistic knight. Guide, advisor, and protector, defensive even in your manner of fighting. Truly one that Lady Mayon would favour...but we both know it isn't borne out of any deep altruism, just that you've turned it to serve your nobler impulses."
Florian stepped forward, feinting another lunging thrust into a low cut instead. There was a chance there - lunge forwards, take the blade under his ribs in return for planting his point in Florian's throat. No winner. An obvious double, but not bait. Another test.
He came down into the short guard on the right, catching the cut and keeping his point on line. Florian retreated a step, and their blades once more crossed at the point.
"You don't just enjoy the combat. The test. Not like you convince yourself you do." Even as much as this had been the best bout Fionn had been in for an age, it felt like, he almost had to admit that Florian was right. The prolongation dampening his enjoyment, but not utterly extinguishing it. "You want to win. You want todominate,don't you? To command, to control. Youlovebreaking people. Tell me, MacKerracher, if you could end a fight in a single stroke, or a war, even if it meantyou didn't personally win,would you really do it?"
"Aye, Florian, I would," he growled under his breath, lunging forwards in the well-trampled dirt of the training yard. Blade rising to a feinted thrust; without missing a step he shifted his grip on his pommel, blade whirling around into a devastating rising cut, left hand reversed upon the hilt. His point drifted to the side as though pushed away, before he shifed his hand again, pushing aside an invisible thrust.
He stepped in tight again; his left hand came down to block Florian's arms, his sword rotating, pommel behind Florian's crossguard, and he sent the founding knight's blade flying off to the side as he continued on past. His point drew in again, primed for a thrust—before he felt a quick, pinching pressure under his arm, rapidly shifting to white hot pain. His grip slackened, and within the same heartbeat he was flat on the ground, Florian atop him, both breathing heavily.
Another test. To see if he was true to his word. Sure enough, the trap was obvious—such an easily-exploited thrust from that position wasn't something a knight of Florian's caliber would normally do, purely because the chance that he lost his own sword, suffered a broken nose, broken teeth, or any number of worse things was too high. But he'd let himself be disarmed, leaving Fionn dangerously close to planting a blade between his ribs, before tackling the Veltish knight and sticking a dagger in his armpit. Were there other knights there, Fionn fighting alongside comrades as he normally did, Florian would be the dangerous enemy left wide open for reprisal. A desperate attempt to salvage a poor choice for any more normal opponent, but one that had very little chance to succeed beyond the immediate kill.
For Florian, just a teaching moment. "Good," the Mirror Knight replied, coming to his feet with a small nod. Overall, it wasn't dissimilar from what he'd done with Jeremiah. Make himself a threat, keep the enemy occupied, and let the others get the actual hits in. Against a lesser foe, this likely would've proved a mutual kill, like some of the other opportunities he'd seen before.
"Don't lose sight of that." When he rose again, he nodded back as Florian bowed to him, before taking up his sword once more against armoured juggernaut whose corpse his friends had just faced down in the Cazt tomb.
Fionn blinked, glancing back at Gerard. "Sorry, lad. Was I talking to myself there? Still playing it all back in my head."
"Yeah, no, the technique showed on its own." Gerard commented, eyes pulling in the sequence as Fionn relived his bout with their masterful forefather, reading the shadow the other man projected onto the void as well as he could— surprising in its fidelity. A testament to his peer's visualization and technical recall, sure... but funny as it was, the stanzas recounted the Mirror Knight's words as well. Like Agrahn calling me 'desperate'.
Gerard wasn't sure if that was what lent itself to the mind's eye here or not, but insight was insight.
"You don't play this slow a game with me, do you?" an observation, rhetorically made— both well aware already how the harmony of their spars registered, beyond opportunism's swinging tempo adding subtle variance. "You were keeping everything in tighter."
Fionn's blade lowered, his posture loosening up considerably. Returning to the conversation of the present. "Not quite," he replied, with a small shrug. "But I never go full speed and strength with you either. Same as you don't with me. You've got a good sense for what is a good sparring intensity rather than actual battle."
The conversation in the aftermath of the sparring match was... enlightening. Both combatants had begun to discuss how they fought one another. In some ways, it appeared they both approached combat in fundamentally different fashions, though Fanilly did agree that she lacked a clear way of dealing with opponents of extraordinary strength aside from dodging, which could prevent her from pressing an advantage. At the same time, she wasn't certain if Dame Serenity's style of using all weapons possible was better then mastering a single one.
The conversation did not proceed very long, however, before Dame Lilianna interjected to offer her own opinions on the matter, insisting both of them still required further practice.
To be honest, Fanilly had expected it the moment she saw her.
At least she'd finally gotten to eat.
The messenger had been run ragged, according to the Aimlenn guard. He was delirious and half-crazed.
He croaked out a plea for help, to send help to Fort Daelantine at once, before falling dead on his feet.
The fort was a mere day's ride from Aimlenn. What had happened there so suddenly, that had lead to a soldier of Thaln running himself to death to deliver it? Surely, word of an attack of some sort would have been received earlier, wouldn't it? How could such a thing have happened?
None of it made any sense to Fanilly.
But she agreed that something needed to be done.
It was for this reason that the Iron Rose Knights now found themselves on horseback, riding out to the Fort. She had selected a smaller group, for the purposes of investigation as opposed to any sort of attack. Astride her mare, Fanilly lead the knights.
Mayon's home was growing visible in the sky when the sight of the fort's towers began to enter their view. The sky was growing pinker, shadows stretching longer.
But it was still light enough to make out Fort Daelantine quite clearly.
There were no signs of battle.
No-one on the walls. The gates weren't damaged at all.
Not a single body laid nearby.
If the Fort was occupied, where was everyone? Where were the signs of a struggle? Where were the signs of someone having forced their way in? No ladders, no damage whatsoever. What had happened? Surely if there had been an attack, there'd be some evidence that something had occurred.
But there was nothing.
Nothing at all.
The Fort stood eerily silent in the setting sun.
"... Something isn't right."
It felt like stating the obvious, but at the same time she wasn't sure what else to say. The fort being totally undamaged would normally be a welcome sight, but the fact there was absolutely no-one manning it made it disconcerting more than anything.
Fanilly could faintly hear a raven's cries as they approached. Still not a single soul was visible.
"... Take positions at either side of the gate," she ordered her knights, "Dame Tyaethe, I'll need you to-"
She paused. The door wasn't even secured? It was slightly ajar...
Riding out in a hurry... well, there was only one thing to be done after throwing on more appropriate clothes: hitch a ride with someone else. She barely weighed anything anyway, and it made for a far less annoying situation than riding at speed on a horse that she was frankly too small to easily control. Not that she couldn't--after all, she had enough practice if it came down to it, all other abilities aside--but it was a pain.
Holding on to Fionn (what did the man have against saddles? Oh well, it made this less inconvenient, from her perspective) the entire journey was still annoying. But that was travelling for you, there wasn't really a way to do it quickly and comfortably, you could only pick one.
"If you want to break down gates, the Ingvarr would probably be more appropriate..." Tyaethe said with a sigh, nonetheless jumping down and advancing on the gates. There was always the little matter of body mass, and there was no way she would have the same mass as one of them throwing himself at the fortifications. Naturally, she was probably the last person to realise that the gates were ajar, although it made the job much easier: just grab one of the partly-opened edifices and heave. The hingest were well oiled and surprisingly balanced, so it didn't take all that much work to pull it open.
Not that she was paying much attention to that, something quite different catching her attention. Blood. Lots of blood. The fault didn't seem like it had been assaulted at any point, but the stench, even in the open...
"There's going to be a lot of bodies," the vampire stated dully, finished shoving the gate wide.
Riding on a horse was not one of Amy's strongsuits. n fact, she had found out over the past few weeks that a lot of the standard skills required of knights were not things that she was particularly good at. Going from a life of quiet reflection and devout prayer to one that was full of glamour and action wasn't exactly as easy as she had anticipated. But she didn't let that break her down, and she's been slowly learning and getting used to all the knightly duties expected of her. All, but the act of killing. Amy wasn't sure she'd ever get over the all-encompassing feeling of enmity that seemed to ooze out of every pore in reality whenever the prospect of hurting or killing someone came up in her mind, like the world itself was so greatly opposed to the idea of murder that it would rather assault her mind than let her contribute any more to the madness of the already numerous murderers. Of course, her fellow knights weren't so shy of violence, and Amy had no illusions about the necessity of the force used when their opponents ended up being bloodthirsty killers who carried around an aura of hostility so powerful, she could feel it from rooms away.
She had hoped that this time would be different, and she'd be riding out on a mission that didn't require the tremendous amount of mental strain required to deal with such situations, and where her particular set of skills would be useful in providing an alternative to violence for her team. She had been recently transferred to a group of knights in need of magic wielders, and this was her first time going on a mission with them. As they rode together behind their captain, Amy fell back and her eyes darted between the many members of the team who all seemed acquainted with each other. She'd tighten her eyelids: she didn't know any of them. Such was the fate of someone choosing a new life and abandoning old friendships, but that didn't really help her anxiety as she trod behind the group, trying to figure out the personalities of all her fellow knights. She wanted to make a good impression, and she wanted to get to know them all, eager to make new friends and show them that they could count on her during this upcoming mission. Amy wanted more than anything to get off to a good start with this new group of knights, more than eager to properly begin her life as an Iron Rose, a member of the same group who gave her a chance at life.
Instead, she'd find herself feeling more and more ill as the group began closing the distance to the castle. Poking through the treetops the towers of the castle could be seen growing in size as they approached, but so did the nauseating feeling that was slowly overwhelming Amy, and began to prohibit her thinking. Did she eat anything bad? She couldn't figure out what the feeling was, other than the fact that it felt awful, and no matter how hard she tried she couldn't find out where it was coming from. That was until they finally reached the castle gates and the troupe came to a halt in front of the eerily silent castle walls.
There wasn't a soul in sight. It felt as if the whole castle had fallen victim to such a malignant aura that not even the birds of the forest dared disturbed the violent silence that resided inside the once hallowed walls. Even before they could peek inside the doors and her fellow knight proclaimed that there would be bodies, Amy could feel that something was deeply wrong with this place, the lingering emotions now finally becoming more clear, and the anguished screams of pain and panic assaulted her mind like a foul stench. She had a difficult time even registering that they had arrived, and once she began to dismount from her horse, a strong sense of nausea took over her that saw the young girl lose her balance as she was stepping off the stirrup, and her slip off the saddle completely.
THUD
"Aughhhhh..." She moaned and winced, equally as upset as she felt disoriented after her face made rapid acquaintances with the battered ground in front of the gates. It took her a few moments to gather the strength to push herself up and clear her mind of the encroaching dread that was seeping out from the castle gates. It was by far the worst feeling she had ever felt in her life, a mixture of the most vile of emotions that emanated from mental imprints that could've only been left by a large number of people experiencing extreme emotions within a very small timeframe, a snapshot from a moment in the not-so-distant past that made the hairs stand up on her back. Much like an unpleasant smell she was starting to tune it out, but the mild nausea remained as she finally got up on her feet and began to clear the dirt off her clothes, and she cautiously walked closer to the castle gates, staying behind the apparent protection that the group of unfamiliar knights she now called a team offered. "I've got a really, really bad feeling about this..." She muttered quietly, more to herself than anyone else close enough to her to make out the words, but after a quick glance at the people close to her, she figured she should at least try her best to make sure others could hear her. "I don't know what happened here, but I can already tell we're not going to like what's inside. This whole castle has terrible juju... I've never felt anything like it before. Like death hath come to dwell on earth, and made it's home here... Mayon protect us." She couldn't help but usher a silent prayer for protection before she stepped forward... and then bravely waited to see who would enter the foreboding castle first.
"I smell it too. Garrisoned forts aren't this quiet— old massacres are." a tight-voiced affirmation floated in from behind as Gerard cautiously stalked forward, a wolf with hackles raised. He and those like him among their number, veterans of countless battlefields, knew this feeling well— an echo of bloodshed left upon the land. It hung in the air like smoke, deepening shadows, choking sound, turning the tawny palette of dusk into an oppressive blaze.
He had neither of their preternatural abilities, obviously, but half a decade of honed instinct and experience were a fair substitute.
Peeling away from their burning search through the monolithic walls of stone for a moment, the twin furnaces behind his golden eyes spared a glance at the slight form of Amy as he passed by. A newcomer, arriving within only the past week, he wasn't quite sure what exactly to make of her yet— a half-demon illusionist raised by Mayonite clergy, if memory served. A heady mix, that, for anyone like him to wrap their head around. He'd kept his distance until now, when the mission had brought her all but immediately into their ranks.
He was no authority to pass judgement, least of all regarding anyone's birth. As strange as it was to reconcile so many of those classically demonic features with an ally... she was an ally. One of their number. Accepted and vetted in spite of it by the same arbitrators he'd been blessed by. By the sound of things, her arguments were on their face better than his own, even.
Mistrust between soldiers would get both killed. There was no room for it here.
His eyes flickered back to the walls as he continued on. Unmarred, yet barren. No breach of the gates that he could see— this place wasn't besieged from the outside. That was clear enough to anyone— whatever caused this graveyard ambience did so from within. If it was an insurrectionary force, an infiltration, a coup, something human like that...
"Can't say I've ever known one to leave the place it happened so untouched, though. What the hell..."
His scowl deepened, and his hand floated to the hilt of his longsword as though reflex.
If the culprit was still here, horses in any appreciable mass like their own were loud enough to hear coming, the setting sun against the steel of their armor clear to see upon the flat plain. No chance the Roses would be here by surprise, if there was any lookout posted. No sense waiting for the welcoming heralds to get into position any further.
A puff of air through his nostrils, expelling trepidation and steeling nerves.
"May as well find out."
Blade sliding free, he marched slowly through the threshold, ready to scan the field.
Night was falling, and with it, came the domain of the nocturnal. Fort Daelantine lost its battle-scars from ages past to the encroaching dark, and with it, became a slumbering giant, a golem’s corpse. Silent, except for bird cry and insect buzz, creatures rousing themselves as Mayon’s pale light shone. The messenger had escaped, then died on the spot, yet here, Serenity could see nothing that would signal conflict. There were no crows flying overhead, no stench of fire and dirt that accompanied a proper siege. The gate was ajar, but likely left that way only because of the messenger’s own flight.
She tapped a finger against the pommel of her longsword, pronouncing her thoughts.
The enemy would have bypassed the walls entirely. They had not come across any arrows studding the ground upon their approach; the guards at the battlements must not have been able to respond in time. No, perhaps not an airborne assault after all, if one considered how only a vampire and a half-demon could sense the death that clung to this place. Greater magics then. Teleportation, perhaps, like the such that plucked the Lightning Witch from her cell. Charm, perhaps, to bade all the residents of the Fort to a single point of slaughter. Plague, perhaps, sweeping with a brutal virulence through the populace.
She was ready, this time.
Buckler and longsword, three torches soaked in pitch, two hatchets, and a full suit of plate armor, the visor of her helmet lifted up to afford her precious visibility. The buckler, smaller than the shields she preferred, kept her off-hand free to hold a torch, one that ignited easily with a spark from her stone.
“We’ll be depending on your sacraments, Sir Nicomede,” Serenity spoke in passing. There was something foul afoot, something unnatural.
If it was that fucking vampire again though, she was going to fucking lose it.
Soon enough, she was matching steps with Gerard, her destination clear: the interior of the fort itself. If only the Paladin could smell the massacre, then it only made sense that such atrocities were sealed beneath stone walls.
Tyaethe's blunt warning is corroborated by my own sinister feelings on this place - apparently shared by the new recruit, who'd taken a fall from her horse and recovered before I'd had a chance to offer her a hand up. I silently affirm her holy appeal - for Mayon did appear to be present on this eerie night, glimmering down at the fort like a moonlit graveyard. There's a light clunk as I dismount carefully from my steed, giving it a gentle pat on the snout. My shield comes to my side, followed by warpick parallel.
Ser Gerard is the first to step forward - unsurprising. He's not a man I would imagine to fall to his perturbance.
Before I follow in Dame Serenity and Gerard's advance I take a moment to indulge my curiosity at the new recruit. Mayon worshippers are a pleasant surprise - but more importantly she was a cleric. I'd like to know her skillset, especially if magic had a hand in the apparent massacre inside.
"Pleased to meet your acquaintance, signore." My face behind the helmet angles down to Amy's. "The tumble didn't daze you, I hope."
I talk as I slowly walk, allowing Serenity and her torch to illuminate the inside of the fort.
"Attendere qui," Nicomede muttered to his horse, patting the faithful creature on the neck. He got a toss of the head— a little cheeky, Nico thought— before his steed walked patiently a short distance away and took up station. "Gratzie."
Mayon's light wasn't nearly the comfort he might normally have found. The situation was just too strange; a fort such a short distance away, a messenger run to death, and not a single sign of distress. Not a single sign of anything, really; a gate ajar and nothing else. On his own initiative he would have chosen to make camp for the night. Set a watch, keep going a fire and investigate the fort come morning. Whatever happened here was long over and the night was not their friend. Not this night, at any rate. Close to towns, cities, and well-trodden roads there truly wasn't much to fear from the night. Civilization, with the guidance and aid of the Goddesses, pushed back what might lurk past the light of a torch. This wasn't one of those places. Not anymore. It was something he could feel deep in himself, a certainty that this place was not safe.
But the Captain gave instructions, and it was their— his— job to carry them out faithfully. Not that he was taking any chances tonight. The lantern shield on his left forearm for once lived up to its name, carrying at its end a flickering light that made the long shadows dance. His blade was already in hand when he took up station himself, aware— physically and magically— of the canteens of water affixed to his sword belt.
Dame Tyaethe's remark did nothing to dispel his notion about this night in this place.
"Soggy boots at will," He said to Serenity as she passed, nevertheless turning a few degrees to show the preparations at his hip. There was real reassurance behind the little joke, a promise that he would uphold his end. He fell into a matching pace once she had taken a few steps past him, bringing him into formation just behind Gerard and Serenity.
Fionn had slid off he horse's back almost as soon as Tyaethe did, tying it off to an empty post beyond the fort's wall. He silently shared Gerard's sentiments—he'd seen his fair share of such fortifications left depopulated and rotting, after all—though he could imagine certain things that could leave so peaceful an exterior after whatever massacre had been taken up. "Stick to the center of us, if you would," he bade Amy as he approached, drawing out his own sword. "I don't think we can afford to leave you in a vulnerable position near the edges of the group, if your words ring true." Better to save that for those whose skills revolved around physical combat, not magical arts.
With a single word muttered under his breath, the tip of his sword began to glow, ensuring he'd have light without need of a torch once they were deeper within. "Tyaethe, any idea how long dead?" As familiar as he'd become with heaps of corpses, he was well-acquainted with the stench of rot; from where they stood, the fort didn't yet reek like a charnel house, though if the numbers of the dead were low enough they could well have to delve within to encounter such stench. "Is it blood or bloat you're smelling?"
"Oh, it's definitely blood," the vampire answered, leaning against the wall and turning her head within, "Enough of it, and strongly enough, that there's a good chance some of it hasn't dried yet. Watch where you're stepping."
A man died to deliver aid to this forsaken fort, and he couldn't even do that properly. "Send help". How descriptive. The dead idiot couldn't have at least given a single word about what they were facing instead of just saying help? Renar shoved his irritation with the situation to the back of his mind as he slid off his horse, retriving his poleaxe from its spot on the steed's saddle before joining with the rest of the investigation team as they strode forward.
They'd had a new addition to the Roses just a week ago: a half-demon raised by the church, capable of wielding mind-influencing magics. The first half, Renar had no problem or care for. If the girl had been brought up for the church for that long and vetted by the Iron Rose, she likely wasn't going to be a problem personality-wise. Her abilities were the hangup for him. Someone that was capable of getting into his head? Renar didn't like that. As honest as he was about his goals, his feelings and methodology were a potential source of friction with more right-minded people, and he didn't need the risk of that getting out. With that in mind, he resolved to keep her at arm's length until he learned more of her magics and how to circumvent them. For now, there was a job to be done.
From what could be seen immediately, Renar didn't like this at all. Unbeknowst to him, his thoughts on the matter were similar to Serenity's. Little evidence of a breach from outside. However this fort was penetrated, it was from within. Whatever was going on here, it was certainly serious enough to warrant their intervention. Now, how to go about this investigation? There was already a quartet about to look inside, and some of the others were still looking around the courtyard.
For his part, Renar looked towards two of the others that hadn't gone off somewhere yet.
"Sirs Steffen and Lein. Care to join me? I intend to check some of the outlying buildings, see if the incursion originated from there. Whatever happened here, I've little faith we'll find it out in the courtyard, and others are already moving to investigate the main keep."
A weird coincidence how an urgent crisis that demanded an immediate sortie had happened twice in a row, but it was part of the job. The messenger died in a lunatic state, a horrific way to go, but it left the knights with almost no information to work with other than Fort Daelantine requiring urgent support, and Steffen with many wonders and worries to what could be causing the messenger to even arrive at such a state to begin with. Having anticipated an attack from an outside force the entire route, he was even more unsettled when the fort looked completely fine from afar. No destruction, no signs of damage, no signs of human activity even. This put him on high alert way before most.
"There's going to be a lot of bodies."
"Like death hath come to dwell on earth, and made it's home here..."
And the two basically confirmed the worst, just from senses alone. A tightness gripped his heart, but he simply bit his lips to proceed forward, dismounting from his horse with his trusty steel spear, a large crescent shield and a shortsword on the shield's backside.
"You alright?" Steffen gently asked Amy as he passed by her, seeing her waiting for others to come in. "It's your first few assignments, right? Don't worry, we'll make sure you're safe."
Arriving into the interior, some in the group began to split up, and one of Sir Renar suggested the same for him and Lein, back outside in fact.
"Alright. The buildings are awfully close to the fort. Maybe some bodies found in there too." Steffen gave a nod to Sir Renar, taking a step forward but turned around to look at Lein, that he would not leave the Hundi behind unless refused.
