---

Rolan weathered Gertrude's gaze with a steady one of his own as she agreed to his request, which would certainly make things even more interesting for the upcoming fight. He had never been fond of fighting from horseback, too many things to track at the same time between guiding and monitoring the horse, navigating the battlefield while keeping such in mind, and making accurate shots all the while. That and horses never seemed to like him terribly much, even under the best of circumstances. With that in mind, having someone else handling the riding part, or in this case flying, should be much more agreeable while he focused on the Hunt below them, assuming the Hunt lacked means of reaching them which would be a dangerous thing to assume. What surprised him was the rare bit of honesty admitting he was the least annoying among the knights thus far, and he shrugged briefly in an almost 'what can you do' sort of gesture.

"Thank you, I shouldn't have to ask you to fly into anything particularly dangerous."

Ser Renar took the time to approach them, speaking in a lowered tone that Rolan would match when the time came to speak up. Planning ahead in case Tyaethe was found wanting in being able to fell Rozenalt in single combat, smart, though he already had several bolts prepared for the explicit purpose of leveling the playing field. He didn't expect poisons to work to the same extent on members of the Hunt as he did his typical foes, well, typical before the last few months. However, given these were his most potent mixtures he hoped, fortune willing, they would have enough of an effect to slow Rozenalt should the need arise. Gertrude spoke up first, a rare bit of serious and direct talk from her, though not without taking metaphorical shots at Tyaethe. Something about enchanting their weapons as well, though Rolan would not take any chances with trusting anything outside his control, at best it would improve the odds he had in punching through weak points in armor.

"Agreed and well ahead of you for once, Ser Renar. Several bolts have already been prepared for hobbling our target should the opportunity arise. With Gertrude's help in maintaining the high ground, I'll have the rare luxury to make that shot count, so fortune willing I'll see it done."

---

Perhaps one of the things that most ingratiated Fionn to the various fey he had met in his days was the way he had maintained his sense of wonder at the world around him, despite long since having grown out of the childhood where it was expected. Even when the fey themselves were something he was comfortable and familiar with, wherever his natural curiosity and delight at his experiences came out, it—at the very least—seemed to entertain them. The wide-eyed gaze that he faced the hulking crow-man with as a blade materialized out of the air was simply an obvious, outward expression of such.

He reverently took the offered hilt, stepping back and twirling the raven-black blade in a short moulinet just to feel the weight of it. How the balance felt, compared to what he was used to, how he may have to adjust on the fly; already, he was accounting for the comparitive lack of a guard, the sword barely having a bolster to help keep his hand from sliding up to the edge on a thrust. The pommel was little more than a faint, knob-like swell at the end of the grip, not the large, weighty ring that ensured he'd never not feel the alignment of his edge, that had long since shown its worth in breaking bones and shattering teeth of those who thought they could get inside his guard...

With a grin, he unclasped his sword and sheathe from his belt, holding it back out towards Súileabhán. "I understand your misgivings, but I'll make sure this isn't wasted. In return, I'd like it if you'd watch over my blade until I can return this to you." He glanced over at the Moonlit Queen just off to the side. "Not indefinitely, mind. I am rather attached to that sword, like how Súileabhán doesn't like lending this to me. Call it collateral, if you like, but I am entrusting it to your safe keeping."

Only as a temporary loaner or not, getting to use such a fine blade was still a princely gift. It was only fitting to return some trust to them.

Without another moment to spare, his hair resumed its natural hue, the cohort standing once more in the altogether more normal forest that they were used to. He didn't have long to consider much of a plan, though, before a diminutive head with flaming yellow eyes claimed his full field of vision. And his face grew hot. Almost uncomfortably so, even, like his pale skin was about to start burning...

"Cad é mar atá tú?" he asked, resisting the urge to pull away to avoid any excess heat. He didn't want to appear impolite, after all, certainly not to Feinyar hovering just before his nose. "Cad is ainm duit? Is mise Fionn."

While she lacked a mouth, the Feinyar's expression seemed to brighten when Sir Fionn spoke to her, and at the very least she decided to give him a little more room, leaning back and clapping her ashen, wood-like clawed hands together.

Her only response, however, was to somewhat vividly gesture. Indeed, while she did likely have a name, it was difficult for her to convey it. She had also nodded enthusiastically at Dame Tyaethe's request, implying that she did indeed know nithyr and that her relationship with them was seen as a positive one in her eyes.

Fanilly inhaled deeply.

Some fae could be harmed by any weapon. But many could only be damaged by unworked iron, or magic. That meant that there was one more preparation they had to make before following the feinyar to their destination.

"Lady Gertrude? Lord Arken?"

As she spoke, the knight-captain drew her sword from its sheath.

"To fight the Midnight Hunt, our weapons will need to be enchanted," she said. It didn't need to be anything particularly powerful or impressive. Rather, it simply needed to be a basic enhancement to bequeath mundane weaponry with magical damage. One that would last long enough to be sufficient for the battle. Given how many weapons needed to be enchanted, it didn't make sense to try and do anything more complicated.

The only exceptions were the feather-blade that Sir Fionn had been donated, and Dame Tyaethe's sword. It was fairly obvious those didn't require any additional attention.

After that had been done---

It would be time.

---

It was hard to tell how much time had passed, following the feinyar.

But the air itself had changed. There was a chill in the air that hadn't been present just moments ago. A creeping coldness that crawled up her limbs, as if her skin had been bare to a chill breeze. It felt as if eyes were scrutinizing her from every direction, looking through her and down to her very core through armor and cloth and flesh.

Fanilly's heart was pounding. Tonight, they would be facing a threat that had never been conquered. Even those who survived the Midnight Hunt had never ended it.

---But that was what they had to do. For the sake of restoring the Duke's sanity, this was their mission.

She couldn't afford to have any hesitation. She couldn't afford even a moment of doubt.

She had to lead the Iron Rose Knights to victory, no matter what.

Fanilly sucked in another deep breath.

Their guide had come to a halt. They were in a clearing in the forest, a large hill on the opposite end that continued into the treeline. Here, the moonlight was sufficient to see somewhat more clearly. That would at least be helpful in fighting the Hunt.

The chill here was greater. The Feeling of being watched was stronger.

Without a doubt, this was their destination. While they weren't visible, the very sensation in the air told Fanilly that the Midnight Hunt was well aware of their presence.

Fanilly's fingers wrapped around the hilt of her blade. The enchantment had given it a warmth, a faint heat almost akin to the sensation of lightly holding a living thing in her hand.

The sword sang as she drew it.

The Knight-Captain glanced back towards her knights.

This was the final moment. She could feel it in the air. Against her skin.

They were at the very brink.

And then her vision was filled by it.

A wide, unearthly, toothless grin on a pale mask, at the end of along neck attached to a vaguely human body, squatting on all fours. The smiling face twitched, a lengthy limb reaching slowly towards her.

For the briefest moment, it felt as if her heart had stopped.

For the briefest moment, she froze, as the smiling thing reached towards her.

---Her grip tightened.

She slide one foot back, raising her blade and twisting her body in the same moment. The magically-enhanced edge of her blade found its purchase, plunging through the unseelie creature's neck and severing it from its body.

With a spurt of unnaturally bright, red blood, the creature toppled sideways, its mask rapidly transitioning between different emotions. Shock, horror, sadness, joy, anger, each one played upon its face over and over again even as its form began to droop and distort, its unmoving body laying otherwise motionless on the grass.

The Hunt had begun.

Now, the treeline was filled with movement. Shapes emerging from the darkness. Distorted, hound-like creatures, hairless and pale with human-like faces. Tall knights in bronze-colored armor with unnatural proportions astride skeletal deer, their helmets adorned with uncanny faces and lengthy spears gripped in their hands. Ghoulish, gangly apparitions that appeared to fade in and out of existence as they slipped through the shapes of their fellows. Hunched, cloaked figures gripping wickedly-curved daggers, unnatural bodies concealed beneath leather and fur. Dark red and grey imp-like figures with insectile wings, holding small bows or hunting knives and wearing nothing to hide their twisted bodies. Crawling, pallid, gaunt human-like figures. Grey-skinned men with wide grins and dark eyes, wielding swords and axes.

A pure white figure in a white dress, cloth hanging over her face and obscuring her features as she rode upon a white horse that appeared far too thin.

A figure with a bird-like white mask cloaked with feathers, long limbs curled against their body and the translucent form of a ghostly falcon perched upon their shoulder.

A faceless, leather-armored man with two manfaced dogs on chains, snarling and biting as their burning eyes fell upon the knights.

A figure in charred armor, cloak smoldering with embers, a length of rope in one hand and a beartrap gripped in the other.

But one figure stood above all, at the peak of the hill---

The thick, crimson plate armor adorned his frame spoke of his identity immediately.

The great, skeletal creature he road, some atrocious blend of horse and deer and lizard, belonged only to him. The cloak he wore more resembled branches, or veins, hanging from his back as opposed to any sort of fabric.

His face was a skull, a tall three-pointed gold crown perched atop it, his eyes two burning coals in their sockets.

Rozenalt.

He raised his blade, pointing its tip skywards.

Fanilly drew a deep breath---

Now was no time for fear, for hesitation, for anything less then decisiveness.

It was time that they would put an end to a grim legend.

"Iron Rose Knights!" she cried, "Tonight, the hunters shall become the hunted. We will put an end to Lord Rozenalt's Midnight Hunt!"

It had begun.

When the Hunt emerged, the constant static pressure came to an immediate stop; the waste mana that had been fuelling it was finally directed into strength and motion. Tyaethe had evidently adopted an approach of just crash into and through the assembled Hunt, a headlong charge out of the ranks that was nonetheless rapid enough to close into the vanguard of the horsemen before any of the archers thought to get a bead on her. A minor clue for those behind was the odd hope across a seemingly unmarked patch of brush.

"Rozenaaaaaaalt! Get over here, you faceless bastard!" the vampire laughed in Veltish, a jump taking her over a snapping… hound? onto one of the Knights' deerlike mounts for just a moment. Long enough for the figure's polearm to start swinging around. It never hit, a small hand arresting its owner's wrist and heaving the armoured figure from its own saddle – something not so easily done, with its weight instead pulling the mount over, instead. Which simply left Tyaethe free to spring forward from it again and onto the ground, weaving between or generally just brute-forcing her way into the Midnight Hunt.

"Was it hard, finding a mount uglier than you?"

Tyaethe's wondering question announced her arrival to the real target, sword finally being put to use to try and kneecap the whatever-the-hell it was, and bring Rozenalt down to her level.

---

Rolan was wary as they advanced, following the Feinyar after it seemed to favor Ser Fionn. Granted he was already favored by the fae, so that was not much of a surprise, but the Captain's order to have their equipment enchanted, however briefly, to stand against the Hunt had him temporarily surrender crossbow, blades, and bolts long enough for them to be enchanted. Now a slight warmth thrummed through them, something that was mildly distracting while on the march, he had to wonder if all enchanted weapons and equipment did this. Gave off not just warmth, but bitter cold, strange sensations, and more beyond that. Not like he had the luxury of bearing true magical arms, nor would he particularly want to before the rest of the Order was more properly outfitted, or barring that at least the Captain and those she kept by her side. He felt it before he saw anything, however, the steady tension of waiting to walk into the Hunt replaced with a bitter cold and overbearing scrutiny. He held his cloak tight, concealing much of what he carried though it felt like it wouldn't help, he did so mostly out of spite.

The grip on his crossbow tightened, fingers settling into a familiar readiness that kept his nerves steady. Rolan considered himself at his best with crossbow in hand, and he even had the luxury to know he was walking into trouble and spanning the crossbow before hand. He hadn't chosen a bolt yet, he wouldn't want to be caught unawares with the wrong ammunition loaded in the event of a sudden ambush. He knew his choice of tools could backfire if not used well, he had learned that the hard way seeing how those opposing them during the trials acted, so he would not be forced to fire an ill advised bolt at close range if he could help it. Then he saw it, just as the Captain acted, a pale, grinning thing reaching out, confident in its place perhaps. The fact the exchange ended with its head on the ground said all that needed to be said about its so called place, but that was just the signal to draw back the curtains as it were.

To call the assembled Hunt abominable would be charitable at best, from hairless hunting hounds with mockeries of human faces to starkly exposed wretches with weapons as varied as their forms. A veritable host of 'hunters' lead by champions of a sort. A pale figure that reminded him of what famine might look like incarnated, one who wore both face and presence of a bird, one who probably was relying on those chained dogs to see, and the one that unsettled him the most. Rope, beartrap, charred and smoldering armor, he knew full well how dangerous a well placed snare, trap, or flame could fell even a large beast, something about the figure had dug its metaphorical claws into him, but he didn't have the luxury to tremble in his boots. Rozenalt had taken to the field, something that finally pushed away the background feeling that had been with them the entire time.

Just as the Captain ordered them into action, Tyaethe launched herself forward, blisteringly fast and leaving a wake of embarrassed and disrupted members of the Midnight Hunt in her wake. He had his orders still, however, and Rolan shouldered his crossbow while loading one of the bolts loaded with alchemist's fire. Taking careful aim, he sent the bolt hurtling out across the open field between the Knights and the Hunt, putting his shot right into the front ranks of the Hunt. The alchemical fire, enchanted as it was, would hopefully disrupt that section of the formation before it ever had a chance to get the charge underway. If not, well, the unfortunate wretch that caught the bolt between the eyes would be not having a good time of it. Stepping back alongside Gertrude, he spanned and picked his next bolt, aiming to put steady, disruptive shots into the ranks of the Hunt the entire time, warning the Captain of the current planned intent.

"Captain, I'll be accompanying Gertrude into the skies. We'll provide support from there, and have a better angle the entire time."

At least until the impending duel between Rozenalt and Tyaethe turned sour, in which case Rolan would have to put his accuracy to the test. He was confident he could make such a shot even under incredibly unideal circumstances, but all the better if they have a moment for a steadied, aimed shot. Never mind whatever nasty tricks the Hunt would employ, be it one of the countless numbers of their ranks or one of the individuals that stood out even amongst such an unpleasant to look at group. This would be a long, hard fight, and he wasn't even going to be in the press of a close assault alongside the rest of the Order. He would have to watch for chances to support their fighting as well, and trust that Gertrude would employ her magic effectively. Fortune willing they walked away from this, since dying in the attempt wasn't an option and the alternative was, quite simply, not an option. Only one way to make that happen now, and that was by cutting through as many of the Hunt as it took.

The moment was here, at last. Renar hefted his poleaxe up as he surveyed the menagerie of fey horrors before the knights, his cloak billowing behind him. The only victory condition was ensuring Rozenalt died. Everything else was secondary. Whatever foe was before him, he didn't have to win. He simply had to not lose. But then again, Renar would be damned if he let himself be defeated by any of these upjumped children's tales. And speaking of...

Besides Rozenalt, there were four figures that stood out from the horde. Elites, if he would hazard a guess. And by the looks of it, each had their own little tricks and gimmicks. But that was fine. So did he.

"I'll deal with the one holding the bear trap." Renar declared, hefting his poleaxe up onto his shoulder with one hand as a brief flash of steel glinted in his left. "Remember, we only need to ensure they can't help Rozenalt. Ensuring their leader falls is our only priority. That means no fool risks to claim a victory that won't last." Gerard. Likely Fleuri too, if he lost his head. Not that Renar would care overmuch if that happened.

The Bastard of Brias stepped forward, giving a brief nod towards the Huntsman with the charred cloak and armor.

"I don't suppose you accept reserved slots, say, fifty, sixty years from now? One could have worse afterlives." He said lightly, as if having a casual conversation. What? Renar was destined for nothing but the long dark when he died, with all he had done and was planning to do. Why not explore his options somewhat?

The steel in his left hand shot forward, a knife hurled straight towards the burnt knight. Only this one was attached to a rope. A flick of Renar's wrist sent the rope dart jerking upward, aiming to wrap around and bind the arm holding the length of rope. Fortunate that he had a method to assail the wretch with its own plan of attack. If that didn't draw its attention, nothing would.

Gerard Segremors

"Horse," Gerard's monosyllabic reply came swift as ever, undercut with the sharp ring of drawn steel as he stalked forward, sword catching the light of the high moon. He could tell who Renar's little reminder was aimed at by now— it was likely enough that this had already simply become a pre-battle ritual between them. Luckily, he had come to a similar enough conclusion— and was confident that surviving Cyrus in any respectable capacity would mean surviving the Hunt wouldn't be so impossible as it once seemed to him. Behind the shadows of his visor, his eyes narrowed even as he took in the field before him, leading up to the veiled woman atop her gaunt steed.

A clearing like this was... well, horrid, putting it bluntly. So easy to get encircled here, but the nature of this little quest had more or less put better options out of the cards, as he'd been grumbling about earlier. Only thing to do with it was do as he always did— see the good in things. At least here they could track their foes clearly, after all. The thicket would have been nightmarish, for all it cut down on lines of attack, by making that much damned impossible.

What was more, the current locale offered them ample opportunity to maneuver through the massed hordes of the lower-ranks, and find gaps to close in on and lock down the obvious big shots that had appeared from the throng— in the depths of the forest, those paths might have been filled by branch or bush or entire hardwood. "Good hunting, boys."

So, those elites... Many of them had readily available indications of what sort of nasty tricks they had to pull that had earned them the elevated stature. A Man of Many Traps, Feathered and Furred Beasts on retainer... But his was a different story. Her veil and dress were pure porcelain, as though spun from threads of the same moonlight that cast them, and the many leering fae folk between, in washed-out tones of grey and blue. The horse she rode upon was gaunt, in his estimation too gaunt by half... Maybe some tie to famine? Hunger? She was a Pale Rider, after all...

"Reon guide me. May her light show me truth." he intoned below the beginning clamor, raising the flat of his sword to meet with his brow in one part prayer, one part present arms. All he had were guesses, meaning she was an unknown element on the field. None of these folk could wisely be left free to their own devices, obviously— so without any other recourse, the Knights would have to force her to show her hand while trying to keep her from interfering in Tyaethe's grudge match.

Of the lot of them, he had the fewest natural advantages to bring to bear against the other elites on the board— Fionn and Fleuri both had weaponry and skillsets better suited for area denial against the bestial hangers-on presented by the man with the bird and the man with the dogs. By process of elimination, that left him to deal with Miss Pale Unknown.

A very lucky thing that he had gotten quite, quite adept at keeping himself alive in the process of Finding Things Out in battle. A pair of the unarmored, grey-skinned men launched forward to cut off his advance— one was felled swiftly by a bolt from Rolan's crossbow raining down from high above, the other cut down mid-lunge by a quick line drawn from shoulder to hip. With a wrench of his wrist, a dark crescent of blood splattered onto the earth as it cast off the steel.

"Shall we dance, madam?" he called across the field, pointing the tip of his now-clean sword at her seemingly-delicate form. He spoke as though neck-deep in a bit he was running, but one could doubtless rest assured that he didn't take her quite so lightly as to assume her appearance told all."We've all night to get to know eachother."

Times like these, it was only the mission that kept him from asking himself what the hell he was doing.

First things first, he needed to know if these foes communicated— and if he was getting himself into a fight where her voice might carry arcane weight that demanded he silence it.

Gertrude snorted, and side-eyed Rolan when the man spoke up.

"Flying into anything less than a sodding dragon's maw should be fine, but only a mad bastard would ask me to do that."

When Fanilly requested some basic enchantments, Gertrude obliged. One by one, she took weapons in hand and imbued them with magic. Enough to pierce the natural resistances that some creatures had to mundane weaponry. In this case, fey. It was a bit plain, but it would have to do at a moment's notice. It was frankly bizarre that they'd all come as far as they had without any runic enchantments. They were rare and expensive because it wasn't a common skill, but the carving process itself required more time than money.

As someone with that skill in the Roses' employ, she would have to offer her services once this battle was over and done with. If taking on the goddesses-damned Midnight Hunt was the sort of thing they'd be doing going forward, they'd have to be better equipped. Not that any of them expected this particular turn.

Hell of a first job.

---

Gertrude let out a sigh as the Midnight Hunt approached. She needed to collect herself. The deathless safety net was gone, and while she was confident about her chances in the air, the Hunt presented quite a force. Rozenalt, four generals, and a countless number of magical creatures with no fear of death. Thankfully, the larger threats didn't seem to have any immediately recognizable ranged options, and the other knights were already fighting over which they'd get to do battle with besides.

Daft bastards, all. But they were skilled daft bastards that had just survived legendary training. They'd probably be able to keep the generals busy, which meant she could focus on maneuvering, keeping a shield up below her just in case. One good thing about flight was that you could control the vectors through which you could be attacked, and therefore spend less mana and concentration on defenses.

She was in a good position, despite overwhelming odds. Not that she'd ever let anyone know she was nervous.

She took a seat on her broomstick, beckoned Rolan, and took to the skies as Tyaethe burst through lines of terrifying creatures in order to reach her goal. She'd known the woman for only a short time, but given everyone else's reactions and her own impressions, this behavior was an oddity.

Well, one more distraction.

Gretchen had already started chanting, though she was all the way back at Candaeln. It freed Gertrude up to speak, and made her seem like significantly less of a threat.

"Try not to fall," Gertrude warned Rolan, "because I can't guarantee I'll catch you. We can take it easy as long as they've got other targets and my shield holds. For now, you should be able to concentrate on your shots. If things get rough, I may have to speed up. In that case, be prepared to brace."

With that warning out of the way, Gertrude grinned smugly.

"Enjoy taking advantage of the magic of flight. A marksman should be so lucky! Just direct me if you've a position you'd like to get to. Weep at the novelty, if you must."

Fleuri Jodeau

If Fleuri had known in advance that they'd be fighting the Midnight Hunt, he would have gone back to his family mausoleum to borrow Armand's enchanted weapons, because his mundane greatsword was rapidly becoming inadequate for what they were expected to face. Fortunately, Lord Arken was able to augment their weapons with magic, which should enable them to strike down supernatural foes.

Hopefully the new sword he had commissioned from the castle smith was almost finished because there would be no better swan song for Fleuri's current weapon than this. Facing down the Midnight Hunt, imbued with magic enabling it to cut what it ordinarily couldn't...he could think of no better final job for his sword than this.

Perhaps he was getting ahead of himself, but he really believed they could pull this off. Between Merilia's training and Arken's magic, the knights were a force to be reckoned with. Besides, surely the Moonlit Queen wouldn't have gone for such a lopsided wager- eleven souls for a mere fragment of one- if the odds didn't favor the knights, right?

---

This was it- the legendary Midnight Hunt was upon them. Fae and spirits emerged from the woods, ready to fight. Among them were the infamous Knights of the Midnight Hunt sitting upon their mounts, massive polearms in hand. But even more distinctive than the fae knights was a quintet of unique figures, the most notable of which was Rozenalt himself.

A few weeks ago, Fleuri would have considered it unthinkable for himself and the rest of the captain's favored band of knights to face down such a foe with an expectation of winning. However, as much as his heart was racing, he believed Merilia had prepared him well for this. Training with the Mirror Knight and facing Merilia's tests had not only greatly improved his martial skills, but also steeled his mind for going up against figures of legend.

The confidence in Fanilly's voice, and the (possibly literal) bloodlust exhibited by Tyaethe at her chance at facing Rozenalt again only further fired him up.

Renar moved to face the fae with the bear trap, while Gerard challenged the woman in white. With those two occupied, Fleuri's eyes, concealed by his helmet's faceplate, turned to the houndmaster. He would take on this one. He was unsure if it controlled just the two hound-beasts on its leash, or if it give commands to all of the twisted hounds brought along to this Midnight Hunt, but regardless, it was clearly an important figure among their adversaries and needed to be dealt with.

Fleuri lunged forward, cutting down one of the hunched creatures in his path and bringing his blade through what almost looked like a shadow at his flank- but was unsure if he had hit anything with that strike. He brought his sword back around and brought it to a stop when it came to point towards the hound handler, then raised it and gave his tournament salute, as if to mark them as his foe. He saw no reason to speak- from the tales he had heard, the Knights of the Midnight Hunt never spoke, and he would repay them and their kin the same courtesy.

---

Small disappointment aside—he'd hoped there'd be some trick possible for the Feinyar to actually communicate a bit—Fionn's cheerfulness at the fight to face them was almost entirely undimmed. As Gertrude and Arken set about enchanting the rest of the knights' weapons, he turned back to Fiadh. "Try to keep yourself out of the thick of things, yeah?" he suggested. "I'd rather you not get hurt." Whether or not she would listen, he wouldn't even try to guess; he figured she was equally likely to keep away and avoid risking seeing him get hurt as she was to stick close and be ready to step in on his behalf if anything bad might happen, as with the tree-snake before.

With the majority of his preparation done, he followed along with the rest of the group at a relaxed pace, borrowed blade held loosely in his hand. The feeling that they were being watched grew and grew, unsurprisingly; it seemed the Hunt was curious about the supposed 'prey' that was moving to meet it, rather than already turning tail and fleeing. As the knights took their places in the clearing, however, it was obvious that the anticipation couldn't go on forever.

As Fanilly severed her first attacker's head and hell broke loose in the rest of the clearing, Fionn stepped forward. A lazy backhand swing of the raven-dark sword sent some of the smaller assailants scurrying away from him as the wind whistled over its edge, denying their thought that this apparently least-armoured of the still reachable Iron Roses would make an easy target. He could hear as Renar, Gerard, and Fleuri each found their own targets amid Rozenalt's lieutenants. The rest of the knights, with Arken's help, would be more than enough to deal with the rest of the Hunt—which left him with the one unique figure left over.

The Midnight Hunt had always been a dark mirror of a hunt par force, complete even with methods that would never be accepted by proper society—the Trapper's presence being proof enough of that. The feather-adorned personage before him, then, with their spectral gyrfalcon, had no doubt expected that they would set out to harry the party and soften them up before the others could arrive. If, in this case, he was to carry a raven's blade...

Fionn grinned, placing both hands on his blade and dropping it into a low guard. Open, relaxed, seemingly utterly heedless of the rest of the fighting about to consume the clearing. He would make himself as much a pest for the Falconer as ravens and crows had themselves pests for the sport of falconry for as long as anybody could remember. "Think she's fast enough?" he asked conversationally, nodding up at the ghostly falcon. "Looks starved, like."

A grinning man bore down on her, his midnight-black blade raised over his head.

She was faster.

Fanilly's blade found its place buried in the unseelie fae's through, a flash traveling up its edge only faintly as she took the hunter's life, his still-grinning corpse toppling backwards and falling limply to the ground.

Taking stock of the Midnight Hunt's forces was virtually impossible. They were endlessly replenishing, in one way or another, with new abominable hunters taking place of the old. She hadn't needed to dispatch orders to her knights on which of the elites to take on, and they were the enemies who mattered most.

With the exception of Rozenalt himself.

To think, only recently she hadn't even been certain the Bloody Lord was a real figure.

---This was no time to be focusing on that. There were far too many opponents, and they had to ensure that Dame Tyaethe's fight with Rozenalt went uninterrupted.

"Lord Arken!" she called to the mage, as loudly as she should across the chaotic clearing, "Can you disrupt the Knights of the Hunt?"

The wordless, gaunt knights were seemingly the most organized of the hunters, already attempting to rally and send a portion of their number after the vampire paladin.

"As if you needed to ask. Astral---"

A flash of light tore its way across the battle---

"---Lance!"

A Knight of the Hunt was torn in two, its skeletal steed breaking apart, their formation disrupted. That would do nicely to drag the hunters' attention away from the duel their leader had become embroiled in!

The a pair of the twisted imp-like fae lunged towards her before she could consider her next move clearly, one raising an axe and the other slashing wildly with a knife.

Stepping back, Fanilly swiftly brought her blade down and cut the first of the creatures in half from its shoulder to its waist, adjusting her stance as she twisted her body and brought her sword back up and through the other's head and right arm.

There were countless enemies, but they'd keep fighting until the end.

They had to win back the Duke's Wits, and come back alive!

Perhaps if she could assist one of her knights directly---

The skies weren't empty, either!

Creatures with twisted faces like old crones and the bodies of vultures but far larger had ascended from the trees, making their way swiftly towards Lady Gertrude and Sir Rolan with a cacophony of screeches!

@Octo@Eisenhorn

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Even the Midnight Hunt was perhaps unprepared for the bloodlust directed at the leader of the vile host. Their ranks were parted, split by the vampire paladin's bloodthirsty charge. No matter how fearsome they were, such immediate opposition was not the most common thing for the Hunt to encounter.

And so, she was able to read her foe.

The Crimson Lord. The Blood-drawing Noble. The man who was practically synonymous with torture, murder, and wickedness. Lord Rozenalt had lived on as a popular antagonist in fiction for a reason, and it was the very same reason that he stood as one of the Midnight Hunt's leaders.

The great beast's jaws opened, as the burning flames inside of Rozenalt's empty sockets fixed upon Tyaethe.

Even with a face incapable of clear expressions, the fact he recognized his approaching foe was obvious.

The creature he rode let out an uneathly, human-like shriek as it lurched towards Dame Tyaethe, but it was clear the Bloody Lord had already judged what would happen. As one of the beast's limbs was hewn from beneath it, spraying black ichor onto the grass, Rozenalt had already leaped from his steed, armor rattling as he landed on the ground.

At his full height, he must have been at least seven feet tall.

"..."

He reached to the sword on his hip and slowly drew it. As he did, crimson poured from within the sheath, splattering on the ground, countless tiny, spectral, grasping limbs reaching out as they coated the blade.

It was said that Rozenalt's blade was wreathed in spirits, souls he had bound to it or wicked specters he had brought under his control. They resembled skinless, eyeless, translucent corpses, meshed together in a ghastly mass that surrounded the Bloody Lord's blade.

"Vampire."

The voice rumbled up from within the armor.

"You will not survive this night. Not again. Your debt shall be paid in the blood of every fool here."

@Raineh Daze

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The falconer in front of Fionn rose to meet his challenge… literally. Already standing the height of a man, when it stood properly – or as much as it was able to – then it towered over even the tallest human. Lanky, and malformed in a clearly avian manner, it was hard to tell where the light armour ended and its own natural scaling began. Its masked head regarded Fionn with a curious gaze before it gave a loose shrug, cloak of feathers rippling over the stubs of wings.

Yet, still, its arms and whatever weapons it held were hidden beneath the feathery shroud, and the Falconer made no move to engage in melee.

It didn't need to: the spectral bird had launched off its shoulder and already moved for a raking dive at the knight's face, not caring for normal concerns like needing time to build up speed.

@The Otter

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The trapper stood unmoving at Renar's taunt. If it had heard him, there wasn't a response from its charred frame. It didn't show any more life even as he shot out with the dart, merely turning its head to look at the rope now wrapped around its arm.

Where it was snared, the slowly-smouldering embers of its cloak and the burnt ashes on its armour suddenly roared back into life, flames burning an unearthly blue as they ate through the rope in scant seconds until a quick flex snapped it entirely and the flames died back to nothing.

Now, though, it made its moved, own rope flicking out and catching on… nothing? No, not nothing; it lassoed some latch and now there was a weighty branch rising to try and smash Renar's knee.

Surely that wasn't there before? It must have been so obvious, if it was.

@Psyker Landshark

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Fleuri's cutting down of the man-faced hounds didn't elicit the reaction he might have expected: first, the houndmaster ahead of him let out a bark of laughter, proving it must indeed have a face beneath its blank armour. And second, it could still let out a shrill whistle through said armour.

Immediately, there were two hounds lunging at him again from opposite sides, peeling out of the rest of the Midnight Hunt and leaping over the bodies of their fallen comrades. Not aiming to bite, no, but to pin with their bulky weight and allow their master to come in.

And between one breath and the next, the houndmaster had pulled out a hefty two-handed axe from somewhere, lunging forwards with a swing. It didn't have finesse, or some clever technique – but it was a bulky figure, shockingly fast if not for their prior training and, crucially, it still had the support of its hounds.

@Crimson Paladin

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It was strange.

For all the abominable things that were part of the Midnight Hunt, the pale lady seemed unusual. While her horse was far too thin, her appearance did not seem abnormal. Slight, perhaps, almost fragile, and bleached white, but otherwise similar to a human being.

One could only assume that her eyes had fell upon Sir Gerard, though they were hidden by her veil. Slowly, gently she cocked her head to one side.

And then she stood, rising atop the horse until both her bare feet were against the creature's back, seeming to cause it little duress despite its starved appearance.

She reached towards the milky, pale skin of her chest, and pulled.

From within her emerged a faintly-glowing, slender shape. It was difficult to explain what it could be described as, for it had to hilt but appeared to be edged, with both ends sharped to points, some form of weapon no human would ever wield.

One of the hunched, cloaked figures lurched between them, rushing towards Sir Gerard.

The Pale Lady flicked her wrist, and the hunched figure came to a halt.

Slowly, it fell in two halves, severed down the middle with strands of red only briefly linking its body together before being entirely split.

Gently, silently, the Pale Lady stepped off of her steed, and raised the spine-like weapon to point its tip towards the knight before her.

@HereComesTheSnow

The vampire didn't stop at just the leg, following through with another swing, and another – one for the back legs, and then another through the neck. She wasn't going to have some three-limbed monstrosity pounce on her when trying to enjoy the real fight, oh no.

"Oh, don't go calling yourself a fool, Rozenalt. You're many things; stupid, arrogant, a blasphemer, tasteless…" Tyaethe said with a shake of her head, ticking them off on one finger, "Particularly the tasteless part. With the whole blood thing, I think you're just jealous of me for being a vampire.

"But I'll give you a break. It won't just be your blood I'll settle our debt with," she gave him a toothy grin, and closed the gap again, sword swinging. She didn't expect it to connect, would be disappointed if it did, but that was fine. Attack, attack, always attack! Her sword weighed nothing. Her strength came from magic rather than her barely existent muscles. In a fight like this, momentum was nothing, even if the ligaments and tendons tore and restored themselves at the instant reversal of direction.

Rozenalt would still be able to fight back through this. She remembered their previous bouts, interrupted and shared as they were. If she defended, that would let up all the pressure. If she disengaged entirely, that would be the same. Too much breathing room to give a mage like him from the start.

Dodge a little. Move just as much as she could without letting the tempo up. Barely avoid the retaliation as long as possible – no, keep cutting it too close. Let him get away with small cuts. She wanted the blood spread, too, and what would be more annoying than your opponent laughing off the injuries? They would heal, even with the magic, and he would be an idiot to try and use blood magic with her blood, unless he wanted it to go awry.

Besides: this made it more fun.

---

"Don't test gravity, duly noted. If its all the same, I'll save the tears for another time. Don't want to go fouling my vision while it matters."

Rolan couldn't say what he was expecting when the broom took off and began flying proper, but the fact he found it more agreeable than any horse he'd ever had the displeasure of riding spoke volumes. It was a far more stable experience, even if a sudden tumble would do significantly more damage than falling off a horse might. Still, he kept his logs locked firmly in place so that, in the event of suddenly getting knocked sideways either way, he should be able to hold on long enough to sling his crossbow and clamber back into place, though he would much rather avoid having to deal with that if at all possible. He kept up a steady rhythm of fire, intervening on behalf of his fellow's below whenever an enemy tried to intrude or interfere with their chosen foes. It wasn't glamorous work, but it was necessary, and even the Captain and Lord Arken would find cover from above as appropriate to keep them from being overwhelmed. Of course, the Hunt was not content to leave the duo flying above uncontested, Rolan calling out a warning to Gertrude as he loaded a caustic smoke bolt.

"Seems they are tired of us having it easy. I'll blind and disorientate, and let you do what you do best."

Taking careful aim and accounting for the more erratic form of flight, giving him the displeasure to focus on just how unnaturally hideous the creatures were, Rolan feinted firing, delaying for a moment to bait out any attempts to evade before loosing his bolt. Upon impact the vial fixed to the bolt would shatter, engulfing the leading fliers in a thick, choking black smoke that the Order was no doubt increasingly used to seeing from the hedge knight, it made for an excellent method at disrupting even small formations of those who fell on the wrong side of the Order's ire. Loading a bolt of alchemist fire next, he was watching for either a cluster to come out of the smoke, or around it, either way it would ideally give Gertrude time to maneuver them to a better position before he resumed making the life of every last Hunt member he could reach, while keeping an eye on the duel between Dame Tyaethe and Rozenalt as well. Plenty enough to keep them all busy, seeing how each Knight had singled out a noteworthy member of the Hunt to engage.