Walgrave squinted at the guards who had halted them outside the town's squat walls. He had attempted to engage Seigfreid on their journey over, but had been handily outmaneuvered in the social quarter by the fox eared beauty. He mused that it would probably help if he were to practice the art of conversation more than once every decade or so. And also smelled less like shit.
Nevertheless he graced the vulpine Caster with a waspish old man look, as she now ran to and fro cradling her Master in her arms like a babe. Had he possessed a cane he would have shaken it at her now, but sadly he was poorly equipped on that front.
His idle frustration evaporated however as the source of the guards fear suddenly manifested itself, loping over the horizon with unnerving speed.
Walgrave's eyes widened and he took a step back as the enemys hard on their trail revealed themselves. This was no mere rabble of The Dead, such as might have been dispatched with relative non issue in the modern era. Here was a ravenous pack of demon beasts, such as might never be seen in the Modern era. Judging by their size alone they would be nightmares to ordinary Magi, to say nothing of what other hidden powers they might possess.
Walgrave seriously contemplated turning and begging the guards to let him in along with the Child Caster on the basis of being a helpless old man, but he mastered the urge. In this company and time it was likely that he would be picked out for the Magi he was and rejected.
Instead he turned back towards the oncoming wolves and sneered. With a phalanx of Legendary Heroes at his back, there was little to fear here. He hoped.
His spirit was boosted somewhat as his own Servant, the Russian Lord Nevsky addressed him, assuring him of their ability to fight. It would not due to show weakness now.
Though he had so far paid little attention to his own Servant in general, Walgrave was given pause for a moment when Nevsky suddenly whistled, summoning forth a beautiful white horse to his side, which he mounted with a smooth ease before galloping quickly to the offensive.
Compared to the Servants around him, Walgrave had initially judged Nevsky as average, or even sub par when it came to the dense whirlwinds of prana that the other Servants were comprised of. Now though... the horse he had mounted possessed nearly as much presence as a Servant itself, and together they seemed to reinforce one another. They rushed forward towards the oncoming pack, and despite the great differences in size between them, somehow, he knew that the Horseman was by no means rushing to his own slaughter.
This was going to be interesting. A battle more pressing even for these immortal warriors...
It would be appropriate to make a similarly ernest display himself, if the Servants were now takeing their own gloves off.
Walgrave took a few measured steps away from the wall and those nearest to him, putting a slight distance between him and the nearest party members in case something went wrong. Then, closing his eyes briefly he began to gather his prana for a particularly tremendous display of pyrotechnics, pulling prana from the air around him and mixing it with the Od within himself. He picked out a monster wolf near the center of the pack, and focused on it. He would unleashed a wave of pressurized flame aimed directly for its head strong enough to shatter its skull and sear its eyes from its sockets, before the expanding wave of fire turned its nearest companions into blazing torches.
At least... that was the plan.
Trickles of fire flickered along his hands before running up his sleeves and licking his elbows. He envisioned his trigger distinctly, a beaker of formaldehyde boiling over, and focused his will carefully, shaping a tremendous conflagration which might have burned away a house, into a shaped charge to unleash in an arc towards the head of his target.
After falling to the back of the line with the strange bard and his growing audience Sinfjotli had trudged along seething in quiet frustration for a time. He had listened, half idly to the bards conversation at first, but had become more engaged when the slight man had begun to expound on Seigfreid.
Sinfjotli found his pronouncement of pitying the invulnerable dragonslayer incomprehensible, and had listened with disatisfaction for some time until he had pronounced that he foresaw a coming tragedy for Seigfreid.
He had given a Shakespeare a searching look. Did this skald seek some way to best the invincible hero? Or, more likely, a desire to see him toppled?
He made no word to the legendary skald, but stored all up inside himself, and resolved to make sure for now that the man did not die to some stray demon.
They had come now to the town. A miserable, beleaguered looking place that carried the smell of death and desperation about it. An intoxicating scent for a hero.
He stood with the others, keeping a careful distance from Siegfried, and listening to the guards dictate their terms with a sour expression.
Mentally he gave his Master a piece of his mind, his telepathic voice dripping with disatisfaction.
These other Servants are making fools of themselves Master. Look at these men. They are a night away from being overrun by trolls and draugr, yet they would sit at the gate and dictate terms to us? A real Hero would kill such idiots for rejecting the source of their own salvation at the gate. It was then that something on the edge of his awareness pricked at him. He turned, looking over the wooded hill they had just descended. Something had been following them.
Despite his affinity with wolves it was the Fox eared witch who had first been able identify the nature of their oncoming foes. Sure enough, true to her natural instinct and the odd way his cloak seemed to tingle against his skin at their approach, what bounded over the horizon was a pack of monstrous wolves such as would have given even him and Sigmund a moment's pause back in the day.
He stared at them for a moment, before grinning widely. They were heading directly for them, long legs built for hunting eating up the ground before them like only a wolf on the hunt could.
Sinfjotli threw back his head, and emitted a series of guttural growls. He was no Galderman, so there was only one sort of beast with whom he could speak, and Wolves were it. He had picked up the tongue in his days wearing their form, and, for reasons known only to a magician, he had never lost the skill.
These creatures though, had nothing to say to him. Regardless of his status as a skinchanger friendly towards their kind, they were intent upon his death, and on his own side Sinfjotli had no more special affection for them than for any number of humans who he had butchered over the ages, whose tongue he could speak just as well.
The bearded Rider who had so bravely arm wrestled the golden ogre hero in the hall before was already mounting up and readying himself to ride forth. Sinfjotli nodded towards him in approval, admiring his magnificent horse as they rode forth to meet the oncoming pack. A brave gesture even for a hero to rush into an oncoming wolf pack first.
Sinfjotli lingered just a moment as his long spear glimmered into existence in his hands. He twirled it experimentally, hopping back and forth on his feet a little as he readied himself. This battle, would be one that demanded quick reflexes above all.
"They will try to get around us." He said, eyes flashing as he addressed the Casters and Mortal magi in a commanding voice.
"It's the way of wolves. Don't split up or try to outrun them. Hold your ground and they should hesitate!"He searched the crowd, narrowing his eyes till he found the beautiful spearmaid who had been bringing up the rear so far.
"Spears will be of best avail against these beasts! Join us on the front for now woman, and we will prevent ourselves from being surrounded!" Saying this he gripped his spear with both hands and charged into the oncoming frey, speeding forward like a bullet to thrust his bitter spear into the heart of the one of the wolves who was attempting to circle around Nevsky.
Pavel had followed the situation with a quickly growing sense of unease. Perhaps it was because he was an illusionist by nature, but it seemed to him the height of foolishness to so easily go over to the camp of this self proclaimed king, especially when, beyond all expectation, it now sounded like certain members of either party possessed prior knowledge of eachother. Someone was leading them on.
In the end he had elected to follow Enkudu, but even the absence of that terrible golden demigod brought him no peace of mind. How was he to be sure that Gilgamesh and the small female Knight were not now plotting together?
Not that he had much time to contemplate this however.
Before them a massive army was approaching the walls, a host phantasmal creatures the size of an army, each one of which would have been a match for his prized familiar which he expended so much of his effort to maintain in the modern era.
Speaking of which, the poor beast it seemed had finally lost its nerve completely, and in the moment of distraction when he had first seen the oncoming horde of monsters, the Căpcăun had turned and bolted, running for the nearest stairway off the walls before disappearing into the city streets below.
He had slapped his hand to his forehead. It should eventually return to him, provided it was not slain by the city guards but in the meantime it did not leave him with much in the way of defense... not that it would have been very useful if that army found its way up here anyway.
"Well Lancer, I think you have your battle. I'm afraid there isn't much I can do against THAT, beyond giving you some healing. I hope you're as good as you say you are or this is going to be one short time travel quest!"
@Flamelord @Nanashi Ninanai @ADamnFiddle @GreenGoat
