Defense Of Relouse III In the Witch Wood Seen & Mentioned: Otios'yyia'thala, Talit'yrash'osmax, Kol Death's Hand, and Horik the Gold
Even as she neared the treeline of the Witch Wood Lyen could hear the battle and destruction raging to the south: The city proper was being attacked. There was little point in fretting over her chosen path; all that was left was to see it through. The heartbeat of the marked Yasoi she sought had long since stopped, but she could still use the remainder of her spell to find his body. She could ensure he would be the last at least.
Her horse reared unexpectedly, knocking Lyen from her mount. She cursed in her native tongue as she righted her self to view the source of the beast's fear: Eskandr were emerging from the forest. It was easy enough to differentiate the southerners with their ranger gear in comparison to the cumbersome armor donned by the Perrench.
The horse squealed and screamed as Lyen began to draw. "Exiran keep you" was all she said in way of prayer and apology as it crumpled to the ground in silence, just as the enemy forces came upon her, a dozen screaming savages seeking her blood. The remaining Yasoi had taken their toll on them she noted; there were too few bleeding from too many places. Axes raised around her and a single arrow was loosed before Lyen unleashed her magic. A torrent a blood fell upon her enemies. Warm and sticky in comparison to rain soaking everything else in their surroundings, the Eskandr quieted for a moment in confusion before the caustic properties reached the surface of their skin and the screaming began again; the agonizing cries of burning men. Lyen left them as she continued her journey on foot.
She found the body with little effort, a pale figure sinking into the mud. He'd been trying to escape the forest she surmised. Rain had washed most of the blood, but at least four stab wounds were clearly visible in chest.
A shock of gold, darting between the trees impossibly fast. Lyen's heart leapt to her throat. No ordinary soldier. She raised her hands to her mouth and let out a low whistle, trilling upwards on the last note: a common signal among Yasoi hunters. If there were allies nearby the would come. She just needed to survive. Her hands still covered her mouth as a wave of force energy brushed against her face. Lyen ducked just in time for a long dagger to embed itself into the tree behind her, inches from where her head had been.
Survive. She reminded herself, and focused on slowing her opponent. Jagged stones appeared under his feet, forcing the mage to slow and adjust his trajectory.
"You, pointy-ear, why are you fight for Parrence?"
He spoke Parrench poorly, barely understandable to Lyen's untrained ear. She could feel the energy of her surrounding being drawn from. He was trying to distract her. She tapped into her essence magic again misting the flooding creeks and streams of the forest in effort to reduce visibility.
"Why are you in Parrence at all?" She replied in less broken, but equally accented Perrech. "Run out of goats to fuck?" Her retort was punctuated by a bolt of lightening, instantly followed by the roar of thunder that shook the ground.
Visions of the man cooked inside his own armor, and the remains of Cap Redame's forces flooded Lyen's mind, and she feared the thunder-mage that had wrought such devistation had already arrived in the Witch Wood. Her fears were unfounded of course. The lightning was targeting the Æresvaktr and only a Yasoi could create such a spell and remain hidden in the trees. What served as her relief only enraged the southerner further. A blast of force energy emanated from him, enough to knock the wind from Lyen's lungs though she managed keep herself upright, bracing herself with the undergrowth.
"Hah! Goat jokes. If I didn't know any gooder, I think you were Parrench and not Yasoi!" Lyen didn't respond further. His distractions were working despite her efforts; he a trained warrior practiced in drawing and casting for combat while she was only able to react. Lyen climbed her tree, binding footholds to speed her assent even as her pursuer followed. Enough. Half the tree dissolved even as the blond Eskandr began to climb, instead a dozen impossibly thin branches jutted outwards, impaling the figure. Or they did in Lyen's vision, for a moment, before he shimmered and moved again, revealing himself to have been barely grazed by the attack.
An illusion. Lyen cursed herself for not realizing it sooner. A wasted attack, a wasted opportunity. By the time she corrected her own internal essence, the Eskandr was fleeing. Strong as he was, he knew he was overwhelmed. Panic and desperation not to waste another opportunity lead Lyen to leap from her perch, karambit in hand.
Another miscalculation and misstep. No sooner did she land in the softening earth than she was caught between two Eskandr. The blonde she'd been in combat and a hulking beast of too large for a human in full plate. They both moved to attack her in unison. There was little hope, but she choose left - avoiding the brunt of the new-comers attack. Instead an axe finds her chest, splitting skin and flesh before cracking through bone. Without the time to scream, Lyen took a final gasp of air before falling and drawing herself underneath the foliage, water, and mud making up the terrain.
The fighting continued above without her. It took all of her effort to keep from crying out. Blood was splashing around her, her heart was beating to fast, and there was no air for to breathe. She willed the panic away and grasped the weapon in her chest, preparing to remove it when it disintegrated in her hands. Barely a second later, a warm burning replaced the searing pain. She was being binded by another. More help had arrived. She surfaced again, drawing herself for anything to help accelerate the binding, keeping her wound from being fatal. Instead she found the armored human, prone on the forest floor. Still blinking mud from her eyes and coughing for air, Lyen raised her karambit again.
"Enough!" A sudden surge of energy comes off the man as he stands, repelling Lyen to her feet beside him before her weapon had chance to find purchase. He moved away from her to aid his comrade, but when Lyen tried to follow, her legs gave out under her. She had lost too much blood, and her recovery was far from done. Her weapon fell from her hand as she fought unconsciousness to watch the Yasoi and Eskandr fight through the hail and rain. Her savior was not other than the Baroness of Loriindton, outpacing and outclassing them all with one leg. There wasn't even time for Lyen to find the humor in it before an explosion turned her world white.
- Lyen finds the dead Yasoi just in time for Horik to get the jump on her - She signals for other Yasoi in the area for help while they have a bout - Otios arrives and they begin to corner the Æresvaktr - Kol shows up, completely turning the tides and Lyen nearly dies - Lady Talit to the rescue - Horik dies at the hand of Otios, Kol manages to escape, Lyen passes out. The Yasoi will need to heal before planning their next action
Those trees were tall, but still this did not feel like the kind of forest he'd liked to live in even without a horde of Eskandr strolling within their boundaries. Too close to the shoreline where storms and floods could come in and too close to a vast city that could spew out a significant stream of 'visitors' in the morning only to consume it in the evening and regurgigate it the next morning again. In short: No place to have one's peace.
Still, the primary reason for Otios to haul his large figure onto Sakar and guide his horse towards the Witchwood's edge the fastest he could still were the Eskandr. The tree was perfect as a hideout, but it really didn't take a genius to realize that it also was a death trap once surrounded by the enemy. His hands hurt a little from the very quick descent along the wire and wrapping it up again in a hurry, but his mind was focused on very different things right now: Where to set up a new, effective trap in what unknown, but most likely small amount of time he had left ? One had to alter methods from time to time or otherwise the enemy would learn to adapt!
That was when he heard the call. A signal clearly asking for immediate assistance. But why ? It was only moments later when he saw it: A golden figure moving at a disturbing speed. He decides to go for something travelling even faster: a lightning bold aimed directly at Horik! However, albeit the bolt itself technically travelled at speeds well beyond the realm of anything a large object of matter could achieve, it still was something needing preparation and aim. Otios could see his enemy throw himself to the side in what looked like a basic and desperate, but somewhat successful dodge. The man even had time to respond to.... goat jokes ?
Or were Horik's words just a means of distraction from his real response, a string wave of force magic hurtling towards the two Yasoi. Otios could hardly see what his female comrade was doing about it, but he himself jumped out of the saddle and threw himself down into the tall grass in order to make a much less exposed target out of himself. Sakar raced off and left Otios behind a bit sore from both the jump and what bit of the shockwave had still hit him.
The Yasoi notices that something seems a bit off. Almost as if... being drunk ? But that can't be! He had jumped off horses before and this ground was not the hardest one, so why should his head mess up after this fall now ? The only conclusion left possible is that their common foe was actually even more dangerous than he just looks and moves around like, so he decides to shout out towards Lyen to give her a warning, even if that would betray his position. He could her her doing some stuff from higher up in the nearby trees and shakes his head, trying to figure out the rapidly developing situation.
Otios could see their enemy higher up on the tree now, too, and albeit it makes his Yasoi heart hurt a little bit, he decides to use the big plant as a means of generating more projectiles. He gives the tree an electric blast in an attempt to either hit Horik directly, hit some wood that will shatter and hit him, or maybe cut down the whole tree while Horik is on top of it. Yet he found his electric energy rerouted into a nearby branch, leaving much less to do any actual damage.
Given the sound of branches cracking and leaves being brushed aside it seemed that the long haired Eskandr had decided that two Yasoi were just a bit too much for him. Excellent! However, just as Otios' face had reshaped itself into an impish smile unintentionally, his mind got all reason to revert that kind of action immediately. The shape Horik pretty much bumped into in his flight was just quite a tad too imposing and dangerous looking to do otherwise. That... was not a guy on the Parrench side of things, right ? And Lyen was heading directly towards him in her attempt to finish off the other man.
He saw the chaos unfolding, Lyen in grave danger, and didn't want to believe his eyes: Why did this unidentified monstrosity of a man have to show up ? Yet running away was not really an option, was it ? So, trying to both hurt and help at the same time, Otios used his magic to magnetize the metallic parts of Horik's equipment. The man wanted flight and speed ? That's what he shall have! Getting sucked in right towards and preferably into the hulking beast named Kol. However it seemed that Horik was capable of the art of rerouting indeed, this time doing it to himself instead of another lightning bold. Destination: Otios!
Close to panic, the Yasoi raised his two silver staffs and induces some high voltage into them, trying to put up both a mechanical blockade and a stimulating surprise. It worked, at least sufficently to apparently hurt Horik and save his own body from significant injury. It seemed it didn't bother Horik much either as he went immediately after Lyen again, leaving Otios ready as a target for Kol who now jumped at him in a quite obvious attempt to just crush the Yasoi to death. Little did the hulking Eskandr seem to understand of what he couldn't see: the invisible workings of electricity and magnetism and them mutually influencing each other. A quickly erected, strong magnetic field induced eddy currents to dissipate Kol's kinetic energy and it worked, converting his own attacking potential essentially into potential for discomfort by means of his armor heating up.
Otios practically didn't know just what was... coming out of Kol's mouth ? He just instantly knew it looked dangerous! The only humble chance he saw in order to evade what Kol called the 'Rage of Wyverns' was to do a somersault out of harms way. At this point he was deep enough in shock to even miss the opportunity to think about impending death. He felt like remote controlled by another part of his mind he couldn't influence, the one that was driven by just one directive: survival.
Hair did not count as an essential for survival however it seemed, at least his mind didn't care about it burning away and filling his nose with the ghastly smell. Why was he even noticing that anymore ? Only when craning his neck to lift his eyes out of the dirt he saw the sudden storm of unknown origin blowing away enough of the fiery harm to save his skin.
The good point ? He was still alive! The bad point ? His hair looked fairly... gone. Just gone. Not so much the ugly smell of it having been burned however. Oh how Otios hated this! As far as he could see now Lady Talit herself was engaging Kol with a devastating looking attack. Had she also caused the storm that had just saved his life ? Quite likely. The attack was apparently enough to trigger the hulking beast named Kol to call for Horik's assistance, so he needed to assist Lady Talit!
Otios moved his hands, weaved a stream of ionized gas -- commony called plasma --, and erected sort of a magnetic containment around it he'd use to both stabilize and move the superheated, electrified projectile on its way towards damned Horik. Alone... it failed again! Horik, busy skulking after the injured Lyen, was rudely interrupted by Otios' deadly spear of plasma shooting for his head. Tearing a tree trunk from the ground, he whipped it into the way of the projectile and it fairly exploded into blackened splinters, showering the area. Looking to immediately take advantage, he followed Kol's directive and hurled these at Lady Talit.
The woman's response was so powerful and violent that it knocked Otios right off his feet and down into the dirt again before he had any chance to react. He really needed to talk about manners later on! That was... assuming they'd both survive the battle, of course. It really wasn't looking good and at this point Otios had lost any idea about where Lyen was and what she was doing...
Otios was on the ground and had no intention of making himself a larger target again by raising to his full height. Instead, he remembered something he had almost forgotten about: Sakar, his horse! Was it still around ? He let go of a whistle, hoping that the animal hadn't fled the scene already and would dare to come just a bit closer so he wouldn't have to crawl over the muddy, overgrown ground for so long. At least he could also hope to be more sneaky this way, right until he'd -- hopefully --, encounter his horse and could mount it. A charge right at Horik it was, and just to make it faster Otios did what he otherwise really didn't like to do and gave his mount a gentle prod by means of his silver staff, including some electric stimulus. What was he even doing ? Desperation ? Probably, yes. There was no other means to really justify it. Trample the man, hoping he was occupied with other things, since everything else didn't work out.
The sound of flesh being torn and bones being cracked beneath the weight of horse and rider was awful to hear, but Otios had too much adrenaline to even feel the kind of remorse of have second thoughts about his actions like he had up in the tree. Did every ordinary soldier feel that way ? Probably. And if that was the case, war had to be an even more cruel thing than he had imagined so far. Hordes of people too enraged and blindfolded by their own system to just calm down again, thereby rendered to be even more obedient servants to whomever was interested in the bloodshed.
On his turn around, Otios sees Horik badly injured on the ground. Another pass with the horse would definitely finish him off, but Otios couldn't really believe that this daredevil approach had actually succeeded and did believe in less so in it succeeding a second time. Not with Kol and Talit around who were doing their best to turn the whole area into a hostile environment of their own. So, instead, he sent another lightning strike flying. A direct hit that fried whatever part of Horik's nervous system was still functional.
And then the one thing he had not expected: A giant explosion!
Summary: - Otios survives, albeit somewhat hurt - Horik joins the Visitor's table with one hell of a bang
“But I will sing of thy power; yes, I will sing aloud of thy mercy in the morning: to Oraphe my friend, Dami my judge, Ipte my flame, Echeran my blade, Chune my wisdom, and Pentad my refuge in the day of my struggle. ” The Book of Lazaire, 41:83
Caelum pushed his steed to the edge of his limitations,“Magnus! Give me what you can boy!” Caelum’s horse snorted loudly as he picked up a little more speed. Magnus was a large black Freisian with deep brown eyes that had the power to both wet a man’s pants and cradle his soul in protection, the outcome only determined by how well one knew Magnus and Magnus them. Closing distance on the beach from Cap Redame, Caelum began to scan the shores of Relouse. The difficulty of a battle like this one was discerning friend from foe, because in the midst of chaos and the middle of a battle across multiple engagements, war-torn wardrobes were not always distinctly different. Thankfully, Eskandr and Parrench features were not at all closely related. Gaining orientation of the battlefield as it echoed of clashing steel, crashing waves, and cries of war, Caelum spotted a familiar face, a face that boiled his blood hotter than if the Parrench sun were present.
His heart stirred with madness, is that her? Caelum said under his breath. He had no doubt that the Eskandr filth parading around the shores with a burning scythe like a twisted banshee was the same woman he saw kill his brother, Oleric. Caelum pressed his weight forward, whispering to himself, “you are mine.” Her backside faced Caelum, she focused on a wall that crumbled before her might, and not missing a beat she set her sights on an unconscious floating knight.
“So close!” Caelum pressed his heels tighter to Magnus to get him to pick up speed. The Eskandr was closing distance with the unconscious knight and another who was attempting to aid him out of the water. Caelum recognized it was Asier, a flash of Oleric slipped streamed through Caelum’s mind, he would not have a second companion-in-arms die by this terror. He was close enough now to try and distract the woman, Caelum using his Force, threw the sounds of his horse to the left side of her shoulder as if approaching from that side while dashing on her right.
Unfortunately to Caelum’s surprise, she was not fooled,“Soo, oNe cOMes to pLaY!?” Her eagerness and awareness combined a charismatic motion of whirling and thrusting her arms out to generate a shockwave. There was nowhere to run, Caelum, might have underestimated her abilities and it may have cost him everything. Gripping the reigns tightly to see his decision through, he left it in Oraphe’s hands and rode to meet the shockwave in faith alone.
An awe-inspiring destructive force cracked the air as if it were struck by a hammer. Thirty square yards around her were reduced to a lifeless crater gouged from the land. Further out, Parrench and Eskandr alike lay flattened. Caelum should have been among them if not for the timely intervention of a powerful Force barrier sent by Queen Eleanor herself. Caelum believed he’d most likely find Echeran on the other end of the shockwave, but instead, he came out unscathed…a sign, he thought. Now, to not waste it. His eyes narrowed focusing on cutting her head clear off. She turned, “Oh? yOu SUrvIvEd mY liTTle wElcOMe?” She twirled her sword jauntily. “Gotta say, I’m slightly impressed.” She narrowed her eyes and waited, drawing further energy, “Ti, ni, otte, syv, seks…”
Caelum was already charging to her surprise, “Such bravery from such a little insect… even if a rather handsome one.” He was too fast for her. She had no time to channel and use her energy. Her eyes widened and with inhuman grace, she slipped to the side. Caelum’s blade nearly missed by an inch or two, and her eyes followed it almost the entire way as if in slow motion. Strands of sliced hair slough away and her eyes go from those strands to the rider now wheeling about once more. “Die!” she growls, and the intake of energy is truly magnificent in a terrifying way. Nearby soldiers with the Gift collapse to their knees, throwing up and clutching at the sides of their heads. A roiling wall of explosive force thunders after Caelum.
She is strong, and wild, Caelum thought. He spotted debris in front of him and used Gift of Force to throw it in the wall’s path, holding the debris to act as a shield, he leaped through the flames with Magnus in stride and sent a lightning bolt straight at her. The Eskandr had to be quick to react, catching the electricity on her sword as a rod and draining all of the energy from it. One could see the charge spark between the tendrils of her hair as if they were filled with an immense amount of static electricity.“You really are a fun one,” she snarled,“huh?” Caelum and Magnus not once lost momentum, his blade once again swiping for her throat to shave her head from her body, "let's get her this time boy!".
A mistake or perhaps fate. Caelum was deflected with power that rendered him and Magnus sprawling to the ground. She missed no opportunity to follow up with an arcane lance to the left pauldron, melting it off. Her mission was not yet completed, she had every intention of making this Caelum’s moment of death. Gripping him and Magnus alike in great invisible fists of force, she ripped Magnus into two messy pieces while Caelum watched. Emotionally Caelum split in two, his physical body albeit still intact began to feel as if it too were about to be torn down the center. Everything was sensitive and his central nervous system was overwhelmed with intensity. Love was what this woman knew nothing of…and she worked to destroy it. Oleric, his best friend flashed before Caelum's face as the sounds of Magnus' meat dropped into a pile before him. A tear slipped down Caelum's cheek as he witnessed the horse who had been assigned him to since his first assignment fall to the same monster who killed his friend. If not by Caelum’s hands, she would see death by the Pentad.
She placed her attention back on Caelum after tearing Magnus in two, he could feel that her intention was to do the same to him. Then as luck would have it, she staggered from a Force shove to her back, and then a lightning bolt demanded she quick draw to make sure she wasn’t roasted alive. Dieudonne and Mathieos both had finally caught up to enter the fight, yet, Caelum was being suffocated by the Eskandr’s power, his life draining before them, and no strength to warn them to retreat…she was too strong.
There was no waiting, she simply slammed Caelum into the ground from great height, and fired the energy back at the Dieudonne and Mathieos sending them like ragdolls off their horses.
“Now for you, stubborn, pretty, stupid knight.” She rushed up to the dazed and battered Caelum of Oraphe to deliver the coup de grace.
It was almost casual the way she came up to deliver it, but once again, Caelum was aided by a knight he did not recognize. But, the timely approach gave Caelum breath to try and stand. Before he could, the friendly knight had already been batted away and the Eskandr demon ruthlessly plowed Caelum into the ground. He felt a growing pain in his midsection, and then…
Out of nowhere, an arcane lance of extreme power took the Eskandr by surprise across the side and she howled in pain, dropping to all fours. Rodric of Lindermetz, the Laughing Knight, waltzed up beside her.“Silly girl,” he taunted, “so busy playing with her food.”
Caelum could not believe it, Oraphe’s Will, was truly the only explanation for him still breathing. He could hear her moaning in pain, the first of this entire battle, but she was able to boost herself away, crudely sealing up the wound, but before her were five identical versions of the Laughing Knight surrounding her. “You bastard!” she screamed, pummeling them all with a powerful kinetic shockwave of the sort that had lain dozens of soldiers low earlier. The five Rodrics were unmoved. They laughed at her. They laughed, but they refused to press the attack.
The Eskandr staggered a couple of steps back, still clutching at her side and tried to heal herself once more. She was unschooled as yet in the blood magic magic and terribly inefficient. She felt Rodric pulling back, but she was mightier than him and she pulled damaged flesh back into place, healing severed nerves and arteries.“You’re mine!” She snarled.“You’re dead, Drudgunzean scum!”
The wall of flame that the Æresvaktr sent after him was terrifying, containing as it did all of her rage, pain, and vengeance, but the knight was not there when it hit. He was everywhere else, though, mocking her, teasing her, sticking out his tongue grabbing his crotch, silently laughing. She launched attack after attack at him, but none hit.
While Rodric’s illusion kept her distracted, he tossed Caelum onto his horse. Once secured, the illusion dissipated, and the knights were gone. The Eskandr threatened, taunted, and howled, but Rodric had already completed his objective. When she turned to finish Caelum, he too was not where she left him, only a note, in Drudgunzean. It read only a single word:“weak”.
Rodric and Caelum were far away before the Eskandr noticed. For Rodric, it was taxing to maintain his illusions: both essence and arcane, and half-carrying a rather big lad like Sir Caelum, but this was something that he found himself feeling strongly about: a rarity for the slippery Linderman with his unhurried and mercenary nature.
“You did good work there,” he said in accented Parrench.“Keeping that bitch occupied as long as you did. She’d have taken my head off if she’d caught me.” He released Caelum some ways from the thick of the fighting.“Unfortunately, I’m not much of a healer, but you look…intact. Need me to fetch one or can you manage yourself?”
Caelum met Rodric’s gaze, found the strength to raise his arm with the better shoulder to palm Rodric’s pauldron, “Thank you friend, I will manage from here, you’ve done more than enough for me…I will not forget, may Oraphe keep you, and may we see each other again.” The two nodded and went their separate directions. Caelum wanted to get back into the fight, but he knew it’d be foolish. He was useless in his current state. He would need to head infirmary to get him back up to 100% before re-joining the effort, but he could rest slightly, knowing the Eskandr he fought was also going to take time off to lick her own wounds. Her power was obvious after today, and every second she was not on the battlefield at full capacity, a Parrench life is saved.
Caelum returns from Cap Redame, only to spot Thorunn Silverhair - the killer of his best friend Oleric at Vitroux.
Caelum rushes to get the initiative on Silverhair before she reaches Gerard and Asier.
Caelum engages Silverhair after she crumbles a castle wall to dust, but before she can become a threat to anyone else on the battlefield.
Caelum holds Silverhair in combat for a significant amount of time, but ultimately is defeated.
Before Silverhair can lay the death blow, she is interrupted by Mathieos and Deiudonne, who are tossed and taken out of the fight.
Silverhair is then interrupted again by Misha, one of Gerard's fighters, but Misha too is taken out.
Silverhair once again comes close to finishing Caelum, but Rodric the Laughing Knight successfully intervenes and severely damages Silverhair
Rodric and Silverhair face-off for only moments before Rodric escapes with Caelum and far enough away to safety.
Rodric and Caelum separate, Caelum heads to the infirmary to get healing from his side.
L O C A T I O N | The Witchwood I N T E R A C T I O N | Kol, Death’s Hand @Th3King0fChaos
Chaos seemed to reign supreme as the fighting in the Witchwood grew earnest; Kol’s arrival was a welcome one for the ranger and his kin, but it changed the nature of the fight entirely. Flames took hold—the King of Strumreef so loved his fire—and it seemed every element of nature was being grasped by one hand or another. Vali couldn’t even tell if it belonged to his people or the enemy, and suspected it might be a healthy dose of both.
He’d found a half-hollow tree to brace in for a moment, trying to realign his senses to the battle at hand. It seemed that he’d done well to harry the opponents while they awaited Death’s Hand, but the strategy sank the moment Kol’s forces arrived. He was unsure where the rest of the rangers were now, but those who were still alive had likely joined the fight in the manner they saw fit.
He sensed a change, subtle but hating, in the energy surrounding him. Not even knowing what he was evading, Vali leapt and rolled forward as the very roots of the tree seemed to sprout lances, lashing out to stab whatever poor soul was caught unawares. He rolled, avoiding a second strike, but heard cries of pain around the forest—not a targeted attack, but a widespread one. Something that spoke to a great range.
He pushed to his feet, moment of respite well over, and let his own senses roam. The forest was full of movement and blood, the constant nature of it reminding the ranger of his time on the sea. He was searching for one collection of energies in particular—one which he would know even in a writhing hellscape such as this.
He moved swiftly through the trees, footsteps silent on the muddied ground he traversed. As he neared the edge of the trees, he could see some of the openness beyond it, Kol’s energy among it. Vali grinned, preparing himself to join the fight, a bolt of lightning brightening the vicious hunter’s blue-green eyes.
And then a force expanded, loud and bright and fast toward the Witchwood. Vali reached out, grasping the energy approaching him and slicing through it like a knife, pulling it into his blood—but there was more than he could negate. It blasted him backwards, though he’d managed to reduce the blow against him by half. As he landed, the ranger drew that Kinetic energy as well, feeling his manas swell as he hit the ground softly.
His ears were ringing and the shockwave continued past, but Vali had interest in but one quarry now. Feeling the energy of his Bloodbrother approaching the forest again—seemingly still alive—the ranger pushed to his feet. He didn’t need to worry about dodging bouts of fighting as many warriors, Eskandr and Perrench alike, had been knocked off their feet by the blast. The Silent Hunt put many arrows in the throats of prone enemies as he raced to intercept his brother, using this opportunity to shrink the enemy forces ever more.
As he neared the hulking mass of Death’s Hand, the ranger called out, ”Kol!”. He appeared at the edge of the trees, bow drawn and aimed to fire at anyone following the King, but finding nothing. ”Let us take this battlefield together, Brother,” he intoned, grin toothy and predatory.
• Vali was knocked off his feet by Horik’s explosion, but not hurt. • He took the opportunity to kill a number of Perrench mooks while they were recovering • He has reunited with Kol to continue the battle together
There came a time when no other opponents met Osanna's blade. The Eskandr fleet still sat before the beach, a conglomeration of ships as endless and uncountable as a flock of migrating birds. They dotted the water so thickly that Osanna could not see the darkening horizon through them, a wall of planking, masts, and sails. For all their number, no more Eskandr stepped foot on the rain-drenched beach.
Around her, the defenders of Parrence screamed their victory, lobbing bursts of flame and lightning at the enemy ships, though most fell short to fizzle in the waves. Somewhere to the north, the roar of a knight rallying troops came dimly to her ears, the words lost beneath the wet slap of rain against armor. Osanna raised a sand-sticky hand to wipe at the water in her eyes; her clothes and hardened leather armor were all dark, in places with water and others with blood. Her boots were sand-caked, and she'd taken a blow to the shoulder that ached dully above the usual discomfort of exertion after a fight.
Osanna's blood still sang with the heart-pounding exhilaration of pitting her skill against others in a competition to the death, but unease now crowded in among the edges. Too many of the beach's defenders were surging away to the north. Surely the warriors of Eskand were not yet finished with them here?
Behind her, everything was a chaos of bodies. Foot soldiers fought their way up the dunes in sprays of sand and rainwater, the light of the setting sun glinting off weapons and armor. Osanna could not see the lady knight nor any of the others that had charged in with her—they could just as easily be halfway to the Witchwood or one of the dark, indistinguishable bodies sprawled in the sand. She hoped for their sake that Aun-Echeran had stayed her hand and that she would see them again on the other side of this conflict.
There seemed to be no one left in charge on the sands, and overwhelmed by the tumult, Osanna fought for higher ground. The insanity only deepened. A knight or noble Osanna did not know came thundering in on horseback, leading a group of mounted warriors. He shouted for those still on the beach to hold firm, to prepare themselves even as another wave of Eskandr forces landed on the beach amid salt spray and a barrage of ill-timed arrows. They swarmed up the incline like ants or locusts, mixing into the Parrench soldiers until the groups looked the same but for the differences in their dress and armor.
Osanna flung herself back into the fray, squinting against flying sand and rainwater. Nightmare visages sprouted in oozing, vaporous black, turning the friendly forms around her into the shapes of strange, hellish creatures from the depth of some curse she did not understand. By comparison, the enemy only looked stronger, frightening and impossible in their extraordinary size.
Unlike before, when Osanna first charged the beach surrounded by good fighters and facing normal men, her heart thudded in her chest with fear. She knew, on some level, that these strange sights were likely the work of an enemy mage, but she could not help but shudder when an Eskandr berserker with shoulders nearly as broad as she was tall barreled toward her.
Osanna killed him all the same, staying low and taking each opening afforded her, though allies died in droves on every side. Even she, servant of the death god she might be, flinched at the wonton loss of life. Nowhere did they fall in such great numbers than around a woman adorned as a Drudgunzean soldier. Her pale face was blood-spattered, and her hair whipped about in its braid. The tides of war pushed Osanna towards her, and she grit her teeth in anticipation of the meeting.
Hildr the Red
Hildr remembered the words of Wulfric every time she swung. 'Do not attract too much attention.' 'I know this.' She thought to herself. 'But how can I not enjoy putting my strength to the test against these men….' Her face would contort into something looking much like boredom as she now was just going through the motions. That dirty knight was somewhere here; she just needed to find him.
It became harder not to taunt the knights as they felt one after another; most she only left wounded as there was no reason to kill people that posed no threat to her. Instead of using her signature second sword, she now just used her bare fist to incapacitate any that her blade did not clash with. "Was Parrence really this pathetic? I thought Hrothgar would only go for big game!" The Kressian yelled out while trying her best to go as low with her voice to sound somewhat manly.
Seeing a Quentic Drudgunzean knight wielding a zweihander made her show some form of excitement, rushing his way. "Oi! You!" The knight turned to meet this regular-looking knight preparing to swing. "Why would a scrawny weakling like you wield such a big sword." As the zweihander swung the disguised woman's way, a grin formed on her face as she did not even attempt to block it nor avoid it. To the shock of the knight, this shorter knight punched the blunt side of the blade into the ground. "Not a great looker either; perhaps a closed helmet might've been better for you."
"Filthy Heathen, you will pay for that!" The knight, now angered from being shamed like that, had enough of playing with the other and began to swing blindly around the general area of the other knight. In attempts to block the swings the arming sword snapped, annoying Hildr enough to get tense. Dodging a couple of swings before finding an opening before ripping the blade of his hands… or rather using enough energy to rip the hand off his arm. Swinging the sword while still holding onto the blade caused the guard to cave in the knight's temple.
In his place, someone far smaller stood, a woman in simple half-plate and hardened leather. Her only weapons were a thin side sword and a long dagger, but she grinned with a sort of feral joy that Hildr knew. "I think it's about time someone put a stop to you. Aun-Echeran did not sanction your blade, though all the souls it reaps will be hers in the end." Her smile widened, and she lowered into a fighting stance, still amid the chaos.
"This one speaks! What a surprise to see a Quentic with enough pride to taunt others." The Drudgunzean laughed as she tried to get used to her newly acquired blade. "This one is a bit heavier than I'm used to, so you'll have to excuse my poor swordsmanship." Getting into a fighting stance, the knight's grin filled with excitement. "Don't think I will be easy to stop, little one."
The woman laughed again and switched her sword from her right hand to her left, completing the operation with surprising deftness despite the awkwardness of also holding a long knife. "Perhaps we should even the odds then? I wouldn't want to win too quickly." She still did not attack, evidently content to watch Hildr, amusement lifting her delicate, Parrench features.
"Even the odds? That doesn't sound likely for a Quentic dog to do. What slimy plan do you have in that head of yours?" The knight gritted her teeth in frustration. Did the other take her lightly? To be looked down upon. She's felled way bigger game than her. Who did she think she was? "Come at me then and see if you can win."
"Why? Are you too much of a coward to come at me? I thought the Drudgunzean were brave fighters, but maybe I'm wrong. I've certainly never had any trouble killing them before."
"Because you challenged me! That is why!" In a small fit of anger, she swung the zweihander into the ground, shaking the ground from the immense amount of energy.
The woman snorted, apparently only more amused by this display. "Perhaps. Perhaps I'm just trying to stall you. You're a lot less harmful here chatting with me than killing my friends." Still, the image of Hildr with her sword down and her guard exposed seemed to be too much of a draw for the small swordswoman. She stepped forward and, with a tiny, almost lazy flick of her wrist, cut loose the red cape clasped over Hildr's breastplate. Heavy with mud and rain, it slithered from her shoulders in a wet crumple.
"Fine by me. Fighting's been nothing but a bore anyway. Chatting like this has been a lot more entertaining than fighting these folk." A sigh left Hildr's mouth as the cape slowly fell off her. "I couldn't even be bothered to kill them, even though they will be asleep for a while."
"Well, if you can't be bothered to lift your sword, then killing you will be rather sadly easy. I must confess I was hoping for a bit more fun." This time, when the black-clad swordswoman moved, she drew blood, scoring a sharp line up Hildr's cheek before stepping back. What movements she made were small and controlled—finesse rather than force. She hardly stirred enough wind to ruffle her dark hair. "I'm afraid I do not have the luxury of avoiding this encounter. You see, I fight for the Pentad and their people. You will die, or I will. Do you know the Pentad? Or Echeran, keeper of the dead?"
"A cheap shot. Why not go for my neck? You could've just killed me right then and there." The woman looked rather annoyed when religion was brought up. "I really do not care for your faith, Quentic. I live by my will, and no god will influence that." Picking up the blade and getting into a fighting stance.
"Truthfully, it doesn't matter. You will meet him all the same. Fear not. In death, glory." The woman smiled again, her eyes on Hildr's sword. "Can you call anything a cheap shot if you do not defend yourself? Perhaps you hear Echeran's call even if you won't admit it. You should know the name of the one who will kill you." She bowed. "Osanna Lenoir."
"Hildr, my family's name is not of importance. Just know that cutting me has become an easy way for you to meet that Echareen or whatever you call them."
"Says the woman who will not meet my blade. Are all Drudgenzeans such wretched liars? Or are you an honorless dog even among a people who do not know who to fight for?"
That was enough for the knight to give a physical response by swinging the blade loosely at the other's direction, no longer concerned about hitting friend or foe. "That was your final warning."
Instead of answering, Osanna sidestepped the lazy swing and left another shallow cut on the outside of Hildr's thigh. "I'm not playing, Drudgunzean. Fight me or take the coward's path!"
Feeling the cut on her thigh, she threw a swift jab at the other's shoulder, not content with the swing speed of the zweihander. "Filthy sly bastard!"
Osanna leaped back, knocking the tip of Hildr's sword away, and disappeared. Around them, the rain was still falling in sheets, the clash and tumult of bodies churning the sand. Somewhere far off, a rumble started that grew and grew until the ground shook beneath them. Osanna flickered back into existence on Hildr's other side, her sword darting at Hildr's unarmored bicep. "Why, thank you," she quipped. "That's most accurate, though I can't say for certain if my parents were married or not."
The woman yelled with a force strong enough to resonate throughout the battlefield. Along with said yell came a blast of pure kinetic energy blowing away everything in its way. "You're pissing me off!"
When Hildr looked around again, Osanna was gone, though the ringing of her laughter still flickered around her ears. "Hide behind your magic then, coward. Echeran will still take you in the end."
Osanna pulled herself up from the sand, cloaked in bent light so that no others could see her in the dark and storm of the battle. Yards away, Hildr still stood, force pouring off her like lava out of a volcano, irritable and uncontrolled. Not for the first time in her life, Osanna cursed the trick of fate that left some people with more magic than their bodies could possibly contain and others with little or none. She found they rarely seemed to deserve it. Hildr was unfocused, believed in nothing, and had not Osanna's skill with the blade, and yet, so long as magic surged through the Drudgunzean's veins, Osanna would never be able to openly best her.
Such was the will of the Pentad.
Osanna gritted her teeth and turned away, darting between writhing forms of fighters even as her skin began to warm, and the first vestiges of fever began to make her limbs shake. She had used her body's limit of power already. She would have to rely solely on her wits and skill the rest of the battle. She just hoped that the distraction had been enough, that she'd saved a few lives by keeping Hildr occupied. With any luck, some spell caster on their side would notice the force blast and head over to stop her. Osanna had done all she could.
It was enough to make her wonder what she was doing in this mess. Osanna knew how to fight, but in the open, against warriors like Hildr and Hrothgar and his elite, she could do little. Perhaps she should have approached this like an assassin from the beginning, staying hidden and taking out enemies with a mixture of poison and sharp blades. It was too late now. Osanna's pride had led her to throw herself into battle directly, and now she was wrung dry. Was this what the Archbishop had wanted? She could not tell. At least, so far, Echeran had spared her to fight another day.
Interacting with: Queen of Parrench@Force and Fury Opportunity: Eskand-aligned Players - Find Ulfhild unconscious on next cycle of posting Event: Siege of Relouse | Skirmish with the Queen Location: Cape of Redame | Secluded area off the initial shore
Arvid & Haldor Ulven vs Eleanor of Perpignan
Eleanor of Perpignan had not been a warrior as a girl. She had been good and studious, devoted to the Pentad. She had spent hours in embroidery, poetry, the harp, and prayer to the Five.
War had come, though, and so had her Gift: of the *fifth* wheel, and the little duchess had been trained to wield her powers for the safety and salvation of her people. On her fourteenth birthday, she had been fitted for her first set of armour. Engraved with her family's crest and the glories of the Gods, how it had gleamed. The great shield had stood nearly as tall as the callow young girl whose forearm it had been strapped to. The sword had been beautiful, but not to her liking. A more 'feminine' weapon, she had been told. She had traded it for a massive war hammer that she could not have hoped to wield without the Gift.
Yet, as she lay about those around her, carving a swathe through the Eskandr, a strange sort of peace came over her. That lives were lost, she could not help. She would pray for them, wretched souls that they were, should she be blessed enough to survive the day. Eleanor had just finished battering a warlock into the water with her Force magic, drowning him, when a pair of bersekers who appeared so similar that they had to be brothers approached her, shouting challenges in their uncouth tongue. The Queen turned their way and raised her mighty shield. "Turn back now," she called out in that same language, "or I will send you to your deaths."
The brothers weren’t above fighting a woman nor a child, so when what seemed to be the first notable warrior to grace the field they reacted and did not fret over what lay between their legs. The appearance of the shield and hammer did nothing to sway them from their mission and the chance at furthering their glory. Spitting whatever blood pooled in their mouthes, foreign or native, they gripped the worn handle of their axes in defiance.
“Ha, you’d be doing us a favor then lady. Now lets see what your god has to say for you.”
The shield was the first hurdle they had to clear before they could really being to corner her, but too much focus on the shield would leave the hammer to crush their skulls. The two rushed forward but then branched off hoping to go for a classic pincer technique aiming to disarm her.
Then my conscience is clear, Eleanor told herself, but she put nothing else to words. They came at her in a pincer movement, from both sides, one the more skilled, but both of their attacks were sophomoric and predictable. It spoke to their exhaustion, perhaps, having been so long on this battlefield, or else their stupidity. The queen neither knew nor cared. Pulling directly from their bodies, tearing the energy from their few manas, she stole their motion and leapt back, expelling it in a massive shove that flattened both brothers. Eleanor first went to one, raising her hammer to strike, a merciless fury flaring in her eyes. She raised her shield above the other, prepare to bring it down in a grisly decapitation. "Yield!" she bellowed, voice amplified by Force magic, "And accept the might of the Pentad!"
If the two had not been aware of their limits before, they fully well knew now. Like peat from a fen, the two felt a sudden sapping of energy as if they were trekking through the deepest recesses of a wetland. The brothers weren’t strangers to the gift since their gods decided to bless their sister with it rather than them. Yet, even without it this woman was exactly the class of warrior they so desperately sought. Arvid now pinned to the ground was faced with the full wraith and contempt the knight had for the ‘heathens’. Gritting his teeth he turned to Haldor, “Make sure to make this count” he said, throwing one axe into the air and attempting to sink the other one into any exposed armor near her foot, in an attempt to anchor or wing clip the warrior queen.
As much as he wanted to forbid his brother from such foolishness, it was too late. With what little energy left within him, Haldor hoisted himself up aiming to push past the shield to either sink his own steel into her or get her into position for the axe to fall on its intended target.
Eleanor spun away from the blow at her ankle and brought her hammer down. That was the last of the mortal world that Arvid knew before the Visitor's Table. Haldor, who'd been able to pull himself to his feet, met with better fortune, however, the Queen having focused on his brother. With a roar, he surged forward and slammed into her. His attack was easily blocked, but the one that Arvid had thrown, as his final living act, came down and struck true...
Only, Eleanor had felt it the moment that it struck. With preternatural reflexes, she pulled all of the Force from it and wrenched it from her pauldron. This, she discarded with a snarl, rolling her shoulder and grimacing. "So you have chosen death!" Drawing the heat from around her, she focused it into an arcane lance and fired this straight at Haldor.
Winner: Eleanor de Perpignan
Ulfhild Ulven vs Eleanor of Perpignan
Ulfhild had been busy or lack there of with biding her time seeking the perfect opportunity to disembark from the ships and out from under the shadow Hrothgar had been casting over her. Alas that perfection would never come. The desire to jump out and aid Kol in his push into the forest was one she was ready to commit to. Maybe this meant she would run into the old crew as they’d no doubt be alongside their King. Though, that option was thrown to the side when her eyes caught glimpse of a dazzling display of arcane reflecting off armor and piercing her brothers chest like a lance shattered in a joust. Her blood ran cold and her body limp. Despite knowing better, she couldn’t fight the urge to glance over to find Arvid. Her pupils dilated in what she could only make out to be her headless brother.
Her stomach pushed up bile and what small chunks of food were still left from this mornings feast. Hands and body both quaked in fear and anger. The time for grief and denial were to be saved for later, for now she would have to avenge her kin despite having finally been graced with the presence of the visitor. Ulfhild uncoiled the rope strap from her pouch and pulled out several tinctures. The corkscrews fell from each, taking their place between the webbings of her fingers. Inhaling several of the concoctions she stored within, the onset of the effects were quick. Her body became still and she felt and overpowering urge to let loose. She tossed the empty bottles to the side and almost robotically drew arrow after arrow from her quiver and let loose in the direction of the Queen.
Three arrows dipped in the blinding light of her arcane followed by three arrows ablaze at the tips right on the heels of the first wave of arrows. Her legs drew Ulfhild closer to site of her brothers murders.
No sooner had the second berserker's body dropped to the ground with a smoking hole through his chest, than Eleanor picked out a series of energies - both arcane and force - moving towards her. Too late, she realized that the first were intended to blind and, even as she pushed them away, she blinked furiously, stumbling back. Lashing out half-blindly with Force magic, she batted all but one out of the air. That single arrow, however, glanced off of her armour, scoring it and warping it from sheer heat. The scalding metal pressed into the Queen's side and she let out a yelp of pain. The culprit, a woman ranger, was fast headed towards her. Perhaps Eleanor might yet attack, but perhaps she should heal first. One was not reckless in combat or one was dead. The Queen called, then, upon the Gift of Oraphe and bound her wounds until she could scarce feel them. Her armour, warped and buckled in that spot, flexed outwards into an imperfect approximation of what it had been before. She turned to face her onrushing foe.
No thoughts that strayed her mind from formulating a battle plan as the tides of war progressed had could pass her brains impregnable defense. Everything she did was for an exact reason and would set her up for her next series of attacks and defense if needed. If she wasn’t going to rely on subterfuge this time she was going to press the knight with a reign of arrows unlike any other she had seen before. If Hrothgar’s shamans and mages didn’t make the sky black with their magic, Ulfhild would.
The attacks seemed to connect, but as she deduced from the cauterized hole through her brother, she was favored by the gift as well, not just that but classically trained in it. She would pay her the respects that were due, especially since she healed the damage that Ulfhild imparted. More arrows whizzed out from her bow, but with no augmentations. Instead they had little bottles attached behind the arrowhead. Had she knocked the arrows away or destroyed them, the bottles would shatter and scatter spores all around her. In the interim however, she had super heated the next line of arrows she had knocked on her bow and shot down at the Knights feet as she circled around at a distance.
Unlike Eleanor the floor was static and yielded nor dodged from a firefight. The schism between soil and sand made it a perfect opportunity to displace Eleanor’s footing. Once struck sand turned to crystal, one misstep and the earth would crack and slip. She readied more arrows. Palming less than a dozen arrows left, the rest were in her boat.
Eleanor had decided that to remain a moving target for an archer was folly. Gathering energy from waves, arrows, and other forces alike, she leapt into the sky, cleanly evading the hailstorm of projectiles and drawing from the Force that pulled her down to keep herself in the air. She landed mere feet from Ulfhild, eyes afire with magic. Her hammer swung in a horizontal arc for the ranger's head.
Fast, she was incredibly fast. Normally launching oneself in the air left you exposed, but just as quickly as she was in the air she was back to the ground, mere meters away from Ulfhild. Her massive hammer swung at her head hoping to lop it off and make that two Ulven’s with no head to accompany them in the next life. Every cell in her body had been screaming and alerted when her ears picked up the sound of the hammer whirling through the air. Ulfhild yanked her head back narrowly missing the kiss of death. Her unoccupied hand threw up a few vials from her pouch that followed the path of the hammer. Arcane magic exploded the bottles causing an eruption of fire hoping to stick to and engulf the knight, while Ulfhild drew some distance from them once more.
The flames boiled away and smoke faded, but the Queen was already bursting through them like some kind of demon from those old sagas of the Heksebog, the head of her massive war hammer glowing orange-hot. She closed the distance with inhuman speed and thrust forward with her shield, ready to bring her weapon arcing down on Ulfhild.
What were they feeding their soldiers? Ulfhild thought or tried to at least with what felt like a ferocious lion bursting through the smoke. Her arms went up in attempt at some defense, but the shield proved to be a weapon in its own right. Dazed and with little time to react she used the momentum of the shield blow to push her back to avoid the hammer. One hand pulled, taking the arrows she fired just before that missed, to curved their path back unto the back of the knight. While she flew back she created an illusion a few inches in front of her that would recover just a bit after Ulfhild actually recovered to serve as a guise so she could attack again.
The ranger recovered with almost abnormal speed. Usually, a smash like that would've broken bones and sent its victim sprawling. Instead, the Queen's Hammer tore a massive, smoking gouge out of the ground.
She overbalanced.
She overbalanced badly enough that she did not recover on time. Arrows came whistling back at her and she was not able to avoid them all. One skipped off of her shield and embedded its tip in her armour, drawing a stinging sensation and a trickle of blood. "Enough!" the Queen howled, reaching out with a fist of pure Force to grab this stubborn heathen with.
Whatever favor she gained from her gods was shining down upon her. She made easy work of her brothers and every Eskandr before them. Ulfhild, not untouched, still stood tall in the face of her enemy. Perhaps the gods would prevail over Eleanor’s. The force hand missed, but Ulfhild took the opportunity to run alongside the hand and throw out large clumps of sand she had picked up from her earlier dodge. With a snap of the fingers the sand clumps turned into a shower of small crystals as if it was hailing. Light refracted from one crystal to another until they form a type of birdcage of light around the Queen hoping to blind her better than her original entry into the fight. She shot 6 arrows all together right on top of each other to form a more concentrated and potent attack to move past these small victories. 2 arrows remained perched in her quiver.
She was fighting stupidly. This ranger was smart, quick, and slippery. Her tenacity had gotten to Eleanor, on some level, but also her humanity. This was another human being - a woman of an age as her - lovingly crafted in the hands of Aun-Oraphe, though she was as yet deaf and blind to the goddess' calling. They were here fighting, and one might very well die while, in another life, they may have been friends or peers. Another inventive attack aimed to blind her, but the Queen was growing wise to these types of tricks, by now. Drawing the light from the blinding arrows and grabbing the others with Force, she turned them on the archer and they sped at their target. Some energy, she kept behind, however, waiting for the right moment to use it.
Already an object in motion she found no force looking to stop her, this was to her disadvantage. Arrows she had directed at Eleanor had been wrought back onto her. Able to control the temperature of the arrows she extinguished the flames but was pierced in a few spots on her body, luckily nothing vital. Arrows were always a nuisance to get out. She dropped her bow and broke several of the arrows off of her leaving the meat of the arrow still inside of her. With a thunderous roar she uncharacteristically charged at the Queen attempting to propel herself off the the shield towards her brothers direction while throwing a superheated blade from her waste with a sprinkle of force.
The arrows struck true and part of Eleanor exulted while another part winced. "Why won't you retreat!?" she demanded, stalking forward. The ranger was breaking them off as she spoke. "You are beaten. I know that your gods mean much to you, but can you not see now that they are stories while the power, the purpose, and the *mercy* of the Pentad that fill me are very real!"
Ulfhild was already flying at her, though, and her blade, superheated, on its own. Feeling the deep, comforting power of Oraphe-Sept coursing through her, Eleanor breathed and called the energy from the weapon until it clattered to the ground at her feet. She placed her boot on it and, when the Eskandr had nearly reached her, pivoted deftly instead of blocking with her shield. This is why you shouldn't fight in close, ranger. Able to pick her shot, she slammed the semi-sharpened butt of her hammer into the woman's abdomen with extreme force and could feel things inside give way. The Eskandr crumpled to the ground and Eleanor loomed over her, hammer ready to strike if need be. "I will not judge you if you yield and nobody will know. You do not need to throw your life away. If your Gods demand it, then they are unjust." Her voice began forceful enough, but the last part was nearly a plea.
Like a tranquilized bear, the more wounds she sustained the less her alchemical mixtures could fend off the damage. Her gods weren’t merely a story, else wise they would not have the gift on their ‘heathen’ side. Perhaps Ulfhild was not meant to fell the Queen by her own sword despite not even realizing she was the queen. The connection of the hammer to her body shook her with a debilitating shockwave that crashed harder than any of the ones she rode in on. Her body felt like it had been stabbed with static electricity and she could see her bones rattling. She was right, close quarters combat was left to better warriors, she had just wanted to retriever her brothers axes as a way to attempt her own final blow, but her gods luck ran out.
Blood splattered across the ground. “I can’t retreat, you killed my brothers” she gurgled with another retching of blood exiting her mouth. An eye full of bitterness peaked out from behind her sopping wet hair, propping herself up on an elbow. “The gods will know…and I will know. Is your god never unjust?”
Eleanor took a step back, then, expression shifting. Her brothers. No wonder some ranger came at me like a mountain lion. "Then I grieve for their loss, truly, but know that I gave them the same opportunity as I now give you. They made their choice. They... died bravely, I suppose you would think." She shook her head, pained, the rain pelting off of her armour, wisps of steam rising around her and a light of the Arcane glowing dimly at her back as if in aura. "Why is it that you Eskandr cannot live in peace!?" She demanded. "Why do you invade our lands and kill our people? Why do you not allow the light of the Pentad into you lives?" she pleaded. "I do not understand it. Their ways are mysterious, truly, but they are never unjust. I believe that with all of my heart and soul."
What solace she was offered she had begrudgingly taken. It was a peace to her and her gods knowing her brothers died with honor. It wasn’t that Ulfhild wanted to die, she still had felt she had much left to do in this world, but if she were to meet her fate right now at least it was to some indomitable soul such as this. The touch of precipitation almost felt as if her gods or that of Eleanor’s faith was weeping in the face of this decision. “We do live in peace, but we cannot know peace with your kind until the debts are settled and you treat us more than just animals.” Ulfhild would be lying if she were to defend the merciless killing of civilians, but the chance of religious conversion and amnesty could be a possibility, just not in her lifetime. “That same light will only lead to darkness around everything I’ve known. I would no longer be accepted by either country, you know that well. Just show me your sympathies by killing me. One less heathen blessed with the gift.”
"So be it then, unnamed warrior. Would that we had met not as enemies." Had Eleanor not shown mercy? Had she not treated this one as more than an 'animal'? She did not know how deep the cultural wounds lay. In any case, the two of them had drifted some ways from the battle, fighting as they had on the slopes that became cliffs a short way to the south. "Know that the one who bested you this day was Eleanor de Perpignan, Queen of the Parrench. May you go to your gods well." With that, she swung her mighty weapon and, after a moment of blazing pain, the Eskandr knew only darkness.
For a moment, the Queen stood there in the rain, her armour battered and dented, her hair singed, and her cloak drenched and dirtied. It was all so senseless, war. All so brutal. The ranger slept before her. Eleanor had delivered only a knockout blow, not possessed of the heart to finish her off. Perhaps she might accept it, in time. Even if the woman did not, the Queen could not bear to strip a single family of three sons and daughters in the span of some fifteen minutes. She pressed her eyelids shut for a moment and breathed. Then, knowing her duty, she opened them and walked away.
Winner: Eleanor de Perpignan
Eleanor meets the brothers ulven on the field. Brothers wound Eleanor slight but at the cost of both their lives.
Ulfhild witnesses her brothers demise and diverts from her path of conquest with her troop.
Ulfhild valiantly fights the Queen and forces her hand
Ulfhild’s luck runs out and is spared by the virtuous Queen, not before sharing her name and title
Ulfhild is maimed and unconscious, weapons scattered.
Location: The Witch Woods Mentions/Interaction: Otios'yyia'thala @Fetzen, Lyen'Ivhere'Zulc @Tackytaff, Vali, Twice Born, @Wolfieh Horik the Gold, and Talit'yrash'osmax @Force and Fury
As Kol stepped through the fires he had created, he began to feel his skin prickle as heat began to surround him. He followed the younger men who threw themselves into war as if they had no fear of death. They threw away worries, no longer do they resemble men. Men have responsibilities, people they would need to take care of, loved ones who would miss them. Those Kol had sent forward with his gifts roared like beasts, hunted like dogs, killed like wolves, and died like cattle. Yet as Kol passed their bodies, they seemed to have passed in peace, Kol gave each man a final rite, a pray and snap of his fingers, as fire consumes them. Kol walked from each fire, his helmet covered his face, as his eyes flickered with his emotions, as he lowered himself readying to leap, an old dog was stretching his legs.
Kol threw himself far into the sky, using the energy that he was taking in from the rain, the heat from the fires his people create, and the rage he feels from feeling the sparks of the men who follow him become snuffed. As he flew multiple mages poked their head out of their hiding spots in hopes to take an easy target down, yet as magic flew to kill Kol, he struck out with greater force. As spikes flew, he threw out fire to burn it. As energy searched to touch him, he dodged and crushed the area with a kinetic push, and as fire flew, he put out fires of greater power.
He crushed everything in his wake, trees, men, the very earth itself. Kol made great infernos that became funeral pyres for those who followed him, and hell itself grabbed them to take them to their working hell. There they can work to make the north even warmer, like Kol was doing now. As Kol stretched his legs, he flew from battle to battle, smashing into enemies and routing them from their position, he made his men feel invincible, and the enemy as if they were a child to a monster. Kol was not here for games, he couldn't talk to these people, he couldn't try and do his usual business, not here. No, this was the beginning of war. A war to determine who was to be written down in history. Many understood this in different ways, so many fought and stayed their course.
As Kol crushed many under boot and fist, he felt a presence, he reached out with his hawk vision and felt the energy of a very powerful essence mage being pressured by 2 larger mages. As he threw himself to the air again, he waited high in the tree and looked down, as there he saw one of his finest, Horik the Gold, fighting 2 Yasoi. Yet upon his retreat, Horik looked up and their eyes met, as that was when a silent trap was set. Kol pulled in energy slowly as he waited for the opportune moment as the female Yasoi, Lyen'Ivhere'Zulc, launched her attack, Kol threw himself with great force down onto the Yasoi to crush her where she stood. As he blasted through the Yasoi's puny shied as if it were nothing, his teeth gritted as he prepared for impact, yet just as he is about to crush her, he felt energy reach out and a barrier of force energy comes out of seemingly nowhere and hits him like a stone wall, stopping the Eskandr king and dazing him momentarily. Kol shook his head to clear it and shouts a curse and a roar, "Hel!!".
As he got up he sensed a fast-motion moving object coming at him, yet it felt familiar, Kol lowered his body as he made an area for the familiar 'object' to use him as a ramp to launch themselves off of him. As the moment Kol felt impact, he shifted his body to roll with the object, as once he turned he saw Horik flying into the enemies, yet he ran straight into the male Yasoi's lightning trap, Otios'yyia'thala, as Horik was sent reeling, the woman tried to take Horik out, yet found out Horik was not one to lose his senses to pain. As he parried her blade away and sunk his axe into her shoulder, Kol used this moment of desperation the other tree child was probably feeling to make him act rash. As Kol rushed the now downed woman, he made himself look like he was to end her, yet he pivoted and leaped as he intended to put his energy into the fall like a falling star onto him. Yet the man seemed calm enough to stop such an attack as felt his very armour turned against him. Slowing in midair, his dropkick misses the Yasoi and he finds himself feeling unusually warm - enough to cause a growing discomfort, yet this strange occurrence wasn't enough to deter him from his fighting. The moment he landed his eyes locked to Otios as he took in the heat energy within him and cooled himself down as he took in more energy from the surrounding areas and focused it into his mouth as his vision hazed near completely as he imagined Wyverns far larger than any man, any home, any fort, as a glimpse of an even darker and larger beast lurked for a moment. A flash of red filled Kol's eyes as he roared out in pure anger fire and brimstone to consume Otios in the rage of Wyverns.
As the fire left his mouth and subsequently his helmet, a fire ripped its way through the maybe 20-foot distance that was made between Kol and his intended target, yet as if a mosquito who would not leave, Kol's dancing partner arrived. As the Spider had appeared and launched a wind tunnel of air to send the fire back at Kol, yet he continued to draw in energy and pour it out to counteract such a thing. In the end, the sheer force of the Eskandr's attack is too much to turn against him, but Tali is able to mostly negate it and a towering funnel of flame momentarily rips through the forest. Otios is saved from the worst. Singed but otherwise functional, he survives the apocalyptic-looking attack to fight another day. Kol stood in the wake of his destruction in silence looking at his foe, a thought crossed his mind, yet was instantly quelled as she launched her attack towards him. A whirling funnel of water and splinters turns to steel and intends to grind him to nothing, yet Kol was not a man to be taken down by such half-hearted attacks. As before he threw himself to the spell he roared out to Horik, "Major on me!", trying to get Horik to assist with the takedown of a major power player in this war. The moment Kol felt the storm of steel hit his armor, he drew energy from the many millions of impacts that could rend steel to Razor-sharp shards pinging and popping off of his helm and armor until he used the energy within to create a massive push of Force to dissipate the death tornado.
As he rushed forward, Kol noticed Horik follow his lead as he sent out thousands of projectiles and blackened splinters, to shower the area. The attack is so quick that it catches the younger Yasoi woman off-guard but, the moment that stray sliver draws blood, she hammers it away with a colossal force push. Kol was not expecting such a thing, he was preparing for a small and accurate defense, yet it seemed she threw something of a tantrum as she released a great amount of her energy in a Force push to send everything away, friend, foe, and projectiles alike. As when Kol landed, he landed on his back as he noticed one of the injured Yasoi rises from her prone position to take his head. Yet her hands seemed shaky from her injuries, it would take more than this half-hearted attempt at life to take his life. As Kol batted away the blade coming for his throat, he drew in energy as he roared out in frustration, "Enough!!". As he let out force energy in a thunderous roar projecting it as a wave surrounding him. As the woman leaped away just in time to only get pushed away from him rather than taking the brunt of the force.
Yet as he rose, he saw what he feared would occur, as Kol found Horik had left himself open to a brutal charge from the tallest Yasoi. His massive war horse bears down upon Horik and tramples the Eskandr, who screams as one of his legs, an arm, and two of his ribs are crushed. Kol took in the energy he gathered and launched himself into the horse to shove it aside just enough to stop Otios from immediately wheeling around to deliver a coup de grace. The horseman is relentless, however. Kol could not stop the Horseman this time as he strikes out with a powered spear of lightning and it struck true. Yet before anger could overtake Kol, he felt Horik's energy raise, as he spoke words: "Brother!" he shouts, voice rough and cracking. "I ride to Gronhalle! The Valkyr! I can see them brother!" They are galloping towards him on their winged steeds. His spirit is leaving his body, but his king is in danger. For a moment, he thinks of what a shame it is that any of the fine warriors here have to leave life's adventures behind. Then, he has one more thing to do. He forces his soul to stay for a moment longer. The valkyr beckon. He draws every bit of energy that he can, without pain or restraint. Kol will know what it means. Kol will know to clear the area. "Father! Mother! Sister! Brother! I leave now, for the Visitor's table! Witness me!!!" All of the Essence: he unleashes it all. Kol drew in all the energy from the fires he had created and launched himself high, and then used the same energy to launch him then far, he could hear his subject's last words ring through his ears.
Kol landed and turned to where he knew the explosion would occur and did the one thing he could do to honor his subject's last act. As Kol used the energy he stored from his landing, he dumped the rest of it into the body of Horik the Gold. The moment upon explosion, Kol gave a quick word as the battlefield shook and rocked, "And may we see each other again". Kol stood there for a time just basking in the rain as he felt a calmness come over him, war. His energy flared as he pulled in every ounce of energy he could, he could not waste more time, play time was over.
Kol heard a familiar voice call to him, Vali, as he called for them to enter the fight once more, together this time. Kol nodded as he began walking towards the forest once more. "Let's", was the only thing that left his mouth, his voice almost reverberated, as heat and steam seemed to emanate from where the rain fell on him, and where his feet were. Kol, Deaths Hand was finally awake.
”Come on Misha, we need to go faster!” “Who is shouting at who now you oaf!?” Gerard’s apprentices witnessed their master’s defeat from afar and sallied out in hopes of rescuing him. Misha had floated them along with two horses over a narrow bend in the river, and now the pair were riding in a straight line towards the site of battle. The female Rezaindian’s force magic had no ill effect on their steeds, for the war horses of Parrence were well bred indeed.
Tristan and Misha charged along the riverbank, managing to avoid the bulk of the fighting as they searched for Gerard along the flank. Any who sought to impede the two’s way found their weapons striking air, as their force driven stallions were simply too swift.
”I see him! Slow us down!” Tristan pointed towards the unconscious Gerard, who lay unmoving on the shoreline. He was not alone. Four soldiers battled closeby, and by the looks of things it was three versus one. Despite the odds, the trio of warriors were getting torn to pieces by the lone woman. By the time the acolytes arrived at the side of their fallen master, the Eskandr huntress was already sucking the life out of her defeated enemy. The sight did not go unnoticed by Tristan, who unsheathed his sword while Misha loaded Gerard onto an oddly calm horse that had been waiting conveniently close by.
”Go ahead of me Misha! That man requires aid!” The priest cried out and sent his horse into a gallop, heading straight towards the embattled Parrench knight.
“Tristan, don’t!” The girl’s warning fell on deaf ears. He was already being flung off his horse by a powerful shockwave, and he would have surely fallen into the river like their master if Misha had not caught him with her telekinesis. Before she met the same fate, the lady Rezaindian beat a hasty retreat with the strangely abandoned steed close behind, which now carried her battered companions on its back. She didn’t stop until they were safely behind the Parrench defenses once again.
The shockwaves of Horik's final explosion tore across the Witch Wood, burning and toppling trees, consuming the slow and the wounded, blinding and deafening others. As fire rolled into smoke and smoke cleared, they stumbled around dully in the aftermath, skin peeling, ears ringing, eyes bleary. Among them were three yasoi: Otios, Talit, and Lyen, who knelt towards the edge of the scorched ground, healing themselves with the blood magic of the Gift. Still, lay the forest around them: still and oddly silent. A persistent rain fell and thunder rumbled in the clouds, but the sounds of open combat had fallen precipitously away.
In the trees and on the patches of dry ground, the yasoi allies of Parrence and elements of that new nation's Grand Armee exulted in their triumph. That the latter had overcommitted to the battle north of the town was perhaps clear, but they had achieved what they'd set out to do, or so they believed...
Kol, Death's Hand_________ __ __ _ _
Sometimes, the Gods demanded sacrifice before one passed through the great doors of Gronhalle, and they had demanded much of the Eskandr who had ventured into the Witch Wood. That they had been decimated was a certainty, now. The Parrench and their yasoi allies were even now gloating and glorying in their apparent victory. Yet the first of the raid's two purposes had been served. An inordinate number of Parrench forces had committed themselves north of the city and, by doing so, left the beach that much less defended.
With what forces they had left, Kol and Vali, who had yet survived everything that yasoi and Parrench alike had thrown at them, now abandoned conventional tactical wisdom and raced across the open fields towards the Northwest Gate. On the way, they passed burning windmills and ruined farmsteads. The former whirling madly in the wind, their arms smoldering, phantasmal, against the dark sky, leaving sparks and black smoke to swirl away in the wind.
The brave warriors of this much-reduced force had seen the massive beam of red light that had leapt into the sky and heeded it. All of their forces were ashore, but the king of kings had judged that an absolute victory was now in doubt and that the bold plan they had conceived of the week before was to be put into action. It fell to them to go straight at the less-defended gate and hammer it hard enough to make the Parrench panic. Meanwhile, Sweyn would strike with his lightning at the cathedral where many civilians would be sheltering, Thorunn would make for the Parrench camps, via trickery if needed, and set them alight. Hrothgar would gather the troops into a wedge to break through at all costs.
The Nashorn would be used.
Many were those who shuddered to think of that. The truth, however, was that, should this attack fail, the offensive itself would fail and the Eskandr might yet be hurled back into the sea. So it was that Kol, Vali, and the elite warriors and rangers remaining from the force that had scaled the cliffs and assaulted the Witch Wood had a purpose now, part of a larger plan: assault the gate, force the enemy to panic, force them to withdraw to the city so that the Eskandr might yet win the day.
Under the Walls_________ __ __ _ _
Every Eskandr who was going to land had landed. Now it was simply a case of army against army, champion against champion. There were none greater than the two kings themselves, or so history would later record. Arcel the Blessed of Parrence and Hrothgar the Black of Eskand stood under the walls of Relouse and sized each other up.
Arcel stood for but a moment, Sanguinaire incandescent in his left hand, steam hissing and rising off of it from the violent clash of heat and water. "Get your filthy hide off of Parrench soil, heathen. Your foul tricks are as nothing before the power of Shune's Light!" He pointed the legendary sword at Hrothgar, the air around him crackling with arcane energy, and advanced. "Fight me!" he bellowed.
Hrothgar's glare fixed upon the young king and his lips formed a thin line. Wordlessly, he drew a dozen longships to splinters and stalked forward, the very fabric of reality seeming to roil and warp as he moved.
So focused was Arcel on his adversary that he did not notice the blur that hurtled at him from the side until there was no time left to dodge it. Something plowed into Arcel with unbelievable force, so much so that there was flash and it continued unimpeded in the slightest.
Hrothgar's energy instead went into a massive red beam that pierced the very clouds far above, visible for many miles distant. Then, the Parrench king was behind him, materializing as if out of thin air. Sanguinaire slashed for his head and only a massive, rapid drawing of Force from it was able to stall the murderous swing enough for the Eskandr to dodge.
Meanwhile, the blur that had looked to have hammered Arcel from existence moments ago spent its energy instead on the shield wall of his soldiers, resolving itself into an unusually large and heavily-armoured man as it smashed through. Only, it was... not so much a man as an animal in the shape of one.
The giant let loose an inarticulate howl and everyone with even the slightest notion of The Gift could feel a massive intake of Force energy. His colossal, rounded helm with its great, sharpened horn, his massive pauldrons, hulking breastplate, and brutal greaves, boots, and gauntlets clanked and groaned with the sheer power of it.
Arcel paid him little heed. Hrothgar was trying to hit him with lightning but, once again, the Parrench king simply disappeared and reappeared quite far away. A wide, flat beam of brilliant blue-white light leapt from Sanguinaire, slicing at an angle through his adversary and the ground behind him.
With a grin, Hrothgar dematerialized and appeared some ways to the left, unleashing a pummeling burst of Force magic that pounded into Arcel and caused him to stagger back even as he absorbed most of it.
The giant Eskandr who had intruded on their battle was not finished, however. Putting the energy he'd gathered to use, he plowed back through the battle lines, decimating further Parrench fighters in addition to a few from his own side who were slow to remove themselves from his path. He came to a stop, smashing down a tree that had sprouted on the beach mere hours ago and shaking his head as if to clear it. The brute raised his arms, broken chains dangling from the manacles about his wrists, and continued to run rampant about the battlefield at extreme speed, plowing into people and objects alike, seemingly at random.
The brave men and women of Parrence surged forward to try to plug the gap in their lines, but the Eskandr formed themselves into an enormous human arrowpoint and rushed through. So busy was Arcel fighting against Hrothgar that there was little he could do. The elder king found himself hard-pressed to ward off his younger adversary's rapid-fire attacks.
The defenders of Relouse had also met with success, closing their lines, but a group of their enemies had already mushroomed through the opening. Instead of trying to attack them from behind, however, some of these gathered their Force energy and leapt, in a tightly packed group, onto the battlements near the Harbour Gate, aiming to wreak havoc. Others continued on, making a break for the Grand Armee's camp and the infirmary.
Thorunn Silverhair_________ __ __ _ _
Near the head of this group, by design, was Thorunn Silverhair, Princess of Hegelich and third among the Æresvaktr. Still, despite her healing, her side burned with discomfort where that Laughing Knight had speared her with his lance of light. Still, despite how easily she had killed many Parrench, she could hear his mockery: his hooting, hollering laughter. She had a job to do, though. She had targets. The battle would hinge on this and it would be good to have something to take her anger out upon. She made for the camp and the infirmary, already drawing all of the energy that she could and racing ahead of the others.
Up ahead lay a small river and a series of tents beyond it. Thorunn did not bother with the bridges, where she might be easily intercepted. Spending a small portion of Force energy, she pushed off and leapt clear to the other side. The fox is among the hens now, she thought, with a wicked grin. Soldiers were closing on her already. She breathed fire at their faces and watched them writhe and scream like human torches. Stalking through the camp, she drew so great an amount of energy it was as if the rain itself was not even falling around where she stood. Then, with a gleeful and girlish laugh, she unleashed, and things began to burn.
The Nashorn and the Laughing Knight_________ __ __ _ _
The great beast of a man who had smashed the Parrench lines was known as The Nashorn, and this human rhinoceros was far from finished in his work. He charged about the battlefield, glorying in his strength and brutalizing all who tried to stand up to him. Lightning, he outran, Force and Arcane, he absorbed. Chemical only seemed to increase his fury. Nobody could get a fix on him for any sort of Blood drawing.
Then, a knight in colourful armour appeared to his side and, by the time that the Nashorn had committed to swatting him out of the way, he was at the giant's other side and... all around him... laughing. "Too slow, big guy!" he taunted, "too stupid!" The Eskandr responded with a shockwave that left a crater in the ground around him, but the Laughing Knight absorbed the portion of the unfocused attack which would've harmed him and thrust a stiletto into the armour gap under the Nashorn's armpit.
For his efforts, he was flung away like so much scrap, but he rolled and landed in a crouch, his massive opponent barreling after him. A blinding flash of light made the beast stumble, and then the laughing knight was gone. "Hoohoohoo!" echoed his voice. "Hahaha! So weak!" he taunted, "so predictable!"
The Nashorn continued to charge after him, being drawn ever further from the battle, for as long as Sir Rodric Danneman of Lindermetz could occupy him.
Sweyn Thunderspear_________ __ __ _ _
Yet, while some shifted away from the battle, others moved towards it. The Parrench found their northwest gates under attack and their camp burning as Thorunn Silverhair and a handful of her elite warriors of Hegelich moved through it. On the beach, their forces were still trying to recover the ground they'd had to give in order to plug the gap in their lines. Their backs were now against the river as forces came trickling in from the direction of the Witch Wood to reinforce them. These, however, had to fight their way through the Eskandr first and, for all the attempts of the knights to rally them to charge as one, they continued to crash, piecemeal, against the Eskandr shield walls and be spent. If Arcel had Hrothgar personally on the back foot, the Eskandr king of kings seeming to be in a desperate fight for his life, one sensed that it was only a ploy to lure the younger man into a dastardly trap.
All throughout the battle, as the weather had turned foul and a storm raged, Eskandr shamans, warlocks, and druids had been drawing from its power, unleashing massive lightning attacks that blasted, burned, and spidered across the forces and fortifications of their enemies. Unbeknownst to most of the Parrench, however, was that the majority of this fury from the sky had come by the hands of one man, first among the Æresvaktr: Sweyn Thunderspear.
Levitating through the air, it snapped and hummed about him as he neared the walled town from his hiding place along the cliffs. With a resigned sense of duty, he felt the energies of the thousands who dwelt within and, before long, had seized upon a large cluster that could only be a thousand or more souls huddled in one of those Quentic temples. Mother, forgive me, thought the aged warlock, but then he drew from the storm, hardened his heart, and continued to draw until he swelled with such power that it demanded to be released. He closed his eyes for a moment, felt for the structure containing those energies, and let loose.
Eleanor de Perpignan_________ __ __ _ _
Eleanor had felt it: dozens of lives snuffed out in an instant, within yards of each other, and she knew that a great wickedness was afoot. Battered and exhausted from a hundred fights - many of which had not been her own - the Queen of the Parrench hefted her shield and hammer and made for where she had felt the impossible surge of energy from. "Echeran empower me," she murmured aloud, "Oraphe keep me," she breathed, stalking forward, drawing on the Force of the rain to propel her body faster, and faster still. "Dami guide me."
The Eskandr were on all sides of Relouse now, wreaking havoc, and it came to her clearly that they could be hurled back into the sea no longer. They city could be spared, though. It could yet stand if all committed themselves to its defense. That included her. That included facing down whatever Thunder-wielding monster was hurling lighting bolts into the roofs and walls where her people waited and prayed. The city could not fall. She would not let it. So help her, Pentad, she would fight to her dying breath and after, were it possible, to protect them.
There, hovering above an open field between two windmills, she came upon him: the legendary warlock known as Sweyn Thunderspear and she was, once again, a twelve-year-old girl along with her father's embassy, watching a demonstration of his unfathomable power. Eleanor took a deep breath, counseling herself that fear would do her no service here, and casting about hopefully for the allies who would give her yet a chance of surviving this encounter. "Sweyn!" she roared, in Avincian that she knew he understood, "This is madness! They are innocents! Have you truly fallen so far!?"
With a tilt of his head, the Thunderspear turned to face her.
Talit'yrash'osmax_________ __ __ _ _
Tali heard them faintly, at first, then ever louder: the horns, three blasts. Then, again, a few seconds later. It was General de Montblaise. He was... calling a retreat to the city. She'd been struggling to keep up with the others on this treacherous ground, enhancing herself regularly with Force energy as the tips of her crutches sunk into the mud.
That sound, however, brought the one-legged woman to a stop. She reached out with her senses, turning on the spot, and she could feel it: Eskandr at the Northwest Gate. They had broken from the Witch Wood and run, using the haze of ambient energy from Horik's final detonation to cover their energies. They were exchanging fire with the defenders, harrying them, and it occurred to her that it was further diversion. It was part of their plan: give the impression of grater numbers and penetration than you actually had. It was not an Eskandr trick, in truth, but a yasoi one. Great-grandfather had taught her and her brother about how it had been used by their people many times throughout history. Talit fidgeted in place for a moment, taking a half-step one way and then casting about. "Those Eskandr!" she shouted, "they're at the gates! They're trying to trick us, make us retreat! We need to get rid of them!" She could not wait to see who came with her and who did not, however. The triple horn blast had already signaled a retreat to the fortified town, and hundreds of yasoi and Parrench would be pouring towards that gate. Her realization had come a minute too late. It was futile. These canny savages had extricated themselves from the nearly closed jaws of defeat and were perhaps headed even for a costly victory: a feat that she was all too familiar with.
Waves of anxiety washed up and down the yasoi's body and she began to run, feeling the wind whoosh past her ears, her hair flutter behind her, lashing at her neck and shoulders. Tali began to gather energy, to prepare herself to fight again. Yet, when she had drawn closer and reached out to sense the Eskandr, she could not find them. It was if they had run, blended in with her allies in some sort of ruse, or simply disappeared...
Summary The battle has reached its seeming climax. Many of the major players have met in combat, with both sides scoring their share of victories. While the Parrench and allies have proven victorious in the Witch Wood, it is but one small part of a larger game/ Their energies temporarily covered by Horik's final blast, Kol and his allies have moved on to press the Parrench elsewhere at Hrothgar's signal. Hard-pressed on the beach, the king of kings has implemented his secret plan, calling in the powerful and nigh-uncontrollable Nashorn and putting a number of his elites into positions where they can have an outsized impact. Thorunn Silverhair ravages the Parrench army camp and infirmary, Kol harries the Northwest Gate, and Sweyn Thunderspear striked inside the walls at the cathedral where over a thousand commonfolk huddle in terror. With Hrothgar personally occupying the most valuable Parrench strategist in the form of Arcel, it has fallen to general de Montblaise to make the calls. Feeling that his forces are being overwhelmed, he has called for a retreat to the city. The Eskandr cannot be prevented from landing but, with a focused defense, it can yet be saved.
1) Thorunn is wreaking havoc in the camp and infirmary. Anybody in that area may stand up to her if they so choose. It is strongly advised not to try to solo her. Any Eskandr or allies may assist her.
2) Sweyn is facing off against Eleanor. She could use some help (so might he).
3) In general, a retreat to the city walls has been called. Have your characters react to it from both sides as it begins. How do they feel?
4) All characters injured in the previous round are considered healed by the end of this one if they recieve any attention. If not, they are at least conscious walking wounded.
5) The Nashorn and the Laughing Knight are engaged. Help the one who's on your side!
6) Help the wounded!
7) A group of Eskandr have leapt the walls. These are elite warriors with the Gift. If you're Parrench or aligned, fight them! If you're Eskandr, join them or aid them!
8) Kol, Vali, and crew are lurking near the Northwest Gate, but they've disappeared from people's senses substantially. What is their plan? What are they up to?
Eskandr 1) Horik the Golden: killed 2) Hrolf Bloodaxe: killed 3) Ulfhild Ulven: wounded 4) Olaf the Aged: wounded
Parrench 1) Armand de Morilles: killed 2) Arnaud the Aheri: wounded 3) Lyen'Ivhere'Zulc: wounded 4) Caelum of Oraphe: wounded 5) Gerard Castello: wounded
Coming soon if needed
1) Sweyn Thunderspear - attacking St. Defrois Cathedral, approached by Queen Eleanor de Perpignan 2) The Nashorn - engaged in combat with Sir Rodric, the Laughing Knight towards the beach 3) Thorunn Silverhair - burning the encampment and infirmary 4) Olaf the Aged - wounded in an inconclusive fight with Arnaud, the Aheri, almost fully healed 5 - PC) Kol, Death's Hand - harassing the West Gate as part of the master plan, suddenly dropped off of the radar 6) Gudrid Fangtooth - unseen this battle 7) Bjørn Coldfist - unseen this battle 8) Horik the Golden - killed in battle against Otios, Lyen, and Talit 9) Brunhilde of Hegelo - unseen this battle 10) Hrolf Bloodaxe - killed in battle against Camille de la Saumarre
KING) Hrothgar the Black - engaged in combat with Arcel de Parrence PC) Vali the Twice-Born - harassing the West Gate as part of the master plan, suddenly dropped off of the radar PC) Ulfhild Ulven - at the far south end of the Beach, wounded and unconscious. To awaken and be healed this round. PC) Hildr the Red - on the beach, involved in the Breakthrough, generally at large.
East of the beach, Osanna found a measure of peace tucked under the protective edge of an overturned wagon. She took a long draw from her waterskin, letting go of the magic hiding her now that she had a physical barrier, and started to draw. There was plenty to draw from—the thunder of the waves, the clash of steel, even the grunting effort of bodies. Arcane was little aid with the sky so dark, but that would only prove to her advantage when Osanna needed to hide again.
She closed her eyes. Here, protected, the battle felt far off, just a roar of noise and movement in the background. In this relative still, she began to pray, her lips moving in silent words to the Death God, words meant for no mortal ears. In her supplication, she found respite from anger and frustration and rest for her body after the exertion of the battle so far.
There was much to be thankful for. Osanna was alive, unharmed, and now, once more filled with what power she could command. It was time to stop playing soldier and start acting like the assassin she had spent her life training to be. The shadows were both her best defense and her weapon of choice. Now, she would use them.
Osanna slipped out of her makeshift shelter and into the night, drawing her cloak around her armor and the hood over her head to hide the glints of metal and skin. She would need to be conservative with what magic she had. The rain-slick forms of bodies still thrashed in bloody effort to the west, but much closer, Osanna watched a beam of light brighten Sir Rodric’s face before hitting his opponent in the chest. The mountain of a man kept his feet, and Rodric, by contrast, looked shaken. Osanna moved in to lend him aid.
Osanna slipped in behind the brute while his back was turned, but some minuscule noise must have given away her approach and without the covering of shadows, he easily repelled her first blow. Deftly, she dropped back, disappearing from sight as a knight charged in from the other side. She reevaluated the opponent, watching closely as he deflected the knight's arrows and sent them flying back towards him. This was not going to be a simple encounter.
“Esheran, empower me,” she whispered, moving around her opponent under the cover of night and magic. With him reeling from Rodric’s attack, she pressed the advantage, raising her sword to pierce through the eye open behind the slit in his helm. She felt no remorse for the death of this man. He would go to Echeran, be judged and kept.
The blade went in, but not as deeply as Osanna had intended, and the Nashorn shoved her away, roaring as she danced back out of harm’s way. Before she could catch her breath, before she could call for the magic to hide her or put some distance between herself and this beast, he attacked. Osanna threw up her sword to block the mighty blow, but it wouldn’t be enough—couldn’t be enough. She closed her eyes, knowing calm in her core, but the blow never came.
When Osanna looked again, the Nashorn’s charge had ended in a black-crystal replica of her that shattered even as she watched, the fragments turning to smoke and then dissolving into so much air. Praise Echeran. She did not stop to taunt the Nashorn but let the night swallow her and danced away while he raged at the spot where she had once been.
Osanna needed a new plan. Her allies were being drawn away by more adversaries, and her technique of slowly weakening a larger opponent through blood loss was not applicable given the Nashorn’s armor. Thank Echeran, she had more than one trick up her sleeve. Instead of going again for a full-on attack, she opened the sealed container of poison darts at her hip and readied herself for a series of glancing blows aimed only at the joints and straps of the juggernaut’s armor. The darts rose like wasps behind her, silent for their lack of wings, and when she directed them at the opening she’d created at his shoulder, he bowled through them as though they were nothing.
Heat crackled along Osanna’s skin, and she was forced to drop her cloak of shadows, drawing frantically for more power from the battle and the waves. There was no time. Osanna was not a strong magic user, but the amount of Thunder that the Nashorn drew left a void in the energy of the night like a hole in the universe. It was the only warning she had before she flung herself away from the resulting blast, landing hard on her belly and pressing close to the damp earth. Wet seeped into the chinks in her armor, and she shivered even as heat scorched the air where she had been standing only moments before, singeing her back and shoulders. She panted for a beat, not entirely sure how it was possible that she was still alive.
There, just barely visible in the light of distant torches, Osanna could see the black of dart fletching against the giant’s shoulder. It worked! Now, to see if she could do it again. With the power she’d drawn, Osanna repeated her last attack against the Nashorn’s opposite shoulder, her last darts rising from her pouch.
T H E N A S H O R N
She had escaped. The Nashorn was beyond words. He howled and charged at her, but there were more of those darts: those accursed darts! She was accurate again too, and the little things were so hard to pick out in the haze of battle and all of its various energies until they hit. His other pauldron fell, and one of the straps holding his helmet on, but he stopped the final dart: the one that would've struck his opposite shoulder. For a moment, without his massive shoulder guards, the behemoth felt... just a little bit smaller, a little bit weaker. He felt - a wave of vertigo assaulted him, and he knew that something was wrong. That dart was poisoned. It had to have been poisoned. As panic set in, he felt for its insidious Essences and tried to smash every single one of them.
The Nashorn pounded away at the poison. He could feel it in his veins, in his muscles, in his head, and he hated it. Slowly, though, he won against it, and let out a roar of fury. He blinked, still not feeling completely his normal self, and began to gather energy for an attack to finish matters. The woman disappeared again before he could unleash his attack, shadow blows snaking out of the night to cut at his head and shoulders. She nicked the strap of his helm, but he lashed out with one manacled arm and kept her at bay.
O S A N N A
Osanna did not quite believe it when the Nashorn's gauntlet closed over her wrist. She was too fast for this—too clever. She did not get caught. With a punctuated shout, she lashed out at him with her free hand, but he grabbed it too, surprisingly fast, and panic finally began to set in, cold and squirming in her chest. The magic hiding her bled away, and she spat in his face, white foam bubbling on the juggernaut helm sitting loosely on his head. "I will not fear you!"
And then, the earth dropped away, the night blurring around her as the Nashorn swung Osanna over his head like a child having a tantrum. Frantically, she summoned Force energy, throwing it gracelessly against the ground to absorb the impact. The second time he slammed her into the earth, she was not fast enough. She heard her bones crack open in her forearm and collarbone before she felt them, and then the pain came like a wave, threatening to drown her senses. Tears streamed from her eyes, adding their moisture to the already muddy earth.
It wasn't over. Osanna screamed as the Nashorn yanked her up from the ground again, jagged bone tearing into flesh and tendon. She was going to die. The ground was rushing up to her, her body empty of power. She found the only thing she regretted was not sending the Nashorn to Echeran before her.
The impact never came. Water rushed up around Osanna, some other fighter's weapon now a cushion to her fall even as it soaked her armor and washed the sweat and dirt from her face in a rough torrent. The Nashorn staggered back, losing his grip, and Osanna was left splayed in the aftermath of the wave.
She was not whole, but she still had one good arm, and her sword had fallen between her and her quarry. A deadly, killing calm settled over her, clearing her head. Osanna would not die today.
And neither would she lose.
Osanna sucked in a breath, drew power, and tensed to spring, dashing across the ground in a head-long sprint. She grabbed her sword from the earth and whipped it up to attack the Nashorn, dancing away when he reached an arm up to block it. She would not be stupid enough to stay within his reach again.
"I hate you! You intruder, you poisoner of peace! I hate everything you stand for and every overpowered fiend like you! I mark you as belonging to the God of Death, heathen, and I will take your life in his name!"
T H E N A S H O R N
The blade clanked off of his armor, but a new caution had wound its way into the giant. He had no armor to cover his shoulders, and most of the rest of it was filled with heavy water that still dripped and trickled from the gaps, exposing clearly where they lay. The woman screamed at him, then, in a language that he did not understand, the same way that many had screamed at him.
The Nashorn did not care. He had been a weapon since he could walk, and it had brought him all that he had, all that he was. He had been 'stupid' in the eyes of all since he had failed to speak as a child. Voices flung at him like weapons were nothing new, and he would break them with deeds instead of further words.
This stinging one was wet: covered in water and holding metal. He pulled from the charges in the air and unleashed them upon her to stop that flapping mouth and those stinging hands.
She was too quick, her small form twisting out of the way like a dancer or a hawk in flight. Laughter burbled from her lips, a sound that carried across the field despite the noise of battle. And she was coming for him again. She was quick, but not quick enough to entirely avoid his blow. The horn gracing the top of his helm scored a deep line across her injured shoulder, and her laughter turned to screams.
For a moment, The Nashorn gloried in his triumph, but then her sword thrust up like a bullet to slip beneath the edge of his helmet and skewer him in the neck. He rolled to the side, and it lanced through his armpit instead. Ligaments and tendons snapped, and he roared in pain. The arm hung limp, and he glowered at her. They were up towards where the cliffs began, now, and there was material enough for something different. Instead of doing the obvious, however, he drew from the sand itself, making blades of it: blades of his own.
He flashed at her, artless but unstoppable, each blow heavy enough to bring death if it landed. She dodged him, nimble as a snake, and lunged forward, taking off his helm with a well-aimed strike. Her eyes widened, and he knew why, knew what she saw. He could see the image of him change in her eyes, from steel giant to soft, boyish man, all blond hair and plump cheeks. He growled, and one of his blades found the flesh of her hip.
The woman gasped and stumbled back, clutching the wound. For once, she did not try to strike him again, only disappeared for a moment, her magic faltering as she stumbled back to the walls, and sharp horn blasts signaled the Parrench retreat. The Nashorn leaned back, glaring at the sky in anger and frustration before forcing himself onward despite more wounds than he had suffered in years. He had not defeated her, but he would still prove his worth that night.
-Osanna engages the Nashorn with allies who are eventually drawn away to fight other battles. -They fight until they’re both barely standing, and the retreat is called. -Osanna heads to the walls with a broken collar bone, broken arm, stab wound to the hip, and plenty of smaller cuts and bruises. -The Nashorn is left without much of his armor, bleeding from a stab wound to the shoulder and several smaller wounds, and without one of his eyes.
It seemed that Sakar had survived the encounter with Horik The Golden, or rather Horik The Dead now, with only minor injuries that did not impeed the horse's ability to keep carrying its rider around at a much quicker pace than the latter could have done on his own. This did not mean that anything was over in the Witchwood though as the other monster whose name Otios did not even know at this point had clearly survived and was now strolling around unseen, something that felt quite discomforting after their initial encounter. Still there was not really anything left for the Yasoi to do here, simply because he himself was not in the best of states anymore and there were no chances left to avoid brutally open encounters as this one and he clearly was not trained for these.
So it was even before the general call to retreat towards the city that Otios was already headed towards a northern gate of Relouse in order to get in before it would be locked down for anyone. He could keep assisting the Parrench' cause from the city walls just as good as in the open field as things were right now, and going all around Relouse in order to seek treatment or to try and treat others in the encampments of the Grande Armee in the east would have been a move way to costly in terms of time.
The Yasoi found it easy to dislike the place's layout once inside. He had never seen Relouse inside out truly before, but hell was this place cramped! Trees simply could not grow as close to each other as one could build houses next to each other, so any traditional Yasoi settlement probably would never become this densily populated as a big human city. Less dense was certainly also less efficient in terms of transport, but the tightly packed neighbourhoods were easy fodder for whatever kind of projectile found its way over the high walls. Once a large scale fire would break out, things would become unbearable pretty soon he thought!
Otios was quick to leave Sakar in the hopefully capable hands of a stable boy so his mount would not be in the way of marching troops or panicking inhabitants of which there clearly were many, but even before his hurry to find someone to at least make a brief inspection of his injuries, the Yasoi's fine ears picked up something very different than screams of agony and yelled orders: the unmistakable sound of an arrow whizzing through the air. In the corner of his view, Otios could see a lightly armed man making a protective move too late and collapsing with the projectile sticking out of his shirt.
Laughter and words sounding amused, but spoken in an unfamiliar language could be heard coming from one of the nearby rooftops, but by the time Otios had identified the problem and sent a thunderbolt towards its source, the Eskandr wall jumpers had already moved away by means of force.
Great! Now they were both outside and inside the city, and it seemed the defenders had either not even noticed yet or were too busy with other things to deal with the intruders! Not really knowing what he should do about it, Otios sprinted towards a nearby house and squeezed through the open door neither caring about what the building really was nor whether his owner would agree to his presence. The streets had just become a lot more dangerous. He sought the staircase and did not stop running upwards until he found himself at a dead in the attic.
Nothing to be heard from the other side of the roof tiles. At least nothing indicating the weight of an adult person walking. Otios felt safe to push out a few of the large tiles himself in order to gain access to the outside. If these Eskandr preferred staying above street level -- which admittedly was a quite preferable strategy given the city was crawling with Parrench forces and nobody had apparently expected such an intrusion to happen --, then he'd have to do the same thing in order to catch them. If only he...
What felt like an infernal gust of wind coming out of nowhere laughed at Otios' attempt to keep the collateral damage to anonymous property minimal and instantly created a hole large enough for him to just walk through standing upright and with arms stretched out. It also sent him rear first onto the wooden attic floor again. So... there was at least one force mage, right ? And he landed on the edge of the newly created hole, greeting the Yasoi with some unintelligible Eskandr gibberish that, unknown to Otios, roughly translated to "Hello there! Trying to play hero ?" The wall-jumping warrior looked at the Yasoi with a pair of piercing blue eyes fully integrated into an elaborate pattern of war paint that momentarily blurred in Otios eyes as he recovered from the impact. Then he drew his sword and jumped into the room, a quick end to the fight only being averted by Otios rolling on the floor, not laughing.
Both silver staffs were quickly in his hands, but this was an attic. Nearly everything here was wood or stone, no wet soil and no time to prepare anything else that would grant him the blessing of being conductive. Otios' view made a quick excursion towards the staircase for any other floor in this house would have been preferable to this one, but it seemed the Eskandr was aware of this fact as well and eager to prevent that from happening. Another small lightning strike was sent on its way towards the Eskandr as the latter rushed in to attack with his bare weapon, but either its wielder had anticipated that from happening or launching another blast while charging in was his standard approach. The air forced the lightning's ionized gas apart, causing it to scorch parts of the wooden beams supporting the ceiling instead of hitting the attacker.
It sometimes was a good thing to be already pretty much with one's back to the wall as the force blast did not manage to topple Otios over a second time either this way, leaving him enough situational awareness to perform a masterpiece of beginner's luck by parrying with his silfer staff. Sort of a successful parry as the Eskandr's blade scraped along the staff's smooth surface and found its way into some of Otios' fingers that weren't shielded by a crossguard just as electricity was brute forced the other way round through the wall-jumper's weapon body. Again... the wooden floor they were standing on was really not suited for this, but it was enough current to at least cause some serious pain and lack of muscle control in the warrior's armed hand.
Otios did not really know if all of the fingers on his right hand were still attached to his body, but he certainly felt the grip around the silver staff there weakening rapidly. Staying close to the walls did appear like a good strategy though as it took away all degrees of freedom necessary for him to be hurled through the room by another blast. As long as the walls themselves were sturdy enough. The Eskandr warrior, still struggling with some irregularities caused in his heartbeat, thought about the same and put it to the test. It took him quite a few moments to prepare the spell, but nothing could have prepared Otios ears for the sudden pain that absolutely outweighed the feeling of fresh bruises on his back as the latter had been slammed against the now buckled wall. He could not hear how all the items around him were sent flying as there was only the monotonous, beeping sound of an acoustic overload having occurred.
The inevitable recoil had sent the Eskandr flying backwards as well though, so now the two opponents found them a room's worth of distance away from each other and the wall-jumper seemed to suffer from a moment of exhaustion, too. That kind of violence had been strenuous, but his seven-and-a-half-foot enemy was bleeding badly from his hand and from his ears a bit, too! What chance could that kind of an untrained Yasoi still have with electricity not having done the job that well so far ? The wall-jumper grinned sadistically.
The floor now was a mess of broken tiles and items that had hung on the wall or been arranged in open crates or barrels. One thing got Otios' attention immediately: A poker! It really wasn't like the Yasoi had any confidence in him wielding that better in a melee than his staffs or a proper weapon, but it was made of solid iron and longer than anything else he had at hand, thereby giving a lot more distance! Otios used his long legs to get his foot onto the poker, dragging it closer to himself so to have an easier time picking up quickly as the Eskandr started moving in for another, non-magical attack.
Otios had to put most of poker's weight into his left hand use the right more for balancing things out on the other end. He knew that he would not be able to main proper control for long, but he also knew that such a large metal item was suitable for some amplification. As the wall-jumper approached with his sword at the ready, the atmospheric gases surrounded the poker were stripped of their electrons. A thin, but violent cloud of plasma formed around the metal as it was mercilessly propelled by Otios' mind and imprisoned in a strong magnetic field surrounded the makeshift weapon. It was like fire, just a lot hotter, denser and somewhat controllable, even if the sharp noises and the aggressive colors coming from it did suggest otherwise. The intense and unshielded light emitted from so many electrons combining with their aroms and being ripped off them again hurt in both his own and the wall-jumper's eyes, but the latter continued his attack anyway.
The poker lacked a crossguard just as much as the silver staffs from before and his enemy's capability to wield such a large weapon was severely impaired as well, so why should a proud Eskandr warrior like him stop now that he had his obviously inexperienced foe already halfway down to the knees ? The fancy whatever-it-was around the poker didn't worry him too much for he was confident in his ability to avoid it -- or to just ram his way through it. It was the latter option the Eskandr tried in his rage, but as Otios' grip around the poker started to give way under the pressure of Eskandr muscle and the blade came closer and closer to his skin, the wall-jumper realized his mistake: Eskandr steel started to melt somewhere between a thousand and two thousand degrees and he had just forced his sword into something far hotter than that! The magnetic fields kept the storm away from the poker running along its center, but not from other metallic intruders.
The Eskandr could see how his continued pressure no longer caused Otios to give way, but for his own blade to start folding inwards towards himself before the major part of it dropped to the floor along with molten slag altogether. Now the wooden floor between their feet was on fire for real, but more importantly the poker, now no longer held back by any opposing force, bounced back and burned through the wall-jumper's neck with ease.
The iron captured from the Eskandr's weapon caused the storm hovering a couple of inches away from Otios' hands to emit even more different colors than before, but as hypnotizing and fascinating as it looked, he could just feel that he had to end it soon. If not for the sake of preserving his magical energy reserves, then for the sake of not burning his eyes who had to look at it continuously. Just as he was about to finally leave the room however before the fire would start to consume it, he noticed a heavy thud behind his back that made the floor beneath his feet vibrate slightly.
"Thoralf! You're alright ?" it came out in a rough voice and a familiar tongue the Yasoi was still only barely able to hear. One of the wall-jumper's colleagues had started to worry about his comrade, yet just as he saw Thoralf decaptated and in the process of burning up, his vision was blinded by a brilliant, unidentified object coming at him. With Otios no longer caring about maintaining containment, the storm exploded and burned the other Eskandr enough for him to lose balance on the severely damaged roof. With a scorchingly hot and heavy poker right behind him, the wall-jumper crashed onto the streets below.
Otios salvaged his silver staffs rushed down the stairs the best he still could. He felt in absolutely no shape to deal with a third wall-jumper, but hopefully that had managed to scare them off -- or at least raise a big red flag towards the defenders so they could deal with the remaining intruders themselves. Also he had seriously failed at preventing any property damage in the end, had he ?
Otios promotes himself to Darth Otios, his mission being to show unwary Eskandr what a makeshift lightsaber might look like. What he'd never admit that easily though is that it is his own, utter incompetence in open melee combat that made such a thing necessary in the first place. Also he might try and seek some serious medical attention now.
Interaction: None 3.1: Siege of Relouse / Why Her?
Camille wasn’t sure where Claude was taking her but she went with it, her mind felt glazed over enough that she passively followed. His arm wrapped around her back, hand pulling her in felt too comfortable for her to leave anyway. Although as the furied lightning behind them faded behind them, thoughts of her friend Armand began to gnaw at the back of her head. What did Claude mean? He was still alive, right? Just left the area when things got bad… but she knew. The pain in Claude’s voice was there. She was stupid to think that her friend was…
Her mind drifted but eventually they had reached a point where Claude stopped and withdrew his hand from her shoulder. Camille absently looked around, settling her eyes on the river headed towards the sea. Her greatsword slipped from her grip, clattering to the ground on the edge of feeling something she didn’t want to. She wanted to ask what happened but she never found the right words and the two stood in silence.
She finally braved a glance at her companion, noticing instantly that he was nursing his hand. The very same hand that had been clinging to her shoulder. His whole hand was charred black, the leather of his glove burned away and the metal of his gauntlet was smelted and fused to the discolored flesh from a strike of great heat.
”Claude! You’re hurt!” Camille cried out, throwing off her helmet as she rushed over. Claude forced a chuckle. ”Heh. Funny story, that. One of those bolts was close enough to arc towards us after impact. I could feel it in my hand, the ricochet.” He huffed, wincing, as Camille wrapped her hands around his hand. ”Gods, the power that wielder is throwing. I deflected what I could but my hand.. Well that’s the result of playing with Thunder magic.” He chuckled, only this one sounded more sincere.
”Dami, please, heal my friend’s hand. Judge him kindly for saving me.” Camille chanted under her breath. She thought of removing the burned metal and healing his skin. The energies Dami bestowed her, quickly ran from her and into Claude’s hand. The metal seemed to burn away while the burned tissue seemed to quickly be replaced by new flesh growing underneath, dissolving away the damaged flesh. It only took a minute but his hand was nearly good as new when she heard Claude speak up again.
”I’m sorry, girl. Armand didn’t make it.”
A lump hung in her throat. She knew what he meant, even before he uttered the words to end any doubt. It wasn’t what he said but hearing his normally chipper voice waver as he passed the news was what made Camille break.
Her eyes welled up with tears, keeping her head down focused on healing her friend. She shouldn’t be crying like this. She had to be tough, inspire others as people often told her. Her role didn’t allow her to be soft. Maybe she might have managed to shake her grief but Claude knew better than to let her. ”It’s okay to cry, Camille.”
From all the time she had known Claude. He never did two things. One, willfully called her by her name and two, he always told her to play up this saintly, above everything attitude. She had to be stoic for the people and inspire them.
Camille whimpered as her lips quivered. Claude reacted immediately, withdrawing his now healed hand and wrapped it up and around the back of Camille’s head, pulling her into a kiss on her forehead before holding her tightly to his chest. She immediately broke down in a wail. Why did she have to be so weak? Maybe if she didn’t have to cry, she might have saved Armand.
Why was she chosen at all when she couldn’t even save people she cared about?
Interaction: None 3.2: Siege of Relouse / Dami’s Answer
Camille wasn’t sure how much time had passed. The sounds of battle and frantic activity persisted all around and yet, she wanted to continue to let herself go in Claude’s tight embrace. Her confliction about it was there but she felt too weak to push away or find her resolve until she was served a reminder of her duty.
”Merde.” She heard Claude utter as heat soon kissed the back of her neck. It was strong enough for her to finally peel her head away from Claude’s chest and look to the source. Fire. A great burst that had ignited the infirmary tents just beyond the river. Tents burned, people were crying out at least those unlucky enough to survive the initial burst. Camille’s heart clenched at the revelation in her head that this was no accident.
No, this was a move made by the Eskandr. A heartless, wretched move to slay the sick and wounded and the very good souls that did their best to preserve their life…
Camille felt her jaw tighten and fingers curl in a low burning frustration. This. All of this was their fault. The war. Her life being stolen. Countless people dead. Armand…
What did they get out of this? She didn’t have the education to understand the answer to that. It wouldn’t make sense but there was one thing that did. Her creed and her role.
”It’s their fault, isn’t it!” Camille spat, her frustration starting to boil over in a rage. She pushed away from Claude, striding over to her greatsword.
Dami, give me strength. All of it! Let me protect your people!
She recited in her head as she picked up her sword. She turned and took a few steps before looking back at the river. She strode forward in a sudden burst of speed. Claude called out from behind. ”Wait now, girl! I don’t–” He started but Camille wouldn’t be around to hear what he said next. Instead she leapt, Dami’s Strength coursing through her muscles as she easily cleared the river. Not missing a stride, she landed and continued in an olympian pace through the torched tents and dying wails of the burned Perrench.
She knew this was caused by someone and she didn’t need to search for long.
There she was. Laughing. An Eskandr who would give no mercy to the sick and dying, would now be given no mercy.
”That’s enough!” She shouted though she doubted the savage could understand her. Her hands curled around the grip of her greatsword. This was clearly going to be no simple matter and nerves churned her stomach with a tinge of regret. She might have started shaking, both in rage and fright standing alone here, if not for the fact that she had a tight grip on her sword.
Now wasn’t the time for regret. Now was the time for bravery. She had the Pentach at her side and there was one prayer she had that wasn’t directly praying for Damii’s intercession. It meant so much more to her. It was focused on the image of the setting sun piercing through to light the banner that had set her on this path. It was everything to her conviction and she would put all of herself behind those words. The sun swept away the darkness of her doubts.
As the image settled in her mind, it ignited her determination and her drive. She was Dami’s instrument and Dami would protect her. It was all she needed.
A golden glow began to emit from Camille’s whole body. It was dull at first, merely a candle’s light. Yet as her mind grew more focused, the light around her began to grow brighter.
”Dami. Be. My. Light.”
She proudly proclaimed her prayer and her golden aura shined like it was barely contained by Camille’s control. It radiated and pulsed like her heart. She became untouchable!
Location: Saint Defrois' Rock Mentions/Interaction: Lyen'Ivhere'Zulc @Tackytaff, Vali, Twice Born @Wolfieh, and Talit'yrash'osmax @Force and Fury
Kol's emotions were worn on his sleeve, as his energy flared and faded, he was controlling his anger the best he could. He moved with Vali and the few rangers they had left to begin the back up they had to this. They needed to move quickly, they had very little time as Horik's last act had bought them time to regroup quickly. And now they moved across the many burned windmills, farms, even along the paths. Kol silently gave thanks to each of his men who completed their tasks, they heeded his wishes, burn as they go, it was guised in the idea of burning the Witch Woods down, yet this was the main objective. Incase all else fails, they would need to use the fires, the energy of the storm, everything to hide. Kol needed it most as his energy has been known to fluctuate in certain patterns that made him very easy to spot.
As Kol and the small force had headed towards the Parrench fortress as he began to observe the enemies. Watching as their energies moved, shifted, Kol understood how they concentrated their forces, and knew where to concentrate their forces to drive them against the wall. As they moved, Kol's energy rose as he focused himself, he spoke few words, he gave orders quickly and told them where and how they will hit the wall. Once they neared the wall, Kol pulled in as much energy as he could, drawing in the ambient heat and fires, the energy as the rain fell, as his mind once more begins to be filled with beasts who rampaged and destroyed all in their path, trees, boulders, walls, men, and all in between.
As Kol was but a moment away from the walls, he charged forward at the wall in a roar, as the moment he made impact he smashed his body against the stone walls. As he shifted and started charging across the wall and ripping it apart, sending stone everywhere. Breaking down sections of the wall, as he made it to the door and smashed himself into it. AS he lights everythign ablaze, making fires, smoke, and just to instill fear into the defenders. A he began to hear the horns sound, Kol knew his mission was done. Men and wood burned, stones fell and pulverized, and they began to sound the horns that they recall the troops.
Kol made his way to Vali to collect him so they could quietly move away. Their work was done, they were needed else where, and they could not fight the army alone. As they moved away from the walls and gates, Kol slowly let out his energy again, almost becoming a stealthy shadow among the waves of those with the Gift. As they moved, Kol and Vali were able to sneak their way to Saint Defrois' Rock and were about to make their next move.
Kol and Vali were preparing to leave the area and meet with their allies and send a final strike through, then Kol felt Vali yank him by his arm. Both he and Vali rolled as rocks began to rain. Vali noticed their assailants instantly as he launched an arrow that seemed to meet the mark as a roar turned to a yell of pain. Kol turned to the yell as the rocks rained onto Kol, Kol took in the energy of the impacts as he moved and noticed the tree dweller. She was the one from before so that means the Spider was near and the moment he felt energy underneath him, he knew she was here. He balled up his legs and shifted his body to ball up and use his armor to take the brunt of the surprise attack.
As the spikes of iron rose, Kol's armor broke the spikes upon impact, as they rose him to the air. As once the last of the energy had been expelled and the spikes rise no more, Kol knew it was time to reach. Kol used force energy to shift himself mid-air as he was multiple meters off the ground and he aimed himself towards them and launched himself towards the weaker of the two tree dwellers, Lyen.
As Kol was about to make impact with the Tree Hugger, once more energy appeared and walled off his attack and sent a chock through him again of energy recoiling to him. He landed and shook his head as he felt someone get close and said something akin to go to sleep. Kol scoffs as he swung his hand at hers as he goes to kick off away from her to go back to a normal stance as he tries to nullify the energy within him and says, "You'll have to try better than that darling". Yet the tree hugger grabs onto him again and this time seems to sink her magic into him, Kol decides it's time to attack, as he swings a fast and furious punch at Lyen's lower chest to either throw her far away from the force, or blow a hole through her. The punch seemed to have knocked the sapling down to the ground, then some few feet away. As She clutched her chest as she fought to regain her breath, unwilling to fall again, Kol looked down to the woman he punched in the gut as he said, "Do you give-". Yet before a response could be said he felt a roar of energy. Kol looked up to the Spider as he stared her down.
She seemed to have pulled from everything: the stone, the rain, the wind, and the thunder. She pulled the heat from the fires and the life from the grass. Then...she casted a beam of pure energy that ripped through the night. He stepped to the side of the fallen Tree dweller and then stood his ground as the beam lurched out to engulf him. Kol brought his hands back as he prepared to grab the lance of light. Once it neared him, he threw his hands out and grabbed onto the lance itself as he absorbed all it energy. As the moment he was to finish he ripped his hands away as if he tore the Lance apart. As he stood his ground and never moved as he said, "If you leave with her now, then the wounds will not get worst". As he pointed at Lyen from a bit away.
It seemed the Spider was not even one to bother responding to him. She looked to her wounded companion and said, "If you wish to leave, sister, you may. I can take care of these two myself." Her gaze returned to Kol, unflinching.
Kol looks to Vali as well, seeing what is to come and says, "Vali, same to you. Flee if you must, this one is mine to dance with". Kols gaze lands back onto Tali's as well, knowing once it is settled, they will launch at each other without restraint.
As the moment Kol saw Vali and the Young Sapling run away Kol began to almost twitch and contort as the energy around him seem to almost grow. Heat was starting to almost leak out of him as he prepared to launch himself at Tali. He spoke out in a voice that almost reverberated and projected further than normal, "Let's Dance".
As Kol began to step forward, he saw the Spider raise her crutch and extend her blade to impossible lengths at Kol, as Kol shifted himself away. Yet it flew a speed far faster than expected and slams into his armor and shifts to his side as it slices into his less armored area. Kol did not react though as right when he was about to leap he felt a rush of pain through his body.
He gritted his teeth as it felt as if his whole body flared up in pain, as he howled and roared. He fell his grip on the very close balance of sanity and madness slip. The cages in his mind were broken, the beasts were free.
Kol dropped low as he launched himself at Tali with such force that the ballista on the coasts would look like they were kids throwing stones into the water. As he aimed to be as low as a boar and aim for her legs and take them out from underneath her.
As he hurtled at her at an impossible speed and she seemed unable to draw all of the momentum from him nor cleanly dodge fast enough. She managed to twist somewhat, at least, to protect her single, essential leg, and his armored shoulder took her instead in the stump. Pain pulsed through the Spider, then, and she knew the tiny bone was broken. Gritting her teeth and biting back a scream, she hopped back, all of the rage, panic, and pain fueling her. "Die, you bastard!!!" She grabs hold of him in a Force grasp, her aim to crush him like a bug.
As Kol slid from his tackle he felt for a moment a pulse of energy surround him as it whipped him up into the air, and squeezed with everything that the girl could muster it felt like the world was trying to crush him. Yet Kol roared against the attack, as he pushed the energy away from him with his very voice. Yet pieces of his dragon armor was beginning to be ripped apart and into weapons to smash into him and pierce into his body. As his bones snapped and organs punctured, he was dying, yet very his rage increased until the point were his roar grew to almost breaking everything. The energy he was producing was able to shatter the walls, melt stone, and It almost dulled the sounds of victory: three blasts on a horn. Then, another three. The immediate call to retreat. Yet it was not for him, it was the Parrench's call to flee.
Kol was dropped as it seemed that his opponent heard the sounds and was to retreat as well. Kol was lost in his rage, the energy he was producing was out of control, as even when he landed he was absorbing the energy of his landing. As he saw the Spider running, he began to stand, and fell. His legs were shattered, pierced, and contorted, yet not even the gods would stop him. Kol looked to them and it seemed he used magic to put them in place, he was not known to be a blood mage, so it must have been the use of force magic. As they flexed and fitted to a placement that would be even usable, Kol roared out with such energy it drowned out the cries of victory and terror. The very ground underneath him shattered, and the sky even rumbled and quaked to his anger. Kol's helmeted head faced forward twitching as it looked to the wall of the city that he saw the Spider had fled to. As he drew all the energy he had and was ready to launch himself at it with such force, that he was unable to contain it within him as it began to seep out to the surrounding area. He was aiming to blow a hole through it where he thinks the enemy would have ran.
Yet before he could launch himself, someone stepped in front of Kol and tried to stop him. Kol looked up to see…
Event: Defense of Relouse |Location: The Bloodied Fields, Parrence.
A battle is a contest of fights, the song struck together by the fury of battle. The instruments of war, the spear, blade and axe ring out along the battlefield. There is one thing binding all within this song, and that is belief, belief that their lives this day serves a higher purpose. May this purpose be the will of the gods, may this purpose be the safety of our loved ones, may this purpose be the bread baking on our hearths. In this carnage, these rivers are blood, our purpose opposes that of our foe, and for that, this is the hill we die upon.
Flashback
Maëlle sits upon the horse as she rides with her father. She races against him up towards the tall hill, despite his concerns for both her and the horse, giggling as she reaches the summit, looking around to the lands below. Parrence. This is the land of her birth, the one her family has lived on for generations since before the times of the great Avincian Empire. Asier follows up after her, laughing like he usually does, “Looks like you are the greatest daughter of Arslan after all”. Maëlle huffs as her father makes one of his Dad jokes again, “Da, the only daughter of Arslan”, he holds his hands up with a smirk, “Well, if your mother is having her way, that isn’t a title you would be holding on for long”, Maëlle looks back in disgust, “Ewww Da…!”. He gives an almighty chuckle at her response, “Wouldn’t it be great to have a little brother or sister?”. She moves herself against him in a sulk, her father isn’t around enough as it is, and the idea of sharing him with others is not something she is too keen about.
Asier softens his smile as he looks out towards the horizon, “Everything the light touches, is Parrence”. Maëlle looks out as she sees the billowing green and yellow fields of the farm lands, the green tips of the woods, the brown mountains which border the region, and a place of darkness in the south, “What about that shadowy place?”. Asier looks out to the lands of the Eskandr, “Those are not our lands, they lie beyond our borders. It is a home to barbaric people who lust for violence and glory in battle, who enslave their fellow man and sacrifice them to their gods. You must never go there, Maëlle.” She looks up to him, the curiosity of a child still with her, “But why don’t you go and drive them out? They won’t be able to stand up to you, Da”. Asier smiles as he ruffles his hand through her hair, the innocence still there with her, “Being brave doesn’t mean you go looking for trouble. It is standing up when you have to”. Maëlle tilts her head to the side as she fails to comprehend the full meaning of the words, “Huh, guess even lions get scared.”
Asier roars with laughter, swotting her across the back of the head, “You have my tongue, no wonder your mother pines for you to travel with me.” She rubs her head, pouting, then returns the embrace of his hug, sinking into the warmth within those arms. "Everything exists together in a delicate balance. If this tips too steeply, the very thing you are fighting for can fall down. You need to understand that balance and respect it. If we over-hunt, we reduce the availability of meat for the next season, the pests they keep in check start to overwhelm our harvest. We need to respect all the creatures, from the singing rolieiro, to the galloping mare. Even the Eskandr exist within the great balance.”
Present
Asier has secured the flanks for King Arcel as he fights with Hrothgar the Chartreuse, the black armour stained by the green fields of Parrence as he defiles the land he walks on. The battle rages on, and any who enter the proximity are easily overwhelmed by the might and fury of the warriors. He casts his glance as he spots the Laughing Knight attempting to retreat from a rhinoceros of a man. He saddles his bow as he grips firmly upon the reins, “So much for not looking for trouble”, he gallops with great speed towards the duelling warriors, watching in disgust as the rhino breaks through the Parrench defenders like a hot knife through butter, his blood lust fixated upon the Laughing Knight as he tramples all those that get between him and his quarry.
Sons and Daughters of Parrence stand up to the brute, laying down their lives, adding their sparks to the great fires of destiny, each sacrifice hoping to turn the tide of the onslaught against their countrymen. Their lives flickering in an instant, their hopes, their dreams, their ambitions, all disappearing into the darkness.
Asier gallops on ever faster as his fingers grip tighter. The knuckles whitening as the blood is drained from them. Destiny cannot play out like this, this cannot be the will of that man, the cruel master of fate.
Flashback
A dark haired yasoi man stands before the stableman, blowing upon his hands and holding them out towards the stables as if warming them upon the raging fire as the horses whinnied in their torment. Thankfully the horses manage to escape as they flee across the great plains away from the burning inferno. A woman cradling a baby huddled behind the stableman, scared and frightened, tears down her face. There have been reports of pillaging in the area, the Tourrare being requested to stay on their guard.
The yasoi man snarls, “… what an abomination of a blood line. Humans are an error of time...”, he kicks over the feeding trough “When I said I wanted a horse, I wasn’t asking”. The stableman has never seen a yasoi before, despite the people's reputation of being wanderers, they tend to keep to the forests rather than be out in the plains. “You have the wrong place, we are stable folk, horsemen, we know of no grievances against the Yasoi here.” The yasoi man’s face grows wide with a grimace, “As it should be. So let’s return to our chat, give your horses, your coin, and some time with your pretty little wife here.” The man licks his lips as he eyes the stableman’s wife up and down with his lustful gaze.
The stableman clutches upon the pitchfork within his hands, “Not even over my dead body.” Yasoi’s eyes light up at the sound of those words, “That can be arranged.” He raises his hand over towards the stableman, the power of the gift concentrates in his fingertips, causing surges of lightning to engulf the stableman in his tracks. The screams of the man's wife Giselle behind him as he feels the electricity flick across his body, scorching in a pattern similar to that of a whip, the wounds splitting and flaying his skin, the only thing between this monster and the people he loves… and would die for.
The stableman squeezes harder upon his pitchfork. In this moment, there is only silence for him, the pain numbing as he looks up into the Yasoi man’s eyes. Those yellow yasoi eyes, they widen with fury as the stableman is still standing, “Die! Your excuse of a bloodline shall be no more”, the humble stableman Asier pushes with everything he has got as he charges and impales the Yasoi vagabond upon the end of the pitchfork. “No… you should be dead…!” the yasoi man cries. As the lightning washed over Asier's body, this awakened his natural affinity with the gift, harnassing this new power as he uses it to drive ever forward, his eyes shining a bright blue. “I shall seize fate by its throat for I am not its prisoner.” The charge builds up at the end of the prongs, drawing all the lightning towards it before they connect, the raw energy causing an explosion, creating a roar like a lion, ripping the Yasoi man in half as the dismembered body flings in opposite directions, the eruption causing Asier to fly backwards.
“Curse you, Arslan (Lion)… curse your entire bloodline… Vyshta shall come for your pound of flesh from this day.”
Flashback
Asier feels the King Arcel’s blade upon his shoulder. Ever since that day, he has left his home, enrolling in the King’s service, training and fighting, becoming a better warrior, a champion for his family, a protector for his daughter. The awareness of his responsibilities and his lack of power were not lost on him. Only by becoming a servant of the King, he may hope he will become able to fulfil these responsibilities.
“Now rise, Baron of Hierbamonte. It is expected that you take a name and a sigil for your house.” Asier stands proud before the king, “Arslan. The name of my house is Arslan. The sigil will be of the Lion for its courage and bravery.”
“Arslan? A Tourrare name. Well then, Ser Arslan. I am expecting great things from you and your people.”
Present
Asier finally approaches the fight, the laughing knight on the backfoot as him and his illusions are swinging their weapons towards the Nashorn as the rhino strikes back in return, smashing through the illusions one by one. Shockwaves from the aftermath of his blows were leaving a path of destruction all around, the rhino was a tough opponent to be sure, a beast of man who ate at least five bowls of oat porridge for his breakfast each morning at least. He cocks two arrows within his bow, aiming to take the beast down a peg as he arms for the back of his knee caps to halt the monster in his tracks.
The arrows freeze in mid-air as the Nashorn turns to peer back towards Asier. Whilst nothing back be seen beneath his mighty helm, it could be nothing but pure malevolence that lies underneath. The arrows were sent back towards the direction of Asier. The arrows are returned at high velocity, impaling the horse rider in the neck and chest as he topples from his horse. Asier counting his nine lives as the illusion falls down just before him, watching over to the disgust of the Nashorn and the quick thinking of the laughing knight. Monster was the understated description for whatever this vile beast is.
Asier has not even crossed metal with such an opponent before, the fact he would have been taken down without the Nashorn even bothering to turn to attack him was a prospect he has never once considered in a battle. He stayed back a moment, working up the courage to strike again as this time his distraction allowed opportunity for the Laughing Knight and the Warrioress to strike at weak points upon the beast. He has never been one to underestimate an opponent, and targeting a distracted opponent in a weak spot was usually a simple task, like spearing a roast hog, though in circumstance, it is an angry hedgehog with 5ft steel spines. He decided to build up speed as he reached down for one of his throwing spears, circling back upon himself with it raised as he charged at full gallop. With the Nashorn taking a couple of deep blows, he should be able to pierce that flesh this time, and he empowers his throw with the force in his attempt to make it ring true...
An arrow is propelled before him at high speed, if it wasn’t for his magnetic aura, it would have struck true, as the shot sails past him, ruining his charge against the Nashorn. Asier uses thunder magic to try to guide it back to the shooter as the Nashorn, enraged, lashes out towards him, as the arrows are redirected back towards him impaling the illusion copy of himself. He has absolutely no chance against the Nashorn, and he is already down to seven lives thanks to the assist from the Laughing Knight. He knows he is clearly outmatched in this battle with his presence having a negative effect, he redirects his attention to the Eskandr archer champion.
Asier watches as the archer is already redirecting the arrows that the Nashorn used to take out the doppelganger as they get recalled back to her quiver, or he would have assumed until he watches her pirouette into the air, unleashing another barrage back towards him, followed by another shot ladened with a payload. He was able to evade the arrows, though the explosive package caught him off-guard as he was almost unsaddled from his horse from the force of it.
Asier was certainly caught on two fronts, the Nashorn with his immovable defence and his unstoppable offence, and the Eskandr archer targeting her new prey with ever increasing ferocity. The archer adapted so quickly to less conventional weaponry, perceiving the magnetic shell, to get through his defences and countering his ability to counterattack became a very real and present danger. He turns his horse towards her, decreasing his profile, as he starts to fire back an arrow of his own, then adopting an evasive pattern with his riding.
The archer goes into cover as slippery as a snake as his shot misses the mark, impaling into an illusion of her making. She responded with further arrows of her own, the iron with a red hue as they were imbued with arcane energy, the tips molten to cause more permanent damage. Thankfully these shots fired wide as he cocks his bow to return fire himself. It is in this moment he had two decisions, either to retreat and cause the archer to move from her position to come towards him, or to make up the difference, and go in for a lunge within melee range. Whilst typical sense would have been to skirmish, this wasn’t the time or place for that, he needed to halt her advance now. He used multiple arrows within his bow as he fired towards her repeatedly in rapid succession. Accuracy was less than desired, but this was not his purpose, he needed her to stay within the same position, suppressive fire, opening her up for his follow up attack. He charged towards her with great haste in an attempt to close the distance as her counterattack failed to make a mark.
Flashback
“Da, what happens when we die?” Maëlle studied the rabbit being cooked before her on the spit as the rich seasoned aroma was making their mouths water. Asier is amazed at the curiosity of children, always coming out with the big questions everyone seems to always take for granted. “If you ask the Eskandr, they say you end up in Valhalla. A place of joy and feasting. In old Avincian before the Pentad, they believed when they die, they are given wings, to live upon the clouds. Across the sea in Severa, there is said to be a people who worship large snake-like creatures…”
Maëlle starts to pout as she looks towards Asier, not being satisfied with any of these ‘if’ answers. “But what really happens?”, she asks again more affirmatively. Asier strokes his beard as he mulls over the answer. “When we die, we join the earth. The earth grows crops, then this rabbit eats the crops, and now we eat this rabbit. It is all connected like a wheel.”. Maëlle nods as she accepts the answer and the food, her fingers becoming sticky with grease.
“Does that mean the rabbit ate grandpa?”.
Present
The Eskandr archer dropped to one knee as Asier charged. He rode towards her to close the distance, the hooves digging into the rich soil as he travelled at high speed. Naturally the champion has met her fair share of knights and isn’t afraid of what is to come. She crouches before him without fear, poised in her position and her bow raised. He raises his own spear as he lines up for the follow-through attack, aiming to impale the archer with his shaft. He comes upon her with great haste, only to find he has missed his target, feeling the arrow pierce through his chest. He looked around, only to notice that the archer had rolled to the side in a burst of speed, taking advantage of his exposed flank to target him. The next moments take time to register the damage, the fatal error he made to an opponent who had already shown strong improvisation skills.
The horse slowed down as it stumbled forward as it walked into the ambush, the trap prepared earlier. The arcane arrows erupted around him, shot after shot impaled into the horse and his body. Espirito whinnied, crying out in torment as it reared up high in its final defiance of death before falling down backwards upon its rider, the one who raised it from a foal.
Asier in that moment could only see red. The fluttering red hair, the warm smile upon Maëlle’s face as she silently shouted “Da!” out towards him, as he crashes into the bloodied mud swamps of the battlefield. Laying there under the body of his trusted steed, “I failed you…”.
Vyshta extracted her pound of flesh that day.
Asier plays the hero, trying to rescue people. Flashbacks to his fantastic daughter and why you should all love her. Flashback to a man of humble beginnings wanting to protect his family. Flashback to said man being knighted by King Arcel, to gain the power to protect his loved ones. Asier fought Vyshta the Nashron and Ulfhild, losing. Flashback to a conversation about death. Asier bleeding out on the battlefield.
Interacting with: Olaf the Aged@Force and Fury & Hildr the Red@Jasbraq Opportunity: Arnaud is now on the beach, having a small heart-attack after killing Olaf. He is completely beat down. Event: Defense of Relouse Location: Near La Plage
Arnaud and Maerec, two soldiers that didn’t shy away from the most gruesome ordeal war could offer, parted ways once the situation was thoroughly established. A retreat was announced, but the decisive battle of kings wasn’t over. And until his Lord was safe or killed, the Royal Executioner had a job to do.
The Parrench King was facing off with the Invader, and the finest of his army were repulsing the wicked beast that sought to aid Hrothgar in his endeavour to win the young Arcel's head. Rodric and Asier were evident to the executioner, both facing off with the beast. The former had dealt a powerful blow and had his guard down long enough to warrant the attention of a certain, inconspicuous female warrior. She didn't look like much from afar, but as Arnaud reached out with the Gift, he could sense something was very, VERY different about this woman. How she moved, how she breathed, how she oozed of a power he could maybe compare to the ways of Dame de la Saumure. He had to intervene.
Just ten meters in front of Hildr, an axe would fall from the heavens and plant itself onto the war-tarnished soil. A warning to not move any closer, as the wielder of the weapon impacted with the ground a mere half-second after, causing sand and dust to rise around both figures. He drew his axe from the ground, and from the simple removal of his axe, he'd send a blast of wind toward Hildr, aiming to repulse her and potentially break her guard.
The mighty gust of wind successfully stopped and propelled Hildr away, although she was ready and easily tanked the hit. Nonetheless, Arnaud's might and use of the Gift was strong enough to send her off and give Rodric a brief moment of respite from a potential flank. Arnaud was ready to keep her at bay, if only to let the Knight have some peace when handling the monster, but the Executioner soon noticed a familiar face. An old- literally- friend of the battlefield: Olaf the Aged. If that man was allowed to run around unchecked, that Nashorn monstrosity would be unstoppable. Arnaud had to act.
Unlike with Hildr, the Aheri didn't immediately open with an attack, but instead slammed the pommel of his weapon, causing a quake he was sure a master of the battlefield like Olaf could recognize. The featureless mask Arnaud wore stared right at the elder. He had retrieved his axe and was back for more. Although this time Arnaud didn't start with mere bullrushing, he reached out with the gift once more and instead manipulated the chemicals in his being to recreate the effects of 'Majini', a drug commonly used by his people. With the right dosage, it endowed one with great strength in the battlefield, although missing the mark would often lead to weaker performance and even potential frenzying.
It was a simple matter to sense so flamboyant an opponent: one who thundered across the battlefield bellowing and slamming like a man twenty years younger. If Olaf still had his youth, he'd have fought Arnaud differently. As it was, he reached out with his magics, seeking the man's muscles, and decided to make some changes. However, upon noticing the perfect and quite foreign cocktail that coursed through the Aheri’s being, Olaf figured a new plan of action: Co-opting the enemy’s strength. The shaman felt the same drug-induced power the executioner experienced.
Both of them knew, as their gazes met, that this would be nothing like they had experienced before. A battle of titans that would rival the destruction brought in by Sweyn, the Nashorn or even Hrothgar himself!
Again, this large man came at him, roaring and thrashing, and again, Olaf made, of him, a toy. Reaching out not into the world but into Arnaud's body, the old shaman sapped the very vitality from his muscles. The brute staggered and dropped: unhurt, but rendered practically helpless. Olaf dashed forward, feeling twenty years younger himself, and began gathering energy for an attack that would down the former king once and for all.
Arnaud, in very much a different state of being- a state he hadn't felt in at least ten years himself- thought first to only attack and rush forward. But, with the Majini coursing through him, he felt as though his reach could go far beyond just his strikes. For now, he was chained down by the very chemicals he manipulated, as his foe was even more talented than he was in that regard. But it didn't mean he couldn't retaliate. Olaf may have replicated the Majini, but he did not understand it, for it was very much foreign to the Eskandr as a whole. Arnaud's goal was to prompt an overdose of sorts, or at the very least strain the elder's body to chain him down too.
Rushing towards his foe, drawing his sword like some young fool, Olaf was nearly caught. He could feel the adrenaline flowing through his veins, overloading them, making his heart work harder than it needed to. It was the big man! He was capable of some subtlety and magic after all, and Olaf had to work hard to counter his efforts. The elder shaman's heart rate slowed. His body returned to equilibrium, and he thought twice about charging in. Instead, he called upon the land itself to swallow Arnaud and bury him.
With the Majini fueling them both, the scale of this battle was massive. The earth that came to swallow the Aheri resembled Sand Wyrm's maw, chomping down everything indiscriminately. Arnaud, kept pinned by Olaf's drugging, could only go on the defensive, enveloping himself with the very same kinetic energy that the bite of this vile earth south to lock onto his being. Stones, sand and other minerals grinded against the Aheri's armour, destroying quite a bit of it, including half of the executioner's helmet. But it wasn't enough to kill him. Arnaud emerged with a grand explosion out of his tomb, axe still in hand and half his dark body exposed for the world to see. Many holes punctured his chest, even his left bicep was pierced by a powerful branch conjured by the shaman, but it did not stop him. Not yet.
"You fight well, old warrior."
He compliments Olaf, light bleeding coming from his chest, and far more would come out of his arm should he remove the branch. He merely broke off a piece to keep the piece of wood small enough to not be a nuisance. Then, with his enhanced physical might, he dashed toward his enemy, eager to give him a worthy rematch. With only one arm, he was for a horizontal slash with his axe!
Olaf is ready when his opponent bursts from the ground, but the speed and ferocity of his charge are nearly too much. Reaching out with the Gift, he takes from the speed of the axe swing and puts that into his own body, leaping aside with the grace of a fox. From his belt, he draws two flasks full of stun spores, and launches them in Arnaud's direction, aiming to blow them up in the enormous man's face. "It is time to sleep, young man," he says simply, as they fly through the air. Arnaud recognized the chemicals involved, by sight and by drawing via essence. He goes for the simplest approach: A second swing, helped by his injured arm. He unleashes a gust of wind to not only repel the light flasks, but blow away the contents too by unleashing a gust of air similar to what he had sent Hildr away with.
Olaf's vials flew truly, propelled by all of the Force Magic that he could muster so that, when Arnaud reached out with the power of the wind to stop them, it momentarily became a contest of magical might. What the elderly shaman could not do with muscle, he could do with the Gift, and he overpowered the winds. He overpowered them and the bottle sailed, not into Arnaud, but past him. They exploded behind his head, their contents caught in the unnatural wind, and Olaf was just good enough to add a swirl to it so that the spores would stick and begin their work. "Soon, you shall sleep!" the Eskandr crowed, "once more, though we shall leave it up to Sister how merciful I will be this time."
Outplayed, and now forced into déjà vu. The hurting Arnaud was not having a good day. Well, maybe better than the majority of the brass. And, in the end, he was facing the greatest foe he could remember. A shame he was in such a sad state from years of inactivity. He felt the familiar fatigue creep in, and he could hold it at bay for a time, given he had been exposed to it before and mastered essence himself, but it wasn't going to stop it.
”Do not speak of Mercy, ”he bellowed, an immense amount of force emitted from his being as he remained standing, ”until you've claimed victory, old warrior!”
He literally attempts to force pull the lanky man before he could touch the ground, forcing the veteran to come to him, rather than Arnaud doing so!
Were his opponent not so fond of talking (a fault that he was occasionally guilty of as well), Olaf would've had no warning. As if it was, he felt himself pulled with incredible force towards the giant. Drawing from the wind, the rain, and the fires that now raged in many of the fields, the master shaman was able to stop himself. He remained just outside of his opponent's reach, staring him in the eyes. They were over the grass now, and Olaf filled it with energies: blood, essence, and kinetic. It sprouted like snakes: each sharp as a blade. He hurled them at Arnaud.
The executioner, staying true to an old namesake of his- The Earthquake- caused the very earth around him to shake and fissure. The enhanced flora was crushed and repulsed, leaving Arnaud safe. They were at a standstill, which ultimately was in Olaf's favour as the poison was going to take its toll, even with Aheri's previous exposure (Could arguably extend his natural resistance by a marginal level, don't wanna push it since he's injured) to the stuff. But now he had a window to give the elder a fight he couldn't give beforehand. Arnaud raises his axe in the air, the earth around him already devastated and fissured, and ushered in a lion's roar. One far louder than the one he had done before- enough to cause the bedrock near him to sprout out of the earth, making for a particularly hazardous situation to be in for Olaf. And then, after this brief but telegraphed moment of buffing up, Arnaud slammed the pommel of his axe to the ground, prompting a massive, near region-wide earthquake (it loses a lot of power beyond the epicentre, but people feel it alright!)
Olaf is glad that age has made him slightly hard of hearing, for this large, tiresome man will not stop roaring, stomping, and generally making the battlefield even louder. It is quite the threatening display, but it still strikes him as that of a cornered animal, lashing out. For a moment, the old shaman simply lifts himself into the air by drawing some of that excessive force magic and redirecting out the bottoms of his feet. He settles back down once the bothersome display is quite finished. He has so much more grass, and it coms splitting and spitting out of the newfound fissures easily enough. Sometimes, you can just try the same attack again.
Arnaud repulsed a great deal, but the Shaman was smart- he has seen this before. He can work around it and thrive while the Aheri is fighting an uphill battle. For all the power the Majini conferred to this man, it was nothing when the enemy could still match you. Arnaud ended up enduring more slashes to his already scarred and punctured body. Did it hurt? Not really, not at this point with adrenaline flowing in borderline excess. But it weighed on the muscles and caused him to bleed more than he already did.
He did not falter. Olaf wasn't too far from him still, so he had a chance. The moving earth and crumbling hills provided copious amounts of nearby energy to draw from, and he focused it on a single lunge forward with the pointed end of his war axe. The length of the massive weapon could likely reach the shaman, but the real danger was the concentrated blast of force that shot out like a beam capable of razing rows of houses!
WHY. WON'T. YOU. DIE!!!? Something inside of Olaf screamed. The sheer amount of damage he had done to this man would otherwise have felled armies! It had felled armies, in fact. Then, with deceptive speed, a poleaxe came for his head, and a slicing ribbon of Force magic.
Olaf drew from it as liberally as he could, slowing its impact and infusing himself with energy enough to burst out of the way. "I call upon thee, oh wind, rain, and thunder, grant me your power that I may strike this behemoth down in your service and that of my people!"
He thrust his arms into the sky and shaped the very rain into a great mass that surrounded and entrapped Arnaud, suffocating him. He held it as the giant moved, as he pushed back. Olaf strained to hold it until his opponent hopefully, finally collapsed.
Olaf was getting frustrated and went out of his way to try and lock away Arnaud in a water prison of sorts. The Aheri, feeling like he's always on the defensive, angrily attempts to usurp the conjured encasement, but subsequently ends up submerged and borderline crushed by the pressure. But he doesn't let up. No, this was the Aheri. A Zuyr. A KING. He looked down at his opponent for just a moment, and then he stopped. Most never lived as old as this man. Most that didn't see battle didn't live as long as Olaf the Aged. In his rage, Arnaud was ready to simply bash his head in some more. But for once, he learned. He learned from the man who lived a lifetime in a profession where most died young.
He didn't immediately repulse the bubble. No, he stayed in it, and drew. He was taking the very force Olaf was using to preserve it, and even more. He drew, and expelled, without completely perforating his prison. He was going to make it his. He drew and asphyxiated himself longer.
His nose started to bleed, the few teeth in his mouth were begging to grate dangerously.
What Arnaud was conjuring up, it was big, big enough to prevent Olaf from stopping his spell, as Arnaud had laid claim on it. Now his ears were ringing, water started to fill his lungs.
It wasn't enough, the Aheri needed to make this count. The mass of water was his, and melded with the shape of his axe to form an absurdly large weapon. A hammer of epic proportions. It was heavy, far too heavy of an oxygen deprived being like Arnaud, but he pushed on, at the bring of overdrawing on mana too.
A grand shadow arose before the old Eskandr. One far too big to be held together by a normal man, and it was growing by the water syphoned from the nearby ocean.
Judge
A mighty hammer reigned supreme and above all those near la Plage. A tool of justice used by prestigious magistrates to render their sentence. It almost looked as though Arnaud had gone out of his way for it to take this shape. Some Eskandr could see it as an insult- an imitation of one of their Gods- but it was anything but. The weapon was readied by the Aheri’s strength alone at this point, with all of his magic energy dedicated to keeping this massive weapon together.
Jury
Arnaud’s body was not only exposed for the world to see, but it was badly beaten by Olaf the Aged. Every single wound, every single open gash that started bleeding again after wetting the scabs, every single bruise … They all drove the Aheri, in a way. The pain, and even worse, the shame of falling so short to such a great warrior, was unacceptable. Every single strike he had failed to prevent on his being was another count he’d use to fuel his fury and give him the divine strength only the ‘Strongest Man in the World’ could ever hope to deliver.
Executioner
…
Years Ago - Parrence
He was like an exotic beast, covered in chains and held by at least six men, two of which were somewhat capable mages. And of course, Asier Arslan himself. All these men held a single, half-naked man from the North to be presented to the King. Many in the court wondered if this was a new form of entertainment. Others scoffed at the sight of a Tourrare bringing in such a thing- uncivilised as always. None of them knew what the King thought, however. And none of them knew of the value Arun The Aheri could hold to a country teetering so close to a way.
”Toi. Roi. Mort. Oui?”*
The grinning Northerner glared at the king who loyally sat by his wife and merely watched the beast react, ”Bien.” he crudely chuckled before spitting before the king himself. His guard grew furious and readied their weapons, but no order was given to attack. The hall remained quiet.
”Petit Roi. Force Roi, avoir toi?”** he asked in an expectedly boken parrench. Still, the king said nothing. More and more, the Aheri struggled in his chains, and with what seemed to be very little effort, he broke free! Most panicked, but the King, along with his queen, remained unmoved. Arun didn’t go on any sort of rampage, and instead stared down the ruler of this land, keen on asserting his dominance even when made a mere prisoner to a Tourrare.
”Très bien.”***
The King Stood. The Fallen King nearly faltered. He had already begun to understand what most close to the King hadn’t already. There would be no casualties that day, despite everything Arnaud was known for.
Present Time
Arnaud remembered that special day. Not the day Asier proved himself better at war. No, it was inevitable that he would know defeat at some point. Arnaud, at the time called Arun, recalled perfectly the day he met a God. His honour bound him to Arslan as a prisoner, but it took nothing shorter than what he saw as a divine revelation to reform such a man. King Arcel. The one many old fools scoff at. And yet, one of the most brutal Warlords of the North loyally bow and fight for him.
Sentence Rendered. The hammer swung down as Arnaud descended his axe in the same manner he would when performing an execution under his King’s Justice. He grimaced while he attempted to scream, but he couldn’t. No air got into his water-filled lungs.
Too late, Olaf realized what was happening. Too late, he tried to boil the water away, but it was a poor choice. He was poor with Arcane. Perhaps his mind was slipping. He would've scolded a student who'd made such a sophomoric mistake. He'd have whipped their hands with a yew branch. In truth, though, it was a matter beyond him. By rights, he should have finished the roaring man off earlier. It was strange, how little effect the dozens of wounds and his normally-potent magic had taken, almost as if the human spirit or the will of this man's Gods was somehow greater than what the old shaman could throw against them.
The axe bore down and Olaf found himself stilled. He had lived so long that all of his old friends were seated at the Visitor's table in Gronhalle now. When people asked him why he continued to fight, he'd always told them that it was because he was still alive. The truth, however, was that he was still searching for the one to give him the death he would need: one that would send him to the green hall, where his lifetime of deeds great and small would earn him a place of honour.
I come to you, brothers and sisters.
Then, the blow hit and there was nothing left. Faintly, Olaf could hear the flap of winged horses and distant sounds of drinking and merriment. For a moment, he thought he felt warmth.
A massive cloud of water and vapour erupted from the middle of the battlefield. The shockwave could be felt way back into the Witchwood, and the mushroom could be seen many miles away. There wasn’t much of a crater, but many areas near the Beach were flooded and turned particularly muddy from the impact. Olaf was dead- his body devoid of any deformation of mutilations as the pressure mostly destroyed him internally, leaving only large bruises.
Arnaud was seventy metres away from the fallen shaman. His upper body fully exposed and still bleeding from the main sustained wounds. His chest was heaving heavily, his axe a few feet away from him. He was on his back, looking into the darkened sky while droplets of water ceaselessly befell his unmoving body. He only briefly turned his head to see the corpse of his foe. There was no smile or even a twitch in his expression. He had beaten Olaf the Aged, but clearly at a cost. And in the end, he felt nothing but respect for what was a man who devoted his whole life to the cause of his people. If only Arnaud could part this world with such an accomplishment.
His heart was racing, even as he remained rested. It was unnaturally fast and painful. So much so that he began to get a blurred vision. And slowly, his breathing became more painful. Until eventually his eyes closed and he lost consciousness. The Royal Executioner had pushed himself far too much, and now his fate was no longer in his own hands.
Arnaud kicks Hildr away from Rodric for a moment. Olaf and Arnaud have at it again. Arnaud uses a dangerous drug to push him to his full potential, but Olaf co-opts it, making for a battle that matches the epic levels brought by the top bosses. Olaf mostly dominates and has an almost repeat of the last fight. When all seems lost, a battered Arnaud musters up EVERYTHING to at least stop Olaf in his tracks, even if he has to die for it. Flash back of Arnaud when he is first presented to Arcel years back. A crown is warranted with Strength- Arcel knew this, and the Aheri understood why this man stood at the top. Olaf is killed by a massive water hammer used by the very water he tried to kill Arnaud with. Arnaud is now heaving a mild heart-attack on the beach, fully exposed and vulnerable.
EVENT: Defense of Relouse || LOCATION: Relouse Beach/Front Lines
The defense on the beach had not gone as planned. Which, in reality, Maerec expected. Nothing ever went exactly according to plan–especially in war. When the big threats came onto the playing field, he could feel the morale shift. Parrench men had left their stations, and Maerec had yelled out with Arnaud to hold their ground. And while Arnaud took to attacking the Eskandr elites head on, Maerec chose to assist those that were left behind. They needed someone to keep them in line, to support them during this chaos. And that’s exactly what he did.
Time escaped the knight as he helped fight off the fodder, zipping all along the front lines. The storm that Arnaud had conjured had done wonders for Maerec. With all of the energy he put into it, he was able to regain it quickly. And with so much movement, Maerec had an endless amount of force that fueled his agility. It was a blessing, at least.
But Maerec wasn’t fast enough to assist Arnaud with Olaf. Not like Arnaud would have accepted the first place, but he watched as the Executioner dropped and fell onto his back. Several soldiers made their way to defend Arnaud, and the knight thanked Oraphe-Sept for what he found when he neared. Arnaud was alive. Beaten, but alive. And for that, a smile broke on Maerec’s face.
“No time to sleep, friend.” He called as he replaced a soldier who was one of few attempting to drag Arnaud to a safer distance. Feet dug into the sand and with one burst of kinetic energy, Maerec was able to drag the unconscious executioner several feet on his own.
He managed to get Arnaud behind the front lines to somewhere where he could check on the man’s wounds. It was in rough shape, but still alive. “Come on now…” Maerec huffed as he knelt beside him. A quick couple pats to the cheek didn’t seem to do much. One of the Parrench men was so frantic to ensure Arnaud woke that he grabbed the man by his armor and began to shake him. Still, Arnaud didn’t wake. The knight carefully placed the man to the side and leaned further over Arnaud. “Wake up.” He commanded, tone more stern and strangely less caring as he raised back his hand and brought it quick and strong against the side of the executioner’s face.
It was surprising, but not unexpected that retaliation would come Maerec’s way. He did not pull away, and instead placed a hand on Arnaud’s wrist to stop him in case instinct told him not to stop. Once he let go, Maerec leaned back, sitting on the ground near the now conscious executioner.
He couldn’t help but smirk for a moment, but it faded as Arnaud mentioned the Eskandr. “The one you were fighting fell back to recover from your assault.” He took a glance back towards the beach. They were far enough away from the fighting to be safe, but the battle echoed on. “What a trick they pulled on us.” A slight scowl met the knight's face, then he turned his focus to the Aheri.
”Il reviendra.” Arnaud had replied. They both believed it. Olaf would be back soon enough to continue their fight. Who else would be there to join them?
“Can you stand?” Maerec pushed himself up. For a knight, he had rather light armor that allowed him more mobility and range of movement. He easily got up and held out a hand to assist Arnaud. His smirk grew as Arnaud was presented his axe, and refused the helping hand.
”I can stand. I can stand my ground, as we should. Trickery or not.”
He retracted it with no resenting feelings. He understood wholly and even if it hadn't been because of the executioner's size, he could not deny the man his pride.
It was at that moment that the horn sounded thrice. Retreat? Maerec looked around, trying to discern what was happening. ”The city!”
It was very alarming to see fire blazing from one side, thunder striking within the city, and even still, the King was fighting on his own. There was a pull at Maerec's heart. Which way to go? The first image that crossed his mind was the city, and the cathedral. He needed to protect them. But the King...
”La Plage is still the priority!” Arnaud spoke up, and Maerec glanced back at him. It was true, Arcel was still top priority. If he fell, then everything else would be quick to crumble. Arnaud's words did make the knight look even more intensely out towards the field. The Aeresvaktr were advancing, and the King was outnumbered. But something--call it intuition-- was pulling the knight towards the city. He needed to go, as much as it pained him to think about leaving his King on the battlefield.
His eyes returned to Arnaud when he spoke again. Do what you think is right. It was almost as if that in itself gave Maerec permission to accept what call he was feeling inside. He gave a nod and clapped a hand on the Aheri's shoulder. "You have mine as well. I will make sure the city is safe." Fingers curled under a piece of Arnaud's armor to give him a tug. "Next time I see you, hopefully it won't be flat on your back, hm? I'd rather see you drunk in a chair." With his teasing assurance that they would see each other alive, he released Arnaud and gave him a quick sign of Oraphe."I have faith!" He called as he took a running start towards the city.
”And if I find you not nearly as bloodied as me, you'll be drinking the piss of Asier's horse, as an honour!” was the last thing he heard from the Aseri as he sped off.
“Clear the way!” He called out as he dashed with remarkable speed towards the wall. Those guarding the ramparts looked down just in time to see Maerec leaping up against the wall and using his momentum to scale it. The moment the ball of his foot pressed against the side of the wall, what kinetic energy he had stored there pushed himself forward. He used one hand to guide himself upward, and the other reached up to grab the edge of the wall. As he hoisted himself up, he nearly floated a good several feet above, warranting abrupt shouts from the men standing there that hadn’t expected it. There was nothing like the feeling of free falling and then catching oneself before they completely fell. It was liberating almost. But the knight wasn’t able to revel in the feeling for very long–a quick glance out to the city showed that the cathedral was still under attack. Lightning struck again with a force, reverberating throughout the city. He knew that the innocents of the city were hiding in the cathedral, and he knew just by how the lightning struck, that was not by any natural means. Whoever it was was purposely attacking the cathedral. Attacking innocents. He couldn’t let this stand.
Maerec manipulated his body in midair, changing the direction he faced so he could bolt down the other side of the wall and into the city. He had to make it to the cathedral. It was one matter to attack the fighting Parrench, it was another to attack the innocent and defenseless. A vicious fire burned within the knight and he vowed to himself that he would stop whoever it was that cast down lightning upon the cathedral.
Another strike of lightning made Maerec feel on edge as he neared the cathedral. Its intensity was strong, meaning the caster should have been around somewhere… Were they just outside the gate? Had the Eskandr made their way from the woods to the wall? He had to check and see. Maerec changed his destination and instead, headed for the northwestern gate.
Battle For Relouse: Queen Eleanor, Maerec de Solenne, Nettle vs. Sweyn Thunderspear
As soon as he slipped through the gate, he could feel the electrical energy buzz through in the air around him. The first person that caught his vision was the Queen herself. She cast off one attack and dodged a second. Maerec had neared just enough to see Queen Eleanor get struck by an arcane spear through her thigh. As she screamed and dropped down to her knees, Maerec took no time to react.
The Queen would not cower to such a wound, and as Maerec caught that she was attempting to pull the now visible Sweyn Thunderspear towards the ground. The knight of Solenne took advantage of this and ran full speed before pushing himself off of the ground with enough force to soar up and above the hovering warlock. Nearly ten feet higher, Maerec let gravity take him as he delivered a crescent swing of his sword, attempting to strike Sweyn.
It wasn’t the most stealthiest of attacks, and Sweyn easily dodged. As Maerec began to fall past him, Sweyn took his attack against the knight, outstretching his hand to cast lightning at him. Maerec saw this coming through, and narrowed himself to the winds, cutting through it and descending at such a great speed that the lightning arced and connected with one of the windmills nearby.
He dropped further down, manipulating himself enough to cushion his descent and allowed himself to touch ground safely. He quickly turned so that he was facing the warlock, though took a few steps back when he saw something curious. Queen Eleanor stood, the wound to her leg closing up as she did. Someone was healing her. Maerec looked around, only to see Sweyn had his attention focused on one of the windows of the nearest windmill. Did they have an ally hidden inside? It seemed so. He was being drawn down towards the ground again, but managed to break free of it.
The Queen was quick to act while Sweyn was distracted though. Casting four arcane spikes around the warlock, she pierced him with a secret fifth spike right through the abdomen. He managed to retreat into the winmill and the three Parrench began to advance on the Aeresvaktr.
They couldn’t give him time to heal. He needed to be dealt with swiftly now. But as Maerec neared the structure, he could feel something off. He was drawing energy. Maerec was constantly drawing a small amount of kinetic energy to keep up his endurance and mobility–it was almost a passive ability at this point. But what was strange was that if Sweyn had just retreated to heal then the knight wouldn’t be drawing so much energy from the windmill. No, he was up to something else.
“Stay on guard!” He called to the Queen and the little witch, though his words might have fallen on deaf ears with how much sound was coming from the creaking and moaning windmill.
"I. AM. UNLEASHED!"
The windmill exploded with an unrivaled force, and Maerec was forced to use his arms to shield himself from the flying debris. The sky darkened, then, as if the Esdkandr gods decided to reveal themselves to the Parrench, the skies brightened. It was all very disorientating for a moment, and then very very threatening the next.
Beams of light fell from the sky, piercing whatever lay in their path. Maerec felt overwhelmed with the amount of energy around him, and there was a moment where he felt like his senses were all ablaze. He was locked in place and helpless to the beam of light that came down to strike him. He braced, but was forcefully pushed out of the way. It all happened so quickly, the knight barely had time to register it. But as tried to push himself back up from landing on the ground, he saw Queen Eleanor take the bolt, scream and fall.
“My Queen!” Maerec screamed, frantic to get back to his feet to go to the fallen queen. Piercing eyes landed on the warlock as he spoke.
"You peons! You dare place your power up against mine!? You dare draw blood from a God!?" Sweyn roared.
Maerec gripped his sword tightly. He had the choice of going to the Queen immediately, or at least taking a jab at Sweyn. Overcome with rage, he chose the latter, digging his feet in before nearly disappearing and reappearing before Sweyn. The world seemed to grow darker around the knight. And unknowingly to him at first, it really was. He made a swipe at Sweyn with his sword, but found it ineffective at that moment.
The darkness became all consuming for a moment, to where the only thing visible was the brightly shining Sweyn. Maerec felt uncertain what was to come as he fell back towards the ground. As soon as he touched, he made his way back to Eleanor to guard her. She was alive at least, and looked to be healing herself. Thank Oraphe-Sept… But they weren’t anywhere close to being done with this battle. The darkness wavered as the source of it became a target once again. It was the witch woman. She was a brave woman, Maerec admitted to himself and knew if they got out of this alive, he would have to commend her for it.
Near the Queen, he could feel the energy radiating off of her. She was healing. Praise be that she was alive and able enough to do even that. Maerec stood back to her as he watched the power struggle between Nettle and Sweyn. It was short lived though, and the knight felt completely useless against the lightning that arced over him and once again meant to hit the Queen. He grit his teeth, looking back at Eleanor, seeing that she was able to defer most of the attack. Seeing that look of desperation, that gaze seeing aid, he understood what she wanted of him. He gave a nod and turned back towards Sweyn.
Maerec was fast, but Sweyn was faster. He knew this, but he certainly had to try. For not only Queen Eleanor’s sake, but for the small witch that also sacrificed herself to buy the Queen more time. He crouched, pressing the ball of his foot into the ground and using fingertips of one hand to steady himself before dashing off with incredible speed towards Sweyn.
His chances of striking, even if he did use the darkness to assist, were slim. It proved to be true, as Maerec’s spinning strike with his sword missed the deftly moving warlock. By sidestepping, Sweyn saw his opening against the knight and took it. A dagger imbued with a powerful charge came straight towards Maerec, which he only just barely avoided a vital strike. His momentum allowed him to transfer energy to the place where the dagger struck his armor, forcing it to glance off. However, due to the nature of Maerec’s armor, the dagger scraped along and was able to dig deep into his side.
Even through the searing pain, Maerec didn’t disengage. He stayed within Sweyn’s circle in an attempt to keep his focus on the knight. Though, with the beacon that the Queen was, it was hard to keep Sweyn’s attention. Eleanor leapt, bringing down her hammer upon Sweyn’s head, only for him to send out a shockwave of energy to reflect it. Maerec was forced to defend or be thrown back as well. He dug his feet in, healing the Queen land some yards behind. The darkness around them dispersed in an explosive display, and Maerec wasn’t sure if this was intentional, or if Sweyn had broken the veil.
Where frustration filled the knight, it was slowly replaced with hope. It was a warm feeling that made him feel he could continue on. Eleanor was guiding them with her essence. They could do this! They had to!
Maerec started to move forward for another flurry of attacks on Sweyn when he noticed Nettle in the corner of his eye. She was charging up for something, and it looked very powerful. Now behind the Queen, Nettle was in prime position to land a heavy blow so long that Sweyn didn’t move. He had to make sure of that! Just before charging forward to engage with Sweyn again, Maerec drew and cast out kinetic energy to help Nettle secure herself and keep her sure footed. The last thing they needed was her to blow away from her own attack. With that, he charged towards Sweyn.
Soon, soon. He only needed to stall for a little bit more time! As he got close enough to swing at Sweyn, he ensured that he became the immediate threat. The attacks weren’t meant to land, but were enough to be forced to defend. The focused light behind him became even brighter and Maerec took this as his moment to spin out of the way. He could see in Sweyn’s eyes the surprise as the light pierced through him.
Just for a moment, everything seemed to fall silent as Sweyn fell to the ground. It felt almost unreal that he actually stayed down and wasn’t moving. Was this truly the end of him? The silence was interrupted by the nearing steps of the Queen.
"I have no words of respect for you, Go to your false gods or rot in the dirt." It was a malice that Maerec never thought possible from Eleanor.
Even with the battles and bloodshed so far, nothing chilled him to the bone as much as hearing those words come from his Queen, and seeing her incinerate the man before her. He said a small mental prayer to himself before glancing back at Eleanor and Nettle. “If I may, my Queen, I believe we should collect ourselves within the city walls briefly to tend to our wounds, then we can see where we are needed next.”
He made his way towards Nettle, greeting her with a tired smile, and extended a hand out to her to help her up or to steady herself. “You were an amazing asset in this victory. Thank you for being here.”
It was a battle indeed. She stood, hanging on her crook as though the wind could knock her over if it weren’t in the way. One of the others who fought this enemy with her extended a hand, uttering words she could not understand like many of the others here. Reaching out she accepted the stabilization, offering an affirmative grunt in lieu of understanding.
No response? Hm… She could have been one of those that had been recruited from somewhere else. He looked her over, wracking his brain for a moment on how to communicate with her. But then it came across his mind… language barrier? He decided to switch it up. Maerec, his father, had taught him very little Drudgunzean, but it had been enough to convey a message to other local merchants that hadn’t been native to Solenne. ”Your name…?” He asked curiously, then motioned to himself. “Maerec.”
The light of recognition flashed in her eyes as she comprehended his rough Drudgunzean. Her’s was not particularly good either but significantly more serviceable than her Parrancian. “Hh… Nettle.” Her strange, wispy voice was strained from the hollowness in her chest. For all the effort she had put into that spell she felt as though she had her insides scooped out. For the time being she was only standing thanks to her spellcasting tool and oftentimes walking stick.
Thank goodness there was a common language! He smiled at her again and bowed his head to her. “We… rest in city?” He asked, taking his time to choose his words. “Can you walk?” She looked like she was pretty beat up. He had to give her kudos for even standing right now. It almost made him feel guilty, seeing how severe Nettle and Eleanor had taken damage compared to himself. Though his own injuries were no laughing matter either. An idea struck him, and he bent his knees a little and patted the back of his shoulder. “Can carry.”
She seemed to be following along… At least until the last part. She’d never seen anyone carry another before, the idea sounded strange. She seemed tense, like a new rider next to a large fearsome horse. “Ch… C-hharry?”
Maerec laughed a little. It was probably strange for her. It probably would have been for anyone—to be offered to be carried. He motioned for her to come closer and then patted his shoulder again. “Carry to city.” At least once they were behind city walls they could rest. “Carry to safe place.”
With tentative curiosity she gently reached out and set a hand on his shoulder, not entirely sure how this’ll work. She does put some of her weight forward on him if mostly just to keep herself from falling at this moment given how much effort she’s expended thus far.
Once Nettle was close enough and leaning against him, he reached back to grab hold of her so he could stand. As he did, he helped guide her so she could securely latch into him. Though, it seemed that adrenaline was wearing down. A wrong movement sent pain coursing through the wound to his side. He tensed, but tried brushing it off otherwise. Once Nettle was secured, he began to walk to the northwestern gate. “Thank you, Nettle.” He finally said, remembering what he’d originally tried to convey to her.
Though her hand tensed up at his own taking hers she nonetheless allowed him to guide her limbs into a grip around his shoulders. It seemed that in this way she’d hang off his back like a cape of some sort. After a bit more guiding it seemed she finally was able to get the right position for carrying.
“Hhthank hyou… Too.” She answered, nervously clutched to his back as they began upon their way to a place he claimed was ‘safe’.
Talking Color: #887188 - Changed for better readability. • Maerec assists other Parrenchmen on the beach and front lines, but stops to help bring Arnaud to a safer area to revive him. • Unable to wake Arnaud fast enough, Maerec slaps the executioner across the face. They exchange some words as Arnaud gains his bearings. • The two hear the horns to retreat and assess their next move. Arnaud spots King Arcel on the battlefield and states that he's going to stay and fight. • Maerec decides to check on the cathedral that is under attack and the two men part ways for now. • Maerec heads through the city but deduces the assailant must be close by. He goes through the northwestern gate to see what is out there. • He encounters Queen Eleanor already initiating combat with Sweyn Thunderspear and he joins her. • Nettle reveals that she snuck into one of the windmills and is assisting in combat. • It's rough for the Parrench aligned, and all three suffer damages (none too catastrophic, but pretty close to). Nettle and Eleanor are landing heavy blows, and in kind, Sweyn is also landing heavy blows. • Nettle basically harpoon shoots an arcane lance through Sweyn, bringing him down. Enfuriated beyond reason, Queen Eleanor lands the killing blow on Sweyn. • (unbeknownst to Maerec, Sweyn is still alive and they only killed an illusion of Sweyn. He was consealing his energy some-odd distance away and ran). • Maerec suggests going back into the city to recoup and interacts with Nettle. He finds that they can both roughly speak Drudgunzean and uses what he knows of the language to communicate with her, resulting in her riding on his back while he carries her through the northwestern gates.
Interacting with: Self @Salsa Verde Opportunity: Eskand-aligned Players – Meeting up with Ulfhild in the advancement of the horde, on the rear of Thorunn Silverhair. Possibly looking for hostages to take as spoils of war. Event: Siege of Relouse Location: Parrench Camps
It was over as quick as it began. The man from Parrench, rugged in appearance and grizzly in combat had met his match. Perhaps this is how Eleanor felt when she smacked Ulfhild down. Except there was no kindness from her, her blood still ran hot from the previous battle. It did make her contemplate however, just how quickly the twist of fate could be spread to someone else like some airborne infection. He sprung her trap and had gotten lost in his arrogance or rush to assist in taking down the nashorn. Either way her arrows pierced the horse and the man bringing both down to a tumultuous end, that was if he had not received medical attention by the end of this godforsaken battle. The murder of a steed was never an easy one, but if their God was anything like hers, he would see the horse in the next life. “You fought well” she said aloud, most likely not near enough for the man to hear her high praise.
Alas, she could not dawdle any longer for she had to reach Olaf in his match against his opponent. As one of the Aeresvaktr, she knew he could hold his own, after all they were the stuff of legends. Bow in hand she sprinted up the hill leading further into the carnage. The sky swelled and looking up she could see a massive mushroom cloud releasing a shockwave that turned to a gale which threatened to knock her on her ass. Getting her legs set once more she summited the hill and glanced down at the cause of the sea of water below. A massive man quite heftily built, clad in armor and adjacent to him Olaf, neither moving. Ulfhild feared the worst and ran down the hill only for it to turn slick with mud from the terrain change. Impede her not, for she slid all the way down until she was meters away from the two.
“Olaf! Olaf!”
She howled into the wind. Arriving at his corpse her knees buckled and she fell down to his side. Tears felt hot on her skin as they rolled down in streams across her face. She enveloped his lifeless hand in her and help it up. “No, no, no. We should have stayed together you stubborn mule. You needed the healing more than I” but her words fell on deaf ears knowing the old shaman was already at the table with the visitor and the friends he had outlived. Crossing his arms together across his chest with his weapon in hand she would leave him until he could be buried later. Her tears stopped, her hands balling into fists now. She stood up and ran over to the giant who had been unconscious after what seemed to have been devastating blows dealt from Olaf. She knew he would not go down so easily, it was now on her to finish what he started. Like a rabid wolf she bore her fangs in anger, kicking the lump of a man over, assisted by force magic of course, and drew her blade to his throat.
That’s when she heard Eleanor’s voice in her head telling her to yield. Her hands hesitated in that moment, refusing to plunge the sword into the mans throat. There was no honor in killing a man unable to fight back. Just as Eleanor had spared her life she would honor the same with this man. Much to her disdain she tried and tried again to push past it and steal the life from him for what he had done. Yet time and time again her hands trembled and remained frozen. With a curse and a spat she jerked her head away and sheathed her blade. The best she could do was warn the unconscious man, “You’ll see me again, I’ll make sure of it, Parrench dog.”
Looking around she knew not where Hildr had run off to. Probably given chase to that knight she had history with. It had been quite the minute since the two of them had met over something other than battle and it felt that it would be another minute before the two were able to meet again. Instead, Ulfhild decided to follow the flood of Eskandr forces storming the rest of the battlefield in what seemed to be turning in their favor. A loud cry and upheaval of power could be heard and felt by Ulfhild. Her ears as sensitive as ever lent her the direction in which it had transpired. Breaking from the herd she chased down the source of the cry and was graced with the vision of Thorunn Silverhair in all her might. Like a small child watching their heroes before them, she reverted into a girl of yore and watched her hero ravage the Parrench forces. Unbelievable that she was able to withstand the force of three opponents and crush them without so much a sweat. Surely she could best the Queen. Someday Ulfhild hoped she would reach her level.
Dolls they were, swallowed up by the force of Thorunn and tossed about like playthings with no weight. There was only one left standing in her way, but soon he would be another in the pile of corpses. That was until she was engulfed in a box of darkness. This time there was no battle cry just a cry of fear and anxiety. The three made their escape while Thorunn crushed the earth beneath her. Ulfhild rose to help her but quickly stopped knowing in her thrashing, Ulfhild would only be a hindrance and lose her life. Acting as though she had not witnessed Thorunn in the thralls of despair, she waited, and then joined her fearless leader and their advance onto Parrench grounds.
Defense Of Relouse IV In the Witch Wood - St. DeFrois Rock Seen & Mentioned: Talit'yrash'osmax, Kol; Death's Hand, Vali Twice-Born
Lyen's viens burned as she ran. The mana curse in her blood practically making her body hum with energy of the gift. And it was only a fraction of the Lady Talit's power that was shared between them. She looked back at the younger Yasoi, following in her awkward, yet efficient, fashion once more before leaving the Witch Woods.
Use of the gift and the Æresvaktr's blood led them towards the city walls. The battlefield between the city and woods was chaos, but it all seemed to melt away from Lyen's vision; except the great towering stone of St. Defrois Rock: The only structure in the area that would at conceal such a beast as Death's Hand. Only thought of vengeance and absolution for her earlier failure filled Lyen's mind as she made for he target, beginning to draw from the stone, weakening it in hope of crushing whoever stood on the other side
For the second time in the night she found two Eskandr where she'd only expected one. Even before he loosed his arrow she screamed in a mixture of pain and frustration as his arrow sunk into her left shoulder: Where did they keep coming from? She pressed on-wards faster, focusing her attacks on the archer as pieces of stone continued to rain upon him. Too caught up in anger she failed to notice Kol's trajectory and was saved only by Talit's quick reaction and strong push of force magic.
Almost stumbling, Lyen caught herself by grabbing onto each of the large Eskandr's arms while he was staggered and attempted to imbue him with curses. But there was no purchase, his Gift brushed hers aside as thought she were still a child novice.
He taunted her in words she didn't fully understand or care to listen too. She only gripped tighter as he attempted to shake her off. Her focus soon paid off; a gap in his resistance. She drew from her own mana and that of her 5th wheel ally, and the fire trapped in her veins seeped into his; turning the Æresvaktr's own essence against him. He could hold it off for now; but it would build and eventually the blood would begin to corrode his veins. "Just die" she murmured.
The gods heard her arrogance, and delivered their punishment quickly and harshly through her enemy's fist. A half scream left her lips as she felt her organs realign themselves into the wrong places under the force. Her back slammed the ground hard, where the remaining momentum of the carried her further still. Reflexively, Lyen began to draw. There was no shortage of human bodies north of the city, but even as she began to convert the material her attacker approached to finish her off. She clumsily tried to crawl backwards on one arm, the other still clutching the impacted area of her stomach.
Her call for Talit came out as little more than a desperate gargled cry as blood flooded her throat. None the less, the Baroness arrived, a fury of magic and metal pushing the Æresvaktr away and giving Lyen space and time to heal and escape.
"I smell you, southern rat" Murmured in Yasoi as she turned to face the footsteps taking the same path around the stone. The smaller Eskandr had followed, having freed himself from Talit. She stomped her foot and the ground in-front of her gave way, sinking under the archer's feet as he perused, staggering as he loosed an arrow. Lyen's confidence grew, this was how it was meant to go. In two strides she walked to him and laid her hands to begin casting an internal essence spell. He countered before her gift could take hold, using force to repel her backwards weakly. But Lyen for the first time in the night had found that singular focus craved by all Yasoi, and was not about to let her prey slip away so easily. She showered him again with stones before he could think of drawing another arrow.
When she was was on him again Vali was bloodied and haggard, swinging with his sword so blindly she barely had to move of its way. "You shouldn't have shot me." She said in Drugunzean and placed a hand on his blood soaked face. Her Gift began to sink into him, adjusting his internal essence until she could feel him grow weary am limp. She hadn't finished before the first horn sounded. It was too early, and she was too close to victory- Then a second sounded, shorter than the first and immediately followed by a third. The call for retreat was unmistakable. Lyen cursed in Yasoi before leaning in close to the Eskandr.
"Stay away, Little Eskandr; next time I won't be so generous." She hissed by his ear in barely audible Drugenzean before letting him crumple to the ground.
The hole's from her drawing had created a easily navigable path to the summit of DeFrois' rock where the Baroness of Loriindton awaited her.
"Worry about miking it yourself, Talit'Yrash" Lyen taunted the one-legged Yasoi with a wink and gleeful smile - once again brimming with confidence after her decided victory. She leapt from the stone, mimicking the younger woman's own method of casting crude metal chains to pull her the remainder of the way to the top of the city walls.
- The Yasoi heal from previous round, Lyen gives a curse to herself and Talit - L&T Pursue Kol, and find him with Vali at DeFrois Rock - They fight, until the horns blow, then leap over the city wall.
”You’re going to feel some soreness, but it will go away shortly. Stay here a while and rest.” After doing a final checkup on her bruised up patients, the Parrench physician exited the tent and left Gerard and Tristan to their own devices. The two men stretched and massaged their muscles, trying to work out the cramps as best they could before they returned to the front line. Thankfully no permanent damage had been done thanks to the efforts of their allies.
The Rezaindian men retrieved their tools and equipment and got their effects in order. As they finished doing so, Misha poked into the tent with a worried look on her face.
“Hey, how are you two feeling?”
”I’m okay. Somehow none of my bones were broken back there. I’m pretty much good to go.” Tristan replied. His fellow apprentice slapped him on the shoulder, causing him to yowl in pain.
“Idiot! You made it out in one piece because I was there! Don’t ever do something so reckless again!” Misha berated her partner harshly. She turned her head to Gerard and started to speak out, but then realized who she was speaking to and looked away sheepishly.
”Quiet. Get yourselves ready for battle. They’re still fighting out there. We have to-” Before the master mage could finish his sentence, the distant sound of a ram horn could be heard coming from outside. Pushing past his two acolytes, Gerard pulled open the tent flaps and looked around. Parrench soldiers were running past, all moving in the same direction. There was chaotic shouting all around, but one thing was clear. They were being attacked.
”The troops are rallying! We must go and meet the enemy!”
At some point, Gerard had been cut off from his apprentices. He could still feel their life signs from afar, but with so many Eskandr running amok it would take too long to try and reach them. Whatever officer was leading this backline assault had brought some elite troops. Like before, it was his plan to ignore the rank and file and head straight for the leader. It was not difficult at all to detect them, whoever they were. Their wheel level handily outstripped his own, and Gerard was no middling mage. If there was nobody besides him capable of facing the enemy, the Rezaindian could very well be heading to his death.
He charged through burning tents and over charred corpses, slaying the occasional Eskandr raider on the way with a combination of blade and magic. The heat that filled the air caused sweat to pour down Gerard’s face. Eventually the enemy came into sight, and she was not alone. A silver haired Eskandr witch clashed with a greatsword wielding Parrench maiden. From his brief view of the situation, Gerard could tell that the southerner had the upper hand.
Good. There are more of us here. Gerard was nearly upon them when another man emerged from amongst the chaos and ran beside him. The two exchanged a silent look and nodded, though the knight’s eyes were difficult to see through his helmet visor. Words were not needed. They would slay the enemy together.
Caelum was the first to act, throwing a wave of force at the silver haired one with his sword. Using the witch’s own violent actions against her, Gerard drew upon the surrounding hellfire and brought the flames to life. Glowing serpents converged upon Thorunn from behind, lashing at her all at once. The combined assault was deadly, but their opponent effortlessly dodged or absorbed the attacks with ease.
"That was pathetic!" the Eskandr jeered in much better Parrench than Hrothgar. "Your magic teachers should be ashamed of you." Then, she returned a spell of her own: A great, coiling tornado of fire aimed at the new arrivals. It was a ferocious attack, but a clumsy one. Focusing all her strength on a single spell meant Caelum and Gerard were able to draw the energy out of the tornado together and render it harmless. Gerard was especially greedy in his drawing, and the second the vortex dissipated he already had his counterattack ready.
”Save the boasting for when the battle is over you witch!” Gerard shouted at the Eskandr in her own language. He produced a massive fireball using the flames he stole from the tornado and sent it screaming towards her. Again, she blew it away. At this rate none of their attacks would reach Thorunn.
"So you play with fire too, priest. Not as well, but passable." She tilted her head. "No matter. I have other tricks." The pyromancer was interrupted when the Parrench woman attempted to cleave her head off, but the silver haired witch easily knocked her opponent away with a force blast. Everyone scrambled to gain a more advantageous position, and after a few moments of ineffectual probing the four of them had converged into a triangle with Thorunn in the center.
Caelum threw another wave of force at the femme fatale while simultaneously sending a bolt of lightning. Were she to be pushed by the first attack, she would be hit by the second. It was a good trick, but Thorunn was not budged by the initial blow.
"You sneaky little prick," she hissed, shaking her head at the clever combo attack. "My turn!" Drawing from the residual heat in the air, she reached for the priest's and knight's heads with twin fists of Force, to squish them like overripe fruits.
Gerard absorbed as much of the spell as he could, but the difference in their levels was staggering. Even has he drew himself to capacity, Thorunn’s attack was still strong enough to nearly crack his skull. His vision blurred and for a moment he was brought to his knees in pain. His fellow soldier survived one way or another. It looked like the sword maiden had protected him remotely.
From behind the protection of his ally’s golden aura, Caelum sprung forth and struck at Thorunn with his weapon. She easily stepped out of the way, looking almost bored. Her overconfidence blinded her to the followup; the thunder wielding champion flourished his blade, causing the air to ripple with wild lightning. Overgrown sparks exploded around the witch, numbing the arm she used to defend herself. ”Bastard!” She shouted while shoving back at him with force, hitting nothing but air as the knight danced away.
Despite the blood pouring out of his nose and mouth, Gerard’s spirit was not yet broken. For the briefest moment he considered cutting himself off and running for safety. He was badly injured and the three of them faced an insurmountable enemy. Retreat was just another tactic people used on the battlefield. But no, it wasn’t over for him. The red priest drew his brand from its scabbard. The weapon was clearly of Eskandish make based on its shape, as well as the runes inscribed on the hammered metal. Gerard scraped his finger along the length of the sword, and upon doing so the blade was consumed by fire which extended much further than the weapon itself. He leaped forward and swung with all his might with a defiant war cry.
"Oooh, flaming swords," Thorunn mocked. Before Gerard could strike true, he was pushed back by her annoyingly powerful force magic. Around them, the Parrench were beginning to retreat to the fortified city. If nothing else, the plan was working. Realizing that time for battle was growing short, she pulled from the debris around where they were fighting: medical tools, splintered wooden beams, flaming sheets, discarded weapons. She pulled them into the air and flung them at all three of her opponents in a flurry.
In response to the coming danger, Gerard pulled the flames around the camp towards him and encircled himself. A great wall of fire scorched away the flying debris or deflected it through sheer pressure before anything could do him harm. "You realize that your side is retreating," Thorunn sneered. "Why don't you go run?" The words made the priest’s skin crawl. This fight was going nowhere and they were running out of time. They had to strike a decisive blow soon.
Camille had taken a wooden beam to the chest... well not quite to her chest but to the aura guarding her chest. There was enough force to stagger her, making her chest feel tight as the aura pushed away the debris. Yet she stood her ground, planting her greatsword in the ground to catch herself, she spun nimbly and turned her lost momentum into forward momentum. Her greatsword was being dragged behind in one hand while Camille turned rammed her shoulder into Thorunn.
The girl charged her, like a wild animal, like The Nashorn! Thorunn stood her ground, raised her arms, and drew everything that she could from the charge, filling herself with Force. It wasn't quite enough. The smaller woman hit her nonetheless, though barely moving. Thorunn stumbled back, cursing and bruised in he midsection. She'd hit right where the burn from that... Laughing Knight had been earlier. "You bitch!" she screamed, rearing back to unleash everything that she had. The Parrench, however, had other ideas. Several fireballs came at Thorunn from all sides as Gerard attempted to exploit the opening created by Camille. His eyes widened in surprise as they all disappeared at once, and the witch fired several arcane lances in return. It was almost death for Gerard, but in a split second the swordswoman leapt between the two and deflected the assault. If they weren’t so pressured right now, the Rezaindian may have given her a word of genuine gratitude.
They kept pushing at her, bothering her, shoving, shocking, and burning her, but Thorunn Silverhair just kept coming. She gained a momentary breather from these three and then drew everything: all of her fires, all of the force from the rain and wind, all of the broken tents, weapons, tools, and bodies. It filled her until a pressure built in her head, until her eyes sparked and glowed. A battlecry split the night air. Then, she hurtled forward so quickly that she was barely even a blur, grabbing Gerard by the ankles. He felt the world spin as she swung him into the air. He lost consciousness yet again as he was slammed with enough strength to crack the earth. He was out of the fight.
L O C A T I O N | St. Defrois' Rock I N T E R A C T I O N | Kol, Death's Hand @Th3King0fChaos, Lyen'Ivhere'Zulc @Tackytaff
It was hard to hide on an open battlefield; he could feel the yasoi pushing toward them, approaching St. Defrois' rock. He’d hoped the large stone would provide enough shelter for he and Kol to regroup, but he felt the way it started shifting as a tree-dweller took control. He reached out, grabbing his Bloodbrother by the arm in a warning before the ranger rolled backward. Debris began to fall, but they managed to avoid it.
Vali was already nocking an arrow as he came out of the roll, senses reaching to find their attackers. Unwilling to wait for a proper strike before he countered, the ranger loosed an arrow, Force energies curving it around the rock toward the forward-most yasoi. He felt it connect with flesh and heard the cry of pain, but the crumbling stone of St. Defrois did not halt, battering his furs and leathers as he stalked farther back, away from the rock.
A few feet away, iron spikes shot out of the ground, reminding Vali of the tree roots lances he’d encountered in the Witchwood. Finding a better viewpoint, he spotted a one-legged yasoi—and even in these few small actions, he could sense the power on her. She needed to be dealt with. She seemed too strong to take on single-handedly, but Vali knew how to throw an opponent off their rhythm. He channeled his Gift, Force magic manifesting in disembodied but rapid footsteps approaching her from behind.
Another nocked arrow was loosed to sink into her spine, but the tree-dweller released a powerful burst of energy that flung it away without even turning to face the distraction behind her. He heard the snarled threat behind the blast, “Next one's not gonna be a little shove, human. It's coming for your head.”
The ranger couldn’t help but smirk at her anger—she seemed powerful, but she was far from the only one. He was an expert in hunting powerful beasts.
But then she was rushing forward, faster than his eyes could track, like a whirlwind of energy through his awareness as he drew from it instinctively. He dodged backward, but felt a blade sink into the flesh of his shoulder despite the leathers covering it, spilling warm blood down his chest.
He reacted with a sword of his own, swinging Blodløst Sverd at the woman’s torso, but she was already spinning away, attention drawn toward Death’s Hand and the yasoi who seemed to be no match for him.
He heard his Bloodbrother’s voice offering mercy, "If you leave with her now, then the wounds will not get worse." The one-legged tree-dweller seemed unflinching as she spoke to her companion, offering an escape. As the injured yasoi stood and seemed ready to flee, Vali was surprised to hear his brother offer him a similar choice. "Vali, same to you. Flee if you must, this one is mine to dance with."
He balked at the thought of fleeing. This battle was tough and strange, but he was an Eskandr raider—he could not simply flee. Yet… Kol seemed hungry for battle with this yasoi, and there was a trail of blood to follow. He pulled back, tracking Lyen back around St. Defrois’ rock.
He stalked around the landmark following the spilled blood—but the ground beneath his feet turned soft, sucking the ranger into the dirt. Frustrated, he loosed another arrow towards the damned yasoi trapping him in the mud—but it vaporized mid-air.
The tree-dweller approached, laying a hand upon him, and Vali felt the barest sense of exhaustion trickle through him, but he shook it and the hand off. Drawing the energy of the shifting ground around him, he released it in a pulse that pushed him out of the now-solidifying ground and pushed Lyen away. The yasoi stumbled, but the rock beside them crumbled violently again, shattering rock against the ranger’s face.
He hit the ground, face and head pounding and slick with blood. Unwilling to give up and still able to track the tree-dweller with Force and Essence energy. He swung his sword but it didn’t connect. Instead, a hand pressed against his bloodied face, "You shouldn't have shot me."
Vali’s head clouded again, and he could feel his consciousness swimming away, falling quickly into the darkness. Holding onto his awareness, he swung one more time with his sword—it was futile, barely a swing in earnest, but the ranger couldn’t even tell as he sank into a cold abyss, limp and bloodied against the dirt.
Vali got hit in the face with a dirty, dirty rock.
