Hawlin — Roleplayer Guild

The Kite shrunk back from the conflict, their eyes wide with an alien uncertainty as the forms charged them, though their head tilted towards Isabella before their eyes then followed them...before she began to speak.

Influence and raw inspiration, something was coaxed from her prayers. The air rippled around her, the wind alight with the draw of the ley-lines that were raked into place by her chant. While men would bend to worship such a force, the breeze grew icy cold from the soul her demands tore from it...a request so selfish and profane that the air would 'sparkle' in a way. Her second sentence evoked, with a sweep of the hand, to bend entropy to her words. With Mirth in her tone, Isabella then forsook the land and sky with the conclusion of her demand, the grass beneath her feet wilting and curling brown with each syllable. 

This is not a land of gods.
This is a land of potential.

Kite abruptly keeled over, clutching their abdomen and kicked at the soil in mute agony, fighting to get out of the way of whatever the witch had unleashed upon the land that coiled and curdled like milk gone foul. What grass that was left boiled and popped like pustules, rotting into a horrendous stench that blew in a wave from her, directed towards Jasper and the approaching humanoid creatures.

One in back barked, most of the group stopping, save for two of the smaller green ones who toppled over, violently expelling the contents of their guts from both ends; the mixture being a putrid pale green...then brown in the second retch...and then blood...and then blood....and then they moved, no more.

Save for Jasper.

The tapestry coiled and descicated before sloughing off in chunks, caught in the full blast the witch unleashed without a single thought of where her prayers were offered. Their hat bent and fell in parts, and even their boots appeared to melt into rot with each step that they simply walked out of, without a thought.
...then Isabella's prayers and wills rebounded with a sensation of walking into a brick wall. There was a brief wretching sound...and then an animalistic growl. The ground grew fetid in a wash, then outlining the shadow of a figure who had, until this point, been seemingly unseen...something aside from vision, though the wash of entropy only carried this single pulse.
The dead grass washed over, and life was found in this new outline, detailed with the remaining flourishing dandilions and seed-grass.

"Roit...Oi see how it is..." A whisper hissed from this outline before the mash of death depressed in a bee-line for Isabella in a series of boot-prints that dug in like cleats before two flats planted themselves before the hag.

Isabella's prayers were cut short as anyone watching would see the impression of ram-horns into their gut, a crack of a rib resounding in accent to their 'prayer' which was cut short as the woman was thrown some ten meters away, like a ragdoll, into the foliage. The force behind the blow roared a sharp "S'DRAT!" with a concussive burst that blew the wind from the area, snapping back into position with a 'clap'.

Jasper, unfeeling in their awareness or indifferent to it, paced through their rotten garb, taking up a boxer stance to then charge, the burst of intended divinity freeing them from the burden of the heavy works of art they had been draped and clothed in...
With a hook of his leg on the approach, he trips the first goblin and punches their skull into the dirt with a harrowingly sickening 'CRUNCH', already lifting their clenched fist to back-hand with what appeared to be the weight of a sledge-hammer, caving in the side of the second goblin's skull. They stagger a few steps, their arms twitching as most of their brain remembers enough to attempt to keep running, but they manage about three more lop-sided steps before tipping sideways and limply swinging their fetid knife in the air, a single leg briefly kicking before losing life after the third kick
The third goblin, watching what had just transpired had just enough time to gasp and messily void their bowls as the golem snapped to face them, their blood-stained knuckles ready to make another example of them before a crossbow bolt delivered them from such a fate.
'Jasper' or whatever they were called, ignored this, no longer assessing them as a threat, paced over their body as it fell limp, their weight still enough to crunch the rib of the goblin-

What protection the hag appealed to their forces to avail, it was difficult to tell, as the construct interposed themselves to prevent any approach on the man with the crossbow.
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The Jaded

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