Penny

Cogs in the Wheel: WoT RP

"Isn’t there something you can do?" Davian demanded as the boat rode the waves towards the shore. The Thiefcatcher strained at the oars, trying to keep the craft pointed into the increasingly violent swell. Zoya gripped the tiller bar, using her slight weight to steer against it. The water shoaled rapidly, and white caps frothed around the boat's prow.

"I could perhaps calm the storm, but I can’t hold back the sea," Zoya responded. It was a boast, and even with her angreal, it would have taken days. The One Power couldn't solve every problem, no matter how much one wished.

"Just try to keep the bow facing the shore," Zoya instructed, her control wavering as each swell lifted the tiller from the surf. They rode the waves, rising and plunging as white caps gave way. Without her shield of air, they would have been awash already.

"What do you think I’ve been trying to—" Davian began, cut off by a sudden crash as a submerged rock smashed into the hull, splintering the bow timbers. Sea water surged through in white foam. Zoya was thrown from her seat, crashing into Davian and knocking him into the flooding prow. Before they could disentangle, the next wave lifted the wrecked boat's rear and flipped it over the rock. Zoya screamed as the gunwale struck her, driving her into the surf. The storm's roar was suddenly muted as she was thrust beneath the surface. She gasped for air as the wave carried the boat clear, seeing no sign of Davian through the rain and surf. She called his name once, her voice lost to the wind, then struck out for shore with powerful strokes.

Thank the Light there was a beach, Zoya thought, hauling herself dripping onto dry land. Breathing hard, she turned to the storm, feeling the shift in perspective now that she was safe. Movement to her right startled her, and she turned, embracing the Source, only to find Davian staggering towards her, soaked but alive.

"You’re hurt," he said as rain lashed his handsome face. Zoya stared at him, then followed his gaze to the blood running down her arm, diluted and pink. She pushed back her sleeve to reveal a pressure cut near her shoulder, already swelling with an impressive bruise.

"No matter," she replied, dismissing the injury for now. These Southern Kingdoms were warm, relatively, but the sea and wind had chilled them to the bone.

"We need to find shelter," she suggested, gesturing up the beach where lantana whipped wildly in the wind. They staggered up the beach together to sparse brush.

"Here!" Davian called, pointing to an ancient, half-decayed boat upturned in the sand. It had likely been a skiff long ago, its masts gone, overturned either by survivors or a monstrous tide. Zoya wove a ward that sent rats and spiders scattering, then crawled under the hull's curve. Relief from wind and rain was immediate. Zoya sighed, removing a puzzle box from her waist pouch. None of her treasures had been lost; thank the Light for that. The thought of her ter’angreal at the ocean's bottom sent a shiver down her spine, even more than her own death.

"You're not cold?" Davian asked, hunching into his sodden garments. Zoya looked up, surprised. Ignoring heat and cold was an old Aes Sedai trick, part of their meditation on the Source. Consciously, she felt the chill and numbness. Reaching out with the Power, she wove fine filaments of fire over an exposed rock, which radiated heat.

"You are handy—" Davian started, jumping back as Zoya's eyes rolled back until only whites showed. The puzzle box jerked from her hands, hovering before Davian. Its facets twisted, greasy, before clicking open like a flower. Light poured in a solid column, then split into a three-dimensional map from coast to inland. Davian peered, following the strange vision to a northern grasslands chasm. Abruptly, the image vanished, the puzzle box closing into a solid cube. Zoya, held still throughout, sighed and slumped unconscious, the warmth fading from the stones.

De Trop Disgrace: Warhammer Fantasy RP

Emmaline’s head pounded like a drum as consciousness sluggishly returned. The rattle of coach wheels across uneven roads added an additional layer of unpleasantness to her awakening. Her mouth tasted bitter with the aftereffects of the ether Lucien had used to knock her out, and she wanted to spit. Something blocked her mouth, and she began to struggle and curse. A moment later, the black shroud over her vision was pulled free, and painful lances of sunlight stabbed into her eyes.

“Mrrrmmph,” she groaned into the gag between her teeth. All in all, it felt like all the hangovers she had ever had rolled into one. With the deliberate care of a clockmaker, she opened one eyelid, slitting it immediately against the daylight. It took her a moment to make her protesting eyes comply, but she gradually comprehended that she was in a plush coach moving through thick forest. This was true forest, like the Drakwald, rather than the pleasure parks of the rich, its undergrowth thick and wild-looking. She shivered, uncomfortably aware that beastmen and worse things lurked in such dark places.

“We can take the gag out if you promise to behave,” a gruff voice suggested. Emmaline opened her other eye and focused on a muscular man in a leather jerkin and flared halberdier trousers tucked into scuffed riding boots. His head was shaved, though not recently judging by the fuzz of stubble on his scalp, and though he had no obvious weapons, he had the look of a veteran. Emmaline nodded, immediately regretting it as a wave of nausea swept over her. The thug reached over and untied the twisted linen gag from between her teeth.
“Water…” she croaked, momentarily forgetting to maintain her Brettonian accent. Fortunately, the sound that came from her parched throat was too unintelligible to decipher.

“One of the benefits of traveling in style, mademoiselle, is we don’t have to bother with water,” the thug said, his hatchet-hard features splitting into a grin that showed a glittering gold tooth on the right side. He opened a sideboard and pulled out a bottle of wine, removing the cork with a twist of his wrist and a hollow thunk sound. Emmaline tried to reach for it but found her hands bound behind her back. The thug lifted the bottle to her lips and poured a mouthful in. She drank greedily, rinsing the bitter taste from her mouth and wetting her parched throat.

“Will you be civil if I untie you?” the thug asked, arching an eyebrow.

“Oui,” Emmaline replied, twisting her torso to expose her hands. The man dutifully untied her, and she felt the prickling sensation of blood rushing back. Outside, the carriage rattled over a small bridge and began to climb a series of shallow switchbacks along a ridge. Ahead of the coach rode a quartet of pistoliers, trotting along as outriders. Turning around seemed an impossible effort, but she thought she could detect the hoofbeats of more horsemen to the rear.

“What is your name?” Emmaline asked her companion as she took the wine bottle from his hands and drank deeply.

“Jan Colditz,” the man introduced himself, pulling another bottle of wine from the sideboard and uncorking it with his teeth.
“And before you ask, we are taking you to one of Lord Schroder’s estates until he can arrange for your marriage,” Colditz explained. Emmaline was about to ask what kind of estate could exist in the middle of a forest when the coach crested a rise, and the view opened up over a narrow valley. The green valley had been extensively terraced with orchards and gardens trained along the sides of the hills. A large manor house occupied a flat area that ran for several hundred feet before the valley dropped to a broad stream at the bottom. Emmaline thought she could detect a smudge of smoke on the southern horizon, possibly Uterngard if anything Shroder had said could be believed. Scores of miles of trackless wilderness in all directions, she thought, the perfect place to keep a prisoner.

“It’s probably to one of his vassals so deep in debt that he will sign over your lands the second the ink is dry on the marriage contract,” Colditz said, a trifle apologetically. Emmaline concealed a hysterical giggle, wondering how long she would survive after that. That assumed Schroder didn’t learn she was about as Bretonian as a dwarf. The coach slowed at the top of the ridge, passing through a fortified gatehouse of stone and half-timber that covered the road through the forest. Armed men waved the coach through, sunlight glinting off handgun barrels.

“Welcome to Niederung,” Colditz intoned, lifting his wine bottle in salute before draining the contents in a single long pull.

Cogs in the Wheel: WoT RP

"They aren't turning," Davian declared as the distance opened up between the ship and the rowboat. It slid up and down over the long rolling storm waves, tiny and insignificant against the majesty of the sea. Zoya gripped the gunnels on both sides, holding herself steady as they plunged down the face of one of the mighty waves. Ironically, she found this less unpleasant than the ship, having grown up on the shadow coast, hauling crab pots for her various uncles and relations until she had run away from home and began the long road that ultimately took her to Tar Valon.

"They can't, they'd be in irons if they tried, and they can't tack across the face of the wind, not with this swell," She explained, bracing herself as the nose of the boat plowed into the trough and began rising up the other side.

"Sure, whatever you say," Davian replied, pulling hard to keep the boat from turning side on and being swamped. Zoya closed her eyes and embraced Saidar, weaving a shell of air around them. The rain which had been pouring in began to patter on the shield, an extremely eerie effect as water struck nothing the naked eye could see. When they next crested the wave the ship had vanished behind a curtain of rain. Probably they were happy to be rid of their last minute guests.

"You can stop rowing," Zoya said, "We will be driven inland by the waves, and we wont capsize while the shield is in place." Davian reluctantly let go of the oars.

"So why did you?" Zoya asked in the oddly peaceful silence that followed.

"Why did I what?" Davian demanded.

"Why did you help me in the Stone?"

Bodacious Bounties: Bounty Hunter AU

Jocasta considered her options. Fast as she was, accurate as she was it was unlikely she could take the man out before he squeezed the trigger. Even if she managed it there was every possibility he would squeeze the trigger in his death throes and kill Neil just as dead as if he deliberately pulled the trigger. Cygi was nowhere to be seen, obeying her instructions not to reveal herself to hostiles unless it could bring Jo an advantage and a swarm of giant killer bees or whatever zany form Cygi chose as a distraction wasn't going to turn the tide.

"Fine, fine..." Jocasta said, clicking the safety on and tossing the weapon into a waste bin with a metallic thunk.

"You owe me a new pool table," Jocasta accused the interloper crossly. The stranger chuckled and jammed the muzzle of his gun harder into Neil's back.

"Consider it compensation for the two men you killed," he sneered.

"They were like... half a pool table's worth at best," Jocasta replied.

"Yes, I was warned of your wit Miss Ap'Glynn," the unknown gunman replied, showing no signs of being amused.

"Hey my mother was Miss Ap'Glynn you can call me.... actually I suppose its fine," she conceded.

"I appreciate a good claim jump, I really do but perhaps we can come to some kind of a deal which will restore my pool table to its former glory? We could start with your name?" she suggested.

De Trop Disgrace: Warhammer Fantasy RP

No one liked being examined by priests and Witch Hunters. Least of all actual witches. It came as a considerable relief to be pronounced free of taint, a fact no wizard was ever entirely confident of, but a lingering feel gripped her of what Kasimir might say. A word from him to his father might see her imprisoned, even executed. This northerners were touchy about their honor afterall and it would ill behoove the count to tolerate having his entire court hoodwinked for a season. Eleanor showed no sign of her misgivings over the wine and roasted pheasant they were served for dinner but plead exhaustion and retired early to her chambers. She did not however to to sleep.

"Thank you fair meeténg mé mon laird," Eleanor whispered. Lucien Schroder nodded conspiratorially. The pair of them were in the Rose Garden, one of the cloisters of the palace which had been given over to the cultivation of the snow white roses for which Middenheim was famous. It was well after midnight and it hadn't been easy to evade the guards who were on high alert after the disastrous theatrical show hours before.

"Of course mon Cheerie, though when I received your note, I rather hoped it was my charm which had inspired this midnight assignation," he chuckled. Eleanor simpered prettily. She was dressed in a dark traveling dress and coat, a small satchel over her shoulder that contained the jewelry, gold, and promissory notes she had amassed in six months in the Court of the White Wolf. It was quite a score, even by Altdorf standards where the cost of living life was high. Well, the cost of living the way Emmaline planned to was high.

"Ai did not know whaire elsé to turn," she replied to the hooded and cloaked lord, wringing her hands for theatrically effect.

"What can I do for you my dear," Lucien returned in a smooth soothing voice, the same tone you might use for a dog or a panicy animal.

"Ai need to gét oot of lé citay men 'ave tried to keehl me many times een ze past fu dais et ai fair if ai do not gét oot of haire now ai shall névair see mon belovéd Brettonia again," she fraudulently confessed. Lucien paused for a long moment, either considering her words or trying to puzzle out her outrageous accent.

"Ah," the nobleman said at last. "Don't you have the Counts bast...ah that is natural son to look after you?" Eleanor laughed with bitterness that she didn't need to simulate. Kasimir might very well 'look after her' if or when he told anyone what he knew, which probably wouldn't be long because he was spiteful and thick to boot.

"Look aftair me? Ze count méans to marry me to ze brute zo 'is sprog can claim a rich estate ét be far from la public eye hairé at curt, regardléz of mon feelengs abut zit!" she protested. Lucien nodded his eyes clearing as his hatred for Kasimir clouded his judgement just as Emmaline had known it would.

"And no one knows we are meeting?" he asked, still a trifle nervous. Eleanor shook her head.

"I can get you out of here, I have estates around Utenguard and no one will question my coach leaving they city even this late but we must go now," Lucien urged. Emmaline repressed a frown, a con woman's instinct warning her when something was going a little too well.

"Ai must gathair mon thengs," she temporized and turned to leave the garden. Light exploded across her vision and she was suddenly laying in the grass her vision swimming. Two men were standing over her, with rougher boots than Lucien's fine riding shoes.

"I do have a coach madmosielle, and it will take you out of the city, but that quaint little county of yours wont be going to the bastard Kasimir," he promised. A bag was thrust over her head and something sweet, cloying and wet was shoved up against her face. Everything went black.

She was unconscious when the coach clattered out of the city, unchallenged, just as Lucien had said.

Shields of the Empire

Phaedra stared down at the reddish purple fruit pondering how you were supposed to eat it. Eudoxia has found it in the saddlebag of one of he dead Khareeds and passed it along. Phaedra suspected this was less out of generosity and more because the other woman was as uncertain as how to eat it as Phaedra was and didn't want to look the fool. Looking around to make sure she wasn't observed Phadera took an experimental bite of the fruit only to find the rind tough and bitter. She spat it out and put two fingers into the bite, pulling the thing appart with a gentle crack. The interior seemed to be white pulp around dark red nodules. She pulled a few free and put them in her mouth finding them to be sweet and tart.

The afternoon was wearing on and there was a worrying cloud of dust on the western horizon. The Khareeds they had fought were a detachment of that larger force, probably a rearguard that had realized that the Imperials had doubled back during the previous night. Phaedra was constitutionally unable to take infantry very seriously, but even the mightiest mare could be taken down by a sufficient number of ants, and that host had plenty and more Khareeds beside. Worse still if they waited to morning they would be fresh, not like the force they had just bested that had been eating dust all day.

The cataphracts were busily looting the enemy dead and gathering up their own dead. Here and there brief squabbles were erupting over the privileges of plunder. The cataphracts were taking the natural position that all the enemy dead that had fallen before the infantry line were their by right, wheras Brasidas' men were of the opinion that this was a team effort and thus everyone had equal right to the loot. For the most part her Tetrarchs were breaking up the squabbles. The thrill of victory was keeping the arguments good natured and in several places trades were taking place, jewelry for coins, food for wine skins.

"First," Phoebe called as she trotted up, followed by the former princess royal - now Miravette apprentice - Tachmeena. The girl had been dressed in the armor of the dead member of Phoebe's Tetrad she had replaced, and had a sprig of local brush tied around her neck in place of Miravette wood. Her lustrous hair had been gathered back into a severe pony tail and her face was sweat and dust stained in the aftermath of the battle. Phaedra hoped Phoebe had kept her back during the battle, but judging by her half empty quiver she had at least contributed something.

"Good spoils, but we are short on wood for pyres," her Lieutenant reported. Phaedra nodded, the spirits of the dead would be delayed if their bodies were not burned, a constant problem in this tree poor wilderness.

"We can tear down buildings in the town," Phoebe suggested, inclining her head to the half destroyed village. Phaedra shook her head though not exactly in contradiction. Her eyes were still on the dust cloud. They could be here by nightfall if they rode hard, though she doubted they would risk a night fight after an exhausting march.

"We aren't going to have time..." she trailed off as Brasidas and Tychon climbed the small rise towards them.

"I'll talk to our esteemed commander first but lay the dead out in the houses, then get everyone busy collecting arrows, ours, theirs, whatever you can get." Phoebe nodded and turned to begin shouting orders. Phaedra clashed her fist to her chest in semi ironic salute at the approaching men. She scooped out another few mouthfuls of the fruit and chewed as they approached.

"A fine day's work," she commented, sweeping out a gauntleted hand to encompass the bloody field, already infested with buzzards and circling crows.

Space Dogs: Hired Guns in a Crumbling Empire

Jocasta pulled on the uniform with some difficulty despite the adjustable straps the flak vest fit poorly.

"It's a little tight across the chest," she complained, even though the vest was long enough that it gouged her legs if she bent the wrong way. Markus snorted and handed her a plasma rifle. It was a Wexler arms model but close enough to the UNSG Mars pattern that Jocasta had little difficulty figuring it out. She considered taking a shield but decided that it would make her stand out too much.

"Well I'm not normally a less is more guy," Markus admitted, "but keeping that chest tight might be good for our cover."

"You say the sweetest things," Jocasta enjoined as she draped herself with webbing belt and a bandolier to improve her disguise. She tucked the needler into an ammunition pouch and did her best to pull it closed without actually sealing it. She decided that the overall effect made her look hastily dressed, which was appropriate for the situation as the alarm claxons had change tone from fire to general alarm.

"Alert. Alert. Facility Lockdown. Alert. Alert. Facility Lockdown," an automated voice bleated over the PA system. The two mercenaries exchanged glances and stepped out into the hallway. Jocasta turned and touched the lock plate which turned red and then pixilated oddly as she corrupted the code, jamming the door closed. They hurried down the hallway, stepping aside to allow two more guards and a fire suppression team to pass them en route to the armory.

"Alert. Alert. Facility Lockdown. Alert. Alert. Facility Lockdown," the alarm blared on irritating repeat as Jocasta and Markus hurried back towards the gate. As the reached the entrance foyer however it became apparent that there was no way to get through. A dozen guards were already standing to, weapons pointed outwards as others methodically began to sweep for intruders.

"We could try the service entrance," Markus suggested.

"You two, where are you assigned," a jumpy looking trooper demanded, his plasma rifle not pointed but held ready.

"Your mother's ass," Markus growled, "and if you don't want me up yours you will get back to your fucking station!" The soldier flinched at the tone of NCOs the galaxy wide, then flushed, considered a response then turned to shout at someone else.

"Service entrance will be locked down ever harder," Jocasta argued, "but I have an idea."

They backtracked through the manor passing large gardens and luxurious apartments, each one sealed and electronically flagged as searched or unsearched. A fire in the armory was concerning but the compound must have been on heighted state of alert, probably because to the high profile prisoner they were holding here. At last the reached a more industrial area then finally a long tube that lead to a hatch, beyond through transperisteel viewports a ship could be seen, connected to the station by the docking tube.

"You! Freeze!" the leader of a quartet of guards at the end of the tube shouted. These men weren't in the flak armor of the household guard, but rather in more elaborate pearl armor. Jocasta realised they must be a guard of honor who crewed Galanis' yacht.

"We are conducting a..." Jocasta began but Markus shoved her to the side as the men opened fire, bolts of sun hot plasmas jetting down the tube towards them. An electronics panel exploded above them showering them with sparks. Markus returned fire leaping across the hallway to take cover behind a large console. Jocasta peeked around the corner, aimed her rifle and fired several times but the guards were in cover of their own in the ball like enlargement of the tube just before the airlock. No doubt they were already radioing for backup.

"We have to punch through to the yacht before we have every guard in the place down on us!" Jocasta called to Markus. She leaned out and squeezed off a shot, this one deflected of the wall of the docking tube and struck one of the guards in the shoulder, punching him off his feet. Judging by the volume of his cursing his armor had taken the brunt of the damage while sparing him serious injury. The air reeked of ozone sharp plasma discharge and burning electronics.

"Alert. Alert. Facility Lockdown. Alert. Alert. Facility Lockdown," the monotonous voice droned on.

"Nothing like a ticking clock," Markus agreed.

Cogs in the Wheel: WoT RP

The situation was rapidly deteriorating. Further conflict was temporarily averted as the Captain bellowed for all hands to get aloft and reef sail as he turned his ship more westerly to run before the storm. Glares and muttered imprecations were aimed at Zoya as the crew scurried up into the rigging. The wind on deck was now growing so strong that conversation was difficult, and the ship was heeling over and slicing through the waves, like a hobby horse, throwing up huge sprays of foam each time the bow hit the approaching swell. Davian and Zoya retreated below decks, a refuge from the spray if not the increasingly violent motion of the vessel.

"Did you do that?" Davian demanded, grim faced in the semi darkness below decks. No lights could be risked in such weather, not when a ship was made of so many tons of dried wood, pine tar, and other such incindieary materials. Zoya's nostrils flared with anger, the accusation akin to naming her a darkfriend. She mastered herself with obvious effort, reminding herself that the common folk were less familiar with the Oaths than the initiated.

"No." Zoya responded, distinctly and directly so as to give no wiggle room for Aes Sedai trickery. She wondered if one of the items she had taken from the Stone might have been indirectly responsible. She had made only cursory examination of the loot she had acquired. All had the feel of items of the power and one of them, the small figurine of a woman with a sword between her breasts wrought in what looked to be soap stone, was clearly an angreal, but the functions and powers of the others would take study and considerable risk to divine.

"That isn't going to stop me from being lynched by a bunch of woolheaded sailormen though," she cursed. The retreated to the small cabin where Zoya had been staying and she gathered up her little haul of items into a shoulder bag. The Captain had been willing to sell her basic provisions and she poured herself a half glass of sour resinous wine. The roll of the ship nearly sloshed the fluid over the edge of the mug and she gulped quickly to keep from spilling.

The sound of feet pounded on the planks outside and Davian threw himself across the doorway a second before horny fists began to pound on it.

"Come out here witch!"

"Throw her over the side!"

"She murdered Gil!"

Zoya grabbed a chair and thrust it against the door as a flimsy barricade, not that it would hold long against men with the heavy axes the crew used to cut away downed rigging.

"Do you have a plan?" Davian demanded. Zoya crossed her arms huffily.

"I am open to suggestions," she admitted tartly.

The Sunday Group - Seeds and Harvests

How we doing team?

De Trop Disgrace: Warhammer Fantasy RP

"Why are you trying to kill me," Emmaline demanded, her voice quavering with the fear that roiled bile in her stomach. The Daemonette licked its lips, its tongue long and deerlike even in this more humanoid form. The Daemonette took a step forward and Emmaline raised her hands warningly, golden energy sparking between her finger tips.

"Isn't that what Daemons do?" the creature asked sibilantly, rolling it's hips in a slow rotation that tired to draw the eye to its genitals. Emmaline took a step back, bumping into Kasimir who cursed.

"You were a threat to us, the winds of Chaos spoke both your names to us when we embarked on this scheme. Now that you are here though I think we can find something more pleasurable than death for you..." the Daemon moaned. Emmaline backed another step before the advancing daemon, hopping over a root that had been worming its way through the loam towards her.

"You have potential girl, the man... just a man..." Roots exploded from the ground, coiling around Kasimir's legs and lower body. He howled in rage and shock as rootlets exploded from the main trunk, wrapping his wrists and elbows. Emmaline had time to be revolted by the fact that small mouths had opened in the wood and were mindlessly kissing and sucking at Kasimir as he was slowly bent backwards by the constricting mass. Something shivered beneath the earth and Emmaline was mortal certain she didn't want to know what it was that was attached to those questing tendrils. The Daemonette held up her hand and the rootlets froze, halting but not releasing their grip on the struggling Kasimir.

"Unless your fond of him? If you kneel before me I shall spare his life, even let you keep him. Does that please you Emmaline?" the creature asked with a cruel lilt in its voice.

"Emmaline?" Kasimir asked, apparently not completely out of his wits. The Daemonette laughed in a rich throaty contralto, somewhat ruined but the rustling sursurence of the chitinous claw as it opened and closed.

"Our little liar has many names, but that is her favorite," the Daemon mocked. Emmaline turned and grabbed Kasimir's hand. She bent her head close to his.

"Don't do it..." Kasimir grunted.

"I'm not going to do it you idiot," Emmaline responded in a whisper and then kissed Kasimir on forhead.

"What are ... no!" Kasimir screamed but his scream froze as his flesh turned to gray stone, spreading down from his head like blood tainting a pond until he was entirely solid. A perfect life sized statue of a brave, if rather annoying man, rendered in detail beyond the skill of even the greatest sculptor.

"How sweet of you to spare him damnation," the Daemonette crooned. The rootlets fell away uninterested in their now inert pray. "Fortunately we won't let the same thing happen to you..." The Daemonette charged, bounding across the gap between them, it's whip striking out. Emmaline screamed as it wrapped around her wrist and yanked her towards the creature but she kept her nerve, drawing arcane power into herself as she used the momentum to turn the fall into a leap a sheet of golden fire blasting out before her. She struck the Daemonette in the chest, rocking it backwards. Emmaline shouted another spell and spikes of granite erupted from the hill side like blades through a silk coat. The attack flung the Daemonette back but the creature was still laughing cruelly.

"Foolish mortal, you are cunning but this our lords domain afterall..." the creature swept its claw through the granite spikes shattering them like glass as it sauntered towards her.

"We painted everything here afterall and we will share our art, first with the court of this so called Elector Count and then with your whole foolish Empire," The Daemonette cooed, then stamped imperiously. The roots exploded out of the ground once more this time seizing Emmaline. It wrapped her hands and writs, coiling between her fingers to foil any spell craft. Slim tendrils, slid up her legs, turning around her and slipping beneath her dress. Mouth like leaves sucked at her exposed flesh and began working their way up her neck making her shiver in revulsion and a horrifying fission of guilty pleasure. Several of the bees emerged from the undergrowth, moaning in an unsettling human way as they began to circle her. Emmaline could smell the mix of hormones and perfumes, heady and spicy and making her head swell.

"I'm going to enjoy this," the Daemonette cooed, it's beautiful face split into a leer of desire that could never be satisfied.

"Not... as much... as I will..." Emmaline chocked out as she was pinned back and fully spread eagled.

"That is the..." the Daemonette wheeled around at a sound behind her. Kasimir howled a warcry as his sword came down in a vast over handed stroke. The chaos spawn's claw flew away from it in a spatter of dark purple ichor and the immortal being's eyes bulged with horror and disbelief. Kasimir was shedding dust from the thin crust of stone Emmaline had encased him in as his momentum carried him past the shocked daemon. It whirled after him and lashed out with the whip but Kasimir pulled his arms down and turned his head, presenting the flat of his body to the blow. The whip snapped across him drawing blood in a thin line but failing to wrap around him, instead he gripped the whip chord in a powerful hand and jerked the wounded Daemonette towards him. It stumbled forward on its hooves, its chest meeting the point of Kasimir's sword between breast and pectoral. The creatures huge eyes bulged as the point of the blade erupted from its back, its own weight impaling it to the hilt. The bees surged forward but Emmaline, free of the roots now that the Daemon's attention had been terminally diverted, sprang to her feet and whirled her arm around her head. The shattered shards of granite flew into the air whirling like a tornado of razor edged glass around the two humans, half a dozen bees flew apart into twitching pieces that flopped and struggled on the earth. Emmaline stumbled to Kasimir and closed her hands around his, then with a wrench they pulled the sword free. The Daemon tumbled back into the storm, losing definition like a sandcastle when the waves reach it. Emmaline yanked the sword sideways, flicking the dark purple blood aside like an artist spattering a canvas. Reality parted where the blood hissed through the air and Emmaline leaped through dragging Kasimir after her.

Lucien had been enjoying the show immensely. The backdrops in particular were magnificent. He could have sworn at times that he saw creatures, even people moving on the painted canvas, a simply masterful display of stage craft. The play was building towards its denouement, when suddenly, with no warning there was a tremendous ripping sound. The fabric of the backdrop tore open and two figures tumbled out.

"Ulric's blood it cant be..." but it was, it was the damned Count's bastard and that Brettonian woman to boot. There was a sudden scream that chilled the blood of everyone in the room, and suddenly the background repaired itself, like a pond closing over a stone. A great white hart suddenly stood out on the canvas its eyes red with fury. One of the stage hands screamed and thrust at Kasimir with a heavy pole. The whelp batted it away and slashed at the man who went down with a scream and a spray of blood.

"Tréachairy!" Eleanor screamed, "Chaos and pairfidy, get le count to saftey!" One of the actors produced a very real sword and charged at her. There was a crack and the man toppled over, shot through the head by the Witch hunter who was drawing a second pistol even as he tossed the first one aside. One of the players screamed and leaped into the backdrop sliding through it appear in cruder two dimensional relief with the image. The White Hart pounced on him, driving its hooves into his body over and over with stylized flashes of blood. The Witch Hunter shot another player, a woman who had produced a jagged knife from her bodice, sending her toppling from the stage into the court below. Men and women were screaming, some trying to flee, others drawing weapons and trying to rush the stage. In moments it was over, the players and stage hands cut down to a man. The White Hart paced the canvas in fury until Elanor seized a torch and thrust it into the fabric. The backdrop began to char, then burst into flames that were tinged an unhealthy purple as they consumed the linen. Men at arms kicked the backdrop down, knocking the fabric off the improvised stage and onto the stonework where it stood less chance of burning the palace down. Concerned they might be but no one who had seen the image of the white hart its limbs covered in blood, suggested putting the thing out until it had burned down to nothing more than soot and ashes.