POOHEAD189

Gold & Glory: AU thread

The point of the sabre bit through the well-made mail and poked into the meat of his pectoral, but it was a light wound. Markus knocked the sword aside even as the drucchi pulled the sword out of the wound for a second strike. He took his cloak in his offhand and whirled it about his arm, his accursed sword clattering against dark elven iron in three passes. Markus pushed the drucchi back, ignoring the wound and fighting with a controlled savagery. The dark elf face was unreadable behind his helm, but a strangled cry rang out from him when Sketti shattered the drucchi's leg from behind with a metal rod. The elf went to his knees, and the dwarf placed the rod at the elf's neck and crushed his windpipe with his stout muscles.

All around the cohesion of the dark elves had been shattered and they fought one against two or three of Markus' crew, one by one being cut down or leaping over the side of the ship, unwilling to die for a mere human vessel. The towering Halfdan himself picked up a dark elf and threw the screaming raider further than Markus thought possible. Markus didn't see where the dark elf landed in the gloom, but he heard the splash.

"Captain!" Brod bellowed, the normally pot-bellied man looking positively lean compared to his normal self from the lack of food he had been provided the past fortnight. Markus rushed over to him, and the man pointed over the stern. Dark elves were scrambling, but one wearing an ornate devil-horned shoulder guard cape roared in their vile tongue, organizing the swordsmen who trickled in from the commotion. Even a few of the ones that had jumped ship had crawled back onto the docks and went to rally themselves by their commander.

"We need to get this ship moving," Markus said, but even as he spoke the words, he saw the dark elf commander stumble. The captain looked to his left and saw Idrin lowering a crossbow, the string still quivering. Unfortunately the commander wasn't dead, however. He rose back up and waved his hand, shields rising from the staggered formation, quickly gaining cohesion to protect their lord. Markus cursed and ran back to the deck, crying out to raise anchor and get the sails down. He knew there was no wind, but if they could at least get out of the docks they would find the gale they needed. As men ran to their posts, he saw Eckard nearly stumble over Emmaline. Her bottom in the air and her eyes on the deck with his navigational equipment.

"What are you doing, woman!?" Markus demanded as he hurried over to her.

Rise to The Top: Medieval Intrigue RP

Galt stepped into the comfortable office and found it was one of the few times the previous six weeks he did not feel like a fish out of water. Of course it mostly had to do with Silke, but the lack of ceremony save for Franz performing his duty certainly helped. The office also seemed entirely personal, save for the evident trappings of nobility. Real work could be conducted in here, much like any clerk or healers area. He doubted there were many heads of state adjourning within these walls. He gave a slight smile at Silke's dismissal of any sort of interruption, not surprised at her manner.

Vincent was a different matter, on the other hand. Yes, he had a gruff manner about him. But the informal attitude surprised Galt. He had expected her brother to be overly protective of her or at least skeptical on why he had to waste his time on an upjumped cutthroat, but he saw none of that. Either he was more mature than Galt had given him credit for, or Silke had given him a thorough talk before he had arrived. Either way, maybe the archery lessons would not be entirely horrible. "Very well, Vincent. You can simply call me Galt. I've grown a bit tired of Count Harrowmark, at least in most instances. Sometimes I still feel a bit of awe at the existence of the title at all, and Silke could-."

Galt laughed, almost saying 'Silke could call me anything' that would go from familiar to something else. He stopped at that awkwardly and continued. "And I do not know how strenuous a half a day with the bow is, but I trust I can still ride afterwards, particularly if it would do Silke some good. I did have to ride a horse to save my life, after all. I can manage an afternoon ride," His grin was infectious, one hand on his hip as he spoke to the siblings. "Perhaps that will help both Silke and I find some rest later, if we've both had some light exercise."

"Yes, I would advice my lady to find some rest. This would be a fine excuse," Franz added, inclining his head politely so as to still appear subservient. Though clearly the man was worried about his mistress. Galt found he liked him already, and Vincent would perhaps grow on him. He supposed they would also have refreshments available. Aristocrats always had refreshments available, it was uncanny but exceedingly fun. Galt wasn't getting fat, but if he let his guard down he would certainly be in danger of it.

"I agree with Franz. Plus, I would love to see your lovely estate." Galt assured them, and turned to face Vincent, though his eyes often drifted back to Silke as he spoke. "But as for now, let us get to the art of uh, shooting. I do have experience in fighting, but I am unfortunately inexperienced at anything more complex than a crossbow, and I've heard it on good authority that such a device is a cowards weapon. That wouldn't do."

Poo's Particular Interests

I've decided I have room for one more, but I might not be the fastest to respond due to a busy real-life schedule in general! If a spot's still open, I'd like throw my hat into the ring for the bandit/cabal RP :)

@Fetzen

I will let you know when I can, but I think I am booked up atm bud :(

Fortune & Glory: Grimdark Pulp RP

"She favors her left," Beren whispered conspiratorially in Jocasta's ear. Jo placed her hand against her mouth to hide her sudden laugh, but the redhead looked stricken in horror. He felt regretful the Baron was getting displeased, but the 'lady' had attacked Jocasta and pissed him off, and her indignation only egged Beren on. He spoke to Jocasta again. "Her hammer's bigger than her anvil. Horses might be good, but she's clumsy on her feet. You'd kill her in axes and shields."

"Anvil?" Jocasta asked, and lady Giroux took it with an entirely different meaning, trying to make her backside as small as possible. Earlier she had been flaunting it, but when things weren't going her way she seemed to fall apart. Beren had just said a common dwarven saying, and he tried to explain it to Jo in human terms. "Uh... her bark is bigger than her bite."

"I already apologized!" She said breathlessly. The crowd looked on with wide eyes, and the Baron seemed about to step in and order the guards to come with him. Giroux flushed at all the attention from how things were developing. Maybe not all publicity was good publicity, after all. Beren stood to his full height and crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow at her. Jocasta stood in a similar fashion, her eyes wild to act the part she meant every word of the knightly duel. Maybe she did? Beren wasn't entirely sure this was a farce.

"You're a few hairs short of a beard-" He started. Lady Giroux gently gasped and grabbed at her chin in fear as he spoke, again misreading his words. "You come in here, try to separate us, then try and frame me and ruin the good baron's party, and then come out here to assault my g- uh..." He looked at Jocasta and she glanced at him. They hadn't even had the time to talk about it. "-assault Jocasta and now you want to back out scot-free? I don't think so sister. Honor demands she meet you on the field."

"I can call for a champion!" She stated, though she sounded very unsure at her initial statement. As the words left her, the developing thought did bring some fire back to her eyes, however. Beren guessed she would be happy to have any win over Beren and Jo. The monk just grinned.

"Sure, and I'll step in for her. Choose your man, but we'll use fists." He said confidently.

That dropped her down a peg yet again. She had been as close as anyone in the party when Beren had nearly wrestled himself through four thugs, and it was clear he hadn't been trying to really harm anyone. She lifted her chin, trying to form words of retort, but Jocasta suddenly lurched forward like a dog on a leash. Lady Giroux screamed in surprise. "No stand-ins! She's mine! We'll meet at dawn!"

"Hold!" Baron Marius said with a stern countenance. He fixed his suit and stepped out of the crowd, joining Lady Giroux though not deigning to take her offered hand. She awkwardly dropped it and smoothed her dress, glaring at Beren and Jocasta with an air of what she thought was superiority. The Baron seemed as if he had taken their jibes as a respite so he might think of a way to solve this, and he had regrettably come up short. "Surely there's a way we can come to an agreement without coming to blows?"

Beren and Jocasta slowly looked at one another. Beren raised an inquisitive eyebrow, and Jocasta nodded in acquiescence.

"There is one thing, if the Lady Giroux would be so gracious..."

Swords and Silver: The Southern Contracts

Palona wasn't in a state of panic, but the movements of the mercenaries weren't doing the townsfolk any favors. Torm cantered through rushing men on Lycurgus, his hand gripping the hilt of his arming sword, the knight's knuckles white. What were the bastards thinking? He knew there were zealots in the army, but he didn't think the commanders were lunatics. Why would Palona be worth losing thousands of men without powder or shot? Torm seethed with indignation, but he knew he had no one to blame but himself. The wolf should have known better than to poke the bear. This entire debacle was his fault. If they made it out alive, he would answer to the Gods if not the other officers.

Behind him, forty five of his men followed in his wake on their horses. Six had been slain last night, overwhelmed by the enemy. Twenty had been wounded, but only half that had been harmed enough to severely limit their combat capabilities. Torm felt the patched wound in his side flare up again with a stabbing pain, aching something fierce consistently throughout the day. The Knights saw Cadger and Bianca arguing over something in the distance as the dwarves suited up around them, likely expostulating over strategy. Torm and his men made it to the vicinity of the tunnel, a large cleft in the earth at the mouth of an old aqueduct. Torm had heard the town had once been the site of a great city, and these conduits of rainwater were the last remnants of it.

His shadow and those of his men loomed over the entrance, and he sniffed amusedly at the irony. The dwarf that had been digging to bite them in the ass had instead crawled up their ass to ask for help. It was a short lived mirth, however. The dwarves did not deserve that.

Across the small channel that fed into the underground, the Captain and his retinue awaited. Black Ryann, along with a few of the captain's special honorguard stood at the ready. Torm had heard the mage would accompany him at the fore. The idea did not enthuse him. He felt much the same about the spymaster as Bianca felt about Torm. He was certain the feeling was mutual. Aeon and his men were standing in formation just beyond, their column reaching down the street out of Torm's field of vision.

"Are we ready, Captain?" Torm called, reining Lycurgus in. The steed stamped with impatience.

"We are," a woman's voice replied. Torm turned to see Bianca and her scouts approaching. Cadger and his lads were in tow, though they didn't seem pleased with the end of their previous discussion.

"It's not right!" The Dwarf complained, as irate as Torm had ever seen him. The dwarf usually seemed detatched at worst and usually amused at any current events. Evidently, he had just been told something that went against every fiber of his being. They passed the Knights without even looking their way, but as Bianca and her men hopped into the tunnels, Cadger stopped at the lip with Thossack and the other dwarves.

"Their legs are longer, Cad." The Captain replied, motioning for Black Ryann to move forward with his steed. "We'll get them back, don't you worry." The wizard seemed unenthused at the command, but he did as he was bid. His roan was as black as the wizard's robes, but of good stock if Torm was any judge. Thank the gods the man hadn't enchanted good horseflesh. His eyes met Torms and the Knight whipped his horse to the left, giving the wizard room to follow as he and his men walked their horses down the incline to splash into the shallow water of the aqueduct. Thossack had assured them the tunnel was big enough for mounted men, and so they would go first. The war steeds had been well trained, stepping down carefully and entering the darkness of the channels behind Bianca.

Swords and Silver: The Southern Contracts

The knights had regrouped, and to Torm's relief, they were now reinforced with Aeon's infantry that had spread out and marched through the camp, sticking spears into corpses and looting what foodstuffs and armaments they could as they marched. Torm had just killed another Priest-Queen's soldier with the spike of his weapon, and he turned to see Aeon striding through the smoke to his back, a rhythmic, howling chant lifting over the burning ground as his men pressed forward in a rough wave. The dwarves had managed to make it back to their position as well, moving in a tight unit. A few were wounded, but none dead. He couldn't tell with his own men yet.

"The captain calls for a retreat." Aeon said, the tall man's long face was as solemn as always. His assega was already bloodied from some unseen foe. Torm opened his mouth to argue, but closed it. No, the captain was right, of course. They had pressed forward further than he could have hoped, but no doubt the rest of the enemy would be swarming around the sides of the camp's perimeter in the matter of an hour. Maybe even less.

"Bianca?" Torm asked. They weren't friends necessarily, but she was a comrade at the end of the day. Plus she had a number of good men and women under her.

"We'll hold as long as we can," He replied, but even as he spoke his dark eyes fixed on the ground past Torm. The knight of the wolf turned, planting his poleaxe on the ground as he saw forms begin to shape amongst the smoke and debris. Multitudes of the enemy gathered. It had to be. The entire company of the Silver Swords wasn't that large, if his eyes weren't deceived. Aeon called out for his men to form up with a long hoot. Torm wasn't familiar with the order, but the infantry had been drilled in the manner of Aeon's distant homeland so their western foes weren't privvy to any commands he might make on the battlefield.

"Square up!" Torm called, pulling his weapon up and catching it mid-haft to use as a standard. What men he had left jogged to his position, armor tarnished and bleeding. They formed into a rough square over the span of a minute, bolstering themselves into an rotund, squat formation that was meant to whether an assault rather than aid in one. Spear's bristled along the knight's flanks, shields raised and helms lowered. Torm and Aeon needn't have bothered, however. Through the haze of night and smog, it wasn't the enemy that appeared first.

Bianca and her scouts raced into view, their slim horses galloping for all their worth towards the line.

Aeon howled twice, and gave a whistle. The line opened up like a parting sea, and Bianca's scouts moved through the ranks with only a nod in acknowledgement. Their skin was covered in soot and what wounds they had looked inflicted by wood and weather more than enemy swords. Torm moved his men to block the gaping hole in the infantry column, and at that moment, the Priest-Queen's forces arrived in their field of vision. They weren't as organized as Torm had feared, but they still quadrupled Aeon, Torm, and Gunir's combined forces. Twice the enemy hit them with a charge, their swings and cries that of desperate, sleep deprived men. But as the night drew to a close, the Silver Swords had managed to back up towards the gun trenches Grimi's boys had fashioned, and make a full withdrawal into Palona.

Rise to The Top: Medieval Intrigue RP

Galt wasn't unimpressed. He had seen King Heraclad III's castle and the Duke's manor, and yet somehow he was continually startled at the well furnished carpets and the artistry hanging on the walls like common furnishings. And yet there was somehow a hominess to the place, as if he could imagine waking up here and thinking of it as a comfortable place to reside. He didn't know what gave it that quality, but perhaps it was the fact it did not have vast swathes of unneeded space like the palace or the duke's home. This was made for a family; a large home for one to be sure, but people would meet here in adequate rooms, not a great hall or a dining area fit for a banquet.

The chamberlain seemed friendly enough. He was the kind of man who would scowl at someone like Galt a mere month ago and shout at him, but when one had money he was all smiles and even charismatic to a point. It sounded pessimistic, but truthfully Galt didn't blame him. Franz was in charge of the family's affairs and served them at their pleasure. Had it been a month ago, Galt would only be here to steal or to plead his innocence on any other number of crimes. Still, it was strange being on the other side of the coin. Nice, though.

They made it to the office, having passed various vases of flowers Galt did not recognize. The house had a sweet, pleasant scent to it he quite liked. Halting at the door, Franz and he went still when they heard voices. Galt immediately recognized Silke, and he had a good ear for voices and could tell she spoke to her brother even before her familiarity became apparent. The chamberlain's lips quirked into a smile as the conversation went on, and Galt felt a smile of his own blooming on his face.

He wished he had grown up with siblings, or at least remembered the ones he had. He felt a bit envious of the conversation, as frustrating as it was for the two involved. Silke was as forthright and clever as ever. Galt liked her being sweet and smiles with him, but he somehow found it compellingly attractive when she was verbally trouncing someone within earshot. There was a fire to her and a whip-like wit that he admired. Maybe someday she would be familiar enough with him to speak so, though he didn't expect them to ever get on one another's nerves quite like her brother did.

Her brother was boorish and every bit like Galt remembered from the dinner when he had been presented before the aristocracy, though it was something he had mentally prepared for. He almost felt bad for the fellow. Galt was sure he could run circles around the man with his own mental games, but it probably wouldn't do to try and it really served no likely purpose. He was just here to learn the bow and to keep up appearances. That would keep Galt busy enough. Gods knew he had fretted over it with anxious trepidation these past days.

Galt lifted his hand to the door and made the knocking gesture with two curled fingers, raising an eyebrow to Franz. The man snickered and looked down for a moment, before nodding and knocking on the door himself. When they were called to come in, Franz pulled the door open and gave a bow, clearing his throat and announcing Galt with a loud and clear: "Allow me to present Count Harrowmark, here for the appointed meeting." The chamberlain then stepped to the side so Galt might step in.

The thief did so, smiling easily. "I wasn't interrupting, was I my lord and lady? I can wait downstairs if you'd like?"

Poo's Particular Interests

Hi, you probably know me. I'm looking for a partner who is an advanced writer, loves to bounce ideas on an RP, and isn't afraid to write some great action, pulpy scenes, and getting their hands dirty with the dark side of life and humor. I'm big on fantasy and sci fi and while I'm partial to added romance, it's not needed.

Mass Effect/Star Wars Roleplay: Not entirely sure of the plot of this one, but I'm looking for someone who wants to write in these universes and explore the galaxy. If it's star wars, I'm partial to the Old Republic and doing odd jobs in the outer and mid rims. If we're doing ME, neither of us are shepard, though one of us could be a specter if you'd like.

Pirate RP: I'm looking for someone who wants to play as a cutthroat Pirate Captain, and I'll play a thief who is shanghai'd into service. It could be set in warhammer fantasy, the conan universe, or in a custom world.

Bandit/Cabal RP: Trapped under the tower by an evil wizard because we were exiles and criminals, we escape his slums, recruit men or allies to our cause, and raid, pillage, plunder and otherwise pilfer our weasely black guts out. Essentially the land version of the pirate one.

Swords and Silver: The Southern Contracts

All around Torm was screaming and fire and death. Knights knocked standing torches into tents and pummeled aside the haphazard resistance they had been greeted with so far, elbowing into pavillions and slaying half-dressed men as they hurriedly attempted to arm themselves. Torm knew a few scholars and noble men who would call the slaughter dishonorable, and perhaps they were right. A man had to follow his Captain's orders and fight alongside his brothers, to refuse that would also call for disgrace. Better to choose the shame that ensured victory than that of defeat. Better to paint the tent canvases with the blood of their enemies than stain the ground with your own. It had to be done, and they did it with brutal efficiency.

The sentries that had been posted had fought bravely, having run forward to defend the camp at the first charge, but they were spread too thin to form a line or any organized resistance. The Knights and dwarves had run through them, shattering spear hafts and breaking skulls. Torm had grappled a spear with a horizontal shove of his own polearm and impaled the first patrol through his chest, the watchman's padded jack unable to repel the spike at the head of his poleaxe. Another sentry fell to the right, his leg cut off from a clean chop of Gunir's axe. It took only half a minute for the remainder of them to flee to gather help, leaving this section of the camp undefended save for its bewildered inhabitants.

Torm and his men had scattered to wreak havoc as the dwarves took a different approach. The dwarves now walked together, no longer needing to guide the cavaliers through the gloom of night. The stout folk had formed a shield wall and moved with a slow, methodical march, shouting 'hoo! hoo!' with every heavy step. Torm watched them press forward three 'lanes' away from him, seeing them move like they were a great turtle. Their shields stuck with quarrels and arrows, the dwarves lifted them at regular intervals by a call from Gunir, donderbus gun barrels bare and discharging into the handfuls of men who had the bravado to rush them before the shields closed again as the riflemen reloaded. Torm marveled at the precision of their drill for a brief moment, almost missing the movement to his left. He flinched and turned, a man decked out in a brigandine and an open faced sallet running at him with a flanged mace raised over his head, having hoped to catch him by surprise.

Torm raised his left arm, striking the haft of the mace with his armguard to halt the percussive force of the head mid-swing. He swung with his poleaxe in his right, but it was an awkward blow, doing little but banging into the side of his enemy's chestplate with the haft of the weapon. Likely it stung, but left no wound. "Silver Sword bastard!" His opponent spat, drawing back the mace for another strike. On instinct, Torm threw his head forward, the front of his greathelm smashing into the bare face of the soldier. Blood spattered from his broken nose, Torm using the pause to hook the fellow's leg with the hammer of his weapon and yanked back powerfully. The soldier fell onto his back, concussed. Torm moved his weapon in a circuitous movement, whipping it around to lift over his own head with a great swing, and the last thing the soldier saw in this world was Torm's axehead chopping down at his exposed face. Alongside him, sir Rennek of Waterwood with his longsword and a ferocious Mamluk of their outfit named Suleman fought a furious duel against three heavily armored soldiers armed with halberds. Torm tried to pull his poleaxe free, but the blade had bit into the steel of the man's sallet.

"Fuck," He breathed, pulling at it yet again. It wrenched, but not free. He let go of the weapon and pulled out his rondel dagger as he moved in to aid them. Suleman's macework was like a dance, sundering the helm of a man even as Sir Rennek was himself wounded by the axeblade of a halberd biting into the mail on his arm. He cried out and thrust his sword in defense, trying to find a weak spot in his foe's armor. More men came from around the burning tents past the melee, figures half obscured by smoke and flame. Torm had limited vision in his helmet as was-

Sparks suddenly filled his eyes, and he felt a pressure below his visor-line. He glanced down to see a new dent in his breastplate where his liver was, raising his head to see the source was a pistolier scowling at him, moving to reload. He thanked the gods for his many near-misses tonight, and asked for their continual favor. Torm picked up the pace, charging not at the pistolier past the men, but the melee itself. The enemy men saw him coming to aid and flinched, Suleman laughing and taking the chance to press his advantage, weaving his mace around his defenses to splinter the shaft of the halberd. Torm was satisfied with his feint, subtly altering his bullish course to swerve right and rush the gunman. He wouldn't wear his armor if it wasn't bullet proof. Every breastplate was tested with a pistol shot from twenty yards away. But a bullet, a bolt, even an arrow could potentially pierce the thinner parts of his armor, and sometimes armor simply failed. He didn't give the pistolier a chance to fully reload, dropping the powder in his barrel just as Torm stabbed him through the eye with his rondel dagger. Juices and blood ran down the fops face as his legs gave way and he hit the dirt.

His victory was short-lived, however. Crossbow quarrels began to fly sporadically across the narrow streets of the camp and more of the enemy began to appear, stabbing and hacking at his men exiting tents or making their way across the battleground, vainly trying to group up with their brethren. Torm ran back to his poleaxe, placing his foot on the ruined face of the mace-man and finally pulling it free after another two tugs. Small measure it was. He watched with shock as Hugh of Auvergne was killed by an arrow to the neck on his first glance up, and across the tents he saw the body of what he guessed was once Frankfurt Swordhand, an axe having pierced his breastplate and his helmet sundered by the blow of some blunt weapon. He suddenly felt a sharp, stabbing pain at his hip. An arrow hung loosely from his chainmail between the gaps of plate. Gently he closed his hand around the arrow haft and pulled it free, but a warm, wet sensation told him he was bleeding freely. Idly he realized they needed to gather together. Their momentum was fading.

"To me!" Torm cried as shadows moved just outside his vision, certain it was troops gathering to repel their advance. He did something risky and pulled off his greathelm, raising his voice over the din. "To me! Silver Swords to me!"

Suleman and the wounded Rennek approached, having just slayed their couple of soldiers. He saw sir William the Brave and Gascony Broadfellow, Rudi the Broad with his great hammer and Sir Brace, Knight of Thunder move into his field of vision from out of the smoke. John Hangman approached, bloodied but alive with Dimitris the Cataphract with his feathered helm and his doubled headed axe. As the moments passed, more and more of his cavaliers joined him as he continued to shout. Two dozen had gathered by the time his voice was hoarse, and he set them to form a line before placing his helm back on. A few scattered knights continued to appear, but Torm's eyes were on the enemy before them, who had now appeared within his eyeline. He felt fear grip him when he bore witness to the numberless ranks of halberdiers and crossbowmen marching with iron breastplates and grim faces toward their position. Torm couldn't see the end of the line from the left or the right. There must have been hundreds of them, roughly set in the size of a company. Even with the flames and the death toll they had wrought on the enemy, Torm and his men were still heavily outnumbered. Where the dwarves were, he didn't know, but they had as good a chance of surviving as any. The cavaliers needed to worry about themselves.

"Weapons forward!" He called, raising his poleaxe and lowering it as a lance. The men around him followed his movements, helms closed and heads down. A few of them gave great, wet coughs, but none of them fled.

"We are with you, sir! To the death!" Gregor the Bold yelled.

"We will hit them at the center and break them!" Torm called, knowing what he said was not possible. The line before them was growing stronger and more thick with men by the moment. All they would do would pierce the line just to get surrounded. But this entire escapade was his idea, and none of the men would run if he did not. He clenched his jaw, preparing to order the advance.

A huge explosion suddenly erupted from behind the enemy line like an awakened volcano. The shockwave flew across the camp, wavering flames and whipping tent flaps in unison. It caused the enemy to stumble, and even Torm felt the breeze fly through his visor to kiss his skin. The halberdiers and crossbowmen and what swordsmen they had began to falter, heads turning back to look at the destruction. Wood fell in splintered heaps and even a cracked bronze lamp struck the ground from the dark sky, clattering across the camp floor to roll at a stop at Torm's feet.

"Now." Torm said, and realized this was their one chance. He began to move forward, his march transforming into a run. "Now! Go!"

"For glory!" Someone cried, and the armored mass of thirty cavaliers charged headlong toward the now confused and uncertain enemy. Torm raised his hand and the men formed a wedge, as if they were on their bardic warhorses. With smoke around them, hiding their low numbers, the enemy who still gazed forward flinched with apprehension. From the sky, it would look like a great arrowhead flying towards the faltering ripples of a cloth. Torm and his men hit the line and broke it in seconds, shoving aside their polearms and shouldering the enemy to the dirt. It would take minutes of hard battle, but Torm and his men slew thrice their number in the clamor and confusion. Now thinking they were surrounded on all sides and seeing the audacity of the bloodied knights, the Priest-Queen's company brokw, scattering across the camp in small, frightened herds as the knights continued to trash the camp and take what hostages they could, finding three lieutenants and their entourage amongst the rubble.

Ill Met in Ostland

"Quite." He strained, shaking from the pain and weakly gripping his arm. He had very little left in his emotional reserves, and so he rested his laurels on his usual snark. "W-why did not I think of that?"

It was plain from his voice he was ghastly tired and had nearly passed out from the pain. Even now his eyes were listless and half closed, the merchant's breathing ragged. He nearly pitched over onto the ground, but Natasha caught him by his shoulders and helped lower him to the ground. He did his best not to yelp and actually managed it for the duration of her aid. Where they were, he couldn't say. It wasn't dreadfully cold, but the rain hadn't helped and he felt goosebumps on his limbs from the lack of heat. Marius must have passed out for a few moments, because one moment he saw Natasha looked at him and the next moment she had teleported a few feet to the left, now laying down a bundle of relatively dry sticks to start a fire. He groaned, pressing his good shoulder against the barrel to help him sit up a bit straighter.

"What next?" He asked her sluggishly.

"Now we make fiyer." She told him, pragmatic as ever. The woman had pulled out a box of tinder and flint and began to chip it together, small sparks flying into the dead limbs. Seconds passed and she cursed, evidently unsatisfied with how it was going. Lazily he looked away from her slender form to around the rundown stone bower they found themselves in. The windows no longer held glass, but despite the cold he found he liked the scent of the rain. Small bits of dirt and leaves had been strewn across the ground, likely from the winds, and huge cobwebs formed along the ceiling and the corners that met the walls. A sizeable and strangely shaped shadow clung on the opposite end of the room, colored slightly darker than the drab stone. He squinted, and realized to his horror it was no shadow. It was a bloody spider the size of a hound!

"N-Natasha!" He stammered, and pointed at it when he had her attention. She swung her eyes to the corner and uttered something in her native language, followed by "shit!" The woman grabbed her carbine, knelt on a knee and aimed right at its center thorax, before firing. There was a large squelching sound, followed by an alien scream as purple ichor oozed out of the wound. Only then did the spider begin to move, scuttling across the wall with an uneasy gait due to the wound. Natasha unsheathed her sword, but another gunshot rang out. She looked back at the merchant, Marius dropping his smoking pistol to clatter to the floor. The bullet had hit the beast but had still failed to kill it. The spider had fallen to the ground, now on its back, its multitude of legs furiously gnashing all around it as it made a terrible whine.

Natasha didn't let it right itself, leaping over to the monster and piercing it between each of its set of eyes with her saber. It shuddered in its death throws before closing up into a ball and remaining very still. She stabbed it again for good measure, but it made no moves or sounds after she pulled out her sword.

"I'm not eating that thing," Marius told her, coughing. He felt ill, though whether from the cold or just a side effect of his wounds, he couldn't say.

"Too bed, I maek meen spider stew." She quipped, wiping her blade on a handcloth she had ready. He smiled despite himself. The woman was starting to grow on him. She was as tough as any ostland halberdier and could drink a dwarf to a stand still, but past her rustic nature, she was clever. Not to mention she had saved his life multiple times by now.

"What I meant earlier was, 'what do we do once we make it back'?" Marius corrected, wincing at a small jab of pain that flared up. Even after an hour of riding in the rain, he couldn't get the smell of smoke and burning human flesh out of his nostrils. It was quite dreadful. "But I think I know. Pay that bastard back for trying to get us killed."