Shienvien

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Jordan Forthey

The damned thing did explode.
In a manner of speaking, anyway. Having narrowly missed Jordan's follow-up, the wraith slid back and clattered against the wall next to the door, before abruptly throwing parts of itself back at them even as he began to run after it. The two shards aimed at him exploded harmlessly against the truncheon he held in front of himself to block, not even scratching the steel on his arm and chest; the final shard he had tried to bat out of air managed to pass through unhindered. Perhaps because he had instinctively closed his eyes to avoid an errant bit of shattered porcelain or a smack of dust just incidentally happening to go past his defenses and hitting him in the eye regardless. Leave it to uncontrolled debris to find the parts of him that just happened to not be covered in metal, and it would probably happen... Surely.
Thankfully, his new acquaintance managed to block it herself. Jordan could only vaguely register her instructing him to finish the wraith off before the divine made its next move. In the interim, Jordan had moved another three steps closer.
Whether it decided to rush him, slip by, or try and lunge for the less metal-clad woman behind him, it made no difference. The practical result was the same: the wraith leapt at his right side, giving him just enough time to carry his weight over to his left, leading foot and perform a quarter-turn, simultaneously arcing both of his truncheons to the right, effectively replacing his right side on the pottery-wraith's path with two horizontally swung truncheons to its face and what approximated its torso.

Sir Yanin Glade

Having sent the first ghoul to its knees and hands and disarmed the other, the human knight looked down at the blanket-wraith, raising up not unlike a snake warning one to stay away. To his side, the dark one chanted in a quiet voice, hands weaning patterns, and behind, a ghoul and a wraith were busy making themselves a new head of green mist and new arm respectively.
For a fleeting moment, the cobra and the Viper watched one another, one rearing, the other motionless and prepared to strike. Flame swallowed the former, prompting the disarmed ghoul to leap to the side. The dark one seemed capable enough to handle this one, too, if need be. Unfinished business elsewhere.
The first ghoul was finally back on its feet, beginning to move faster now that Lhirinthyl recalled his iron needle. The Viper struck to the other side, one additional stride, sword brought diagonally up to sever the ghoul's unrotected, empty arm and meet the silver sword in the other, flat to edge, blocking it as Yanin took another stride closer, too close to effectively disengage, truncheon brought down through the ghoul's new semblance of a head, ramming into its body like a pick.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Sir Yanin Glade

Briefly, fleetingly, there was a pressure upon his hand and arm, fruitlessly trying to yank it back. It yielded abruptly, in a snapping, crunching tear as the ghoul's head was all but removed entirely. Mostly decapitated, it began to stumble as its feet found the stone.
It didn't have a couple of seconds to try and regain its footing. In a quarter of one after its sword hit the stone of the floor, the truncheon, having arced back even as the ghoul still amid its newly-beheaded stumble, would have its end slammed into the ghoul's center-back, hard into its spine. If the first contact had partially halted its progression deeper into the hall, then the second one made sure the ghoul fell further into the hall, spine presumably cracked and silver sword clanging against the manor floor.
Even if it still had the articulation and presence of mind to try and take a reflexive swipe at him, it would have been too far, too late. Assuming it had been thrown down, even its feet would be a couple meters from his, its arms and torso safely out of reach, and too far away compared to more immediate threats to be the first priority for going after.
The second ghoul on this side of the stairs had taken four more running strides down the stairs in the interim, rushing forward with abandon, with the fabric-based wraith just two flops behind.
The knight's weight shifted to the foot facing his other two adversaries, truncheon held low to the side, longsword held high. Briefly, the end of the truncheon referred to the unassuming figure of the blanket-wraith making its way down the stairs. Clumsy as it might have appeared, it was a living rope, or an obstruction to be cast over the unwary while the others cut them down. Potentially annoying.
"Burn it," he stated - an instruction, perhaps. Or more of a recommendation. You always maintained a plan for handling things on your own. As he said the words, the ghoul took three more strides.
Close enough.
One stride forward, turn of wrist, and a precise strike from below, aimed at the ghoul's lower sword-arm, truncheon as if incidentally raised to block the silver sword from parrying the steel one. Barring the ghoul displaying some momentum-defying stunt or swordmanship beyond what most trained humans could muster, it was going to be a hand short for the rest of its brief stay in the mundane realm.
And just as quickly, Yanin would retract his final stride, quarter-turn, and arc the sword down to low guard while the truncheon remained waist-level. Out of the way from direct rush, and prepared for what he suspected was to come.

Somewhere behind and to the side of him, Jordan took the third step forward since the wraith just about missed having its second arm demolished, into the two shards flung at him, even as his left arm swung out in an attempt to bat the third one aimed at the dark-skinned woman out of the air. The two trained on him shattered into dozens of smaller pieces and a minuscule cloud of dust upon impacting the truncheon he held in his right, the little porcelain bits pattering against his vambrace and chestplate.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Jordan Forthey

The dark-skinned woman had taken a step back as the wraith approached, but halted her retreat and took a glance in Jordan's direction as he engaged, evidently encouraged by the support. She definitely looked like she could hold on her own in a fight ... although this particular kind of foe was perhaps a bit of a deviation from what she was used to dealing with. Actually, he wouldn't have an idea of what she would be used to be dealing with, now would he?
In any case, her continued presence put him slightly more at ease (just not so much at ease to be unaware of his surroundings). He had been prepared to take on the animated pottery on his own, just in case, but nevertheless it would be harder for the wraith to fight two opponents at once. And it would be good to have backup if one of the other wraiths or ghouls managed to disengage from the others for long enough to try and flank him.
He had continued forward, even as his new acquaintance's sabre switched hands and she pulled a secondary blade and readied herself, even as the wraith turned its glowing eyes onto him and ... stopped? Jordan's truncheon made contact regardless, tearing away the cleaver and a significant fraction of its makeshift arm.
Don't you dare explode or something, the squire mentally noted, instinctively concerned by the new course of action. He kept the truncheon and right arm up, just in case, protecting both the arm holding the weapon and his head and neck further behind it.
With the same momentum from his first swing, he redirected the second truncheon in his left, aiming to take out the wraith's second arm and weapon in an upward swing, and, should that, too, prove successful, preparing to carry the same sequence of motions forward still, and horizontally bash the thing's head in. Fast, before it could seriously retaliate, with maybe only half a second between the hits.

Sir Yanin Glade

The deigan didn't truly take his advice, though he was certainly doing something after his declaration of it all being a distraction ... and that "something" turned out to be attempted everything. We'll be faster is we coordinate, the part of him that had gotten quite used to having people actually listening grumbled, though this time he didn't speak up, just silently focusing on his next actions and the motion in the entire room instead.
He stood ready, just a couple of meters from the foot of the stairs, both weapons prepared. Needles flew, the table Freagon was fighting stumbled and fell, the ghouls were stung, but only briefly inconvenienced, as was the cumbersome blanket-wraith, much to Yanin's annoyance. It did look potentially bothersome to fight when the thing that cut and the thing that could properly harm that particular foe were two separate pieces of equipment.
Lhirinthyl seemed about ready to leave the second half of the stairs, even as the ghouls all continued their descent, perhaps assuming Freagon would take over now that the second table seemed essentially dead, perhaps just careless, but at this time, one of those Yanin himself was facing decided to take a leap of faith, barring him from immediately drawing attention to it.
It was a blatant attack - not caring for its temporary host's bones, unpredictability or physics. In a manner that seemed deceptively relaxed, the human knight simply moved two strides away and to the side, sword kept in a high parry even as the hand with the truncheon briefly swung out at the passing foe, with the combined forces of the somewhat misguided jump and the swing making the narrow metal rod liable to simply decapitate the ghoul's body, unarmored and beginning to soften from the excess divine energy as it was.
Somewhere in the background, Deo'Irah noted that the main threat was somewhere to the west now. First floor? Second floor? Mentally, Yanin cross-referenced the information with the window he had heard the crying from.
This was not over here, however, for even without a head, broken bones and bent sword, ghouls could still thrash around and try to deliver a final blow, and he had two more foes to deal with. He was now about four meters from the foot of the stairs, to the left of them, ready to move in almost any direction; the pottery-wraith was to the right side and behind, the blanket-wraith mid-stairs, and the third former witch-hunter preparing to follow the second after apparently having pulled the iron nail from his leg.
The truncheon was ready again, and the sword had never ceased to be so.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Sir Yanin Glade

The ornate carpet was more stubborn than the water-wraith, perhaps owing to its more solid structure, and persisted even as its liquid kin burst under Jordan's follow-up blow and permitted the squire to retrieve the final truncheon.
Aside of the people, walls, and the identified wraiths, only the large picture on the back wall of the room and a chandelier remained. From what they'd seen up to this point, it would have been very alike these critters' typical mode of operation to simply wait for someone to walk under the damn thing and just drop itself onto its target. The image was both more, and less conspicuous - he saw it, of course, with its size and comparative prominence, though he didn't necessarily pay much thought to it other than panning it for change having occurred between passes, or current motion.
The presumed witch-hunter, not content with remaining stood back in the corner he'd been forced into, had begun making his way over to them. As Yanin had no bloody clue if it was aggression towards Lhrinthyl, the carpet-wraith, his escape plan or some other concoction of his delirious mind, it was best to keep him out of the fight. Unfortunately for him, it didn't appear that he was able, or willing to, react to being directly addressed, which meant that the knight would have to physically stop him before he did something stupid or harmful.
Concurrently, even with several strains of chatter enduring behind their backs (so these were presumably frentits, and the summoner was overloaded with magical energy), one of those behind him rushed forth, prompting a split-second division of attention as the human-knight assessed who it was and what his intentions were, ultimately snapping to simply not intervening. The nightwalker in shining armor could do it. That worked, too. A bit flashier than his own usual style, and a bit more distributed in its priorities.
Ghoul? Corpse-wraith. How'd he reckon? Should ask, just in case there were more - this one in particular didn't appear to have any injuries outright incompatible with life, nor apparent decay from divine energy. Wounded people were often irrational and liable to disregard their own injuries until later; the human knight had personally seen a man run through with a sword and seemingly not even realize until someone pointed it out.
The dark one proceeded to move forth, burning the soul out of the table-wraith, the deigan man finished off the last of the carpet's will to remain motile and the healer provided what further insight she could. She guessed thalk ... liable to throw magic at them, then. Tall. Red skin. Deo'Irah said it'll only get more powerful ... full summoning would mean that at least another would have died.
"If you don't have a location, we can go through the rooms one by one. Stay-" Lhirinthyl was chanting for another spell, but the crackles and subsequent warning actually gave the human knight a pause, though not quite enough time for him to get a word in before the room filled with blinding light.
"There at least eight more of the bastards," Yanin snapped a reminder. He had already been about to, and was completely devoid of respect for dramatic pauses.
Eight more enemies that hadn't been all but completely incapacitated. One of them much more dangerous than the others. This disorganized mess will run themselves dry before they even found it...

Jordan Forthey

Jordan had reflexively closed his eyes at the first flash of light (leaving a slight yellowish after-image in his right eye), only to immediately and reflexively twitch at the shriek behind his back, turning to look what happened as soon as the reddish haze of the blinding light as seen through his eyelids went out. And then immediately winced as he saw Jaelnec recoiling; light like that probably hurt nightwalkers quite a lot...
Not that he was given much time to contemplate, since along with Sir Yanin's notion of them being nowhere near done here, everything seemed to start pouring out additional wraiths. Would the black-skinned woman have enough time to conjure up a new spell before the wraith reached her? Just regular sabre wouldn't be too useful against a wraith, would it now? Sir Freagon and the deigan mage ... were probably less likely to need help. Or his master, now that he was rushing forward, too.
Making a snap decision, Jordan rushed forward along with both of his borrowed truncheons, to try and bash the cleaver from the wraith's hand as he reached the stranger's side, left arm reaching out for the hit and the right being ready to block.

Sir Yanin Glade

Three more conglomerations of miscellaneous furniture and houseware burst forth, along with four more humans in various states of severe injury who, based on the timing, were most likely ghouls. Seven. Unless the summoner had called for more - a possibility worth remembering -, this was all of the minor entities. Along with the first, excessively dispatched ghoul, and the potential summoning-sacrifice, that was also all but the summoner herself confirmed dead. (So it had been her crying? Hadn't seemed like a Melenian voice.)
For the five of them engaged, that was luckily not much over one opponent each even assuming none of the others in the armory wished to join in. The dark one and Jordan seemed to be handling the pottery-wraith, from the brief display earlier Freagon was probably capable enough to figure out how to deal with the charging bull of a table, which left the five up there for him and Lhirinthyl, at least until either of the two other parties failed or succeeded at dispatching their respective divines.
"Take the right," he suggested at the male deigan - more metal, less of it silver. So that was the former witch-hunters and the animated bedclothing for him to deal with. The former would likely fight mostly like humans - slightly weaker humans with less physical integrity you probably needed to bludgeon to paste with iron to make sure they truly stopped their attempts of continuing to fight - the latter was probably going to try to net, tangle and strangle. Not impossibly by jumping at them from above.

Yanin drew the longsword in one smooth motion as the wraiths started to come rushing down the stairs, keeping the truncheon in his left as he moved forth (still avoiding the chandelier), blade ready to slice any parachuting wraiths in two before they would be clubbed back by iron. He'd need to use both of his weapons in conjunction to dispatch those things effectively. If the wraith continued flopping along the ground rather than taking a leap of faith, it was liable to be still susceptible to being immobilized and cut by force, but slower than the ghouls, who could be dodged, parried and hit as usual.
The steel edge of the human knight's sword was by no means as permanent as one made of sartal, but for the time being it was completely void of blemishes, meticulously honed, sharpened and oiled, sharp enough to quite effortlessly cut hair.
The ghouls, if they reached him first, were liable to lose their sword and corresponding arm - gruesome, but this time, there was the confidence they were already dead and gone -, then get their heads bashed in. He'll be meeting them a short distance from the base of the stairs.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Jordan Forthey

Amid the many things going on, the deigan couple, the two nightwalkers - the younger of whom seemed friendly enough, if a bit shy, and the older of whom had every bit of the approachability Sir Yanin had, along with seemingly similar amount of love for chatter.
It had taken a few years to get used to the thought that his (back then future) master was not actually an intrinsically violent man, just exceptionally capable at fighting. And distrustful. And duty-bound. And about as hopeless with being socially agreeable as he was intelligent and liable to remember everything ever said and done. It remained to be seen if it was any similar with Sir Freagon, but something in the look was immediately similar.
Granted, the tall human knight was currently fairly talkative for himself, seeing how he had a specific task to focus on, a task that required coordinating. Jordan suspected that it had something to do with tactics being approachable with sheer logic, no emotion of innate understanding of empathy required. Almost as if people were slightly less reliable weapons to be commanded, rather than ... well, people. Once the fight was over and the living weapons returned to being humans and deigan and penin and nightwalkers and assorted other folks, Sir Yanin Glade went back to compensating for cluelessness with borderline paranoia.
If "the boy's" - Jaelnec's - master was anything like his, then some amount of apprehension was understandable. Trust me, I don't even know why am I bothering half the time, either. Three whole years, and it seemed he had no more hope at ever being his master's equal than the day he had started training. At least until the few actual conflicts as a guard came up, and at least somewhat fortified the understanding that the average person knew to fight ... almost not at all. And the average thug was not vastly better, relying on ambush and being bigger, stronger and more armed than the hapless target.
So perhaps not quite as hopeless. He didn't need to be better. He didn't even be as good. He just needed to be good enough. Use the environment. Use every single unfair advantage there was. Isolate your opponents. Never leave line of sight or yourself exposed.

The deigan woman - Deo'Irah - seemed to be faltering. Had she already spent herself healing others? That was ... concerning. Jaelnec seem to have taken to guarding her especially, which was... Well. She was a petite woman, bestowed with the same beauty deigan were famed for, wearing garments that were very from-fitting and a touch too thin for the advancing autumn, and they were essentially marching into battle. It probably wouldn't have taken too much effort from her to make Jordan himself noticeably flustered. Jaelnec was just slightly too obvious about it even without her doing anything. Besides, she already came with a companion.
Once inside, he followed Sir Yanin's example and swapped the spear for a truncheon, only for Lhyrinthil to wander too deep in his assault, be caught, and prompt the knight to grab a second truncheon and rush to intervene before the wraith could just go and snap the mage's neck. By the time Jordan made his own way over to the other side of the door, his master had already thrown the extra lump of metal and retracted to the comparative safety of the manor, causing the animated water to toss the male deigan aside and fall in front of the door.
Driven mostly by the appearance of the lump of fluid close to his feet and vaguely assuming Sir Yanin would be able to counter whatever else tried to lung at him from his high guard with the remaining truncheon from the other side of the door, Jordan took a half-step forward, careful to only expose only his arm and the truncheon to bring the latter down on the barely coherent remnant of the wraith, and, if it dispersed, use its end to swipe the fourth truncheon back into the armory, along with retracting himself and sending a glance behind him, at the little congregation of people who had yet to join the fight - the nightwalkers, Deo'Irah, and the black-skinned newcomer, who appeared equally ready for combat and indecisive.
Lhirinthyl didn't seem to be faring quite as well, as just as he landed on his knee, the carpet came to life and wrapped itself around him.

Sir Yanin Glade

Sir Yanin, ever ready to act upon anything that decided to come for his squire or any other of them, was making a mental list of everything that was in the room, from the two destabilized wraiths, to the third, new one, to the image on the opposing wall, to the brief image he had been able take in as he reached out, to anything that could move freely, from dust to ... hopefully not the walls of the manor itself.
There was a glint of metal in the air; Lhirinthyl's magic still held. Good control. The injured potential witch-hunter moved forward.
"You!" the human knight snapped at him. The glint of metal flashed into the rug. The table was still scampering about. Before anything else happened and if need be, he would have just about enough time to give a single other instruction, or more likely direction - left, right, up, down, halt, back, stop, forward, retreat. With his equipment it was not overly likely one of the wraiths would like to give him a hug, but throwing something at him or magic were still options.
As were, equally and indistinguishably, sheer unadulterated fanaticism and some misguided attempt to help on the other side.

Madara

A big yet empty house indeed. Even with their brief interaction, one could tell that Baroness Vela Bor was still an adventurer at heart, not pampered nobility. Might nevertheless have gotten more than she bargained for when she eventually brought the adventure to her instead.
Madara lightly touched her fingers to the man's shoulder and looked up at him as he explained their situation. Their losses. The unspoken probability that his second colleague might not return, either. Back in the guardhouse, the more combat-oriented types had promised to try and get the healer back. Yet to be seen if they'd be more successful, should the battle be won here.
Her eyebrow raised slightly as he continued to answer her second question, awaiting, until finally expressing... Ah! Naturally, it could be quite important indeed. Could make the lives of those inside quite a bit more interesting.
"Of course it is important," she affirmed - tone more assurance than scolding. But also a tiny sliver of the latter - self-doubt could easily bring men and women to ruin. "If you're right, it could yet beget a much more significant affair, and a lot less reason." Amber eyes narrowed as the half-palanter glanced at the unassuming form of the manor, fingers absently slightly tightening their grip on the man's shoulder. "Thank you."
And just like that, she was gone, her slender and strong figure almost gliding down the short path to the manor.

Inside, the assortment of armored and magical combatants had already engaged; she herself remained by the exterior entrance for the moment, quite content with letting the fighters render the room mostly safe before getting herself further involved.
"Evidently," her voice cut over the ruckus, eyes fixed pointedly on the two nightwalkers, as they seemed to be the least busy out of the lot with the humans and deigan tackling at least three wraiths and barking orders at someone stumbling around further inside, "The little summoner imbibed something as she fled to the upper floor. Might have been piaan. Thought you lot might want to take note of it."

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Sir Yanin Glade (and Jordan Forthey)

Yanin nodded, once and over his shoulder, at Lady Bor's notion that there would be an armory right past the main entrance. Convenient if you wanted to grab some weapons to protect the front door. Potentially almost as convenient if you wanted some extras when entering the manor, which was most likely rather atypical use case for someone on the side of the rightful owners of the manor. This time, odds were ever so slightly in their favor.
No motion that he could see. There was the faint sound of crying from one of the rooms. Seemed more human than Melenian. He made a note of the window.
Deo'Irah whispered something to her companion; he couldn't make out a word. Might have been the same language he had briefly heard from Lhirinthyl earlier. Just as quickly as she was done communicating with the male deigan, she moved over to him, prompting Yanin to half-turn his head and lower himself to mitigate him being nearly a third taller than she was.
”... I sense that you appreciate directness, Yanin, so I will be direct." It, generally, made everyone's life much easier. His especially. Socializing was a game with too many unwritten rules and hidden meanings, rules and implications he didn't instinctively know, but had to learn and consciously spot, or worse, just guess. And hope he was right. At best, people were irritated, at worst, removal of undesirable elements was a definite option for less moral forces. As long as he managed to avoid the latter, how much would be left for the first? "This is, indeed, not my first time…” She was ... smiling? One of those expressions. Probably not happy - there was not much reason to be happy. Friendly, maybe. Polite. ”... the witch-hunters are going to be problematic. You can expect them not to be friendly to us–we should deal with them accordingly.”
What in the Realms have you done? Nothing that had reached his usual outpost in Etlon, that much was certain... Either it was recent and local, which meant she had a transgression that was known to local vigilantes ... but not known enough for the Fadewatchers or Lady Bor and her folks to take immediate notice of her presence. Or there was something on her that would be noticeable. Not just noticeable upon search - some self-appointed activists were not going to have a reasonable excuse to commit to a search when the actual law was present.
No, if she hadn't a reason to suspect these were witch-hunters she had met before, it had to be something one could notice from afar. Yanin himself couldn't, so not a regular unusually perceptive person, and she had not been worried about the Fadewatcher. A skilled mage, then? Mind control? Summoning - like the Melenian? Wild magic? Necromancy? Wasn't necromancy the only one of those that affected one's soul outside of its active use? Seemed most likely. The follower of Reina, of all people, had learned the art of necromancy? Us... We... Both her and Lhirinthyl, then?
The laws were in place for a reason. The mess in the manor was a living proof of it, summoners losing control of their thralls, vigilantes acting without rhyme and reason causing unknown amounts of collateral damage where doing literally nothing might have just maintained the existing state of affairs... Pursuing every transgression in full force was not always to everyone's best interest. At least as long as no harm had been knowingly done to someone innocent.
"Best for you to not draw their attention, then," he simply stated in a low tone, proceeding forth without further comment. Details could be worked out later.
The older nightwalker, armor glinting in colours of more worth than most people saw in their whole lives, had caught up with them in the mean, drawing an equally, if not more impressive sword. It looked silvery, but silver readily tarnished, just ever so subtly too bright to be even the most carefully polished steel. Deo'irah was immediately interested, inquiring about it in Fermian. A rare specialty of true deigan - you could probably buy an entire city for a sartal sword that flawless.

"Miss, are you okay?" Jordan asked somewhere behind Sir Yanin, reflexively halting and holding out his non-spear-bearing arm and hand when it momentarily appeared that she might falter and fall, briefly stopping half a step head of her. Since Jaelnec had self-assigned himself to protect the deigan woman, it briefly appeared that she had spontaneously obtained two bodyguards. After a few seconds, though, Jordan's vaguely concerned eyes going from the deigan to his master, the squire hurried on, even as Deo'Irah turned some of her controlled water to ice and set it down, and Sir Yanin appeared to perform one last check before actually entering the armory, even as Lhirinthyl relentlessly marched forward amid chanting up a spell.

There was no movement in the immediate inside. Deo'Irah commented something about her magic, and twelve angels. That was quite a bit more than Lady Bor had counted, if accurate... Don't draw attention. Useful though the information may be.
The only evidently iron weapons in the room appeared to be four iron truncheons, both himself and Jordan grabbed one after setting their borrowed spears down.
Lhirinthyl didn't bear to wait, and magic swung the double doors open to reveal a bleeding man and a peculiar conglomeration of Lady Bor's currently appropriated furniture, twisting in preparation of facing its previous or new opponent. The injured man's equipment stood out, however - darker, maybe iron. And this sword might actually have been silver. Things to counter magical opponents.
It was not unlikely, then, that this was one of the "witch-hunters" that had contributed to the mess. It might be best to inform Deo'Irah to leave this one to the surgeon, at least until proven otherwise. Lhirinthyl sent a number of small metal projectiles flying into the makeshift body of the table-wraith ... but despite having access to iron projectiles, continued forth into the room, breaking at least a few cardinal rules for winning unstructured combat. Never leave yourself exposed or enter areas without checking them as closely as possible. If possible, fight only one opponent at a time. That was at least two, if not three.
"Sil-" Yanin had began, even as the table-wraith recoiled and- Something grabbed Lhirinthyl. "Ah, fhh-"
He moved immediately, grabbing hold of the final truncheon with his remaining free hand, darting two strides forward forward, left arm with one properly held truncheon moving into high block ready to transition into parry or hit, right drawn back with the other held loosely by the end, taking the final stride into the doorframe, leaving the other foot back and lowering his body - just a glance was enough, at Lhyrinthyl, at the liquid blob trying to reel him in - and the right arm moving forward and up in an facsimile of a vertical axe-throw, aimed at the center-mass of the blob.
As soon as the weight of the weapon was no longer touching his right gauntlet, he was already carrying his weight back onto his trailing foot, quarter-turning and half retreating back behind the doorframe, still ready to deliver a follow-up parry or attack. All in one seamless motion, sent only by the inevitable clinks of metal from the rapid motion and one breath released, and one drawn. In the background, Jordan began to move himself to the other side of the open door.

Taking a kilogram of iron in the face was bound to be rather distracting if you were made of water and intolerant of iron.

Madara

“Ah, yes. The town was attacked during the night, and I...” The man gestured at his thigh. “It's just a flesh-wound, it can wait. I was lucky. I saw a couple of guys get clobbered pretty hard by one of those monsters inside while we escaped, though... they probably need help, if they're still alive.”
Madara winced, softly, compassionately. "We - myself and the deigan follower of Reina - arrived at the guardhouse not long before the bell called for aid." She shook her head. "The three we didn't have time to do much for should be fine for now, but we're going to have to return there. We'll return to you, too." She looked up at the man's face. Trying to determine if she should inquire about the state of the manor more. Maybe a little. Maybe the rest later.
"There have been more people here in days gone, no?" Baroness Vela Bor's entire party. And now? A couple of servants, a couple of guards - maybe a handful of guards before this day. Seemingly hardly any people who were actual friends. Quite sad, in a way. Being old should not mean being stuck to the past.
"I am no fighter - I'm merely a surgeon and a seamstress from a town a bit larger than this one." Madara smiled sadly. "But I will see if I can help anyone in rooms the others have under control. Unless you know something that might help us?"

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Sir Yanin Glade (and Jordan Forthey and Madara)

The male deigan was insistent the riders were not a threat even before they dismounted. Where from that certainty? Even if not conspired, several hostile parties could very well be in one place at the same time. Opportunism. Pick off the stragglers, claim whatever was advantageous, and most people would be none the wiser.
Most people here, at least those who reacted to the summons, were at least somewhat opportunistic. It would have been surprising enough if something like this hadn't already happened before.
Water. Lightning. Yanin simply nodded, sharply, still more focused on any motion that could be detected from the manor grounds, even as Lhirinthyl had made it head, and in a personal-space-defying manner that seemed characteristic to him, started questioning the first guy near the gate. One could only assume that much like the dead fellow in the Fadewatcher station, this one was one of Lady Bor's men.
A short distance back, there were two more humans - apparently domestic staff rather than fighters - and who was no doubt Lady Bor herself. Contrary to the fears of the watchmen back in the guardhouse, she looked to be doing just fine for herself, getting up there in age or not.
He himself was going to let the two other newcomers explain themselves before proceeding, however. The older rider, one-eyed and face more scar than skin, dismounted and took his time replying. The younger guy seemed to be looking from Yanin to his fellow rider - at least judging by the slight back-and forth notching of his head from the two being on opposite sides of one another. Neither of the two had visible sclerae or irides. Nightwalkers, then.
“Freagon, of the Knights of the Will,” the older nightwalker finally said. “The boy is my page. We're here to help.”
Yanin's helmet, being a helmet, quite fittingly had no expression to note, even though there was a good two-second beat. So it was that guy. His claims didn't make sense, but with him displaying equipment that would have made him well set for life if he ever wanted to put down his job, there was hardly any confusing him with any other contenders. The title itself, though? With no one to trulycontest him, the older nightwalker could have simply given it to himself. Not that Yanin couldn't understand the motivation. Titles were useful.
"Sir Yanin Glade," he simply stated. "Lieutenant of Fadewatchers." And promptly seemed to lose all interest in the nightwalkers for the time being, physically turning his attention to the manor, and tangentially to two deigan and the penin, instead.

"Jordan Forthey, squire of the Glades," Jordan offered next to and behind him, looking from Freagon to the "boy" who had not even been bothered to be named. Looked to be around his age, despite, apparently, only being a page still. And both of them were older than when Sir Yanin had been when knighted, although he was admittedly a bit of a special case. He shrugged. "Also a Fadewatcher, as of two years ago."

The others were busy requesting the manor inhabitants for more info, albeit in a rather verbose manner to contrast Yanin's own, rather terse manner of requesting information. It was only wonder people weren't more impatient than they appeared. Or perhaps the residents just hid it too well for Yanin to recognize it wt the best of his ability. Most likely the latter.
How many there were, who or what they were, what could they do... Probably a bit much to ask for the internal outlay of the building at this stage. They'd have to see as they go. Other questions, the two deigan mostly covered. Wraiths - at least four of them, perhaps uncontrolled, though no apparent magic. Yanin took a closer look at the - apparently steel - spear he was looking, and visibly scoffed. Seven guests, including the Melenian summoner and three overactive vigilantes.
"Not the first time?" he said at Irah, in a lowered tone. And, turning his head, mostly at Jordan, though equally loud and clear for anyone else who bothered to listen. "You use iron - the purer the better. Or magic." Much more pragmatic than simply announcing that he had heard about wraiths.

"Is summoning not illegal in Melenia or something?" Jordan asked, brow furrowed. A more socially adept individual might have inferred that is was a mostly rhetorical question rather than one he actually needed an answer to right then an there. Just ... sheer incredulousness at someone being dumb enough to just tell a room full of strangers that you were a summoner in a place were summoning most definitely was illegal.

The dark-skinned individual moved closer, the deep-red eyes looking from one to another as she urged each of them to hurry on before the wraiths could do even more damage. Now that he could see her up close, rather than through the slits of his visor and from more than hundred meters away with both of them running each in their own vaguely converging direction, it was also evident that the ears poking through her hair were long and pointed. Not human, then. Not that it mattered much at this time.
"Are you a fire elementalist?" he inquired, even as he tilted his head to observe the manor's iron fence. "And you're right. We can talk later. If someone has any iron at hand to spare, speak up. If anyone has not prepared something that might convince the wraiths to disperse, do so now. Wraiths can look like anything, as far as I know."
The manor looked still, deceptively peaceful. Door closed. No one close enough to windows to be seen. They'd probably have to breach again.
If no one had anything to offer, he began making his way toward the manor, , Jordan following him, wary and always keeping to the side of the door, keeping his attention divided on all of his surroundings with an almost inhuman diligence. As much as he lacked in making sense of the minute - and not so minute - details of humanoid expressions and intonations, he could notice many other details others missed. Especially if anything moved or made a sound.

A figure in dark green lingered behind, unarmored and apparently mostly unarmed - save for a dagger and a set of surgical implements.
"You're injured," she stated at the large man in brigandine armor as she sashayed closer, low voice quiet. "Is anyone else?"
It was a big manor for just a handful of people. She was moderately well-off herself - but she shared a much smaller two-storey building with two other business fronts with their owners' and their families' living quarters on the upper floor.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Jordan Forthey

The deigan woman obtained a mien of acute exasperation and closed her eyes, seemingly trying to reconstitute herself. "He is my bodyguard and traveling companion, and he’s going to the Manor to investigate. You should follow, we have the situation in ha–”
Well, if his approach to investigating was the same as informing his companion-
Neither of them were given time to finish their thoughts before a bell rang out, loud, frantic. The expressions on the faces of the locals left no doubt in the nature of the sound. Well. Damn.
And how in the Realms had he known about it half a dozen seconds before the alarm was raised?
"Right," Jordan muttered, not even waiting for Sir Yanin to explicitly confirm that they were going to join in, making a quarter turn to sprint after the male deigan. His master was moving, too, and hadn't told or motioned him to stop, so ... there he had it.
"Mister!? I am coming with- " He didn't know either of the deigan's names, did he? Hoof-falls were gaining rapidly on them.
"Careful!" he shouted at the male deigan as he gritted his teeth and drew to the side just in time for the two horsemen to be able to come galloping through.
He was not entirely sure if he should permit those ones past, but nevertheless not entirely certain that they weren't the sorts who would try to trample him - or the male deigan. If you didn't care too much about the horse's well-being, or if the horse was driven or panicked enough to not care, hooves could do some serious harm, atop of them just being big enough to be quite persuasive. At other times, a hose might dance around and refuse to move forward an inch just because there was a leather cord on the ground. Horses were a bit weird like that.
In either case, a longsword was not the best tool to stop any number of horses galloping right towards you. Maybe if you swiped them from the side... What were the odds these two were just riding nearby when the bell rang, as opposed to being some kind of flanking operation?
Behind and to the side of him, there were a couple more people pouring out of the Fadewatcher station, his master ahead, the Reina's follower nearly on his heels; Jordan himself had just about made it to the corner of the wrought iron fence surrounding the manor's gardens, momentarily leaning to survey the manor surroundings through the rods as he was trying to formulate a course of action.
Sir Yanin caught up and half-tossed him a spear to supplement his own sword and dagger. He would probably hear a comment about how that was why his master himself often traveled in full armor to unfamiliar places... But later. Now was for hurrying the rest of the way along the fence, after his master.

Sir Yanin Glade

The older local Fadewatcher saluted, and gave a rough report of what had happened, though a lot of it was confirming what they already knew or suspected. They had better assume there were at least sixteen. Perhaps to the northeast - didn't seem to be the kind to obfuscate their tracks. Mixed bunch, variably equipped - if their weapons and armor weren't looted, it was nevertheless bound to be each providing for themselves. So it wasn't high-grade professionals - though they could've been nevertheless contracted by someone with more backing power.
The tail not returning spoke of either distances or one more being added to this day's count. Following them with what few men the locals had left would have been a futile endeavor. It wasn't, strictly taken, impossible, that said Bor's man tracking them had found something worth spying on, but odds were, not probable. If he wasn't the sort to try and free the - not unlikely injured - healer on his own. Proverbial poking of the hornet's nest.
Remembering that he hadn't replied, only listening intently, Yanin slowly nodded as the watchman finished explaining their reasoning. And was subsequently distracted by the little altercation near the door. Since Jordan hadn't felt the need to draw a weapon, he had halted himself at 'ready to,' body half-turned and hand on hilt. Let someone do the explaining. The language the deigan man had spoken, though - it was uncanny. He might have been only able to speak two, but he should have been able to at least recognize any from the surrounding regions.
It bothered him.
The deigan woman specified that the other deigan was with her, just about, before an alarm cut in and the local Fadewatcher sputtered something about the baroness.
"They're back," Yanin concluded, head notching up like that of a hound which had just heard something in the distance, his somewhat flattened affect making it hard to determine whether it was a question or a statement of fact. "Or their employer is." Either way, the trouble had returned.
He moved, paying no heed to the looks of terror or the reiteration of the baroness's importance, only briefly half-kneeling down to pick up two of the spears from other discarded weapons and miscellaneous bits of armor near the door.
"I am borrowing these," he informed the locals as he vanished beyond the door.

In the streets, people were emerging and disappearing into the buildings; two horsemen galloping by, a dark figure who was either the most southern human he had ever seen or an inhuman kind not seen in these lands for centuries rushing out from the winery a short way further down from the manor, Jordan sprinting after the male deigan, his female companion, the healer following on Yanin's own trail, bursting forth copious amounts of water from a nearby well and floating the mass of fluid overhead as if it were a second nature to her.
Combat-healer? It didn't take a large amount of water in someone's face to choke them. Not very immediately lethal, but rather disabling even without killing. Fast enough, hot enough, frozen enough, and there were many more ways water could turn a tide.
"Your companion," he insisted in a low tone as he tossed the extra spear to Jordan and the Reina's follower caught up. "What kind of magic does he wield?" Could be important. Either for tactical advantage, or to know to stay cautious.
As the follower of Reina had already seen to questioning the intent of the foreigner from the winery, he turned a fraction of his attention to the two horsemen even as he rapidly gained upon the gate and observed whatever motion in the manor garden or windows he could through the bars of the fence, "And you. Identify yourself."
He didn't like armed strangers of unknown allegiance behind his back if he were to make his way (in)to a building under attack. Didn't help that the fence was hardly a cover in either direction, though one near would have easier time shooting through without hindrance.

Madara

Not being one to stay deterred by miscellaneous distractions for long, Madara gently tilted the Fadewatcher's head back to inspect his injured jaw ... only to be distracted again, this time by a ringing bell. An eyebrow arched in her face as the man under her fingers stilled, eyes widening in quite the horrific realization. The follower of Reina sent her an inciting look, even as the Fadewatchers panicked. She could appreciate a person who could keep her calm. No good came from a surgeon or healer that lost her head as soon as blood began to flow.
None of the three (four, if you counted the Fadewatcher the knight had been talking to) they were yet to tend to were bound to suffer from abrupt death in the next few hours. It appeared the general consensus was that a healer might be much more urgently some hundred meters to the south.
"I will be returning to you as soon as I am able," she noted, drawing back the fingers she had been running along the man's jaw.
She wouldn't be needing her backpack; not much use of her spare tunic or waxen tent-cloth, nor her food. Most of her medical supplies were contained in the large pouches to her sides, and the bandages she'd already extracted from its depths. Just the bandages and the larger bottle in addition to the supplies already in her pouches or on her arm or belt, then.
Both in hand, she rose, tying the third, fabric bag to her belt and fitting the bottle in a pouch. She was ready to head out, following on the others' trail.

From Downfall ReRisen

Day ??? of year 384 Post-Downfall
74:04:75 LNT (early evening)
Sunstorm imminent

The Lone Survivor

Interrogation was ... easy. It might have been such in the most technical sense, but the mechanics of it remained the same. Someone asked questions. He answered. Simple. Only this time, there were no gunmen behind his back, the person was in front of him mattered rather than being a slightly shinier cog in the grinder, and most importantly, everyone was probably at least half as clueless as he was. So that was new.
Much like before, he disconnected his helmet from the fest of his armor, unlatched it, and carefully pulled it over his head, keeping it on his lap for security. Unlike before, he was at least inside - not that the shack would have stopped even the pickup they drove in on -, but it still felt odd. Vulnerable. As if he had lost half his senses.
He had technically lost half his senses, hadn't he? Too quiet, too loud, too bright, too dim, unable to see heat or EM. But he couldn't exactly eat or drink without removing it.
“The drone was too big to be a bug, too small to be a manned vehicle, and it can't have been remote-controlled during the sunstorm. So it's probably the thing to the west.”
The thing to the west... "There might be at least two. The thing to the west. Or, at the very least, it has two different kinds of units; we were ordered to fall back in either case. They stressed the importance of not letting anyone take hostages. It reads minds." He had promised to tell what he knew. The young renegade's eyes were slightly unfocused as he tried to recall what might have been relevant.
"Before - my first four years out of twelve [[1.24 and 3.72 Earth-years]] - there were cyborgs. Half-human, half-machine. They fought hard, but they were already few by that point. As far as I know, they're all gone. That land is now divided between Trenians and Anderekians to the north."

If anything, there were too many questions. "Kay-Gee told me some things about life is here usually. At best I could have managed on my own until I ran out of bullets and a direstalker figured it out. I would be fine living as a civilian or soldier in a different faction. I wouldn't know how to begin asking questions. Besides one, anyway. I'm here - now what?"
As he asked that, his head suddenly snapped to attention, gray-blue eyes in a still-youthful face focusing directly on Gramps. He hadn't come here just to die a different death for no good reason. He doubted anyone living here lived here to die a pointless death, either. Hide. Run. Fight. He only knew how to fight, and 'hide' had already failed. But where would they run?
He wasn't going to sit there and be blown up, he knew as much.

74:21:75 LNT

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Jordan Forthey

The small true deigan in the white garb of Reina quickly brushed past him, quietly mouthing 'thank you' before vanishing into the comparatively dim interior of the building, leaving her companion hanging a couple meters back, directly in front of human Fadewatcher guarding the door.
If the deigan woman, slight as she had been next to the human, had been about exactly the average height for their race, then the deigan man had evidently taken after whichever parent of his was ascended, as he stood nearly a head taller, albeit frailer. He was still almost half a head shorter than Jordan in turn, though, and though the human squire tended towards wiriness rather than sheer bulk, his armored frame was nevertheless significantly broader than that of the other.
The mostly-ascended deigan however lacked the healer's garb, and left a bit more haggard impression - as well as being armed. If his slight frame wouldn't have been able to take on much punishment otherwise, the hilt of the sword he was carrying rather heavily implied he didn't rely on strength, speed and endurance alone to fight. What he had was a rune sword - he was a magical fighter, then, and if the dark circles under his eyes were any indication, perhaps made more use of magic than was strictly taken healthy for him. And if Sir Yanin were to be cited, the mage you should worried about the most was often the one who looked the worst off - mages could be a bit counter-intuitive like that. Showed that they didn't mind damaging their body on their path to greatness, or had been too desperate to care many a time.
The deigan was staring at him a touch too intently for comfort, still gripping his sword as if ready to brandish, but not really doing much beside that. It should have been rather obvious what Jordan himself was doing. He looked like a Fadewatcher sans tabard and some pieces of his full armor, and was stood there blocking the door. He had long since dropped his hand from his sword, but the staring with hand-on-hilt of the other was getting a bit uncomfortable ... in a weird way, though, it was not dissimilar to how his master could sometimes stare someone down (or ignore them) without any real meaning to it.
One could assume the deigan was as much a guard to his female companion as a significant other. Should he reassure him that the inside was safe, or? After a time that felt too long for casual scrutiny, he shifted his focus to staring over Jordan's shoulder, mien thoughtful.
(Where had he been?)
Right, so Bren was indeed quite accomplished, both magically and alchemically - assuming he sourced his own medicine-
He didn't assign much meaning to the subtle smile on the male deigan's face - there was no obvious reason to smile, but perhaps he just remembered something, in thought as he appeared to be -, but his next actions were definitely a touch startling.
Without a word, an unspoken request, or indeed even the just stopping next to him and staring at him until he realized he was in the way like Sir Yanin sometimes did, the deigan decided to abruptly barrel through him, seemingly unaware that he was trying to just show an object notably heavier than himself aside.
"Hey!" Jordan yelped, voice a couple tones higher than his regular speaking tone, more out of surprise than actual loss of balance taking a step back into the building as he swung an arm out to further halt the oblivious intruder. He didn't try to reach for a weapon, just stayed physically blocking the other's advance, momentarily speechless past the first exclamation.
The man pushing against the metal on his arm said something in a language Jordan didn't know, evidently at the deigan woman, before just as abruptly breaking off his attempted intrusion, spinning on his heel, and beginning to stride off just like nothing had happened. You know, if you wanted to tell something to your companion, you could have just asked to be let in - not wanting to turn the spontaneous hospital room into the village gathering spot notwithstanding - or just said it over the door like normal people.
For about two more seconds, Jordan stood in the doorframe, blinking and mouth slightly agape, before addressing those in the room.
"What is his problem?" Still baffled, he looked from Sir Yanin, to the deigan woman, to the deigan man's rapidly distancing back around the edge of the door. "Should I go after him, or? I think he's headed for Bor Manor based on the direction he's going..."

Sir Yanin Glade

The money was still there (and he left it in place), so whoever had piled the corpses up had not searched them through - but barring stripping them entirely revealing something more, it didn't appear they carried any clues to who they were and where they had set up camp.
As he re-emerged from basement, the healer in green tunic requested the boiled water and a number of containers to be brought closer, so he complied, setting the items next to her before motioning the slightly older Fadewatcher with the injured arm over to a table away from the others. He seemed to be the more collected one of the two who still stood, and currently unemployed by either healer. The healer in white seemed to be busy inspecting the Fadewatcher with a head injury.
"I'm Sir Yanin Glade, lieutenant at Brow's Nest, Etlon," he finally took to introducing himself if the local Fadewatcher complied and followed him as indicated. "Seems that trouble doesn't rest, even if we were meant to, and it really did a number on you. Does anyone here have an idea who these people were, what they wanted, where they are and how many of them are left?"
The local Fadewatcher presumably had a bit of time to reply before another deigan attempted forceful empty, said something in a rather distinct language that was none of the surrounding lands, then hightailed out just as quickly, leaving Yanin half-prepared to stand and brandish his sword, body turned and hand on hilt. There were probably a couple seconds for either the deigan woman or the local Fadewatcher to react before he made a call regarding Jordan's question.

Madara

The guardhouse had filled with a different kind of energy, one which was more busyness than despair. The other healer took over with the one with the head injury, leaving one less thing that might be hard to accomplish with the physical and chemical alone.
When the knight reappeared, she pointedly requested for a separate pot, a jug and five cups, briefly simply holding a hand over the bandage on the guard's shoulder as she swiftly and precisely counted drops from her chemical and alchemical assortment into the containers, finally adding some herbs to the cups and decanting a measure of boiled - and still steaming - water into each. Her fingers felt cool against his skin.
It caught Madara's attention that the other healer used magic to boil water, and informed her that she could have more healing potions in mere hour, if need be. Rather accomplished beyond relying on her deity to aid, then. She might have carried a rather wide assortment of medicine, but most of them were sourced from a select few trusted vendors, rather than concocted by herself. The herbs and single- or few-ingredient straightforward mixes were quite easy to replicate, but the more complex compounds where exact precision was paramount were best left to people who had dedicated their lives solely to that branch of sciences.

She wet the bit of bandage gluing itself to the site of the injury, the infused water feeling hot as it penetrated the fabric, but not scalding. Hot, but also rapidly numbing, until only a distant, dull reminder of pain remained, and the adjacent muscles seemed to lax, regardless of will. Oddly enough, even before the numbness set in, the water didn't sting, unlike even regular plain old boiled water normally would.
"Hold the light still, could you? If you're not used to, though, you might want to focus on gaze on something else," he noted to the uninjured Fadewatcher before directly the addressing the one she was tending to, who presumably had a much easier time focusing now that the pain had become a vague impression of itself. "I'll be cleaning and putting your shoulder back in order now - it might be a bit uncomfortable, but not painful." Weird was perhaps the more accurate term, feeling pressure, but not the bite.
Blood started seeping a little as she washed out the injury of any debris, but not nearly in the quantities it had before, even as she proceeded to bring out an implement to hook the severed tendon together, hold it in place and apply pressure with one hand as her other carefully added a kind of silvery, very thin threat to a curved, perfectly honed dark and shining gray needle and began to secure the two detached ends of a tendon together. Live tendons were more flexible, even harder to pierce than sinew; you needed a very sharp, rigid tool and a lot of patience. Tendons were difficult to cut, but if once already sliced in two, they could fray from ends if you were careless, which was not ideal if you planned to use the same one for, oh, the next sixty years or so.
For a minute or two, there was focused silence, until she broke off this bit of thread and removed the implement she had been using to hold the tendon in place. Madara wiped off her hands and cleaned them with spirits once more before carefully lifting the man's arm to flex it. There; now it should stay as one and be able to glide freely. Repairing a small nick in one of the minor medium-sized blood-vessels in the region (another snip of the thread thread with something vaguely resembling a small seam cutter), a bit of damage in the adjacent muscles (snip, another wash) and skin was comparatively quicker and shorter work.
Just a bit of salve and a smaller strip of bandage to keep dust away and her job here was mostly done. Additional magical healing would speed things up, but past that it was mostly taking off remaining armor, washing off blood and grime, and finding clean clothes. The thread she used was not a concern; the body knew how to dissolve it in a month or two.
The deigan woman handed her a small vial she held up to the light, observing its colour and consistency, before uncorking it to pick up its scent. Goldberry. She was reasonably certain she knew exactly what type of healing potion it was. Shouldn't interact adversely with anything she had, or intended to use. She added a small amount of it to a cup near her - about a sixth of the vial -, and then handed it to the man, wrapping the fingers of his good hand around it and making sure he could hold it before letting go.
"Here, this will help with healing and the blood loss," she noted. The tea - if it could be called so - was strongly herbal, slightly sweet, and would actually have tasted quite pleasant, if it were not for the distinct note of saltiness underlining it all. "The faintness in your arm will wear off in an hour or so - but be careful about stressing your shoulder for a couple weeks, especially the first few days. There are yet those here in more dire need, but if you need something, let us know."

The one with head injury received a steaming cup with a slightly different mix of herbs in passing as Madara mover her things along to the next one in need - the one with missing fingers and broken jaw-, briefly noting to Irah that she was done with the one with the shoulder injury.
As she was moving to take a closer look at him than before, however, there was a commotion at the door, with a second deigan crashing into their door-guard, shouting something across the room, and just as quickly scurrying off, leaving the guard rather confused.
"Huh," was Madara's only utterance.