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Post by Joliette Thorne on Jun 20, 2006 23:11:48 GMT -5
Deilakrion discreetly follows the vampiress as she hunts, silently padding after the other woman. Her hair seems to be damp and freshly cut--which perhaps lends tothe lopsided grin that graces her lips. Her eyes follow Tenebrae's movements closely, even as she leans carelessly against a wall: patient, waiting.
Tenebrae was fresh from the mines - in a manner of speaking... hardly fresh, hair coated in dust - and hunger had driven her to seek fresh prey from among the Cenril authority's new recruits. A hasty change around one corner of the building had her armoured, and silent steps took her toward the tower, her pall of shadows offering enough cover to prevent early warning.
Deilakrion moves once more, shadowing the other woman in some flippant mood unusual from her normal spontaneity. She lurks behind far enough to occasionally lose sight of the other woman, but her skills in tracking--and the one-way path through the tower--affords her the ability to not lose Tenebrae. Certainly, she appears happy enough in this role.
Tenebrae trod the stairs with footfalls as silent as the shadows that swathed her form, eyes the only indication at all that she were there, to the unwary, at least; that keen peridot gaze blazing with a feral amber light that danced like corpse-candles in the murk of the spiralling staircase. The lone guard -a youngster, half-trained and as Fate would have it on his first solo watch stood nervously by the parapet, gaze trained upon the western horizon. The vampiress had reached the top of the stone stairwell, her movements slowing to near-stoppage as she spied the armoured youth. And with the practise ease of the lifelong predator stalks forward in increments; here, her only cover was her silence, and her shadow. The lad, perhaps unusually perceptive, nerves heightened by existing fears, wheeled suddenly - this was surely the time to strike! And before the scream had gathered flattened under the woman's slight form and now nothing but an assurance that the necromancer they called Tenebrae would survive a while longer. Crouched over his fallen frame, she fed hungrily.
Deilakrion was careful then to creep after the vampiress, shoulders hunched with anticipation even as fingers curled and uncurled with uncertain instinct. Her lips had parted, those dry bits of expression momentarily wet with a quick tongue. Everything seems to intrigue her, from the hewn walls to the torches that cast fickle light upon the stone. It is perhaps the silence that causes her head to tilt to and fro, following the flitting direction of her pupils as they mark each imperfection. The vampiress, however, is who catches the insane elf's fancy; appreciation of a hunter glinting eerily within her eyes. The strike is made and unconsciously Deilakrion edges closer, mouth opening wider as if to gulp the scent of blood freshly spilled. Her eyelids drift halfway shut, curiousity exchanged for a deeper, sinuous cast of emotion. Soft scrapes of skin against stone beat against the sounds of Tenebrae's feeding, Deilakrion scuffing her feet absentmindedly as she devours the sight of a predator at her peak. She drops into a crouch, the sight a balm to her cracked nerves and broken mind--her raw and animalistic nature in perfect accord.
Tenebrae heard not Deilakrion's approach. Indeed, it as fortunate that she was the one who'd been behind, rather than one of the former guard's companions. Thiwas the vampiress' most vulnerable moment, the frenzy of the feast taking up the lion's share of her attention. Rosy lips now stained bloody carmine sucked and mauled at ruined flesh, her fingernails embedded in the man's face and forearm. Knelt upon his chest, she was wholly absorbed in her task, 'til the youth's features turned dull grey and Tene literally rolled off him, ridiculously sated, miasmic cloak furling tightly around her body. Sinous movements had her stretch against the discomfort of her distended belly, hands splayed across taut midriff and a faint groan given as she looked to the vastness of the night sky. And then she heard the shift of feet; a panicked stumble had her rise, ungainly; her body's response only slightly slower than the norm as she crouched, head whipping in a flurry of ebon and with widened eyes toward the source. Her next breath was loudly voiced, another groan, though this one of relief. "Gods, creature, you do sneak up on a person..." She couldn't help a smile, lips and teeth still smeared with the evidence of her repast.
Deilakrion chuffs a breath, the puff of sound almost soothing in its innocence. Her eyes open in an awakening, slowly focusing upon Tenebrae's words as her mind shifts between phases. Her mouth closes upon another whuff of air, instead exhaled through her nose, though it is not quick enough to be considered a snort. The light of the flames plays over her numerous scars, roughly healed skin reflecting pale against the darker, smoother bits. A muscle jumps rapidly in her shoulder as she stands once more in response to Tenebrae's coherence. Whatever it was that had so briefly consumed her fled yet again in this more. . .genteel company. Her right hand moves to press against the same shoulder; an attempt to still the annoyance. Her left hand drifts towards the belt crossing her slim hips, toying with the ancient leather. Her eyes reluctantly move to stare into the captivating flames of a nearby torch, caressing the flames with a strange stare. Fingers separate and abruptly press to each other about her belly-button, an outward gesture that stills the inward conflagration. "The fierce hunter spoke of a need." Her words are crisp.
Garath :: The hard angles and planes of the albino’s features nipped gratefully at the shadows the moonlight cast upon them, the array of piercings bathing in the eerie glow of the darkness. He continued to stalk the odd elf. Odd even for him. Swiftly he cut into the building, ascending the spiralling stairs with the deft step of one used to going unseen, his whole figure seeming to be swallowed by whatever darkness it touched. Words resonated up ahead, no guards, it would seem. Was that Jools? Bent of knee and hands upon weaponry, he delved further into the tower’s reaches - to peer thereafter about a corner and find Tenebrae and the one he had followed thus far. Unlike the grace of his movements, his litany to come is gruff and coarse, so unlike an Elf in many regards, “Joli. What the hell are you doing up hear? This place is infested with guards, and legions of that ruttin’ Flaming Claw….Who’s that?” He laterally, he belatedly questions, a calloused digit directed toward Deilakrion.
Tenebrae :: Garath's appearance had the necromancer's gaze - now flameless and a more regular ice-green - flit his way, her grin broadening, and back to Delakrion. "Aye, pet. But of which do you speak? I have so very many ..." And to the male elf, familiar rebellious slouch of pose and facial silvers glinting under the cold moon's light, she returned response, heels ticking across stone to offer him the embrace she could not give the other. "Ferret.. you too? Gods help us, should you two team up. And I was just ..." A quick turn of head toward the remnant scrap that was once one of Cenril's finest. "Getting a snack. Never fear, he's not gettin' up in a hurry. Unless I want him to..." Her tone was teasing, light, her arm wrapped to Garath's waist to swing him to clearer view of the naked, scored form of Deilakrion, fingers tousling through feathery white hair. Her next words to the woman, her tone one of assurance. "This is Garath, my oldest friend. He's.. a good bloke. Just watch your..." Pockets weren't really an issue, were they? She cleared her throat and carried on. "Anyways, Garath, this is..." It dawned on her, then. She'd never asked the 'Creature' for her name. Tene had assumed she'd either not got one, or wouldn't be pleased about sharing it. "Um...." She looked to Deilakrion with widened eyes, shrugging helplessly.
Garath cocks a brow as he regards Deilakrion for the first time, perusing all that he can, that being he inner workings, sinew, ligaments, organs and vital systems; the blind assassin gifted this faux-sight by the crimson lensed glasses that adorned his emotionless façade. “Yeah. Jools. I get the whole dark drowish beauty thing…but…what the in the name of Cire is this? She is an elf…that much I can see, but other than that her make up is something I have never come across.” His nose scrunches tight with indignation - he had always hated ignorance- as he slipped an arm about Tenebrae’s waist in kind. “Y’know. That wouldn’t be all that bad an idea.” The clinical cogs of the assassin’s mind begin to click into place. “Have him alert a contingent of the legion below, and we’ll take them out on the stairway up here. They can’t overrun us with the narrowness of the passage…we’ll have to hide that wound though.”
Deilakrion clicks her teeth, churlish annoyance jerking her into motion: steps taken to move stiffly about the room, fingers lightly touching the wall. She bristles slightly, though it washes through her as the brief introduction is granted. If the fierce hunter was okay with such a fleshy, well. Still, her choice to be aloof skitters along her features as she neutrally stares once more at the flames. "Whatever the fierce hunter requires, this creature accepts." Crooked grin, then, as resentment fled under new thoughts. "This creature tires of foolish beasts and-" such a sweet smile! "More foolish fleshes." Her words were pointed, blatantly skewed, the cause of this mood yet mysterious. "A creature is a creature." Then she looks towards Garath, eyes travelling his form in leisurely abandon, lofty tone usually considered insulting in a saner person. As it stands. . .she abruptly relaxes and offers the other elf a tiny smile. "Good hunting comes nigh.”
Tenebrae could not have looked more pleased when the tension fled, though at Garath's suggestion she arced a brow, glanced back to the skew-limbed and throatless body behind them. "Erm... yeah. Hiiiide the wound..." Riiight, was her next thought, shaking her head in what was probably mock-mockery to the taller elf. She unwrapped herself from him, leathers creaking gently as she did so, and stepped across to the corpse. Through shocking sanguine gouts and grey-drained shreds of flesh, vertebrae gleamed like exposed pearls in an oyster."And she is .. an elf I think." She smiled her apology to the woman. "Dunno much about her, 'cept she's a good sort, and would get my back and I hers in a spot of bother." The last phrase sounded strained as she hoisted the body, awkwardly even with her strength, toward the parapet. "And as for raising a ruckus..." She flipped the limp once-human over the stones, a loud clatter of armour sounding shortly after, amid startled cries from the men below. "That oughta do the trick, yeah?" Her eyes flitted from one companion to the other, as rose the alarm. "Fun times, folks. Here come the clowns." To Deilakrion she gave a wink. "Good hunting indeed."
Garath watched Tenebrae lift the dying embers of heat that was the dead soldier, a snowy brow arched ’pon the albino’s serene visage. “What’re you doin’, Jools.” Swiftly he spun to follow the devious vampirii, a hand lifted as if to quell her thoughts, “You’re not seriously thinking of alerting the whol-” Too late. The sound of a disembowelled corpse and a thoroughly broken boned squad member of the legion below answered his half-asked question, “Oh tenebrous one, I’m going to go ahead and assume that I can take my knives out now.” Riposte is not waited upon, the assassin bursting forward in a light emitting explosion of speed as he stands upon the stairway, daggers loosed and dancing idly before him. “I’d wager they can fight two men abreast on these stairs, and there is no room for the swinging of their longswords or fast movement in that bulky-ass armour. I’d almost fancy our chances. Shall we?” Steadily the sound of approaching boots grew. "Good hunting, elf."
Deilakrion mutters darkly, the words a mere tickle of sound only she would understand. "A creature is a creature." Firmly, her hands clench. Yet as quick a shake of her head dispels whatever had begun to build, and instead her attention is directed to the rousing base. She scratches along her jaw, utterly unconcerned with the rabble. Instead she actively stalks along the walls, head slung low, deep concern beetling her brows. Battle joined or no, such fleshy concerns do not bother her unless those dearly named were to be hurt. And such predators or hunters. . .a crooked smile takes the secret thought to her lips. No, they would not need her against such pathetic meats as reside in this absurd building. Again, her attention is redirected back to the task at hand. Each stone block somehow marred by some. . .a scowl was next to twist her lips in distaste. She crouches before a section, moving by sheer instinct even as her head lists to the side. Palms are held up and outwards, aimed towards the blemishes within the block before her. "Fleshy indiscretions. . ." she snarls, anger bubbling forth. She -pushes-, then, unaware of anything but utter indignation. The inscription is somehow. . .smeared. But to what cause?
Tenebrae's laughter would ring above the sound of men charging upward from below, the hoarse shouts and rattle of armour. "Aye, ferret! Just like the old days, but ..." A quick peek over the edge of the parapet had her grin fade suddenly. "A lot more likely to kill us... Yeah, the door, we'll take 'em two at a time, like. Maybe there's something I can do, as well, from up here..." She took the albino's side quickly, Deilakrion passed by with a curious glance and mental shrug, the vampiress' hexed blade drawn with a shir and hiss of runed steel, inscription glowing faintly in the partial light. "See how we go with this lot." And a lot there was, the first of the troop clattering up the spiralled stone, the tops of their helms visible.
Leoxander wasn't actually 'there' perse. Certainly his presence might be acknowledged to those in tune with things beyond sight and sound, but as far as being something seen, or heard.... that, Leo was not. The streets were as dark and dreary as ever, and the rogue was but a drifting shadow, observing from afar. Even the subtle and soft sound of his breathing was muffled quiet by a familiar shadow woven mask.
Garath remained one pace ahead of Tenebrae, an old force of habit, apparently, his features now a mask of determined ferocity. “Let the bastards come.” Dexterously superior the elf kicks off the mortared steps with an astounding alacrity, sent high into the rafters of the building; arms and legs splay outward to grant him purchase on the walls either side of him, the crimson of his lenses glinting maliciously. It began. The soldiers were greeted the lone sight of the blade wielding Joliette and a naked elf pawing a wall. Harmless enough for a legion of Cenril and Flaming Claw’s finest. His descent came like confetti on the devils parade; superfluous spins and contortions of form delivering a rigorous assault to helmed heads and revealed necks resulting in strangled gasps and muffled cries as the ghostly assassin remained moving at his celeritous pace. Where the blades of the elf fell men never rose. Most were overstrained to wield broadsword and armour in such tight confines, underarm and mottled kinks in mail easy pickings for the blind one. His every burst of speed was trailed bitterly by a blinding flash of light and a resonating ‘Pop’ as his form rekindled in this plane, the vacuum sealing time and time again in his wake.
Deilakrion :: Frustration batters at her mind, an obvious quirk as she sends a quelling glare towards the distraction posed by the men tramping up the stairs. "Stupid fleshes. . ." Her mutter underscores the situation, certainly in key with her cracked persona. With none-too-gentle fingers she swipes at the smear of what once was a wizard's blessing, fingers coated in a silvery glow. The stuff sticks to her fingers, a grey so dark as to be considered black. The scowl slowly vanishes, even as the battle is joined, and instead a smirk hovers about her lips. Once more her mind shifts, dangerously close to those banished memories and a sanity too far gone to be called back. Her eyes dart about the stones, unfocused, her beingnot fully there as that which was drilled into her unconsciously calls her to task. Once does she squint at a form in the dark, but the runes on the stones draw her back to her alleged duty. She pulls at the dark stuff, and it slides off of the wall to curl about her fingers; satisfaction giving her a most ugly smile. A feather-light touch is pressed to the now normal stone, and a snick belays a crack given to the rock. Chortling, she sidles to the next stone, primal heat lighting her eyes as she begins a slow but steady drain on the blessing that protects the tower and keep.
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Post by Joliette Thorne on Jun 20, 2006 23:14:19 GMT -5
Tenebrae's eyes rolled upward, lips pursing as the melanin-deficient elf began the bloodbath without her... "Got the door then, Garath?" She spoke his name with unwarranted emphasis, falling back to discern a way to deal with the burgeoning mass of troops below, waiting to file up those stairs... It was like she was nine years old again, he never letting her in on the good stuff, she always a tag-along mopping up the coins and last exhalations of the wounded. Quick strides brought her back to the parapet, fingers pressed to stone as she peered outward over the edge, breath hissing out in a whistle. "Sven's bollocks, lookit 'em..." The fallen grew in number, Garath's blinding speed bringing another cause for rushed intake of air. "Oh... just like the old days..." The time they'd used the corpse of the butcher's pony to escape from an irate grocer... The host of undead rats that'd chewed them out of lock-up. Uh-huh, Tene was on it. The world went quiet for the necromancer as her vision turned inward, attention to the darkling shroud of magics welling within, bubbling from her core now, beckoned by her indefatigable will. But then... it was as though a plug was pulled, the dark arcana waning fast. What the...? Tene glanced about, as though whatever protective forces were there might be seen. What -was- visible was the crouched form of the naked elf, intent on doing -something - to the ... Yeah. She got it. And turned again within was that iron-willed mind, a gurgled rush, or so it seemed, of blackness welling in her, spewed from the center of her consciousness in the form of a chant that seemed to force her lips to form the words, instead of the other way 'round. Guttural and ancient, the spell swelled and rose and ... poured forth toward the corpses of the slack-jawed slain, who rose like bloody puppets, turning back down the stairs to maul and hack the unfortunates who'd come to aid them.
Leoxander glanced over the edge of the stone structure, as somehow, his vantage point was from somewhere near it's peak. It wasn't difficult to spot the hunting party, noisy as they were. The deeper masculine pitch was unfamiliar, therefore the rogue crept, like a spider, down the wall and stealthily into the frame of a 'window'. Silent stepping footwear touched down upon the perch of the guard tower, but the man had gone to investigate... other things. An intrusion. The thief followed the Cenril soldier's wake, down a spiral case of stone, mismatched vision and clockwork mind always as far ahead of his movements as they could be.
Garath continued to blaze throughout the ranks of the ascending army, his daggers restrained for a time as he set his focus on reaching the door. Shoulders and helmets were the stepping stones for his passage, angered grunts and the scraping of turning metal, against ally’s armour and wall, his war-song, still though, some blades find scant purchase on his expedient form; gouts of crimson spilling from his legs as he rampages forward, little more than an opalescent blur. The doors. Bent knee snaps straight and he hurtles window-ward. In a needless display of flamboyance he somersaults through the gap, and drops to deft feet; on display were the backs of the stair-assaulting legion. Now his weaponry rages free, the lifeless tumble of an armoured soldier to the floor alerting his comrade; two to a side, and so tightly cramped that turning is almost impossible, but definitely slow. Too slow. “’eylo gorgeous.” Grins Garath, his blades driving deep into the half-turned rearguards-man gut, swift retraction coming thereafter. “ON MY WAY UP, JOOLS.” His raucous cry alerting the still lower-level-bound guardians, but to little use, the sandwiching of their previous attack leaving them much like fish in a barrel for the expeditious albino; the business end of his brand’s scoring through the ranks of the Flaming Claw like a hot knife through butter.
Deilakrion :: There, there, -THERE-! Thoughts flash and vanish within her scoured mind as she passes from one stone to the next, feverish mutterings dropping from her lips to pelt her nimble fingers. That grin remains affixed to her features, as though she forgot to let her lips relax. Yet soon it too falters and a frown as she stares about at the number of stones ranging up and down the stairs, some too littered with struggling bodies for her to possibly tend to. No, no, the fleshes were too stupid to let her through to finish. . .and then her eyes were no longer gleaming from the torchlight. No, the pale grey becomes silver as dormant power sings in her mind, a song she brokenly hums in absentminded tunelessness. Her arms raise above her head in a position utterly ridiculous for such a scrawny woman, no hint of the scholarly or magickal gifted to her form. And then she trembles, and so do the stones. The wards on the stones bubble and froth, though in a fashion so subtle it might scarce be noticed. Deilakrion smiles, though, obsession beckoning from the recesses of her mind as that dark goo is sucked to her hands. There it settles, curling, writhing; covering her in palpable grotesquery. Her stare swings from wall to wall, ceiling to steps, destruction filling her mind and causing her body to tilt and sway. Is the tower trembling? She certainly cannot tell, dazedly turning her eyes to the two flame-bright comrades who might direct that power that coats her. . .and more dangerous still, that which lurks yet within her very being.
Tenebrae :: "Ferret!" It was more a cry of joyous cheer than a voicing of concern, when the too-pale elf spun himself like a monochromatic acrobat and was gone from sight. Tene rushed to take his place at the fore, sword slung from hilt and two hands on the grip, the longer blade requiring she allow them a few further steps beyond the flesh-eating arcana stripping life from bone where'er the metal touched more than steel or leather, the thin steel of one man's sword scoring on her own body, a luckily awkward swing that scraped down hard on her narrow ribcage, the angle negating deeper damage or caved-in lung. But that side of her was gonna hurt for a long while, the flap of skin and leather corsetry forcibly ignored. On and on they came, Garath's cry encouraging, but it was as the vampiress was forced back that she caught sight of Deilakrion. Too busy with the killing, the elf had slipped her mind... and by all the Gods, what the hell was she doing? Tene's skin prickled; there was power there, around her, and the sparse attention she could spare toward the naked woman also perceived the rumble of stone unsettling... "YES!" It hit her like a flash. "Garath! FERRET! Bring 'em up the top paddock!" He'd hopefully remember what that meant... "Creature!" Parry, parry, thrust, jab...Body falls, here comes the next... In the brief pause, she hollered to Deliakrion. "Creature, I dunno if you can.. but we're gonna bring the walls down on 'em. Yeah?" They'd get out, in time. Somehow.. someone'd think of .. something...
Leoxander made certain to keep his distance, with the faint sound of death as frequent as it was. Flickers of shadow against wall torch light had him continuing in the general direction of the three, though he wove a maze of stone halls and military barracks without stirring a cobweb, or leaving a print in the dust. The guards were always on patrol, these days, if they weren't on their feet they were six feet under. The last of those men seemed willing to fall beneath Garath's rage, and far behind them, the rogue gazed down the hall, where the three were almost in sight, and someone was almost within arrow's range. Dressed in mournful colors of black, Leo crouched and flattened to the wall, daring the slightest look around it's edge, toward the sound of brief and one sided battle.
Garath continued the murderous raping of the vanguard, their morale bleak at best as their comrades were cut down mercilessly, his armatura and haze of metallic sheens and woe-begotten wailing. Suddenly he stops, canting his head to one side in momentary thought, the draught upon the back of his neck calling to him. ‘Pop’, he hurtles himself backward, boots sending tremors along the walls of the shaky structure. With his body parallel to the body-scattered flooring he sends a vicious kick to one of the doors, pushing strongly off of his other foot thereafter to send him spinning toward the other wall; another kick delivered to the opposite door to seal them all in. The sounds of the freed men begin to resonate within his ears, and he sets to placing the heavy latch across the doorway, reducing the guard’s means of escape. Murder screamed within the eyes of the oncoming men, and Garath sheathed his twin daggers, they were no use against their longswords, now that they possessed the room. Escape was attempted, upward, toward the walls where men with a proverbial writ for his death did not roam. The world reeled, and a cry erupted from his lips, blood curdling enough to turn his mother’s milk. Wildly he grasped out, catching the candelabra overhead, and pulled himself up out of the way of harm, for the moment, whilst he regained breath and sure thought, “Oh for Cire’s sake. Ruttin’ bastards.” From his leg stuck the fletched shaft of a crossbow bolt, sanguine seeping downward to pool upon the tarnished metal and plink on the metal of soldiers below. Placing the hilt of one of his daggers between his teeth, he reached down and broke the long length of the bolt, the piercings on his visage amply reflecting the burning hatred welling up within side him. Below the bodies of the dead littered the ground as much as the living, and suddenly it clicked. Revenge. It took no longer than a moment to cut through the rope that held the source of light overhead, and then he was descending upon them with a shield to flatten and fire to burn. The stench of burning flesh filled the air and Garath cried out as his injured leg met the ground running; oh how he ran. A torrent of opal was he as he pressed his pace to the very limits, a shrill whining noise coming from his near ethereal form as it parted from this plane of existence to meet then next and then back again. Detriment and liveried walls rising and flapping vainly against the haste at which he made; the pop to follow at his arrival aside Tenebrae deafening even to him, his hands clasping over ears to quell the pain.
Deilakrion rises slowly to the accompanying crackle of sluggish power that writhes about her hands and arms, hiding her flesh from view. Sheer destructive glee rises into a most disturbing grin, cackling quietly to herself as she makes a sluggish gesture with her hand. Muffled power sparks, and a sharp cry is cut off in a hiss of long-forgotten words as she glares at the twin globs of power. Silver lights upon the beacons burning within secondary sight, and that thought she latches onto, mindlessly noting and discarding ways of what she means to do. Crooning a song more felt than heard, each hand she extends to her wounded comrades, the obnoxious grey slipping from her hands to coat her comrades. The gooey stuff curls over and around their forms, fading to a gradual transparency but for a tiny inscription in the form of a rune located on each of their wrists. Now then, her power is loosed, her rough shod voice smoothing as power curls seductive through her slight frame. Arms extended, mouth open, she howls discordancy and the sound swells as a distant booming elicits a crescendo of groans and sickening cracking. The structure shakes. Dust falls from the ceiling rafters, torches fall and sputter as combatants loose their footing. Deilakrion's own hands clench, rapid blinking as power loosed with clear intent continues to drain from her. Blanching, she staggers towards Tenebrae and Garath, arms windmilling. "Th-thi--cree--canno--" Sputtering, wailing: her loss of control becomes obvious as the sharp silver of her eyes sputters into confusion. If there is a time to get out, it is now.
Tenebrae had fallen back, the raucous cries and stench of crisping flesh rankling the air an indication of Garath's success below, her own not so certain. The pair of soldiers she now fought simultanously not the new-recruited striplings set to guard the inner side of fortified walls, but seasoned veterans, leaders of men, and she was, despite her strength and courage, just a small woman with a very large sword. They were well-armoured, too, and no matter where the dire rune-blade fell, it would sheer off metal or heavy-guage hide, no chance for the necrotic spell to get a look-in. All the while, the tower trembled more like an aspen in the wind than a solid body of mortared stone, and amid the desperate fight to keep herself intact, she wondered how the blazes they were to get down... Clang.. grunt.. whirl-slash-swipe... Steadily she was pushed back, and almost with her back against the stone when it came to her to recall her triskel hook, triple-pointed.. small, and the chain too short. Still, it was a chance, however slim... and eyes that wildly sought a gap in the men's dual attack found one, as rushing backward she dropped her sword, clasped fingers to her bodice and tore the top of it down. Astonished warriors faltered, staring. And she used that moment to run, bodice tugged upward again -- as though modesty mattered in the face of death -- to bolt toward the stone of the parapet's edge. Hook drawn from her belt is risen, slammed down as hard as her vampirically parasitised flesh could do so. Vicious points caught in solid rock and the more uncertain and shifting mortar between, a hard tug back on the eight-foot chain, uncoiled form her waist, proving the grip true. It was a moment before Garath with deafening crack gained her side that she turned to see where the soldiers were -- and the booming herald of his arrival would go unnoticed, as a soldier's sword fell on the face that'd led men to death and tears and murder... and cut through perfect flesh, to lodge in the bone of cheek and brow, eyelid scored with razored steel's kiss. And that's where her brother - for so she thought of him, in the blood-obscured haze that was now her mind -- would find her, the soldier's mate gaining, he himself tugging the weapon from her skull. And all the while, Joli was screaming, not her pain, but a jumble of words: "Hook! HOOK! Ferret, help... HOOK!" Hands clutched upward, clawing at sharp steel.
Garath stumbled to a halt to find the horrific scene played out before him, his dearest Joli cleft at skull by the strike of one of the veterans. “Joliette!” He never used her full name. The rage that had been so carefully tempered within early, to allow for clear thought and clinical execution of his plans, raced to the fore. Like a snow white arrow he pierced the first, shoulder dropped low to connect with platemail in a meeting that neither man enjoyed; the blade of his right shoulder jarred as the male fell to his death below, the momentum of the speeding bullet that was Garath too much even with his added weight. Adrenaline feeding him the strength to go on, he pivoted abruptly to face the other man, revenge dancing like twin blades within his now revealed eyes, the marble-esque pattern of blues and dark greens that scored his occuli staring straight at the man. “You are to die now, you bastard, and your family thereafter. Know this, your children will know the face of their killer, and your wife shall watch…” A smirk so sinister it would fell cherubim alights across his implacable features, “Once I have had my fun with the bitch that is.” A step forward is taken and he looses a whisper, “The eye of the blind one is upon you.” Another step. The man falls to the floor clutching his face, writhing. The vicious sound of returning vacuum resonances behind the felled human, Garath appearing, panting, his visor pierced by twin daggers, each eye impaled with uncanny celerity. “Benediction comes for you, oh tenebrous con.” Pooled at the stair’s top was the rope from the candelabra, somewhat fortuitously, and to the chorus of Joli’s rabid calls he did as bid, mind returning to a state of normalcy. “Creature. Come. We must leave this place.” Slipping one of Tenebrae’s arms about his body, her face now covered by a large chunk of his cloak, previously torn and affixed with the ill-hand of the untrained, he made to descend. One could only hope Deiliakrion had the sanity remaining to follow, his marked wrist going unnoticed for the time being. Below all that could be heard was the horrified screeches of fallen men and women alike, any who enlisted within the ranks of the Cenrillian Guard, or Claw, burning and to be buried within the tower that was tobecome their tomb. Cremation and burial for the price of one.
Leoxander could no longer ignore the unstable and unreasonable sway of that building. Despite his intentions to check up on her, to make certain she was watched after even now, a place ready to crumble to it's foundation was no place to do so. After a desperate glance down the hall, someone might glimpse the swift movement of the rogue's sprint, suddenly into, and then out of view. A brief sighting, the sort that might make a witness doubt their own senses, even in the face of impending danger.
Deilakrion knew well enough about self preservation, such to scamper towards salvation that became a window. Weaving her way through what had so suddenly become chaos, direct confrontation never a strong suit. The elf slips through blood and stumbles over corpses, even as the rocks shift and begin to tumble as they're ripped from the very mortar which once held them firm. A victorious screech is ripped from her throat, followed by breath-robbing laughter that would have doubled her over had she not leapt for the steel that would keep her from being crushed. Adrenaline pumped through her, clearing her mind, and hesitation clawed at her even as she scoured her hands dropping over the side of the tower and down the chain. Surprise hit her deep in the gut, a roar exploding from her lips---a shadow half-remembered---familiar scent---those shadows, that free-form style. . . . .attention wavered, silver flared. Mortar crumbled, stones. . . .falling. . . . . . . . . . . . ."SKY PREDATOOOOOOOOOOOOOR!" Fear, blood, pain. Loss. PAIN! Sound roars in her ears; sight momentarily blinded in panic as her world is turned upside down.
Tenebrae :: Agony... She barely clutched to Garath's shoulders, the vicious throb and gushing blood of her newly-marred face turning her stomach, wracking her mind. The lesser wound on her side still streamed, slugglishly now, as her preternatural metabolism kicked in, vampiric cells knitting together to staunch the flow. But as icy wind hit that hanging flap of skin... She couldn't help the whining sob that escaped her lips, then. And the only thought bidden to her mind at all was of Castellian... The first rubble was pitched down from the crumbling ediface to pepper the pair as Garath continued past chain linkage to the fortuitous rope, the rumble and groan of failing structure louder than her own pitiful cry. More than once she felt her strength fail, her hands slipping over leather, only to clutch again, instincts preserving her more than conscious choice. An abrupt jerk might have, in a clearer state of mind, told her that the block in which the hook was embedded was giving. And above them had had the vision to see it, was the dark shape that was Deilakrion, taking to the chain as with a final whipcrack of splintering rock the wall gave way.
Deilakrion :: The hellish roar had faded to a few isolated crashes, the sudden stillness horrific in its entirety. It almost ached, that silence, in contrast to the numbing terror that had gripped her before. And now. . .she finds she cannot move right, and her determination to lift her head gained her a few inches. Dawn. Rubble. Two bodies, collapsed, no movement. Then her head fell back against the rock, eliciting a guileless moan, a tiny whimper bubbling forth on the heels of the former. Everything hurt, that sensation she has experience before--but it is always worst in the heat of the moment. Something lay heavy against her back and foot, and she knew that she would not be rising now. Pain and pain, and then the enormity of it crashed over her. The silver faded back to the pale grey and then her eyes were fluttering shut. The rising sun illuminated the three bodies of the fallen comrades, appearing lifeless in the cool air of morning.
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Post by Joliette Thorne on Jun 20, 2006 23:16:34 GMT -5
Garath ’s entire body shook with a groan, digits curling to bring sharp nails into the calluses brought about by years of dagger wielding and rough housing; it’d been a long time since he’d felt this sort of pain, he’d not be doing it again for a while, oh so idly did he muse. “Psst, Jools.” He called out to the darkness, his glasses elsewhere and the fetid scarring of his occuli all that remained on display, a hint of humour entered his voice as he continued, “I think…I think I’m blind, Jools.” What had meant to be a snicker died upon the encroaching motes of dust, a fit of harsh coughs sending his lips into a frenzy and his throat emitting a galled hack of anguish. “Cire save me. What did the elf do to that building?” He heaved his body, injured legs protesting immediately, “Oh gods.” Instead he slowly arched his torso to look back and gaze upon his condition, all seemed well enough apart from the numerous lacerations that tore his clothing and trapped a foot. “I don’t suppose the Cenrillian guard would take us as innocent passerbys and help us out of this mess, would they?” No one had replied yet, it didn’t matter to him, he truly didn’t want to be the only one left amidst the rubble. "Whelp. May as well give this 'asking others for help' thing a shot."Garath shouted, "Oi. A little help here, anyone. Contact your local author-...actually, maybe...do you know any giants?"
Danielle stops in her tracks as the disjointed words seemingly emanate from the rubble, lofted brow testament to the fact she doesn't recognise the voice. Even without vampiric senses, however, the illusionist would be able to discern that the origin of the plea is close, so her response is issued soon thereafter. "Uh...hello?"
Edricyn investigates! The manifestation of wreckage was depicted before the Spartan, remnants of the sentinel asylum no longer merged together in harmony by the crumbled mortar scattered and trashed about the vicinity. A perilous sentiment overwhelms the atmosphere, agonizing throughout, as a slit-like gaze falls upon the entities repressed and buried beneath the mass of rubble; serpentine tongue caressing desiccated lips, “Gareth, Tenebrae, is that you?”
Tenebrae was walking in the shade of a grove, mossy ground soft beneath her bare feet. Cherry blossoms drifted gently from above like velvety snowflakes; she caught one in her fingers. Turning to ... there'd been someone with her... a moment ago. Odd. She couldn't think who... Rubbing the petal between her fingers in ponerance of the question, her touch discerned the delicate thing become sticky. Arced brow, she glanced down to her hand and ... BANG! The blood was crusted on her face, matted in her hair, with dust and debris and ... Oh, gods, the pain, the pain... her entire face was screaming, and whether her voice echoed the agony she really couldn't have told. Pinioning the necromancer's torso, where she lay not two feet from Garath and a few more from Deilakrion, were broken stone blocks and debris.. Her legs... Her eyes were blind, crusted shut with dried sanguine. And all she knew was the dark, and the pain. Cracked and strained vocals did manage one intelligible word. "Ferret..."
Deilakrion :: She was stuck, caught up in her own mind and spun around. Distantly she heard voices--indeed, she -knew- it was voices in some part of her mind--but it was the thudding of her heart in her ears that so caught at her attention. A soft sound vibrated her throat, rising sharply in pitch as she struggled to move. A sharp tug on her right leg brought only pain, eliciting a weak groan from the limp elf. The last word was enough to bring her reeling to the surface, eyes flickering open. She couldn't focus. There was something digging into her back, its annoyance causing her to weakly waver an arm about: though to what purpose is anyone's guess. A wordless query, more like a yowl, parts her lips, eyes narrowing and teeth baring as her instincts swell inside of her. Trapped! Another sound, barked anger, and she began twisting under the rock which pins her, pain mixed with rising panic. Bleary, her eyes snap fully open, and wildly look about for remaining threats. There! Two fleshys walk, and she being trapped, helpless. . .she tries harder. A broken sob escapes her as she sinks back down, body too weak to throw off her torment. Growling in the back of her throat, head listing to the side, she attempts to watch the two newcomers as her eyes slide in and out of focus.
Garath appearing to be a little more fortuitous in his landing, reaches out blindly for his spectacles, hoping beyond hope they were not broken; those things didn’t come cheap…well, cheap insofar as to others who wished to buy. But that’s another story. Dust roiled in his mouth, tasting of failure, like a storm in a teacup and the harsh crackle of his lips once more parting announced the sounding of another woe-begotten plea, “Oh, Draconian devil. You’ve come to save us. And from the sound’s of things you’ve brought a female friend.” Shifting slightly, he bit back his pain with a growl, hid his insecurity of being swallowed whole by claustrophobia with a joke, “Don’t break out the picnic basket just yet, and give us a hand here. Tene doesn’t sound great and…uh…the elf will likely burst a blood vessel from the proximity of those stones to her naked body.” It’s doubtful that anyone could see it, but his features contorted wholly whence the thought of having himself in such a situation dawned upon, and wryly he muttered to no one in particular, “At least her precious parts ain’t exposed to sharp rocks and other things appendages can get caught on.”
Danielle 's entire form freezes as Edricyn speaks, the latter name completely and utterly holding her attention -- Tenebrae. A bizarre sense of dejavu overcomes the vampire, but she soon shakes it off, perplexity inducing another falter; she doesn't recognise the second voice, but this only hinders her for a few, fleeting seconds. Clearly, her time in the pool has made her oblivious to the newest of developments, and she's fully aware of this -- indeed, she has no understanding of Edricyn's involvement, either. Nevertheless, it is to him her first order is barked. "Move some of the stones, and I'll find some healers in the tavern." The lyrics are laced with a hint of pleading, cracking what she would like to be a façade of certainty. "Quickly..." That said, she speeds back off southward, back to the tavern -- she won't go back to the HQ, at least not yet.
Edricyn :: A conception of solemnity spawns, the Spartan heeding her command without delay, as scaled appendages grasp the remnants of debris and rubble and frantically remove the larger portions hastily. “We’ll have you liberated within no time,” he assures them. “Support is being drawn soon.” Intuitive abolition of the mass asphyxiating his comrades lead to a rigid mound of wreckage; talons are curled back within callous palms and fists are constructed. Knees buckled, a limb is oscillated backward, returning with a devastating potency. A manifestation of rugged strength is depicted as the rubble is ravaged, thoroughly dividing into naught but mere stones; ultimately paving an escape. “Let’s go,” he whispers inaudibly, as he reaches within the gaping exit and clasps onto Tenebrae’s hand and ejects her from the compressed position, doing the same for his remaining companions.
Tenebrae wasn't going anywhere that Edricyn wasn't going to carry her; the intial pull of hand after the chest-crushing pile of rock was cleared bringing an ease of breath enough only for her screams to begin in earnest. She managed to stand for all of three seconds, and went down like a sack of potatoes in the dirt. Across one eye a gaping wound, bone deep to cheek and brow, the ivory of her skull revealed below mangled flesh. Her ribs were likewise showing, a flap sliced downward and hanging, and the whole of her bruised and battered. The agony subsided for a moment, allowing space for brief speech. "Garath... Creature..." She heard the familiar hiss of the draconian, but crusted blood had blinded her and even so, she strained her fallen body as if to crane her neck to look back at the tower, for companions she prayed were alive. Then the pain rushed back to fill the vacuum it had left, and the screaming resumed.
Sphinxei slinks through the building, her steps rushed but shaking in her fear of what may lie ahead. Rounding the bend, she staggers back, startled by the screams of Tenebrae. Eyes wide in shock, she takes in the scene, hoping herself useful...
Deilakrion was unsure of what to do, with one of the strange fleshies acting. . .as an ally. Confused was her mindframe, confused as the startling array of broken rubble that was all that remained of a once functioning guard tower. Her lips peeled -her- hand. . .and then Tenebrae began to scream. Heedless of the disorganized rescue attempt, she was concerned about two things. The man was reaching to -touch- her, and his touch had caused the vampiress to scream. Bruised, battered and lacking complete balance, the insane elf lurched to her feet, intent on making that touch of her own choosing. The hand he clasped she dug her own fingers into, the other of her hand latching onto his arm as her head bent foward with hissing cry, bestial in its wordless fury. Teeth parted, jaw gaped and then she was crashing into the draconian with the attempt to bite him, pain momentarily ignored.
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Post by Joliette Thorne on Jun 20, 2006 23:20:08 GMT -5
Leoxander remained somewhere near, yet his instinctive silence kept him from calling out. He heard movement and voices, but everything was distant, be it from the pile of rubble or his unfortunate location. A deep breath was taken before the rogue closed his eyes and relaxed; crushed, but not broken. He'd remain there, for now. But 'there' was still a mystery.
Roelstra 's petite form becomes visible as the vampiress draws near, her gait hurried and desperate, hoping against hope that she will reach her leader and comrades in time. Her voice is faint at first due to her distant position but it grows stronger and more panicked, " Tenebrae! "
Garath was still amidst the rubble, tired, growing increasingly irritated and now all he hears is that bloody insane elf take away his hopes of swift escape. “You sociopath. Get off of him, he’s a friend for the god’s sake. All of them. Whomever you wish.” A disparaged touch laces with his next words, “Just get me out of here…please.” Vainly he attempts to move his, surely shattered, legs, but to no obvious avail other than another year off of his long-long life from the strain of such an effort. Sulking like a child, chin propped by palm and elbow nestled between some not-so-craggy detriment, he can do nothing but wait and mutter about people and their attempting to randomly assault others. Incredulous in his eyes.
Edricyn :: The daunting perception of Deilakrion’s antics compel the Spartan to instinctively drop her, though he instead grasps her debris-ridden tresses of hair, jerking the Vampiress’ neck back in a means of evading the fatal attack ensued. The Draconian then swiftly cradles her silhouette, positioning her upon the ground effortlessly. The poignant scrutiny of Tenebrae’s incapacitated manifestation conceives a dreadful chill down the Spartan’s spine, benevolent partiality of the Vampiress harvesting his support. “You’re going to be fine,” he assures her. Skull revolving, a finger is motioned for Sphinxei by means of summoning. “Take care of these two,” he beckons. Thereafter, he commences his retrieval of Garath once more, grappling his hand and tugging him from beneath the wreckage; the Elf is swung upon his shoulder briskly and situated upon his feet, easing him to a seated arrangement.
Tenebrae's fingers trembled as they were pressed to her eyes, an attempt to scrape the crusted blood away just rubbing gritty crystallised flakes into them, blurring her vision. Well, now she knew she wasn't blind, in one eye. The other was swollen shut, the wound preventing much in the way of clearing anyway. She heard voices; Garath, Edricyn, the screams of Deilakrion, Roelstra and Sphinxei... At least, she breathed the thought out in relief, her companions had survived. Blinking, forcing her right eye to tear and try to focus, she turned her head, all still vague shapes in the murk of the light.
Sphinxei lowers her ears as a shiver caresses the fur of her back, slipping forth to Tenebrae's side in learned obediance to Edricyn's call. Gently holding a paw to vampiress' head, her facial wound is the first to catch the feline's attention. "'Tis deep, Madam Tenebrae... too deep for the xeban first. Relief shall come later." As she speaks, an azure mist ripples out from between the girl's lips like an arcane stream. As she holds the skin to its rightful position - trying her best not to pain the woman, though a great sting is of course inevitable - she ushers her magics through the mangled tissues, providing a cooling sensation as quickened healing occurs. "It mends the flesh, Madam Tenebrae, but with such a gash..." Unaffected by the blood itself, the feline's cringe is a result of worry alone. The maize would heal her quite well, but would be imperfect like natural healing processes.
Deilakrion shudders as she is manhandled, deep fury tightening the skin about her eyes. Words are too far away in her mangled mind, but Garath's words reach her. An ally, the other elf: he could be trusted. Instead, she settled where she was set, favoring the right leg that had been trapped beneath stone; wounded in her fall. Her lips parted to release harsh breath, panting as pain reasserts itself. Exhaustion causes her to sit hard, magical exertions taken to topple the building now affecting a toll on the scrawny elf's body. But then! Her head is jerked up, attention grabbed by a sound. . .a bad sound. Beyond wounded companions and concerned allies it thunders to her ears. . .and fear takes hold of her. Enemies! Caught as they were in the rubble of the destroyed guard tower, the legions of the Flaming Claw and Cenrillian Guard had their time to regroup, to stalk the interlopers caught within their midst. Adrenaline surged, weight carried on one good leg as a whine centers in the back of her throat, the insane elf groping for words lost in the heat that had once more scoured her mind. "Th- krrrr--. . ." Frustration pulsed, fists beat at the air. Gesticulations were thrown wide, towards the sound her ears--kept keen in her long forays into the wilderness--had picked up. They were coming! Pleading, desperate, she looked about wildly, finally settling on the one whom Tenebrae put her full trust into: Castellian. "Leh-ll. . ."A harsh, deep cough. Desperation lent her strength of mind. "Leave! Now!" And then, then. . .the remembered vision from the past night struck her full in the belly. "Sky Predator! Trapped!" A groan, and she sank back down, overwhelmed.
Roelstra frowns at the insane elf, " Right..." Then she rushes to Tene's side opposite of Sphinxei. The vampiress' emerald gaze affixes upon her leader's grievously exposed ribs, not bothering to hide the grimace, " Oh, dear Gods.." Her gaze swivels upwards to meet that of Sphinxei's, flecks of enraged crimson swimming in the emerald pools " Who did this?" are the only words heard from the vampiress as she shrugs off her medical pack, rifling through her pack for needles, disinfectant salve, bandages and thread. The vampiress pulls out a full water skin from said pack along with a clean cloth. " Take her hand, Sphinxei. This wound is far more dire than that on her cheek. It's going to hurt like hell while I work on it." Before she opens the water skin, she finds that the wounded cheek is already tended to, the ranger/healer nodding with satisfaction before turning back to her own task. Pulling the cork free with a pop, she then begins pouring water over the exposed meat of Tenebrae's torso, cleaning with the gentlest of touches that speak of centuries of experience with wounds of this calibre, if not worse.
Castellian ---- Around the stricken, their bodies bent and battered amidst the shorn stone and layered with the dust of Cenril’s walls, cries could be heard lifting helplessly. The city’s unfortunate masses swooned in their grief, commoners and soldiers alike buried under the tons of shattered rock that had once lifted high on the cityscape. Beneath a clear sky the defenders and assailants alike had been lit by a bright moon, framed in ghostly silver light as their battle had waged. But time had moved on, as had lives, and responding to the horrors that lay strewn upon the street the moon had fallen to the west’s fold. In this time between night and dawn, when the sky was at its darkest and the stars had faded under a blanket of gentle clouds, worse news had been given to the survivors. Formed in ranks, dedicated in their colors, the Flaming Claw’s troops approached under measured cadences. Bells still sounded as the city rallied itself to the cause, to hold the breach in the wall that had been torn through the sacred stone and shattered the quiet of the night for the sea-faring people. A few hundred yards separated Tenebrae’s battered companions from the vengeful fury of thousands, spears and swords brandished with blood-searching hostility. Castellian’s arrival, it seemed, was not a moment too soon. The horse that bore him was a massive creature, well-over the traditional eighteen hands that war stallions were measured by. Its roan-coat was smattered in splashes of grey mud and slate-colored dust, iron-bound hooves clacking ominously over rent flagstones and falling around piles of blood-stained debris. His Lord, clad in armors carved with archaic runes and cut in the fluid, whimsical patterns of Drow design, nursed him along with a knowing hand. Clad in claw-laid gauntlets, his fingers loosely held the reigns that lead him on, until finally the heels of his boots find the animal’s flanks. His charge, for a moment, is a furiously desperate thing. The austere Drow cuts his mount forward with remarkable ease over the uneven terrain, hurtling him toward the waiting Cenril line. His confidence is laid credence only by the horrors that follow, their forms looming from the shadowed depths as the night offers a final shudder. With the sun bursting over the eastern horizon his army is revealed, a legion of corpses. Their decaying forms laid with rusted armors, impacted with the grit of Milous plains and the battlefield they had been lifted from. Shambling forward with remarkable quickness, they are soon throwing themselves into the ranks at their master’s side. The impact is as spectacular as promised, a resounding crack of armor on armor, flesh on flesh, as the waves of undead drive into the shocked line of defending warriors. In their midst, an axe freed by a twist of a gauntlet-clad hand, Castellian plows his mount past spear and blade, bodies bounced beneath trampling hooves and heads rolling from the mountain brand as he leads his contingency against the cities rallying warriors. Outmanned by many, the undead army’s fetid ranks are terrors to behold. Rotted teeth gnaw through living flesh, blood runs over chipped blades and battered cobbles, and the resilient corpses turn the resistance before them into grisly, tattered remnants.
Sphinxei brushes the hand of Tenebrae, knowing it to be of insignificant comfort as Roelstra goes about her work. Leaning slightly closer to the wounded vampiress, she murmers a few words of the Qendue tongue, offering no explanation as a rosey-hued mist is left to linger about the woman's nostrils - intoxicating effects would surely calm her, were she able to inhale it. Rising from her position, she slips over to the familiar elf Garath, chancing a wry smile to the man as she rests by him. "Recall thy daisy, monsieur? The swerta? 'Tis your turn now..." Adjusting his legs for clear access, a similar mist is breathed over the mangled limbs, forming a liquid within the tears. Keeping a steady stream issuing from her throat, the feline lays her legs alongside Gareth's as a straightening borden while the maize thickens, holding him in proper shape. First one, then the other, the process relatively quick as the girl grows sure of herself. "A shame thou art not able to see it monsieur... thou hast glasses, no?" The man has some time to test his movement while the feline searches out his spectacles, scrutinizing the damage as she holds them in her paws, once found. "Telcat!", she announces as a silvery whisp covers the lenses, filling in the cracks. Handing them back to Garath, she mentions, "Not as clear as before, but better than without."
Garath continues his moaning, his groaning and his monotonous commentary on how he is still unable to see or move; all this truly a front for the pain that courses the length of his veins and breathes fire into his lungs. “Oi. Princess…“ He calls once he hears the familiar voice of Sphinxei, “Aye, that maize stuff. I know it.“ A rueful grin plants itself upon his features as recognition dawns, and at the risk of delaying his healing, he chooses to bite back whatever comments alight within his tired mind. Healed. Miracle. Of course he still had no glasses, but it was a start to be sure, “Sphinx’, I’ll be in your debt for a long time I think at this rate…“ And then she hands him his glasses. Cire save him, he may as well give up being a freeman, hastily they are adorned, “Hallelujah. You’re an angel, lass.” Superfluously he unleashes a barrage of kicks to the air, pivoting this way and that to be sure of his footing. “Like new…” His lips jerk upward delightedly. “Well, there is work to be done. I’ll be seein’ you soon, don’t you worry.” Garath tore from the spot where he stood, dust rising in an uneasy dance about the spiked heels of his boots as they tread their dominance over the distance between the Undead army and he. Incessant in his wrath everything about the feral elf began to twist and dilute maliciously, contorting his form either by will or happenstance. Now each stride became a lope and every grunt became a snarl, his flesh turned to fur and his mind set to kill. Long and elongated, ferocious, dagger-length fangs protruded from the shape-shifting Elf’s maw, and a tail whipped violently at his back as he decimated the gap remaining. Like a white bullet the assassin turned feline cut through the night, the raucous battlecry curdling the stout at heart and instilling fear where it fell upon opposing ear and eye. Hurtling through the masses of undead, every pace was sweet epitaph to sinuousness, the triumvirate of claws upon every paw tearing free of their protective confines. Once again his cry raptured over the din, the opal hues that poured outward from his panther-esque physique enveloping all those about him in a momentary flash intended to blind; ten feet at most. Claws met metal and teeth found hamstrings, men falling riven under the momentum of the beast, for whence their legs could no longer support them, it was their necks that would be met by paw or bite, the frenzied Garath driven onward with the acrid tinct of blood marking his path.
Edricyn :: The atmosphere grew cold, and the heat of battle engages as the obsidian Spartan tears down the debris-ridden pathway, adrenaline surging throughout scaled appendages, talons extended. Eloquently evading the undead allies whilst ceasing to halt, minimal haste is depicted before an onslaught is ensued upon the Cenril assailants. Claw tips impact upon exposed flesh, rendering all he crosses paths with lacerated and ensanguined all throughout. The manifestation of legions are depicted, only increasing in number, as the Spartan grapples a large portion of the wreckage he’d given aid in clearing, and hurls it toward a section of his rivals with devastating potency. Many have been ravaged and slaughtered, though much more was yet to come.
Tenebrae had stopped screaming about the time Sphinxei's mists had knit her face back together, these reduced to a faint sobbing which in turn halted, her fingers tracing the silvered line remaining as testament to the ghastly wound. "Thankyou..." The word was soft, and carried more than a little very genuine feeling. When the feline's paw clasped her hand and Roelstra moved to repair the ragged flap of skin that hung from her ribs, the necromancer had cause only to grit her teeth; this was nowhere near as bad as having one's skull cleaved. Thus tended by the two women, Tene gained the wherewithal to glance about, eyes desperately seeking her companions. "Ferret.. Creature... Ah, there they are..." But before word could be raised to call them, the din of heated battle and alarums grew closer, and she rose, a grateful clap of palm to the shoulders of Roe and Sphinxei, to seek out her fallen sword. The legions... hells, they'd be coming .. and Delakrion's cry echoed the thought. But what of the sound of battle? What force was ... Abandoning her search for the hexed blade, she climbed a pile of hewn rock to gain vantage of the east.. and her cry was a single word, heralding their hope. "Castellian!" For who else could be cutting such a swathe, the armies of darkness at his call, through the rallied ranks? The massive warhorse he rode was enough to make his dark form distinct, and the flattened bodies, victim to the steed's great hooves and Caste's weapon alike gave space around him. "We're getting out.." This, cried to the gathered, though Garath was already up, thanks to the healers, and running ... loping? Feline-formed, the elf was in the fray, and the tall saurian was hurling rocks like a catapult. Where the feck was that sword? The newly formed, silvered scar creased upon her cheek as lips drew back over fangs, and eyes gained the amber gleam of battle-heat. Still, the loss of blood had left her weak, her will and thus her magics lessened, the fight to keep her feet consuming much of her remaining strength. And the hunger... Ironic. Wasn't that what had started all this? If she could only feed... Her vision darted to the edges of the battlefield, the vampiress stalking toward the outlying soldiers. To take one out, feed; perhaps wrench the weapon from his corpse.. She prayed there'd be time before the mass of troops arrived, her appeal to whatever gods may remain that she may fight at the side of the man she loved, and keep her people alive.
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Post by Joliette Thorne on Jun 20, 2006 23:21:36 GMT -5
Deilakrion was becoming frantic. This was not the time to be cavorting about in silly fleshy whims, to her eyes. The battle had already been picked, that nasty expedition done and over with. Yet now those whom she might consider pack were flying about, pushing back the horde of prey that so sought to rend the small band to pieces. Utter fleshy foolishness, the lot of it. Breath hissed in and out, though approval was met at the healing of her two companions from the previous fight. Placements noted, she grudgingly realized that the fight was necessary to escape. But such as this. . . even with the dazed ringing in her skull from the flight from the tower, she knew she was outmatched. Instead she staggered away from the tide of battle joined, mouth pursed with frustration. "Sky predator. . ." The words trailed as she eyed the collapsed tower, stench of death still ripe in the air. Above, carrion eaters already circled, sharp cries a counterpoint to the ringing clang of battle. But her eyes were already drawn back to the rock. Control she had lost from the night previous eluded her mind, and her aimless whimpering and swaying might seem pointless to those others. The sky predator would have to wait, indeed, even these mighty warriors would not be able to hold off such legions long enough to find the trapped man. This decided, she clung to the few remembered words, looking from one form to the other. She would explain later when thought and word did not escape her frenzied mind. "Leave, leave, leave, leave. Now!"
Castellian ---- The battle plays parent to a new symphony of horrors, unfolding in a litany of interchangeable atrocities. Witness first the collective horror of the corpse-army, impaled on Flaming Claw spears and plowing on with unnatural indifference to the horrible rents and wounds they receive. Empty sockets gare abysmal gazes where eyes should be before skeletal hands loose rusted blades through terrified Cenril guards only to yank them from their imbedded places in bones and sinew. Dead flesh parted, maggots spilling from dead bellies, corpses in various states of decay and dismemberment lurching on with no mind to the grotesque nature of their condition: This is the nightmare unleashed on the Flaming Claw regulars. The mortal elements of the resistance appear to be falling victim to their human nature, fear fresh on their blanched faces before they are cut down by rusted blades. The wounded lay screaming, writhing on the ground, blood spurting high from ragged wounds until one of the many half-bodied corpses (removed of their shattered, skeletal legs by swords) crawl over them, stripping the rest of their flesh with moss-covered teeth. And then there is their leader, a statuesque sentinel in his saddle. The horse beneath him is clad in iron barding, breath rolling from flared nostrils in great plumes of misty condensation. The Drow moves with remarkable precision, powerful body bristling as his arms swing out the wicked length of his mountain-forged axe. Its rune-covered blade reaps his fury, painting itself in blood by the gallons. Each stroke slices its way through the scrambling defenders, and each stroke lifts another pair of heads into the air, tumbling them about on the ground like morbidly-distorted children’s playthings. Yet, beneath the sun’s fresh light, the truth is undeniable. Outnumbered, the army of horrors is steadily losing ground. Even the most-wicked of this legion, a hulking giant’s corpse, soon falls victim to the inevitability of rank and number. Standing two-men high, this monstrosity was once hurling bodies threw the air with gnarled, half-skeletal fingers. Now? Under a push of two-dozen spears and worse, his corpse was torn to pieces too small to pose even the slightest threat. Castellian D’Onri serves witness to the scene, one that clearly marks the battle’s turn. And, with composure rare in even the most battle-hardened generals, turns his mighty stallion from the line and begins the lengthy trot to the rear of his own dwindling column. His signal is a brief one, a nod to an assortment of particularly spindly revenants. In turn, like hell’s own arachnids, they grip their tattered fingertips into the crevices of mortared buildings and scale them in a ghastly display of discomposing agility. Into the houses of the innocents they spill, disappearing into windows moments before the heart-wrenching shrieks of the occupants can be heard. Calloused, cold, Castellian continues to guide his animal beyond the battle to the debris where his lover lies, oblivious to the appalling nature of the horrors he has unleashed on Cenril. “To the mountain,” speaks the ebon-fleshed demon, for it seems only reasonable that a creature capable of such cool, efficient slaughter, to be one. His stone-chiseled features are thick with blood, and gore runs in uneven rivulets down the front of his rune-carved cuirass. “They will be able to mend in peace, there.” As to his army, the shambling, flesh-devouring horde that slaughters and is slaughtered for his sake? Castellian D’Onri clearly cares little. His brutality is only slightly softened by the archaic melody in his words. “The corpse-army will trouble the Flaming Claw legions for hours, but go we must.” And so, with the path cleared and the plan revealed, the Great Lord lifts his gauntlet-clad fingers to lie along thin lips. The blood staining his digits mars the ebon flesh, adding a shine to it in the sun as he whistles, goading forth from the depths a half-dozen mounts. The creatures leading them are human, but clothed in a battered uniform. Slaves. To these the Lord does not speak directly, for even as he does they move to take up abandoned blades from the open hands of the dead. Trembling, battered shells, they stalk toward the battle to be cut down. It is evident in the way they move that they are entirely untrained in war. “These horses shall aide us. The slaves shall aide in buying us time.” Twisting, his left hand sets the sanguine-stained axe in a sharp rotation before it lays placidly at his side, while the right (its palm glowing with an unnatural alabaster) loosely grips the reigns of the mighty horse he, himself, has and will ride. The first of many fires soon starts, crimson flames leaping through windows and licking along the rooftops of a nearby building as lamps are turned over in the skirmishes. Undead torches ramble about as they catch light, disappearing into dwellings with incandescent wakes before the homes themselves become giant candles in the morning sun. The black smoke twists up to the crystalline sky in undulating columns, the scent of scorched flesh, death, and cinder provoking a harsh snort from the looming frame of Castellian’s mount. The Drow Rider, clad in his horrible, blood-soaked armors and set high in his saddle, is bereft of his animal’s anxiety. Indeed, he waits patiently to move the wounded at the pace required, incurious even as a burning commoner runs blindly past them, arms waving, blood-curdling screams of agony leaving his lips before he stumbles to the ground and writhes the last of his life away.
Roelstra hurriedly shovelled her dirtied supplies into her knapsack, regretful of not having the time to share her own vitae with the wounded Eldritch leader. Glad, the vampiress is, to have strapped her blade to her back, for when she turns to the east she finds a trio of soldiers charging for her, their wild cries betraying their thirst for bloodshed. ' Well, if it isn't the cavalry...' is her only thought as supple digits curl around the hilt of her imprisoned weapon resting over her right shoulder. Not hesitating a moment to pull it from it's confines, the long sword sings its litany of freedom, ringing throughout the area with a metallic hiss. Roelstra advances only four steps before her blade whistles in a diagonal arc. The sound is replaced by a sickening sloshing clink, the blade searing through flesh easier than a hot knife through butter. Two soldiers fall on bended knees before the ranger, minus their skulls. The third soldier blanches at the sight of his comrades so easily felled by this slip of a woman, turning on his heel in an attempt to run for cover. He soon finds this to be in vain for another series of sickening sloshes and clinks can be heard as his corpse falls to the bloodied earth, adding to the litter growing in Roelstra’s path.
Deilakrion limped back from the horses, stubbornly clenching her jaw shut. No, this was becoming all wrong. She had never been caught in the middle of a battle, last night having been wild enough for her tastes. No matter she had been caught up with magic at the time---and that was a thought she would not continue. Best not to think of it. In the general confusion of heated cries and crisp orders, the scrawny elf cast about for a place to hide, to bide her time. The mountains were too far, now she saw that if the sky predator was to be gotten out. . .no doubt the stupid meats would be crawling over the ruins like flies over dead flesh--and if Leoxander were to be caught. . . A shudder wracked her frame, as she dropped to all fours and scurried over a large rock, opening spotted into the dark abyss below that might once have been a basement--or dungeon. She knew about being caught. And the sky predator had already been caught too many times. She would hide, she would wait, and she would trust to her instincts to get that man and leave this cursed fleshy abode. A hole! She squirmed her way through it, men falling dead behind her as her comrades brought them down. Snarling, she pushed through and disappeared from the sight of those above ground.
Roelstra ’s blade grows slicker with vitae and bits of minced vital organs as she makes her way towards the perimeter of the fray. The vampires quickly nods her head in thanks to Castellian before he begins his ride westward. She takes the reins of an available steed, deftly mounting the beast with her free arm, the blade singing through the air to meet the throat of yet another hapless soldier after the ranger settles herself on top. With a flick of the reins, Roelstra spurs the beast towards Tenebrae at a slow trot, making sure the wounded vampires is upon her mount before turning westwards and spurring the beast away with a ragged shout and swift kicks to its flanks.
Baruan made his presence known with a synchronised series of thwaps, chocked screams, and hollow thuds as the punctured corpses of the mage archers atop the retaining wall of Cenril fall limply on the battleground below. In their place stood one man, dressed in what was certainly not battle attire. A confident smirk was flashed to all below, returning his bow to its place of dormancy, as he called out to the friend he saw in Tenebrae. "Leaving already, miss Tenebrae?"
Sphinxei shrinks back against the rubble, jewel-toned orbs widening to confounded saucers as she absorbs the ghastly chaos about her. Gripping her tail in a loss for decision, she turns to search for Tourniquet - the bird having taken to some corpse or another, knowing his habits - and finds instead an approaching soldier, not yet having spotted her amidst the wreckage. Biting her lip, she takes to the ground, nimbly darting through the area towards eastern escape. The tip of an unexpected blade just catching her shoulder, the feline emits a hiss of pain before slashing her claws across the face of her assailant in frightened rage. Startled by her action, she stumbles back gazing at the image for just a moment before taking off on her way.
Tenebrae had made little progress in her fight toward the drow Lord's side; though she had completed the task of felling a straggling soldier, her raging hunger, her need to replenish blood lost, giving her the impetus to strike swiftly and from behind. Ill-armoured, probably a raw recruit, he went down like a yearling lamb to a lion. Feasting hurriedly and not too fully, else she become sluggish, the necromancer stripped the corpse of weapons and proceeded to throw herself to brunt of the melee. And where she went, the dead arose behind her, shambling creatures beckoned to the sin-eater's call. These cleared her path somewhat but not quickly enough, the Claw troops surging like ants to crumbs upon the small group. The fate of her companions was obscure, the few she still had sight of doing their best to stay alive; Roelstra came to view, upon a horse, the woman's hand reaching to grip her own, Tene bunching thighs under her to make the leap up, clasping slender waist before her and stating gratitude. Came Baruan's call, the man appearing on the wall's battlements, and she hoped her mental cry would reach his mind, through the haze and panic of her thoughts. "Baru! To the beaches! To Eternity!" Across the grounds, Castellian waved them toward the ship, Roe following his direction as the great warrior fought on. Torn, she wished only to be by his side, but better she remain alive to see his face than die trying to reach him... The steed was swift, and soon had the women on the beach sands, racing for The Eternity. Risking a backward look at that breakneck speed, Tene spied Castellian's immense stallion, a speck behind them. Her heart burned in her chest, so fast it beat and toward the ferry they continued, dismounting in a thump of heels and clatter of hooves upon the boards of the jetty. "Roe.. we have to wait for him..." Her eyes were wild, the troops surely not far behind, or joined by others. They'd be cutting it fine...
Roelstra keeps a firm hand upon Tenebrae’s own, securing them around her corseted waist. Upon sighting The Eternity, the ranger dismounts and begins helping Tenebrae aboard. With a firm head shake that sends fiery waves swishing with the motion, Roelstra firmly responds, “ No, Tene! Castellian will be alright. He’s going to catch up shortly. Have faith in him, give him time! We won’t shove off without him but we cannot risk ourselves yet again.” Her emerald orbs darken with a serious and sorrowful expression, “ Besides, he would never forgive me if I did not see to your safety…” Upon touching down on the main deck, Roelstra finds a low barrel for the Eldritch leader to rest her frame against, turning back and resting anxious pale hands against the railing. Pale digits bite further and further into the wood as Castellian’s form remains a speck in the distance, murmuring a mantra under her breath, “ C’mon, Castellian…get your ass over here…” Emerald hues glow with relief, plump petal pink lips curling into a grin so wide pearly fangs flash into view, holding the warm glow of Cenril’s fire upon their surface, “ Here he comes! He made it, Tene! He made it!”
Baruan for now remained unseen, save for a blast of fine sand . Although that could simply be attributed to a particularly windy day on the beach.
Aerindir turns to face the females upon hearing noises from behind him, smiling faintly as he sees the pair. Leaning now against the ship's rail, he then frowns, scolding himself, "I should have been there, it was my duty as a dragon rider."
Tenebrae shook her head, addressing Aerindir. "It all happened so quickly, Aeri... one moment I was simply feeding, and the next.." But her words trailed off then, as Castellian's rugged frame came over the ship's side, his stance refined and demeanour calm, even after the horrors of his charge against the Claw's legions. She was, before she'd time to draw another breath, in his arms -- wounded or no, she'd be denied him not a second longer. Rose-hued lips were crushed to his ebon, fingers stroking the smooth lines of his jaw. "Love...." Head turned toward their companions, she nodded. "Time to get out of here. South, and west, we'll take the coast to the lower lands and then foot it to Kelay..."
Roelstra frowns softly at her husband, making her way to his side, slender arms embracing him silently as she rests her cheek against his chest in a comforting gesture.
Tenebrae shook her head, addressing Aerindir. "It all happened so quickly, Aeri... one moment I was simply feeding, and the next.." But her words trailed off then, as Castellian's rugged frame came over the ship's side, his stance refined and demeanour calm, even after the horrors of his charge against the Claw's legions. She was, before she'd time to draw another breath, in his arms -- wounded or no, she'd be denied him not a second longer. Rose-hued lips were crushed to his ebon, fingers stroking the smooth lines of his jaw. "Love...." Head turned toward their companions, she nodded. "Time to get out of here. South, and west, we'll take the coast to the lower lands and then foot it to Kelay..."
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